Meals, Weed, Rap, Repeat.

I know so many of us have lost count like I have on the number of days we have been living, working and entertaining at home. I was on a Zoom happy hour and someone said it was 8 weeks. I don’t think it has been that long, but I honestly don’t know. Maybe 6 weeks? My brain has gone limp, and it no longer is able to process time the way it used to. Now, the measurements are not in days or weeks, but my time is now tracked by meals.  These days I yell to Ella from across the hallway to remind her of the awesome something or other that we made for dinner the other day, week or month. I’m also paying attention to the news threatening a meat shortage.  This is what I have turned into in just 6 or 8 weeks.

I also have renewed my addiction for weeding and rap music. It seems that one cannot exist without the other. For the past couple meal cycles, I have been tackling parts of my yard and my weed problem. I do get a bunch of gratification from ripping, tearing, pulling and digging these strong invasive nuisances from the earth. However, when you have Snoop Dogg and all of his friends on Pandora playing, it is heaven.  The weeds are no longer weeds, they become muthafu!@%ing bitches! And I realize that my love for rap makes so much sense, as I love the word play, cursing, and channeled anger.

Unfortunately, my love for rap has bled unto my daughter and I found her listening to Eminem in her room. Her only question, ” Mom, why is he so angry?” I tried to explain he was just a po white boy who had a bad mamma. I tried to expound to describe that rap is form a blues, but spoken and angry. I don’t think she understood, so I invited her to a Zoom meeting for further clarification.

I was a little concerned my daughter was listening to rap, because I do understand women are depicted often in a terrible manner.  However, I  think it is because rappers have watched one too many porn videos and it’s played out in the music to perhaps enhance masculinity. Nonetheless, I wholeheartedly believe in the average rapper’s home, the woman is calling the shots. I mean, Snoop cooks with Martha when he isn’t out being a gangsta.

My point, I have none, but I’m not certain I am documenting this time as I should. When Ella looks back on this period of time I am a little concerned. What she will remember, tell her children, and how I will be depicted? I am curious of how this will all shake out in the end. Until then, I will continue be in my yard and garden with my weed(s) and my muthaf!@%&#ing hoes.

Keep Your Social Distance

I went out for a run last week. Then I was training for a race I just learned was cancelled. Regardless of the cancelled race, I need something to focus on other than all the negative thoughts presently flooding my head. I was minding my space during that run and keeping to the right side of the path. I noticed a biker coming in the opposite direction and he began to point at me as he rode past in a manner that I thought meant “move over more”. My first few thoughts were not very nice, and then I rationalized for I bit. I guess I could have moved over three, maybe four inches more, trying to determine if we did have 6 feet between us.  I ran a half mile more up the road and realized. The biker. He was turning left.

My friend’s husband  pointed out that hypochondriacs  have been preparing their whole lives for this. I imagine that we might not see some of them again, not because of illness and death, but because this is the pandemic that might create a epidemic of shut-ins and now we have the infrastructure to support it. Similarly,  introverts have wished their whole lives for some type of ongoing excuse to stay home. This is an extended holiday for people like me. This has gotten me out of so many awkward conversations with some of my neighbors, and not riding in elevators with…people. Gosh, it’s like a freaking vacation, socially. I no longer have a fake excuse waiting in the wings of why I just cannot make it to your function.

When I am minding my social distance, I try to respect and not offend.  I do want to see my friends, but I know what’s at stake. So did the grocery store employee, who sprayed bleach on the key pad of the self check out. I actually got teary eyed at the gesture. I was surprised she didn’t spray me directly. It’s not the first time someone has questioned my state of clean.  However, I am deeply grateful of all of the grocery story workers who are coming to work every day. Not to mention all the other people who don’t have the choice to stay home. I would like to see all my local store employees wear the bleach spray bottles in makeshift gun holsters with the handkerchief face masks, cause it does seem like the wild west out there in grocery land.  I wouldn’t even mind if they even spoke to me aggressively and threatened me with a squirt of bleach if I was not as compliant as they demanded.

