Playing on the iPod: Jonn Serrie, "And the Stars Go With You"
Meters swum today: 1600
...I missed a Significant Anniversary (TM). No, not mine and Joan's, that's next month (I think--oh geez, is it the 15th or the 25th?) No, I think sometime this month, or maybe last month, I've been in OA for a year. It was before I got laid off, anyway, and I think my last day with the Feds was early March. So, okay, late February, early March-ish.
It happened like so: Sometime in January (this would be 2007, or maybe it was late December 2006?) I went to the gym. I try to avoid that place in January, what with all the New Years Resolution folks and so on, but I think this was a Sunday evening. I hopped on the scale, as I'm wont to do, went out to the car, and was just gripping the steering wheel to drive home when it suddenly occurred to me that this wasn't getting any better. My weight, I mean. I wasn't upset by it, that I recall, and it wasn't like the old "hitting rock bottom" of alcoholic lore, but it was kind of a reality check. It sort of hit me that I weighed 160-ish in high school, 190-ish in college, around 220 when I moved to California about 15 years ago, and at that moment, I weighed--well, let's just say a lot more than that last figure.
I'm not sure what else to say about that except that this time line kind of strung out in my head, and I realized that I wasn't going to lose weight by myself. If that were possible I'd have done it already. Trust me, I've been fat since I was roughly nine, and my folks were hauling me around to specialists before I hit the double digits. If you look at photos of me at that time, I'm definitely on the heavy side, but not out of line, really, for a kid of that age who's just hit puberty at about 3000 miles an hour. Still, there've been tests and more tests, doctors and more doctors, stern lectures from medical professionals (one of whom was wont to grope me under the table, but never mind that), Weight Watchers, behavioral therapy at the local hospital, predictions of death before I turned 20 and, far worse, the prospect that no man would ever want me (which, as it turned out, was just fine), psychotherapy, physical therapy, dieticians, everything but stomach surgery. And what have we learned, Grasshopper? Well, that I'm anemic, which makes a lot of sense, and hypoglycemic, which also makes a lot of sense. And that whatever was thrown at me, I gained weight. Steadily. For close on 40 years.
And here I was at the gym (my dad is an exercise freak; I seem to have picked that up from him because I've always done something--soccer, skiing, walking, hiking, swimming, cycling, karate, racquetball, weightlifting and now swimming again) and I realized that it had all been a huge waste of time, money and energy. Except for the exercise, which was and is fun. I was still fat. Fatter than ever, in fact. And either I needed to just get over it, be fat, and enjoy life, or I needed to Get Some Help, because it was glaringly obvious that I couldn't do anything about it myself.
Here's another irony. If I'd come to this conclusion when I was around 160, or 190, or even 220, I'd have been okay with that. Just being fat and not worrying about it, I mean. I'd probably try not to gain any MORE weight, but I wouldn't have worried about losing. Unfortunately that was quite a few pounds ago. I've now arrived at a body size that is flat-out uncomfortable, not to mention inconvenient. Despite dire warnings to the contrary I'm not gonna drop dead at any moment; my blood sugar, pressure, glycoids and whatever the hell are all pretty good (see above re: constant exercise--it's a lot healthier to be fat and work out, than to be skinny and a couch potato.) Still, to heck with fitting into a size twelve. I wanna fit in an airline seat.
So over the next few days, I looked up cheap weight-loss help on the Internet (because I was pretty sure I was going to get laid off pretty soon; fancy doctors, dieticians and all that were Right Out) and there were basically two options: TOPS, which is like $40 a year, and OA, which is basically free except they pass the hat and you toss in your spare change, like at church. OA had more convenient meeting times. So I went. I am still there.
I have lost 30 pounds. BUT: that's not the important reason for showing up. The important reason is all the other stuff that happens. Meeting lots of other people that are just like you. Getting cozy with God, or Buddha, in my case. Realizing you're sick, not weak or rebellious or a jerk, and that it's not your fault you have this disease. You just do, is all. Some people have diabetes. Some people have osteogenesis imperfecta (hi, Mike!) Some people have this thing. It doesn't have a name but the major symptom is compulsive overeating. (Or alcoholism. Or drug addiction. Or or or.) It can be managed but it can't be cured. There are coping strategies. There are meetings. There's hope. Things can change. The end result doesn't have to be dropping dead.
