The Great Betrayal

I remember last Tuesday clearly, because I wrote in my appointment book in capital letters:

THE GREAT BETRAYAL.

And that is what it shall be called, henceforth.

In the early hours of last Tuesday morning, as my coffee steeped in the French press, I was packing my car for work and looking around my yard. Normally in the spring my yard is rife with ducks, bunnies, squirrels and birds, but this year is just a quiet, unfrequented patch of grass. Some birds, maybe a squirrel here and there, but largely deserted.

I walked back in my house, glancing sadly at the full bag of critter food waiting on my front table. Outrageously expensive, the bag sat at the ready, for visiting fluffers.

But there had been no visiting fluffers.

Do my yard critters know something I don’t? Have migratory patterns changed? Am I vilified in the bunny community as a Bunny Murderer?

Driving down Bay Avenue and ruminating on these questions, I suddenly saw Mr. and Mrs. Duck slowly crossing the street. MY Mr. and Mrs. Duck. I slammed on my brakes as they waddled in front of my car, oblivious to my presence, and I exited the car.

“Hey!” I yelled.

They waddled.

“Hey! Where you guys been!”

Waddling, sidelong glance.

“I’ve got some really delicious snack mix for you. Stop by, o.k.?”  I could hear the desperate, pleading tone in my voice, but I couldn’t stop myself. Knowing I would appear needy, I nevertheless opened my mouth to address them again. Suddenly I heard:

“Good morning guys, I’ve got breakfast for youuuuu!”

Looking in the direction of the voice, I saw an older woman in a bathrobe and slippers, holding a bag of critter feed. Our eyes met, and I watched Mr. and Mrs. Duck waddle enthusiastically to her yard.

“Well, well,” I said. “So that’s how it’s gonna be.”

Nary a glance in my direction, they began to nibble, the woman and I stared at each other. Finally, I uttered only one more sentence:

“Take care of each other.”

Critters

I have a sneaking suspicion that the funniest thing in my week just happened five minutes ago.  When searching for a stock image for this blog post about yard critters, I typed into the search bar “a group of small wild creatures,” and the first image that appeared were four young girls standing at a bar wearing bachelorette accessories).

Last spring two fatalities occurred on my property. Two bunnies died on my watch, one adult, and one baby. The adult died in my flower garden, most likely the victim of a cat or a fox.

But the death of the baby remains a mystery.

For some reason that day I had gone into my sons’ man cave, a place I never, ever, ever, ever enter anymore. I stopped going in there a long time ago, for the same reasons I don’t patronize escape rooms, laser tag rooms, paintball fields, or Satanic ritual dungeons.

I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. I will never get it. Leave me out of it.

On this particular day, all three of my boys were away living their lives, and I must have needed to get to the sprinkler system, or maybe my golf clubs. The door to their cave was slightly ajar, as my three sons have never shut a door or turned off a light in their entire lives. And there on the floor, next to a decorative glass vase filled with dirty water was a tiny dead bunny. It was so small that it looked like a stuffed animal. Distraught, I sent the picture to a friend, called her and asked her what I should do.

“Mary, um, that’s not a vase.”

“What? The glass thing?”

Silence.

“No,” she said. “Are you serious?”

Well, I’m not naïve, it just didn’t occur to me at the time. Nevertheless, I took a screen shot of the dead bunny next to the apparatus and sent it in a group text to my sons.

“Way to go. Murderers.”

A flurry of texts ensued.

“WTF?”

“Mom, what is that?”

“Why are you in there?”

“Yeah, why are you in there?”

“What are you implying?”

“Yeah, what are you implying?”

“Is that real?”

“Yeah, is that real?”

“What do you mean, calling us murderers?”

“Uh, yeah!”

And finally:

“Is that staged?”

“Staged?” I texted back. “You think that’s what I do for fun, stage rabbit murders? No, it’s not STAGED. Perhaps this bunny ingested something he shouldn’t have?”