I am not certain how long I have been in the social distance/quarantine pattern anymore. I have trouble keeping track of the days. But I am still training for my non-existent race. The reason I am forcing this practice to continue is because it happens to be my daily treatment for my anxiety. Taking away the run while in lock down seems like a terrible idea. Over past couple days, I have come to the realization that there is just too many people out on the running paths, with the good weather, and I feel I have become part of the problem.  So, with a heavy heart I decided I would stop going outside for my daily run and I dusted off my lonely treadmill that faces the wall in my garage. I did move it to face a window. Not sure why I didn’t do this 7 years ago.

I am not a fan of the treadmill, but am grateful I have access to one during these strange times. Some runners believe the treadmill is a practice of self harm. I agree, but I also think  wearing jeans during the quarantine when I have decided to eat like a hobbit is more of a practice self harm, so pick your poison.  Trying to continue some type of normal in times when nothing is…is difficult. So, I will focus on gratitude. As I press the on button today as I start my half marathon, I will be grateful I am consistent with my practice of self harm. I will wait to put on my jeans until my run is finished, at least this time.

 

 

T.P.

Growing up my mom never talked about the act of pooping, but she had some interesting sayings about poop. One of my mom’s poop saying is, “You might as well shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which one weighs more. I understand this is not the most optimistic of sayings. However, I am certain I do not need to test this logic. The logistics of crapping in ones own hand I think will be trickier then one would think, and if you are actually doing this to see which hand weighs more, then you have bigger issues at play.  However, for some reason this saying keeps rolling around in my head with the new state of affairs that are now upon us.

It is a mystery to me why so many people who appear reasonable would stock pile toilet paper. I might understand this if the overwhelming side effect or symptom  of this global epidemic might require one to be tied to the toilet seat for hours and hours in a unmanageable purge of bodily fluids, but this does not appear to be the case. This did get my wheels a spinning thinking about the average American and their bathroom habits.

It might be that people are so frighten that they have a heightened startle reflex. Aside from this unending self-quarantine and social distancing, I can relate to this. If I would arrive home and find many friends and family waiting inside for me. I would most likely think incredibly deeply about the location of my toilet paper for a few seconds or minutes. However, I want to be clear, I have nothing against surprises. I would believe it was an intervention until I see the balloons.

Aside from all this toilet paper shortage talk, the smatterings of stomach upset commercials, and Dr. Oz, I find that most people don’t talk openly about poop. It might be a inner circle discussion for some. I do know some feel comfortable enough to openly announce proudly upcoming features or movements, while others hide every hint or evidence that this natural phenomenon occurs much like they are hiding a crime.

I have a friend that openly announces that he launches SEAL teams, sometimes  he only launches half a team, sometimes he launches a team with support. When he leaves the bathroom after a successful launch he will give a yell. I find this fascinating, because I have been a bit of the opposite. I have bought  things like Poo-Pourri, their tag line is “Don’t Do the Doo Without It.”  My goal is to be quick and to hid every evidence of the event.

Growing up, in my house, nobody ever spoke of number two and I think this is incredible with the understanding that six people shared one bathroom. I do remember my father spending an inordinate amount of time inside this room of mystery while all of the rest of us would wait impatiently outside. I also think this also shaped my current bathroom habits to be a quick as humanly possible.

From my childhood, I will always have the memories of my gram walking across the room, while crop dusting the entire length. During these events she would state she was going to visit “Aunt Sally” and she would disappear into the bathroom for a bit. I have to admit before I became wise to my gram’s poop humor I wondered why Aunt Sally never came out of the bathroom, and I questioned when my gram had excessive gas it made her think of Aunt Sally.

Most of the people I know do not talk about poop. My runner friends only talk poop before a race, because it very well may be with as much as we all run, we all have had that unfortunate memory of going out for a run and coming back with one less sock. And it might be just me, but in the summer I look for the neighbors who are doing home renovations and have a Honey Bucket in their front lawn. I have never needed to use any of these, but knowing this might be an emergency option is comforting  to me for some reason.

Recently the Pepto-Bismol commercial has been bugging me and  mostly don’t pay attention to them, maybe it’s due to all this toilet paper talk. It has the familiar jiggle singing about stomach aches, heartburn, upset stomach, and always ending with diarrhea. However, this time the guy singing, sings diarrhea in a manner that is just too polite for the action we all have come to understand. Instead of this pleasant musical dedication, I think the diarrhea part should always be sung with complete urgency with the background of the heaviest heavy metal that one can image. Until this happens, I will put my version on the wish list. Nonetheless, I think I might be getting sidetracked.

