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November 16, 2008
You Can Ponder Perpetual Motion
The perpetual motion of words. Swimming in them today, and they refuse to be put into any order.
Prior to yesterday, I had never cleaned gutters before. Yesterday I did. Now I can say I've done it.
It was a piece of cake. But note to self, next time don't wear Birkenstocks up on the roof. Wear the foundry boots, as my brother called them. A few weeks ago there was a family intervention at my house prior to the new siding and gutters. The work in the yard required sturdy footwear. And I own no footwear sturdier than my steel-toed boots. Which happen to also be quite comfortable.
My brother sees them and says to me, "where in the world did you get foundry boots."
"Uh, the foundry," I say.
So I cleaned the gutters with nothing more than rubber-gloved-topped-by-leather-gloved hands. My brother came behind me with the gutter guards. My mom was on the ground handing the guards to my brother and holding the ladder for him. (And, I suspect, worrying the whole time whether I was going to fall off the roof.)
(I did not.)
So I've cleaned gutters. The fact that I did it upon arriving home after a red-eye flight from San Francisco, sans nap in my own bed, speaks volumes to my intestinal fortitude.
Or possibly just to the jet lag. (Seems more likely when I factor in that I had Shea back Jalepeno into the garage when we got home yesterday.)
Earlier today I tried to take a nap but was too tired. Instead, I had a lucid dream about being at the piano in the middle of Atlanta's E concourse, playing Master of the House from Les Miserables. (I do not know how to play it, but my hands were moving around as if they did.)
Which is part of the fun of lucid dreams. Perpetual motion. Not very restful, however. So I got up. And have been laughing at my kid since then.
A few minutes ago she was in the kitchen and opened the pantry. Thanks to a trip to the grocery store yesterday, there was actually something in there.
I suggested an apple, which I then cut up for her, and said, "and perhaps a vegetable or something."
She says, "what is this vegetable you speak of..."
(Baby carrots, in case you are curious.)
She took a trip through Growthsburg again in the past few weeks. (Or her dad is stretching her on a rack.) Either way she seems to be warming to her height, and to the strong possibility that there are inches yet to grow.
I don't recall whether I mentioned that my third tattoo has been postponed until January. (All in all a good thing, because I don't need any more sky miles this year.)
The flight attendant on the plane from the west coast asked me whether I had any trouble sleeping on a plane. I said no. I also gave her permission to poke me if I started snoring. (I took a flight about a year and a half ago from somewhere in Europe (I do know for sure it was Germany, London, or Amsterdam) to South Africa. Once we reached 10,000 feet I put my seat back, covered up from head to toe, and slept for eight hours straight. Woke up when we were over Harare.
Nope, no trouble sleeping on planes.
Now I'm reminded of what happened after the conversation with the flight attendant. A guy seated two rows behind me, who had just come from the bathroom, asked her what she did with the little black pouch he had put in his seat pocket.
She shook her head and said she didn't do anything with it.
He said, "come on now, I know you did. It was there when I went to the bathroom, and now it's not."
Another flight attendant was standing nearby and she asked him if he lost something.
He said he didn't lose it, he knew one of them had taken it, and ha ha, and now they needed to give it back.
They both assured him that they didn't touch it. (At first I thought he was just joking with them. But he started to get perturbed.)
He accused them again of taking his little black pouch. And they both again tried to tell him that they would not have touched his stuff.
He just kept on repeating "come on now, give it back." I was afraid an air marshal was going to be in our very near future when one of the ladies said, "there's something under the seat in front of you..."
The man looked down, and his little black pouch had fallen to the floor.
I had been watching him intently anyway, and as soon as he made eye contact with me, I raised my eyebrows. And waited. And kept looking at him until he apologized. Then I kept looking. The second apology actually sounded sincere.
And once again, ladies and gentlemen, I listened to more than my fair share of folks say how the flight they had just taken was the worst ever. And that they weren't going to fly (insert airline) ever again.
One of them tried to engage me in conversation with that opening line. I smiled slightly, shrugged my shoulders. Said I take four flights a week on Delta and rarely have any problems.
Maybe I should wear a "Se Habla Good Karma" button or something.
Oh well. Have resisted urge to reread this, thus avoiding possibility that I would backspace the jetlagged musings. Will hit post, and hope for the best.
Written by Angela Tanner. November 16, 2008 12:20 PM