Silence. Then:

“Are you trying to pin this on us?”

Me:

“I’m simply pointing out that because you left the man cave door ajar, a baby bunny got in there and is now dead on the floor of your Weed Den. I’m not implying anything, I’m stating outright that it is directly and absolutely your fault a mother bunny is waking up today with one less baby bunny.”

Disgruntlement followed, and plans for removal and burial of said bunny followed soon upon that. Stoic boy came home to remove bunny, and buried him in a respectful place in our garden, deep enough so he could not get unearthed by a nocturnal critter looking for a midnight snack.

Here’s the problem:

I have no bunnies this year. My ducks aren’t even here. Some squirrels and requisite birds, but where is my menagerie?

WHERE IS EVERYONE?

Did the bunnies eat poison? Were we directly responsible for their deaths? Has the critter world lost faith in us? Did a memo go out to avoid our property? Am I not their favorite anymore?

Where are Mr. and Mrs. Duck?????

Part II tomorrow.

LinkedOUT

It took me a long time to realize that LinkedIn is just a professional version of a dating site.

I get a lot of LinkedIn hits a week, sometimes over a hundred, if you can believe that. On Saturday mornings I like to click and look at a few profiles. I like seeing who these people are, because it’s such a distinguished, eclectic and random group:

Seamus Heaney Jr.– Penguin trainer at Occipital Animal Testing Facility

Jolene Smorgas– Banquet Manager at Joanie’s Roadhouse Barbeque in Tulsa

Ethan Winer– Technician, Passmore Gas and Propane

Pepsi Jackson– Paralegal for Wong, Doody, Crandall, and Wiener.

Dr. Anita P. Ness– Chief Executive Officer for AnalTech.

Why are these people on my profile? What do I have to offer them?

Sometimes I get scary ones, like people from detective agencies, the IRS, security software and legal offices. Many of them are “looked at your profile in private mode.”

Whyyyyy?

I eventually came to realize that the random “John Smith viewed your profile” hits are just another Cat-and-Mouse game. John Smith “viewed your profile” because he wants you to click on HIS profile. It’s like an electronic exchanging of business cards.

O.k. But, er, now what? What is John Smith waiting for me to do? Is it like, “Ooooh, John Smith is VP of Johnson Marketing Executives, I think I’ll contact him!” It’s like dating sites. You “wave,” send “a heart” or “a like,” whatever the fuck, and NOW WHAT?

Third-graders who send each other Valentines’ Day cards are more sophisticated than people my age trying to get together for work, love or sex.

Living Proof

I’m not really a fiction-reading individual anymore, unless it’s classical literature. With the exception of the brilliant Ferrante novels, commercial fiction just doesn’t feel relevant to me. The last fiction book I really remember being knocked out by was The Help. I identified not only with the characters and the narrative, but the thematic implications of risking your life (figuratively or literally) for what you believe in. The movie “The Help” makes me cry in ten different ways, as does this song, one of my favorites to play when I doubt myself. 

So today I will let beautiful Mary J. Blige serenade you with her beautiful voice. Don’t mistake the courage and power in the lyrics for arrogance. This song is about abject humility to one’s beliefs, dignity, courage and God. 

Enjoy.

Doctor, Doctor

(I know my flag is tangled in my trees. Thanks for letting me know. The flag guys are coming this week).

The subject of my attaining my Ph.D. is like my telling people I don’t like sushi.

Me: I don’t like sushi.

Them: Sure, you do.

Me: No, I don’t.

Them: You think you don’t, but you do.

Me: No. You think I do, but I don’t.

Them: You can think that, but you’d be wrong.

Me: I’m not wrong. It looks like alien tentacles.

Them: If you don’t like it, that’s just because you haven’t had it prepared correctly.

Me: It’s raw seafood. And seaweed. And rice. How else is it prepared other than raw?

Them: Trust me.

