There is a big problem in my life that I have been ignoring for years. Or, just papering over and pretending to deal with. It’s one of those things that is private and if I chose to never mention it then noone would ever have any clue about it. It is easily hidden and even easy to ignore. Sure, there are a couple of times a day when I am confronted by this issue and am forced to deal with it. But the soon evidence of it is shoved back in a drawer, or hidden under other things. I’ve spent money to try to fix it. I’ve thrown things out, I’ve tried to just live with it, but it never fails to come back and bother me again. I know for certain that I am not alone in dealing with this problem. But I wonder, for those who’ve dealt with this issue successfully, how do they do it? Is it will power, is there some magical solution?

Some of you may have already guessed what I’m talking about. For those of you who haven’t, read on…

Yes, I am talking about mismatched socks. It seems every year I spend a small fortune buying new tube socks, new gym socks, new dress socks, new hiking socks. But it doesn’t seem to matter. Soon enough, the perfectly matched and specially purchased fall into the same old rut – only one sock remains. Who knows where the other one went? I don’t.

There are, of course, those rare pairs that somehow manifest a mystical ability to stay intact for many years, no matter how often they’re worn. For these gifts from the universe, I am greatful, and from them I am given hope.

But for the vast majority of socks, it is inevitable that sooner or later they end up orphaned. A single sock, trying so hard to fit in with other similar but not quite identical socks. Black socks with different patters. White socks with different toe details – yellow, grey, logo’d, blank. Brownish/greenish socks, all desperately searching for their sole-mate, but condemned. Their fates sealed: perhaps they’ll eek out a few bottom-of-the-drawer-no-other-choice mismatched wearings, or they’ll sit their, sometimes for years, unworn, in a desperate but ultimately futile longing for their match. And I, their equally forlorn conspirator. Deluded, pretending, that perhaps, maybe, one day the long-disappeared pair will crawl out from some corner, emerge from hiding, and re-appear through the eternal black hole of sockdom.

But nay. Mismatched socks to not spontaneously re-combobulate.

And as for me, the human manifestation of the orphaned pair — on the one hand I cannot find the internal strength to accept the reality of a lost sock, and on the other hand I abhor the thought of donning two that do not mimic each other in each detail: color, material, thickness, pattern, and logo. And thus I’ve doomed myself to a drawer, and a life, full of unmatched socks.There they sit, unusable. Unwearable. Unbearable.  Yet I’ve not the heart to dispose of them, clinging ever to the stupid, foolish idea that one day I’ll find a pair for at least one of them and for that — a faint and futile hope — I keep them all.

Ride the bus.

If the bus were cool, more people would ride it.
If the bus were cool, car drivers wouldn’t be frightened
of the “dangers” of sharing their motorized transit
with folks they don’t know – delinquents and vandals.

If the bus were cool, less gas would be wasted
If the bus were cool, admit it, YOU’d take it
You could take it to work or take it to practice
You might even like it, if you tried it.

Sadly, too many see the bus as a joke
Say these serious people and snobberly folk:
“The bus is for others, they’re not for my kind!”
“I am too busy, I am far too refined!”

But the bus, you see, is actually awesome
When people move together, the city soon blossoms
with texture and energy of those with whom you share
your ride as you ride the bus from here to there

Sharing your seat is not always grand
and sometimes, it is true, you may have to stand
Sometimes, though, you can offer a hand
And help someone in need, a mother or elderly man,

And there are times when your ride on the bus has a moment of fright:
someone clipping his nails, or a theft or a fight
and the bus – damned bus!  – doesn’t  always show up on time.
But give yourself cushion, and all will be fine

The bus saves gas, it saves you from searching for parking
It gives you a reason to do a little more walking
You can read a book, or the paper, or look at the sights
Buses are safe, economical, they run day and night

So the bus, you see, is not for the poor and “those fools”
The bus – like the train or the subway – is a wonderful tool
To take you shopping, sightseeing, to work or to school

The bus, it is true, is truly quite cool.

——-

This poem was inspired by Amanda’s post lamenting the total lack of public discourse on the many benefits of public transportation, in particular as  great means to get around when you are out drinking.

[...] buses aren’t being used as much as they should be, but a large part of the reason why is the mental block of growing up in a car culture.  Making it easy on people is only half the battle.  The other half if getting people to realize how easy it is, which sometimes feels like an insurmountable problem.

She posits that part of the problem is our cultural taboo on discussing potential good decision that can be made while engaging in ‘bad’ behavior. All of our drinking and driving discourse simply discourages drinking. But, why not have a parallel campaign that promotes public transportation as a viable alternative? After all, the bus is cool.

You are The Devil

Materiality. Material Force. Material temptation; sometimes obsession

The Devil is often a great card for business success; hard work and ambition.

Perhaps the most misunderstood of all the major arcana, the Devil is not really “Satan” at all, but Pan the half-goat nature god and/or Dionysius. These are gods of pleasure and abandon, of wild behavior and unbridled desires. This is a card about ambitions; it is also synonymous with temptation and addiction. On the flip side, however, the card can be a warning to someone who is too restrained, someone who never allows themselves to get passionate or messy or wild – or ambitious. This, too, is a form of enslavement. As a person, the Devil can stand for a man of money or erotic power, aggressive, controlling, or just persuasive. This is not to say a bad man, but certainly a powerful man who is hard to resist. The important thing is to remember that any chain is freely worn. In most cases, you are enslaved only because you allow it.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Origins of Street Butts

They come from smokers, who have come to the collective conclusion that our world is their garbage can. How did this happen? Is there any other type of refuse that our society thinks is OK to casually toss onto the ground? People don’t throw their used kleenex or toilet paper on the street. Receipts go in wallets, pockets and purses. Coffee cups go into trash cans. But cigarette butts end up on the sidewalk.