So there we are. And here I am. And I have to get back to work now, so, cheers, y'all.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Dva Vodkii, Pajalsta
Playing on the iPod: David Arkenstone, "Spirit of Tibet"
Meters swum today: None. I was busy driving around town picking up expert witnesses at the airport. No, really.
World travel: I does it. Or I would do it if I had any money, which I do, but it keeps getting chewed away by stuff like mortgage payments and groceries and IRAs and cat food. It sucks being a responsible adult sometimes. However, Joan and I have managed to break the surly bonds of this continent a few times. We've been to London. We've been to--no, not France. Ireland. Twice, in fact, the first time getting cut a bit short when Joan got deathly ill and spent a week in a hospital in this little town called Ennis. Sans Joan, I've also been to El Salvador, Guatemala, parts of Mexico, Canada and Sweden. Yeah, I know Sweden doesn't fit on that list, but where else am I gonna put it? I am dying to see Iceland, India, Tibet (or maybe just northern India--the Himalayas, anyway), southern Africa, Morocco, Egypt, Japan, maybe China, and Thailand.
So with summer coming and north Texas pausing for breath between the deep freeze and the blast furnace, talk turns of where to go next. For some reason I was stuck on Spain. Joan was stuck on Scotland. Scotland: I've been there. Three times. It's cold. It's wet. It's occupied territory. Yeah, it's very pretty and all that. I couldn't seem to sell Joan on Spain, either, except that I wanted to see the running of the bulls in Pamplona on July 7. (I think Joan's afraid I'd jump in there and run, too. Can't imagine why she'd suspect me of such a thing.) Then suddenly, out of the clear blue sky, Joan said, "How about Russia?"
BLING!! That was the sound of my brain converting to Cyrillic letters.
People don't know this about me, but I took a semester of Russian in college. That foreign language requirement thing. I already spoke Spanish, they didn't offer Arabic, and I've already tried once to learn German, thankewverymuch. (Joan speaks German. Joan is also a member of Mensa.) So I took Russian, and everything was fine until the nouns started changing their endings. Somehow this messed with my brain, and I barely scraped through with a C. So back to Spanish, for the easy A. But I always liked Russian. The alphabet, especially. Besides looking totally cool, all the letters sound like exactly what they are. If you're dyslexic (and I am; I words spell order in wrong the), this is the perfect alphabet for you. No guessing required, except the hard sign versus the soft sign, and most Russians are pretty much over the hard sign by now, so if you guess the soft sign, you're right, unless you're in the Ukraine.
And so, as we ponder Volga River cruises and excursions to the Hermitage (in 2009, realistically speaking; this won't be a cheap trip) yours truly and Joan will be attempting to learn some Russian in our copious spare time. I've already remembered the sixteen words I learned and am adding a few more. Joan's worried about the alphabet but she shouldn't be; the Queen of Pattern Recognition will be fine once she knows the basic sounds. So if anybody out there has the Rosetta Stone software in Russian, buzz me, okay? I'll give you a good price. Pravda. Spaciba.
Now, if we can just get those pesky nouns to stop changing their endings...
Meters swum today: None. I was busy driving around town picking up expert witnesses at the airport. No, really.
World travel: I does it. Or I would do it if I had any money, which I do, but it keeps getting chewed away by stuff like mortgage payments and groceries and IRAs and cat food. It sucks being a responsible adult sometimes. However, Joan and I have managed to break the surly bonds of this continent a few times. We've been to London. We've been to--no, not France. Ireland. Twice, in fact, the first time getting cut a bit short when Joan got deathly ill and spent a week in a hospital in this little town called Ennis. Sans Joan, I've also been to El Salvador, Guatemala, parts of Mexico, Canada and Sweden. Yeah, I know Sweden doesn't fit on that list, but where else am I gonna put it? I am dying to see Iceland, India, Tibet (or maybe just northern India--the Himalayas, anyway), southern Africa, Morocco, Egypt, Japan, maybe China, and Thailand.