Me: No. I don’t. I’m not eating octopus, they’re highly sentient creatures.

Them: So don’t eat octopus. Who says you have to eat octopus?

Me: All I’m saying is that if you want sushi, you’d better make damn sure there is something else on the menu for me.

I recently overheard a man almost break into tears because he found out that the lunch menu at the restaurant wasn’t offering sushi out of season. His whole party left in a huff.

People be loving their sushi.

Other than publishing my book, getting my Ph.D. is the last remaining goal on my professional bucket list. But it’s starting to fade in importance. I’m afraid that if I get my Ph.D. I will have to start wearing a cape and a fedora. I will have to scowl importantly as I walk. I will have to have pseudo-intellectual discussions about academic minutiae with self-important pretentious people.

This is no castigation of people who get their Ph.Ds. It is an incredible achievement and honor. I think I’m just hoping that at some point, I will be awarded an honorary Ph.D., like the kind the Hollywood celebrities get. No out-of-pocket expenses, no long hours, weeks, months and years spent huddled over musty books in libraries. Just a “Here you go” and a “Fare thee well.”

The language used when discussing Ph.D. work used to excite me when I was younger. Research. Publishing. Libraries. Databases. Consortiums. Dissertations. Those words don’t titillate me anymore. Now I like words like: Boats. Vodka. Golf. Travel. Sunshine. Mountains. I worked with a colleague who once told me that his brother tried to get his Ph.D. in English but failed, and in the process almost had a nervous breakdown because of the pressure and work load and his 150k in debt.

A Ph.D. brings possibilities you couldn’t get otherwise. Elevated teaching positions. Research opportunities. Publishing offers. And let’s not forget the immediate elevated status you are awarded in any situation because you have the word “Doctor” in front of your name. In Phoenix, there were nine TED speakers, and seven had doctorates. Then there was me, and a young singer. The other speakers assumed that since I am a college professor, that I am also a Doctor of English. I didn’t lie and say I had it, but I also didn’t correct them.

I commented on a LinkedIn post featuring the Great and Powerful Greta Thunberg (can someone get this little girl a job on Disney+ already, and get her off my LinkedIn feed?), and a woman yelled at me, saying someone who has a Ph.D. in English should be more informed and respectful of a young girl trying to make a change in the world. I started to correct her as to my credentials and then stopped.

If enough people assume it, why bother spending the money and going through the stress? That’s honorary enough for me.

Time to rest on my laurels. Dr. Oves at your service.

Fear Itself

Fears change and subside throughout one’s lifetime. For example, even as little as five years ago I would go to bed in my empty house and feel fear at the thought of someone breaking in and murdering me. And now? Last night I was so tired going to bed, that despite the quiet echo of the house that led my mind once again to thoughts of home invasion and evisceration, I only had one thought.

“At least then I could sleep in in the morning. And I could forget about getting that presentation ready.”

More irrational fears and my accompanying indifference:

Being possessed by the witch who most certainly lives in my attic:

Might be fun to speak in tongues, and flying sounds fun. But I will NOT join a coven. I hate dressing thematically.

Being in an airplane crash:

Maybe only I and that hot guy in 4D will survive, his wife won’t, and I can capitalize on the 4.5- minute opportunity during which a widower is a widower before he remarries.  And being stranded on a desert island is a great weight loss opportunity.

Being attacked by a shark, a bear or any other wild animal:

Instant book deal. If I don’t croak.

Getting lost somewhere sketchy or remote when traveling:

Ending up in an unfamiliar ghetto or a remote desert canyon at sunset is better than sitting in the house bored.

Getting put in an old-age home:

Meals made for me. Naps. Jewelry-making, bingo and square dancing. Hot single old guys. Sign me up, bitch.

A house fire:

This one is no joke. I’m still afraid of house fires. And other things like tax season, and the FAFSA, and crickets. But for the most part, I am fearless.

Getting older has its perks.

