I have started a number of posts lately. Each one long, heavily linked, full of fury and worry over the state of things. But I am not miserable, despite these surreal times. I spend time with dear friends, I go on regular walks in beautiful places, I am editing wonderful writers, my next poetry book is coming out this summer, and I am grateful for the steady flow of library books that enliven my nights. Most importantly, my family members are flourishing. I love them in all their beautiful, complicated, witty glory. So to spare you my ranting posts (at least for now) I will simply share a few stories from my ordinary life.

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Attempted Rescue

The other day a black ant moseyed across my desk. This is surely confusing terrain for an ant – books, papers, notepads, colored pencils, far too many pens, empty coffee mug, water glass, more books, more papers. As soon as he settled briefly on a notebook I lifted it, telling him to remain calm so I could let him out the door. We got through a hallway, two rooms, nearly to his freedom while he hurried nervously across my day’s list. I said soothing words and warned him the robot vacuum was his greatest enemy, not me. His antennae lifted skeptically in my direction. We made it to the door where I fumbled with the knob. And reader, he didn’t wait for that promised freedom. He leaped. I am sorry, my wild and hopeful friend.

This is a cautionary tale about robots.

Future Rescue

When we were first married, I insisted to my husband Mark that we would live simply. That included no perfunctory gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, or holidays. He embraced this so readily that the last decade or two he has proven quite capable of not even remembering these milestones. I bring this up only because it’s relevant to the story stemming from my recent dream.

More like a nightmare. It seemed to go on and on. In the dream I had fallen down our basement steps and broken something bad, like a hip or spine, leaving me unable to move. I didn’t have my phone. Somehow Mark wasn’t in this dream. It was just me living here with our two dogs. I lay there as hours turned into days, hearing my poor dogs overhead suffering without water or food. I thought of how cruel it is for humans to trap pets in homes, livestock in pens, any creature in a zoo or cage. I lay there in my own misery, aware I would likely die of thirst not too many days after the dogs died. I woke up shuddering with horror and told Mark about the dream, probably in excruciating detail.

What did this man do? He went out and bought a soft floor mat for the bottom of the basement stairs so if either of us did fall, there’s a better chance of surviving without a cracked skull or hip. Now that is a gift.

Failed Rescue

I have exactly one green shirt, making it my favorite green shirt. Recently I dropped a blop of coriander chutney on it while having lunch with a friend. I blotted with water and forgot about it (conversation and South Indian food being far more worthy than shirt annoyances). By the time I got home and rinsed the spot, it was clear the chutney’s lemon juice had reacted with the dye. There were faint splashes of paler green on the shirt front. A heedless woman might have tossed the shirt out. A crafty woman might have embroidered the spot. A carefree woman might have decided to wear the shirt with a large scarf knotted just so. Not me.

I put dilute vinegar in a spray bottle and squirted the shirt, hoping it would react and give me overall splashes of paler green. After washing, there appeared to be no unifying field of lighter green. No change at all other than the original spot. Okay, I said to myself. Must be the lemon juice. I squeezed a perfectly innocent organic lemon that might have been destined for greater things. I strained this juice (putting the pulp in my glass of water, I’m no wastrel) and proceeded to squirt the shirt in a fine mist of chutney-replicating acid. The lemon juice hadn’t been strained enough and clogged my squirt bottle. Fine. I don’t have the patience (or hypothesizing skills) of an actual scientist. So I flicked the lemon juice at my shirt in an impatient manner, left it on a short time, then washed it.

Now I have a formerly nice green shirt that looks like it has been hit with lighter green buckshot. Even a scarf won’t fix it now.

Too Clueless To Rescue

I hang out, mostly by text, with group of friends we’ve named The Weirdos. Our text chain is, as you might imagine, mostly weird. One of the gentlemen weirdo’s replies contained a misspelling that came across as “yop.” It seemed like a cute Muppet word, like the Yip Yip Martians.

Instead of letting an obvious typo go, I replied, for no reason at all, “double yop.”

Two days later, while waiting on the phone as a hospital system endlessly transferred me bot to bot, I looked “yop” up in the Urban Dictionary. Okay, NOT what I picture Muppets doing.

This is not an unusual level of cluelessness from me. The other day, the youngest of my brilliant and beautiful offspring recommended a video he thought I’d like. Rather than texting back that I’d watch it, I texted back a brown eye emoji to indicate I’d watch it. (I have brown eyes.) After a lifetime of dealing with his mother, he didn’t even try to explain that it has long meant something else. Apparently this is what my reply meant.

Son: You’ll like this video.

Mom: butthole