So with summer coming and north Texas pausing for breath between the deep freeze and the blast furnace, talk turns of where to go next. For some reason I was stuck on Spain. Joan was stuck on Scotland. Scotland: I've been there. Three times. It's cold. It's wet. It's occupied territory. Yeah, it's very pretty and all that. I couldn't seem to sell Joan on Spain, either, except that I wanted to see the running of the bulls in Pamplona on July 7. (I think Joan's afraid I'd jump in there and run, too. Can't imagine why she'd suspect me of such a thing.) Then suddenly, out of the clear blue sky, Joan said, "How about Russia?"
BLING!! That was the sound of my brain converting to Cyrillic letters.
People don't know this about me, but I took a semester of Russian in college. That foreign language requirement thing. I already spoke Spanish, they didn't offer Arabic, and I've already tried once to learn German, thankewverymuch. (Joan speaks German. Joan is also a member of Mensa.) So I took Russian, and everything was fine until the nouns started changing their endings. Somehow this messed with my brain, and I barely scraped through with a C. So back to Spanish, for the easy A. But I always liked Russian. The alphabet, especially. Besides looking totally cool, all the letters sound like exactly what they are. If you're dyslexic (and I am; I words spell order in wrong the), this is the perfect alphabet for you. No guessing required, except the hard sign versus the soft sign, and most Russians are pretty much over the hard sign by now, so if you guess the soft sign, you're right, unless you're in the Ukraine.
And so, as we ponder Volga River cruises and excursions to the Hermitage (in 2009, realistically speaking; this won't be a cheap trip) yours truly and Joan will be attempting to learn some Russian in our copious spare time. I've already remembered the sixteen words I learned and am adding a few more. Joan's worried about the alphabet but she shouldn't be; the Queen of Pattern Recognition will be fine once she knows the basic sounds. So if anybody out there has the Rosetta Stone software in Russian, buzz me, okay? I'll give you a good price. Pravda. Spaciba.
Now, if we can just get those pesky nouns to stop changing their endings...
Monday, March 24, 2008
Big fan of fishies, me...
....so I'm gonna share this from the ol' Zen calendar:
One day Chuang-tzu and a friend were walking along a riverbank. "How delightfully the fishes are enjoying themselves in the water!" Chuang-tzu exclaimed.
"You are not a fish," his friend said. "How do you know whether or not the fishes are enjoying themselves?"
"You are not me," Chuang-tzu said. "How do you know that I do not know that the fishes are enjoying themselves?"
One day Chuang-tzu and a friend were walking along a riverbank. "How delightfully the fishes are enjoying themselves in the water!" Chuang-tzu exclaimed.
"You are not a fish," his friend said. "How do you know whether or not the fishes are enjoying themselves?"
"You are not me," Chuang-tzu said. "How do you know that I do not know that the fishes are enjoying themselves?"
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Cheap Plug for David Moody
Why have a blog if you can't spout off about your favorite writers, am I right? This came out of a discussion at AbsoluteWrite.com, but I won't get into that. This is the best horror writer you've never heard of: David Moody.
I just saw I Am Legend. Twice. In one day. It's frickin' awesome. Okay, it gets kind of corny toward the end but who the hell cares? Deer hunting in New York City in a sportscar with a shotgun!! Need I say more? Well, Will Smith is in it. That's more. Anyway, this got me to thinking about how the "plague wipes out most of humanity and one guy tries to survive while fighting off monsters" thing has been done a few times. The Stand, Dawn of the Dead, Night of the Comet, etc. etc. No two writers ever do it the same way, but it's still an amazing concept. But, as I've said a few times, a concept is not a story. Tell a good story and you can use any concept you want.
Back to David Moody. Mr. Moody wrote the Autumn series, available for download at his Web site above. I think the first ep is free. Read them in order, because one thing begets another begets another. What are they about? Well, about the "plague that wipes out humanity," of course. Everyone you've ever known is suddenly dead. And then things get much worse.
