The Junk Drawer

So today I poked myself in the eye with the corner of some tri-folded paper towels that I reached up to grab off a shelf when I needed to wipe my mouth after brushing my teeth over the trash can in my office because I was too lazy to walk to the ladies room and do it there. It freaking hurt and then I had to go to a meeting and explain why I appeared to have been crying, but only out of my left eye. At least I smelled minty fresh.

Why didn’t I want to walk to the ladies room?

Because it’s like a quarter mile from my new office. I had easier access to the restrooms at my old office, which is being turned into study space for students in the library where I work.

The good thing is that I earn extra steps when I use the new rest room, but it’s totally inconvenient when I have somewhere to be in a hurry, like today.

BUT!

I just found out yesterday that I can walk through the fire door next to my office that leads to a stairwell that leads to another rest room just above my office.

I have been assured that the sign that reads “Do not enter. Alarm will sound” is false. It’s only there to keep students from accessing the stairs.

I even watched the building manager walk through the door today and it did not sound.

BUT!

I’m still scared to walk through it because it would just be my luck that one day the locksmith office will discover the doors are not alarmed and will alarm them for safety and I will walk through it and people will ask “Kathy, did you not see the sign that says you cannot walk through the door because the alarm will sound? How stupid are you? Can you not read?”

BUT!

One time I used my master keys in a building I used to work in to let myself into an office that I didn’t know was alarmed.

It sounded.

And it sounded loudly throughout the whole building and I had to wait in a state of terrible embarrassment until the campus police came and turned it off.

I’m not taking any chances.

The nearby bathrooms will have to remain a off limits to me.

I haven’t blogged in a long time, but in case you were wondering …. yes, it’s still exhausting being me.

The End.

When I was in my mid-20s, I lived in an apartment that had its fair share of problems: green shag carpeting, pitiful air conditioning, and a laundry room buried in a dark and scary basement next to the boiler system that ran so loud you wouldn’t hear if a murderer walked in to kill you until it was too late.

But I lived close to work and shopping, and the rent was dirt cheap. Despite the chance of being killed and no one finding my body until they had to do laundry, I couldn’t complain.

Until the summer of the thousand leggers.

Circa 1987 my apartment suffered an infestation of thousand leggers, known to entomologists as the Scutigera coleoptrata. They’re like tiny hair pieces that can move at cheetah speed.

That summer, I would find five or six of them every day in various places: on walls, in the shower, and inside appliances. No place was off-limits.

I feared I’d start finding them nuzzled up in bed with me, just waiting for me to fall asleep so they could crawl into my ear and burrow through my brain.

For the ones that were on the walls and stayed still, I’d grab a can of what had become my “go to” for instant bug death – Aqua Net hair spray. I chose this over bug spray because it wasn’t toxic to me and one long blast of it caused Scutigera coleoptrata to shrivel up and die within seconds.

I co-existed with the thousand leggers for weeks and we had a loose agreement. You don’t touch me. When I spot you, you will die. But I promise to give you a quick, merciful death. Sound good? Good.

They didn’t hold up the agreement.

I recall coming home from class one night, unlocking my apartment door, and reaching inside the hallway to turn on a light.

I felt something.

Bumpy.

Hairy.

And it moved.

The light illuminated one of meaty, leggy intruders that had parked itself on the light switch. “Evening, Kathy! Where’ve you been?”

I dropped my books and my purse, went screaming through the apartment looking for my Aqua Net, and prayed I’d find it in time for our agreed-upon merciful death.

I didn’t. When I came back to the hallway, it was long gone, free to move about the cabin, or – go tell its friends that I was home and they could begin their reign of terror into the night.

I slept with the Aqua Net.

Another day, when I pulled down the door to empty the dishwasher one fell out. On. To. My. Bare. Foot.

Primal Scream is the name of a British indie rock band from the early 80s. It’s also the sound I made when this thing landed on me. Not only did I make a sound I didn’t know I was capable of, but I jumped up and down so loudly that my downstairs neighbor came up to see about the hubbub.

“A thousand legger got me,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” said she.

We shared a moment of exasperation, then I shut the door and began a recon session, Aqua Net in hand.

Spot, spray, die. Spot, spray, die. Spot, spray, die.

This went on the rest of the summer and luckily the infestation lasted only that year.

A few years later we had bees and by then I decided enough was enough. An elderly neighbor had them too, and I learned she was allergic to bee stings. Our apartment didn’t allow pets, but she’d been grandfathered in before the new policy was enacted and didn’t want to make waves with apartment management by complaining.

I had nothing to lose, so I called the Health Department.

Bees no more.

So why have I called this story “You’ve come a long way, baby?”

Because I just saw a tiny thousand legger crawl across my kitchen floor.

They’re here.