Flasks

The Hydro Flask® company must have such a difficult time figuring out a way to market their product to to get their customers to purchase more than one.

Most things we buy wear out, break or get boring, right? Socks. Underwear. iPhones. Cars. It doesn’t take much of an advertising budget for those brands to titillate us. But everyone’s individual Hydro Flask® is so personal and beloved, and their products are so strong and durable, how and why would people need more than one?

I would love if that were so.

Not that there’s not a variety. There are flasks for cold, for hot, for soup, for noodles. Lids, straws, sports caps, large-mouth, small mouth. And the colors are endless. I was shopping yesterday, and just drooled over the biggest Hydro Flask display I’ve ever seen. I even tried to narrow it down if I were to actually purchase one, but it was impossible.

No matter. I wasn’t planning on purchasing one, because I love the size of mine, the lid, the color, and the stickers on it that I have spent the better part of two years choosing very carefully and lovingly. I bring my flask everywhere, and I mean everywhere.

Hydro Flasks® weaken me. I almost caved yesterday when I saw a beige and yellow flask announcing, “Limited Edition!” This gets me every time, when a Hydro Flask is made in a color that we will never see again once it’s gone.

I also love giving them as gifts to my boys. A few years ago they each got a small hot flask. Two years ago, they got a medium. This past Christmas, they got a large. I don’t know if they will ever use them, but I love buying them in delicious fun colors, wrapping them up, and seeing them emerge from the wrapping.

I especially like when they put them in their rooms for safe keeping, forget about them, and then I slink in there and steal them until the flasks eventually become mine.

Always a method to my madness.

This Not That Part II

I was going to post a Mother’s Day gift list, but everything I saw I was like, “Ew, don’t get her that.” So I’ll save the list for another time, because here’s a list of what NOT to get her:

Don’t get her: A hat. They’re always a mistake. Always. Beach hats, fedoras, Stetsons, you name it. If she wants one, let her make the mistake, not you.

Get her: A flowery scarf big enough to wrap around herself.

Don’t get her: Health products from Goop. Don’t make pretentious Gwyneth Paltrow, who is the CEO of Goop, any richer than she is. I’m sick of her profiting off the message that women are living their lives wrong.

Get her: Something from your local beauty store, keep the money in town. Homemade soap, for instance.

Don’t get her: Cocktail makers. Take her out, instead of getting stuff for her to stay in.

Get her: A great table near the piano player at the swanky beach bar.

Don’t get her: A “Binge-Watching Survival Kit.” C’mon. Mask mandates are lifted, it’s going to be summer soon. Don’t buy her shit to encourage her to sit around the house. This made me incredibly sad.

Get her: Concert tickets to a comedian or a band she loves.

Don’t get her: Sleep masks. These seem like a good idea, but they’re really annoying to wear at night. Don’t waste your money.

Get her: A cute light-diffusing alarm.

Don’t get her: You’ve Got This! book titles. I get annoyed when anyone tells me “You’ve got this!” or “You go, girl!” It’s very condescending.

Get her: A cute journal for her thoughts and doodles.

Don’t get her: Electronics.

Get her: Rifle Paper Co. stickers to stick in her journal. I love playing with stickers in my journal and appointment book. After all, we’re all just little girls at heart.

Moment

The TEDx curating committee put all of their speakers up at a Courtyard Marriott in Phoenix. Basic amenities, cute little pool, one small bar. And it occurred to me during my three-night stay that sometimes, middle-grade accommodations are the way to go.

The sign at the entrance of the pool noted that there was no lifeguard and that there should be no running or diving. At the bottom were directions for how to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in the case of an accident.