Seriously, check out Mr. Moody. Tell 'em Aunt Jen sent ya.
I just saw I Am Legend. Twice. In one day. It's frickin' awesome. Okay, it gets kind of corny toward the end but who the hell cares? Deer hunting in New York City in a sportscar with a shotgun!! Need I say more? Well, Will Smith is in it. That's more. Anyway, this got me to thinking about how the "plague wipes out most of humanity and one guy tries to survive while fighting off monsters" thing has been done a few times. The Stand, Dawn of the Dead, Night of the Comet, etc. etc. No two writers ever do it the same way, but it's still an amazing concept. But, as I've said a few times, a concept is not a story. Tell a good story and you can use any concept you want.
Back to David Moody. Mr. Moody wrote the Autumn series, available for download at his Web site above. I think the first ep is free. Read them in order, because one thing begets another begets another. What are they about? Well, about the "plague that wipes out humanity," of course. Everyone you've ever known is suddenly dead. And then things get much worse.
Seriously, check out Mr. Moody. Tell 'em Aunt Jen sent ya.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Roger Hodgson might be God.
Playing on the iPod: "In Jeopardy" by Roger Hogdson
Meters swum today: Zilch. Took the day off.
Yeah, I know, I said Stuart Adamson was God, but gods don't drink themselves to death in cheap motel rooms in Hawaii a week before Christmas after disappearing for six weeks and scaring hell out of their wives and kids. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Seriously, though, I think Roger Hodgson may be God. My sister sent me In The Eye Of The Storm for Christmas and it's been riding around in my car CD player ever since. I've got a few of his other ones--Hai Hai was the follow up to Storm and it isn't near as good--but just for recording Storm, Roger has achieved deity status. Hi, Roger! Please bring me a pony and a plastic rocket!
In case you don't know Roger, he was the lead singer of Supertramp for years and years before striking out on his own. Storm was his first solo album. If you want a serious head trip, get onto YouTube and look for the video, "Had a Dream." I love that whole marching-band-turning-int0-Nazis thing. Or maybe Russians. As an ex marching bander myself, I can relate.
My hyperfertility is dying down, but I have figured out how the bad guy in the second book knew the good guy's father from the first book by way of the go-between dude from the Cafe El Rincon who trades in information, which has something to do with money laundering and a missing three or four million and the blowing up of things. Plot turns to counterplot turns to scheme turns to sinister goings on and sooner or later even I get confused so I'm fine with things settling down again. It's just that I like this stuff. It makes me feel high. It's like ol' "Bod" Stewart said, "I've got lightning in my veins." I'm not leaning on a slot machine, but it doesn't work that way, anyway. If it did I'd be rich. I am not rich. But I have Enough and that is a lot.
Meters swum today: Zilch. Took the day off.
Yeah, I know, I said Stuart Adamson was God, but gods don't drink themselves to death in cheap motel rooms in Hawaii a week before Christmas after disappearing for six weeks and scaring hell out of their wives and kids. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Seriously, though, I think Roger Hodgson may be God. My sister sent me In The Eye Of The Storm for Christmas and it's been riding around in my car CD player ever since. I've got a few of his other ones--Hai Hai was the follow up to Storm and it isn't near as good--but just for recording Storm, Roger has achieved deity status. Hi, Roger! Please bring me a pony and a plastic rocket!
In case you don't know Roger, he was the lead singer of Supertramp for years and years before striking out on his own. Storm was his first solo album. If you want a serious head trip, get onto YouTube and look for the video, "Had a Dream." I love that whole marching-band-turning-int0-Nazis thing. Or maybe Russians. As an ex marching bander myself, I can relate.
My hyperfertility is dying down, but I have figured out how the bad guy in the second book knew the good guy's father from the first book by way of the go-between dude from the Cafe El Rincon who trades in information, which has something to do with money laundering and a missing three or four million and the blowing up of things. Plot turns to counterplot turns to scheme turns to sinister goings on and sooner or later even I get confused so I'm fine with things settling down again. It's just that I like this stuff. It makes me feel high. It's like ol' "Bod" Stewart said, "I've got lightning in my veins." I'm not leaning on a slot machine, but it doesn't work that way, anyway. If it did I'd be rich. I am not rich. But I have Enough and that is a lot.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Watch out! She's hyperfertile again!!