This current global situation has brought everything down to assholes and people’s overwhelming need for toilet paper. If you think all you need is rolls and rolls of T.P to feel safe and secure as you all shelter in place, then there is not much I can say to convince you otherwise. If you think the excessive amount of rolls will serve you if you get sick. Well, you might as well shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which one weighs more. Just wash your hands, especially the hand that weighs more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In The Land of Almost and Good Enough

I found my daughter in the laundry room sorting through freshly washed clothes much like how a raccoon pilfers through trash looking for a tossed tasty morsel. The only difference between the two is Ella was looking for a clean bra. Surprisingly, I had no idea Ella has the same startle reflex as most wild animals and rodents. She jumped up from the laundry pile and scurried around me, holding her bra and her heart as if she had been mortally wounded.

I felt sorry for her and then for myself for not having the time or organizational skills to sort all this for her, but I try to remain positive.   The bra almost made it into her dresser, sitting nearly empty just a couple rooms away and at least it’s clean. Good enough.  It has not always been this way. I took a new job about 8 months ago, and there has a been a progressive down slide into what exists here in my household today. The state of my house reminds me how a dystopian novel reads… chaotic, hopeless, and apocalyptic. Unfortunately, I do not see any hero in, on or near the horizon coming to save me from the ever growing cascade of my list of to do’s.

When the weekend hits, I have a few moments of fleeting optimism. 48 hours seems like enough time. However, the realization of how things have gone a stray and having enough insight to understand that the amount of my shit exceeds the number of hours needed to make a dent. In spite of this I do my best.  But as I often say, sometimes your best isn’t good enough. I might have this engraved on my headstone.

Balancing the responsibilities of being an adult, being a parent, and still wanting to have a little fun, means for me that my house might look like my hair when I first wake up in the morning. I might be faster to take a comb through my hair then to clean my house, but I have been accused of being a bit vain. I feel it is my right to still try to look pretty in a messy house.

As a recovering perfectionist, I am trying to embrace the concept of almost and good enough. In one, five or twenty years, I wonder how much of this will matter? I highly doubt on my deathbed I will mutter the words to Ella, “I’m sorry your bras didn’t always make it to your dresser.”  Nonetheless, I do think, maybe too much, about lining up a person who can cull all those things I have collected that I don’t want Ella or others to find after my demise. I think this is a whole other can of worms that I might unpack on another day. Until then I will try to live happily ever after in my very imperfect world.

 

 

 

Cold Chicken

My daughter has a tendency to become quite agitated quickly over small silly things that  tickle me more than they should. We spend a great deal of time watching TV in my bed in the evenings and sometimes in the mornings.  Ella often walks into my room, hovers and becomes entranced by whatever is on the television. It seems she gets hung up on the commercials produced by the pharmaceutical companies, and often mocks all the side effects and allergic reactions that might occur.

This week we both were caught up watching a few Chantix advertisements. If you don’t already know, this is a medication some people take to help quit smoking. Ella was a bit infuriated by the featured chickens in this commercial (who were attempting to quit smoking) and she did not understand why they had clothes on, one had a coat on and another was wearing a blanket. I did not have the same confusion or agitation at the time I was watching these ads, because I feel nothing makes sense anymore. My only response to Ella, ” Come on Ella, don’t you know all chicken’s wear clothes when they quit smoking, duh?”  I even shared the story with a friend, cause it made me laugh. And I went on about my day, laughing at Ella and Chantix for the ridiculousness that is in marketing and in general.

Hours later… I was thinking about the chickens. Why were the chickens cold? I  then realized it is obvious that I need to see my eye doctor and I absolutely do not know how to identify cartoon edible fowl.  I  do take some solace in the fact that Ella has the same affliction of her eyes, her genes, and possibly shares the same apathy towards ornithology.   I do know the phrase quitting cold turkey makes much more sense when marketers use turkeys in their commercials.  Perhaps the moral of this story is it makes no sense when chickens wear clothes.