In other words:

Yo dumbasses, this isn’t a five-star resort. We do the best we can with what we have. We are understaffed, and the staff we have is overworked. Use your common sense, and don’t do anything stupid that will endanger your life or anyone else’s. We don’t want to stop what we’re doing inside and have to come out and rescue your sorry ass. Watch your stupid big-mouthed kids yourselves, and don’t let them dive headfirst into the shallow end, as that could result in spinal injury. I mean, if wheelchairs bother you, that is. If you decide to ignore these warnings, and someone’s esophagus closes, here are some suggestions. Good luck, and fuck you.

It was like I had been sent in a time machine back to the 70’s and 80’s, when people were assumed to know how to take care of themselves. Those were good times.

I found the whole property completely charming. The CPR pool sign. The Heineken beer caps wedged between the bricks next to my pool chair. The fuzzy television picture in the breakfast booth where I ate in the morning, which played the Masters’ all day and night. The understocked snack booth that at least had an extensive ice-cold canned beer selection. The barista who made me a free celebratory mimosa the morning after my talk, even though the bar wasn’t officially open yet. And the desk clerk who let me nap all afternoon on Saturday, and didn’t charge me for late checkout.

The morning after my TED talk, I experienced a moment of pure bliss, one of complete peace and happiness. These happen to me often when I am alone, and never when I am with people. Let me tell you about it.

It had been a big night for me, and a late night. The other speakers had all either already flown home, or had left very early that morning, so it was just me. And although I slept in a little later than usual, my excitement woke me early. I threw on my bathing suit and cover-up and made my way to the lobby for some hot coffee. I sat in a breakfast booth and perused the menu while catching up on the Masters’ on my personal breakfast booth television. I sipped my mimosa while waiting for my breakfast burrito, looking forward to seeing my friend Laurie later that day and attending the Journey/Toto concert at the Gila River Arena.

With a full tummy, I grabbed another coffee and made my way to the empty pool. I poured my achy limbs into a pool lounger, the 90-degree sun baking its way into my muscles. I quickly fell asleep. When I woke up, I decided to take a dip in the completely empty pool, and just floated around, finally just resting on the side, facing the sun.

This was my blissful moment. The sun hitting my face, the glorious silence, the cool water, the lovely morning, the night before, the night I had to look forward to. The realization that all of my hard work had paid off to bring me to this specific, beautiful, sun-drenched moment just took my breath away. It was such a delicious moment that when I am feeling overwhelmed, all I have to do is summon memories of this moment, and I feel that bliss all over again.

Just a great moment.

Fasting

According to my media schedule, I will be appearing on a health and fitness podcast in two weeks. The appearance was scheduled back in the fall, so I had to check my files to see what topic I would be discussing:

Intermittent fasting.

I’m not appearing as a health and fitness expert, or a nutritionist, or a trainer. Just as a mom who finds intermittent fasting to be the easiest, most miraculous way to feel good and lose weight.

I remember the interview with the podcast host back in the fall, and when he brought up intermittent fasting, I happened to be fasting at that time, and we talked enthusiastically. He liked my story enough to ask me to be a guest, and I had forgotten until just recently.

And I happen to be back to intermittent fasting. Good timing.

I did not diet or fast or limit myself before my TED talk, despite the pressure I felt to look good on stage. Maybe I should have, and maybe I will regret it, but I felt I didn’t need the added pressure of weight loss on top of preparing for my talk. Fuck it, I guess I thought to myself. I look how I look, and I knew I needed the energy that healthy food and carbs gave me.

Yes, I got sick anyway. But my talk was flawless. Sometimes the obstacle is the way.  

Intermittent fasting is like a miracle to me. I can never get over how easy it is. I start by eating only within eight hours, then I cut it to seven, then six, then five, if I can. This weekend I did a whole 24-hour fast, and when I finally ate, I ate well and moderately. My body responds almost immediately to fasting, and adjusts instantaneously. I feel so in control when I’m fasting.

No counting. No deprivation. No off-limit foods. The best part of is when you do eat, you instinctively choose healthy foods. It’s like your body has reset, and has remembered what it’s for, and what it craves.

Now I could use some intermittent f***ing. Dare to dream.