Playing on the iPod: More of the Most Soporific, er, Relaxing New Age Music in the Universe
Meters swum today: 1600
And I fought for every single one of those 1600, let me tell you. For some reason the pool was really crowded. There are usually two, sometimes four people in my lane. Today there were seven. The guy in the lead was way too fast for our lane, but the next lane up also had seven humans and beyond seven I'm not sure you could manage. I spent the whole swim trying to keep up or clinging to the side hoping not to get run over. Geez. Getting to 1600 was almost a miracle. At least I think it was 1600. I lost count.
I'm back in hyperfertile mode, folks. I wrote most of a chapter yesterday between loads of laundry and raking the yard, and I've got most of the next two mapped out. Good thing I don't sleep with men because I think I'd quicken if one of them so much as breathed on me right about now. Contrary to popular belief, being fat has absolutely nothing to do with your ability to get knocked up. Nor does being lesbian, and get this, most of us do it the old fashioned way.
That aside, however, Spellbinder is once again going great guns after about a week off. I've just written the Best Chapter Ever, and the way I know that is, coming to the end of it, I said to myself, "My writers group is just going to hate this." The more I think they'll hate it, the more they usually like it. I'm not sure why that is.
Anyway, I'm wrestling with the big issue of Revealing Too Much Too Soon. Yesterday my hero, twelve-year-old Cameron, found out that somebody he cared for quite a bit in the last book isn't quite as dead as he appeared to be at the end of Mindbender. Now the big question is, what's he going to do with this piece of information? Cameron that is, not the dead guy who isn't dead anymore. (Hey, I never said he was dead. You can look it up. Well, you could if it was published, which it's not.) Probably nothing until he verifies it; he's an analytical guy. But then what? Is he going to tell anybody? Or is he going to keep this to himself? This could change everything. This could be huge.
If I could give him advice (which I can't; like most twelve-year-olds, he pretty much does what he wants most of the time) I'd tell him he has to Tell Someone Immediately. I've been after one of my other characters to tell Cameron something important for a month now, and she's shown no sign of doing it. Obstreperous wench. What's she trying to do, create suspense or something?
Luckily for me, I've got at least a week and a half to figure this out. After which I'll stop being hyperfertile again, and all bets are off. Meantime, nobody breathe on me.
Meters swum today: 1600
And I fought for every single one of those 1600, let me tell you. For some reason the pool was really crowded. There are usually two, sometimes four people in my lane. Today there were seven. The guy in the lead was way too fast for our lane, but the next lane up also had seven humans and beyond seven I'm not sure you could manage. I spent the whole swim trying to keep up or clinging to the side hoping not to get run over. Geez. Getting to 1600 was almost a miracle. At least I think it was 1600. I lost count.
I'm back in hyperfertile mode, folks. I wrote most of a chapter yesterday between loads of laundry and raking the yard, and I've got most of the next two mapped out. Good thing I don't sleep with men because I think I'd quicken if one of them so much as breathed on me right about now. Contrary to popular belief, being fat has absolutely nothing to do with your ability to get knocked up. Nor does being lesbian, and get this, most of us do it the old fashioned way.
That aside, however, Spellbinder is once again going great guns after about a week off. I've just written the Best Chapter Ever, and the way I know that is, coming to the end of it, I said to myself, "My writers group is just going to hate this." The more I think they'll hate it, the more they usually like it. I'm not sure why that is.
Anyway, I'm wrestling with the big issue of Revealing Too Much Too Soon. Yesterday my hero, twelve-year-old Cameron, found out that somebody he cared for quite a bit in the last book isn't quite as dead as he appeared to be at the end of Mindbender. Now the big question is, what's he going to do with this piece of information? Cameron that is, not the dead guy who isn't dead anymore. (Hey, I never said he was dead. You can look it up. Well, you could if it was published, which it's not.) Probably nothing until he verifies it; he's an analytical guy. But then what? Is he going to tell anybody? Or is he going to keep this to himself? This could change everything. This could be huge.