But I let it live because someone posted on Facebook yesterday that Scutigera coleoptrata are super good at eating other insects and you want them in your house.

Lucky bastard. I just gave you merciful life.

Carry on.

Testing … testing …

Is this thing on?

OK, so I know I haven’t been able to shake a five pound weight gain from a  recent vacation due to the following ice cream and ice cream-related events:

1. Sept. 24: chocolate/vanilla twist

2. Sept 25: chocolate/vanilla twist, chocolate custard waffle cone

3. Sept 26: chocolate twist, cookie dough/hot fudge sundae

4. Sept 27: chocolate custard waffle cone, cookie dough/hot fudge sundae, chocolate/vanilla twist.

5. And for good measure, Oct 1 – Oct 12: Post-vacation ice cream events too numerous to mention.

I know. I have a problem. Note taken.

The caloric nightmare ain’t over, or maybe it is.

I just went to the store for some things and picked up the lowest calorie snack of all the high-calories ones I perused. That’d be a 12-pack container of mini-whoopie pies that clocked in at 1,200 calories (vs. others I wanted that started at 1,600).

When I got to the register and the cashier rung me up, she couldn’t get my precious whoopies to scan.

“Hmmm,” she says. “That’s weird.”

She tries again, this time entering the code manually. No dice.

Gets another cashier to try. Also no dice.

She turns to me and says “That’s never happened before.”

“What never?” I ask.

“It says ‘Item not for sale,’” she says.

“So what you’re saying is it’s not for sale for me,” I suggest.

She chuckles and the other cashier offers to go back and find another. I wave off the offer, thank her for saving me 1,200 unnecessary calories and I leave snackless.

I’m crestfallen. But I’m also relieved.

I know I need to get serious about these five pounds now because if you don’t stare a gain like that down and do something about it, you wind up getting used to it, add another five, get used to that, and suddenly you weigh 193lbs again.

Thank you, grocery store scanner for refusing to sell junk food to me.

Except I still really wanted it.

When you say “It looks like someone has too much time on their hands,” all I hear is “I’m sad because I don’t know what creativity feels like.”

I read this comment on a blog almost a decade ago and haven’t forgotten it since. I can’t be certain where I saw it, but I believe credit is due the artist Terry Border, an incredibly talented man who began a blog called Bent Objects to showcase his whimsical art, and followed up over the years with eight books, one of which has become a musical.

The comment stuck with me because I’ve been on the receiving end of it a bunch of times over the years (especially during the Windy years) and again just recently when I posted this picture to Facebook, with the caption: “Astonished sidewalk guy.”

Someone commented “You have too much time on your hands,” to which I replied “I really hate that comment.”

Boy, do I.

A lot.

I was thinking of replying with a different comment, one that would have addressed the time factor, as in “Really? The three seconds it took to take the shot, then the five seconds to post it to Facebook, qualifies as too much time?

But that’s not a comment that speaks to the real problem with the accusation.

The real problem is that no one needs to justify the time they spend for anything creative, no matter how small or insignificant others might think it is. That’s the beauty of art and creation.

There are a thousand reasons why people innovate and create. It could be for utility or to solve a problem. It could be an outlet for stress or to move through a painful experience. It could be to learn a new skill, to seek a new path, to grow as a human. Or it could be to entertain, to enlighten or simply to bring a smile to the face of another person. That is me.

When I observe something off-beat or interesting, it makes me happy and I want to share it. It’s why I took up blogging. I always said about blogging that if I could make someone chuckle for five minutes out of their day, I’ve done my job.

And if it took me “too much time” to think of something bizarre, stupid, uncanny, or ridiculous, so what? That’s my time to spend. I have never accused anyone of spending too much time on something that gives them joy to make, to do, or to experience. Think of all the hours that people (including me) invest in passive activities, like binge-watching their favorite TV series. They’re not creating art, not creating music, not dancing, not painting, not writing. But they’re creating joy for themselves and I say “Go forth and be joyful!”

The last thing we should be doing these days is raining on others’ parades for doing something they love. If it’s not hurting anyone, why even care?

After I received the “too much time” comment, all I could think was that guy would have lost his mind if he’d seen what I did to this fallen tree on one of my favorite walking routes through the woods. I carried a hammer, some nails and plastic googly eyes for three and a half miles to make and take this shot.

Too much time? Not to me. It was time well-invested because every time I see it, it still cracks me up.

And when passersby laugh about it, take out their cameras and save it to share with others, that’s icing on the cake.

I do what I do first for me. If someone else finds it just weird enough to enjoy, then all the better.

It leaves me happy, because I do know what creativity feels like, and it feels pretty damn good.

Addendum: I just visited the Facebook page of the guy who made that comment to me. In his profile, I see where he graduated college and what he studied. Wanna guess what his degree is in? Can’t make this stuff up: Art History.