The lack of consideration fits well with the willingness of many smokers to pollute the air with the fumes of their pleasure sticks. Luckily, many smokers smoke the healthy American Spirit brand, which is good for you.

Solutions

I understand that it can sometimes be difficult to find a proper waste basket for your butt. And, that unlike, say, a receipt or a tissue, that a butt is not appropriate pocket or purse material. That shouldn’t make the street your next option. Instead, anybody who smokes owes it to all the rest of us to carry, along with their lighter and pack of ciggies, a small butt tin. A little asher. A compact, light weight container to serve as your personal trash can. If no suitable garbage can is available, pull out your mini trash can and stick your butt in it.

Failing a smoker’s willingness to carry another accoutrement, smokers should be offered the ability to purchase butt-free cigarettes. True, this might mean that there would be no filter, but it would enable them to smoke the entire cigarette, thus reducing the orphan butt syndrome.

Conclusions

As Christians like to say, “hate the sin, not the sinner”, right? Absolutely. I know many littering smokers who aside from this, err, challenging behavior, are downright great people, some of whom I love and admire. But, as we have with drunk driving, society should clamp down on the harmful and poisonous behavior. Laws should be enforced, tickets should be issued, and smokers should learn to think about how their butt, so casually flicked and forgotten, contributes to a dirtier, more inconsiderate, and uglier world.

I have. I attempted to open a package of zucchini, a plastic plate shrunk wrapped with celophane: I stabbed through a tense area of the plastic wrap with my index finger, and then, WHAM! CRASH! BURN!!! AARGH!

The momentum of my hand hand penetrated the saran with great ease, then continued its trajectory into the skin and then the meat of an unsuspecting zucchini (formerly hermetically sealed). The thrust of my index finger was stopped only after diggin in to a sufficient amount of impact-resistant zucchini meat. The angle of entry had sent the left edge of my right index fingernail headfirst into to that veggie. This is not a good idea, as the ‘z’ is just soft enough to let a bit of itself become lodged in that netherspace between nail and flesh before impeding additional progress. It burned. It hurt.

I did my best to dig the zuchmeat from the crevasse. But the injury had happened, and z-meat or none, my poor finger and associated fingernail have been quite sensitive ever since (this happened last Wednesday).

Next time I buy veggies from Trader Joe, I will be piercing the packaging with a knife. My finger isn’t cut out for this type of work.

Lately Wade has been taking Lucas on afternoon walks so that I can work. Yesterday they walked to the mailbox, the coffee shop, the park and the library. This morning Lucas started telling me about the MAIL and how it is outside. At first I was confused. I was like ‘Yo, kid, why do you worry about the mail? You don’t got no bills.’ Then my analytical brain realised that he was remembering the evening afore and telling me about it.

He does like twelve cute things a day — I can barely remember it all. Sometimes I call Wade at work and report all the good, the bad and the ugly. The other day we were laying in bed early one morning. Wade had left for work and Lucas and I were cuddling and talking and he told me a “story” about a big banana, bigger than a house. At first I was like ‘I’m sorry, mon cheri, I don’t understand’ then I realised that he was telling me a story to entertain me much as the wizard entertains him.

On the bad note, the other morning Lucas discovered his markers in an easy access location i.e. NOT WHERE THEY BELONG (hey, baby, please put them away in the future) and he scribbled all over his sketch pad, the floor, himself and the furniture!!!!! I was doing dishes in the kitchen and my mother-sense tingled because he was too quiet. I searched for him only to discover him under a chair, crouched over a notebook, scribbling away with marks all over heck. Needless to say, I shrieked ‘Lucas, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’. Most everything came off, but the chair will never be the same. This is why I am not buying the sofa I really want because now I can be blase about stuff like that. ‘O, you dropped your blend on the dog? O well.’ I called Wade right away and reported. He was chagrined and I bet the markers will get put away in the future. OR. ELSE.

–
Half-way done!

There is a most wonderful salad bar at the Urban Market a few blocks from my office. Lots of veggies and stuff, and excellent grilled chicken. But today I’ll be meeting my cousin for lunch and due to scheduling issues, that wont be happening for a couple of hours yet. ANd the Urban Market is too far to go unless it really is lunchtime.

Yet here I sat, starving. So I decided I’d try out the work caffeteria, an established I’ve been warned about and suffered at the mercy of, but yet I decided “well, something simple can’t be that bad.” (Last time I ate there, I ordered a panini that turned my stomach for the remainder of the day.)

So I ventured down to the 9th floor where the ‘Sky High Cafe’ is situated. Meandered around the empty buffets (empty of people, not food), perused the offerings. There! I’d found what I wanted: a small bowl of chicken noodle soup – that American staple of latchkey kids everywhere. So I filled my styrofoam vessel, sealed the lid, grabbed a packet of saltines and headed to the checkout. $3. Ok.

Back at my desk, tummy grumbling, I unsealed the styro-bowl. My mouth watered. With my black plastic soup spoon, I gently canoodled the noodles. Blew softly upon the soup, to cool it. Raised the spoon to my lips and delicately slurped the steaming soup. Umm, hello? Taste? Where ya at?

It was like drinking hot water in a dirty glass. Gross, baby. This is chicke fucking soup. How do you mess that up? Open the can, pour it in the bucket, add water. It is completely incomprehensible to me how people who work in a kitchen (cooks) could so completley fuck up something as basic as chicken noodle soup. But at the Sky High Cafe, they can.

(Not that you need it, Rick, but others might appreciate it.)