If I could give him advice (which I can't; like most twelve-year-olds, he pretty much does what he wants most of the time) I'd tell him he has to Tell Someone Immediately. I've been after one of my other characters to tell Cameron something important for a month now, and she's shown no sign of doing it. Obstreperous wench. What's she trying to do, create suspense or something?
Luckily for me, I've got at least a week and a half to figure this out. After which I'll stop being hyperfertile again, and all bets are off. Meantime, nobody breathe on me.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
The Saga of the Speckled Moth.
Playing in the background: some serious rock en espanol from the gardeners working on the house across the way. My floors are vibrating.
Meters swum today: 1900. Whoo-HOO!
Meditation: I does it. What is meditation, you ask? Well, it's sitting around, doing nothing, looking at the floor and thinking as little as possible. (Thanks, Mel.) Seriously, there are books on the subject. Check 'em out at your local library. Stop by ours and Joan will give you a hand. What do I think meditation is? Twenty minutes a day when everyone has to leave you the hell alone. (Except cats in search of warm laps.)
I tend to meditate right after I get up in the morning. With luck, my brain isn't awake enough to make a lot of noise. I also do it on the way to bed, so if I miss a session someplace I don't miss a whole day. And for the most part everyone does leave me alone, but a couple days ago, I was peacefully counting breaths when Joan suddenly called from the shower, "JEN!!! A fellow being needs your help!!!" (Yep. Three exclamation points. It's pretty soundproof, is our bathroom.)
Grumbling, I got up and made my way to the bathroom. See above re: everybody leaving you the hell alone. What, oh what, could be happening in there? Could a cat have gotten into a predicament? Could there be a spider hanging out in the shower? Doubt that; scream wasn't loud enough. Maybe she just couldn't reach her frick'n towel. Possibilities abounded...
Anyway: I got there and Joan says, "There's a speckled moth in here,
and I'm afraid if I start splashing around he'll drown." I got closer and sure enough, a white speckled moth was hanging around on the white speckled tile in our white speckled bathroom. Pretty sharp guy, finding the one place in the house that was safe from marauding cats. His wings were wet. He was flapping em but he wasn't going anywhere.
I fetched a glass from the kitchen, trapped the moth under it and coaxed it up onto the glassy surface so I could put a piece of paper between himself and the wall. As he crawled around he left a little trail of white scales--I think they have scales--from his wings. So I took the glass outside, and after a while he crawled to the edge of the glass, fluttered his wings a few times and took off. When last I saw him, he was hanging around near the porch light.
Over the next few days I found and similarly dispatched either the same moth three more times, or three of its friends, hanging around on the ceiling or the bathroom tile or, in one instance, the front of the oven door (!). While I was at it, I caught a few long black wingy ant-looking things and sent them outside, too. In the same time frame, however, I spotted, and stomped hell out of, a cockroach in the kitchen.
Okay, the questions are obvious. What did the speckled moth have that the li'l cockroach did not? Why would I go to a lot of trouble to save one form of life and stomp on another form of life the same day? I guess speckled moths are kind of cute, whereas cockroaches are ugly and creepy. Plus, they spread disease. Plus, they're a sign that you're a lousy housekeeper (I wouldn't say Martha Stewart lives here, but the house is pretty clean, actually.) Plus, and perhaps here's the point, they scare me.
Pay attention, there's a lesson here. Things that scare us need stomping on. Things that are kind of cute, and happen to be in trouble and have wet wings and so on, just need a hand getting back to their natural environments. Might this not apply also to humans? Humans that are kind of cute--disabled youngsters, little African babies, hard-luck white kids from inner city schools, honest bright hardworking Asian immigrants--get our support and so on. Humans that scare us, like homeless people, little African insurgents, hard-luck black kids from inner city schools, and honest bright hardworking immigrants who speak Spanish as their first language--get stomped on. Yet, we are all made of the same stuff, from the hard-luck black kids to the Asian immigrants to the speckled moths. To stomp on one of us is, in effect, to stomp on ourselves. Sooner or later our feet get sore.