Taking Stock

I am not one for resolutions. I don’t like them. The undue pressure on top of all the other responsibilities one has to achieve on a daily basis is a recipe for bad self-esteem. The cycle from year to year continues. It often leads to feelings of not being good enough based on societal expectations that you may not even personally aspire to achieve, but feel pressure to do.

I think maybe starting small is a better idea. For example, I always want to organize my sock drawer. When I am in a rush and trying to stuff my backpack full of workout clothes, I am always slowed down in the morning when trying to match a pair of socks. This process of opening up this bin, looking in, and muddling things around reminds me of the card game I used to play in grade school. I remember shuffling a bunch of cards and laying them face down. The process is to flip, look and turn the card back over. Then flip another, look and remember where I saw the identical card (the match) I turned over earlier. This childhood game somehow turned into my sock drawer.

I am aware how easy it would be to match the socks when I do my laundry, but I don’t. Yes, I do understand the extra time spent on matching the socks when I fold laundry would make up the time wasted on trying to match them in the morning, but apathy doesn’t care. I’ve decided this daily exercise of matching socks isn’t a nuisance, but a cognitive practice that will hopefully stave of dementia in my later years. It has to be.

The amount of time spent on taking stock and nit picking or minimizing behaviors that may be significant does require more than just setting a goal and thinking your intention alone will make it happen. The changing of one year to the next is not enough to move or motivate a shift when cognitive behavioral therapy, detox or a prescriptions of medications will do the trick to effect the wanted transformation. My point, stop the nonsense of making big life changes that are driven by the stroke of midnight.

Tuning up the engine instead of majorly overhauling it might be a better way to approach this yearly phenomenon. In my case, for example, instead of wishing for the socks to be paired, I should appreciate my ability to put my socks successfully on my feet, matching or not. Or just acknowledge that my socks are clean and are put in the proper place. Baby steps my friend. Grounding oneself in gratefulness might be a better approach.

I think most of us have all this backwards. Maybe people should focus on the positive things that occurred over the past year and expand on it. For example, I did not tuck my shirt directly into my underwear in 2019, at least to my knowledge. I plan to continue to not tuck my shirt into my underwear in 2020. Tucking, low wasted jeans and bending over are not friends to me. Perhaps the real goal should be not caring about it if I do. I may be oversimplifying this and getting off track, but I feel change should be reserved for those rock bottom moments.

For those who are in the first week into a resolution and have failed already. Please give yourselves some grace. If you are getting up in the morning, breathing air into your lungs, managing to put one foot in front of the other, then rejoice. You are still here. Whether you think your life is sometimes heaven or hell, you are here and you must be doing something right. I’ll embrace my unmatched socks and terrible tuck jobs, if they occur. I hope that my approach to this coming year will help me return to the gratefulness that I think we all need to embrace in 2020.

Christmas Miracle

Since the birth of my daughter I have been an innocent bystander on watching her grow. I have been there for her first smile, rolling over, crawling and finally walking. I have been there cheering her through this aging process. I have to admit I was not fan of the infancy phase. I was a nervous wreck for most of it. I can’t say I loved the teetering toddler phase and the terrible twos and threes, I will never forget the power struggles that ensued. Ella also had a hair trigger vomit reflex that I have never experienced in my life before and hope to never again. As soon as she would get upset about ANYTHING, she would go into a dry heave to full on explosive vomiting, really in a matter of seconds. Emotion=Vomit. I spent most of her younger years, approaching her with towels, talking softly and giving her ample choices regarding whatever it was I wanted her to do. I walked on egg shells especially when I was in public, because sometimes I forgot my towel. Oh, and those folks that were stuck in our row on airplanes during this phase, you poor souls.

I have to say that her most recent milestone is my favorite. I have waited years and years for this. And it has finally arrived and I could not be more proud of her. When it came time this year to decorate for the holiday, for the second year in a row, I just could not bring myself to go through the steps of getting a Christmas tree. Of course, Ella wanted one and I was on the fence. We did decorate the outside with lights, which was enough for me. We had a bunch of lights left over to put on a tree, but still I could not make myself go pick out a tree. So, Ella and I decided to make a “tree” out of the lights on one of our windows. It took two strands of multi-colored lights to make our Christmas tree. I could tell during this process that Ella was just going along with it and was not super excited about this at all. We finished and stood together to get a look at our creation. I put my arm around her shoulder and asked, “Well, what do you think?” She stated, ” It’s breathtaking” in the most sarcastic tone. I almost cried, she finally gets sarcasm! It truly is a Christmas miracle.

Tis The Season

Every year around this time, I seem to take a nose dive into the abyss of seasonal affective disorder (SAD). I am uncertain how many years I have suffered, but I became acutely aware a few years ago. During my first recognized bout, I decided that I no longer could visit the grocery store for my weekly supplies. Before I even noticed I had a problem, I found myself in the local store parking lot lacking the will to get out of my car and walk through the doors into the chilled arena. I sat in my car for an unspecified amount of time, losing the battle, driving home with an empty car and eventually empty stomach.

Knowing that my daughter had to eat and fearing child protective services knocking on my door, I resorted to ordering all my groceries online and had them delivered. The amount of time selecting each individual item from the list on the website most likely took me much longer than driving to the store and doing it myself. The more frequently I placed orders, the easier it became. The website remembered my order from week to week. When my groceries were delivered, I felt judged by the person who dropped off my goods after the realization I was not elderly.

As I unpacked the items, I always would remember the one item I forgot. All orders had to be over $50.00, so I would do without until next week. That year was the winter of delivery. When the sun returned in March, I was able to get in my car, drive to the store, and walk through the doors without a second thought.

I know this will happen every year, but I feel there is little I can do to change the months of darkness that I tend to wade through. Each season tends to bring about different nuances of this abjection. Luckily, in the last few years, grocery shopping has not been affected. Surprisingly, I don’t stay in bed or miss work, and I keep up on my running and the gym .

Last year, during my long runs I had to change my running course for those 3 months. I had an overwhelming urge to jump from one (or maybe two) of the bridges. I knew I would not take the plunge. I didn’t classify myself as suicidal, but just incredible curious about the water below. Perhaps I wanted to see if I could beat the 50/50/50 rule. The rule says that a 50 year old has a 50% chance of surviving 50 minutes in 50 degree water. I figured I was close enough to the 50 year old mark to give it a go.

Interestingly, researchers have found the urge to jump off a bridge or veer off a mountain side cliff is surprisingly common. A not so recent study found that this urge to jump occurs in both people who report to having suicidal thoughts and people who have never shown this self destructive urge. This is referred to as the “high place phenomenon.” Every time I am up high, I want to plunge to the floor below. It is terribly freaky to have the impulse to do this every single time I am up high.

I describe it more like a Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) that makes me feel obsessed with plummeting. There are many theories regarding why this happens, but they are exhausting to list as they might only partly apply. However, since all I could think about while running across the bridges was to leap over the side, I decided to not temp fate and stay on one side of the river. When the light returned in the Spring, I could then resume my runs across the beautiful bridges without the overwhelming thought of hurdling over the side.

Unfortunately, this lovely season is upon me once again and I feel the effects. I am still grocery shopping and I am running across the bridges, at the present. However, this seasonal affliction tends to make me look up at the universe and challenge it to maybe smite me. Or I have the urge to lay in my front yard, cover myself with the falling leaves, and become one with the earth. However, all the while I am conflicted with the need to start Thanksgiving prep, Christmas shopping,decorating, and then attempting to ring in the New Year with some sort of positive attitude. Thinking, at the same time, each winter is just one big disastrous ground hog day where I always see my shadow causing me to white knuckle through weeks of complete feculence.

I am doing my best to cope at the moment. I oscillate between half-assing and not giving a shit to wanting to wrestle someone. My chosen sparing partner can be willing or unwilling. I’m not picky. I believe I have three months until my light will come back on. I am only half terrified of what will transpire between now and then. My other half, that is not terrified, doesn’t care about such things. This is the half that has the urge to poke a sleeping bear or try to start or break up a drunken bar fight, depending on the night and the bar. I should be on the hunt for vitamin D and a SAD therapy lamp, but I’m not. However, if you happen to have one or both those items, I’ll wrestle you for it.

Have a Mother F***ing Great Day!