I wish cockroaches wouldn't come out where I can see them. Then I'd never stomp on them. Maybe a border fence would keep them out. My south Texas friends tell me that wouldn't work, though. They would just fly right over. They're gonna keep coming as long as I have something they want, so I might as well learn to live with them.
Besides, I'd miss the sunshine.
Meters swum today: 1900. Whoo-HOO!
Meditation: I does it. What is meditation, you ask? Well, it's sitting around, doing nothing, looking at the floor and thinking as little as possible. (Thanks, Mel.) Seriously, there are books on the subject. Check 'em out at your local library. Stop by ours and Joan will give you a hand. What do I think meditation is? Twenty minutes a day when everyone has to leave you the hell alone. (Except cats in search of warm laps.)
I tend to meditate right after I get up in the morning. With luck, my brain isn't awake enough to make a lot of noise. I also do it on the way to bed, so if I miss a session someplace I don't miss a whole day. And for the most part everyone does leave me alone, but a couple days ago, I was peacefully counting breaths when Joan suddenly called from the shower, "JEN!!! A fellow being needs your help!!!" (Yep. Three exclamation points. It's pretty soundproof, is our bathroom.)
Grumbling, I got up and made my way to the bathroom. See above re: everybody leaving you the hell alone. What, oh what, could be happening in there? Could a cat have gotten into a predicament? Could there be a spider hanging out in the shower? Doubt that; scream wasn't loud enough. Maybe she just couldn't reach her frick'n towel. Possibilities abounded...
Anyway: I got there and Joan says, "There's a speckled moth in here,
and I'm afraid if I start splashing around he'll drown." I got closer and sure enough, a white speckled moth was hanging around on the white speckled tile in our white speckled bathroom. Pretty sharp guy, finding the one place in the house that was safe from marauding cats. His wings were wet. He was flapping em but he wasn't going anywhere.I fetched a glass from the kitchen, trapped the moth under it and coaxed it up onto the glassy surface so I could put a piece of paper between himself and the wall. As he crawled around he left a little trail of white scales--I think they have scales--from his wings. So I took the glass outside, and after a while he crawled to the edge of the glass, fluttered his wings a few times and took off. When last I saw him, he was hanging around near the porch light.
Over the next few days I found and similarly dispatched either the same moth three more times, or three of its friends, hanging around on the ceiling or the bathroom tile or, in one instance, the front of the oven door (!). While I was at it, I caught a few long black wingy ant-looking things and sent them outside, too. In the same time frame, however, I spotted, and stomped hell out of, a cockroach in the kitchen.
Okay, the questions are obvious. What did the speckled moth have that the li'l cockroach did not? Why would I go to a lot of trouble to save one form of life and stomp on another form of life the same day? I guess speckled moths are kind of cute, whereas cockroaches are ugly and creepy. Plus, they spread disease. Plus, they're a sign that you're a lousy housekeeper (I wouldn't say Martha Stewart lives here, but the house is pretty clean, actually.) Plus, and perhaps here's the point, they scare me.
Pay attention, there's a lesson here. Things that scare us need stomping on. Things that are kind of cute, and happen to be in trouble and have wet wings and so on, just need a hand getting back to their natural environments. Might this not apply also to humans? Humans that are kind of cute--disabled youngsters, little African babies, hard-luck white kids from inner city schools, honest bright hardworking Asian immigrants--get our support and so on. Humans that scare us, like homeless people, little African insurgents, hard-luck black kids from inner city schools, and honest bright hardworking immigrants who speak Spanish as their first language--get stomped on. Yet, we are all made of the same stuff, from the hard-luck black kids to the Asian immigrants to the speckled moths. To stomp on one of us is, in effect, to stomp on ourselves. Sooner or later our feet get sore.
I wish cockroaches wouldn't come out where I can see them. Then I'd never stomp on them. Maybe a border fence would keep them out. My south Texas friends tell me that wouldn't work, though. They would just fly right over. They're gonna keep coming as long as I have something they want, so I might as well learn to live with them.
Besides, I'd miss the sunshine.
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