The two blocks I walk from the parking lot to the office isn’t far. Two blocks seem pretty insignificant when you think about it, especially when considering Portland blocks. They seems to be much smaller when compared to the streets I walked in Philadelphia. However, the encounters that occur within these short blocks are not inconsequential.

I have seen more naked body parts, people sleeping on the sidewalks, an occasional  person in the process of vomiting, people urinating, and even had a women take a swing at me. Most of these events take place before 9 o’clock in the morning. Way too early to bob and weave and I am not sure there is ever a good time to view a stranger’s penis, I believe.  Sometimes all this happens before my first cup of coffee, so I consider my surviving the blocks to the office an overwhelming accomplishment. Nonetheless, I doubt the consumption of coffee, prior to or after, would soften the impact. However, I would like to think that having a healthy level of caffeine induced agitation might give me the upper hand with some of these encounters.

A few years back, I walked by a man as he was urinating on a parking meter. This man actually lives in the building located right next to my office. He literally was urinating 100 feet from his apartment. I glanced in his general direction, trying to make sense of what I was seeing and apparently this was upsetting to him. He began yelling at me in an animated manner. Of course, I did not react, as I really didn’t want to have a conservation with this guy while he was holding his willy in his hand, and I didn’t have the time to wait until he put it away. I suspect our discussion would not have had a productive outcome anyway.

Interestingly, this man has become part of most of my mornings as I walk by his building and into my office. He is incredibly verbal. He stands, typically, leaning on a parking meter, muttering to himself about various topics. His unrest is just below the surface. After the urinating incident, it seems he decided to put me in a special category. When I pass by, he pays close attention. If I glance in his general direction, he will almost instantly go on the defensive and he calls me a “mother f!@%er*”.  I didn’t immediately understand these two words were directed at me until I noticed that every time I glanced over at him he throws them my way.

At first, I was sorry that I agitated him. I would go out of my way to avoid upsetting him. I would look down and walk fast. Being the source of anyone’s irritability, especially in my line of work is not uncommon. I have to admit I do become a bit numb to being the unpopular person in the room. Maybe that’s why I  sometimes  would forget myself and look his way and boom!  He’d toss those two words right at me. I would feel bad. To be clear, I did not feel bad for me, but for him. To be the source of anyone’s displeasure, either irrational or real, makes me uneasy even if I might be a little numb to it.

However, something changed after I accepted a new position at my job. Now I go into the office much more and I tend to have the same level of agitation brewing just under the surface. I noticed he does stop what he is doing and he does focus on me as he sees me approaching. Now when I see him, I look directly at him. I attempt to make eye contact and like friction to a match, I hear those two magnificent words hurled right at me. This interaction is quick and there is no escalation. All I know is that when I do not see him on my way to work, I don’t feel quite right. These two words are like heroin in the veins of an addict. It just feels so good.

I have not seen him for about a week and I am as concerned for his well being as I am for mine. I am hoping that this unseasonable cold weather has kept him in his apartment, keeping warm. Nonetheless, his self care is impacting my morning routine. All the coffee is not giving me the dose of optimism I get by hearing his daily affirmation. I suppose I am a bit like a masochist, but with words.  I am willing to accept that good morning and good day do not do a darn thing for me anymore. If you see me out there, don’t waste your breath on me by using an empty greeting. If you are willing to accept that I need to have a good morning too, then by all means…I cannot wait to see you.

 

 

 

 

Don’t Be Koi

A few months ago, I met up with my friend and we ate at a local sushi restaurant. We decided to dine outside and we were sat at a table near a fountain that contained some Koi fish. The sound of the fountain, the the red flashes from the swimming fish seemed nice enough. Throughout dinner kids would walk up to take a look at the fish, so I decided to take a gander after I finished eating.

As I walked over, I thought about how relaxed I was after sitting in ear shot of the trickling water, and pondered the long term effects of having a fountain with fish might be something I would like to incorporate into my lifestyle. I made it to the fountain and looked in. As I  leaned over the edge, I saw about 12 fish staring up at me. The Koi were wide eyed and looking at me. All were opening their jaws wide like a yawn and then closing their mouths in a manner that seemed nervous or anxious. Every fish was looking in my direction with this intense need or want in their eyes. I couldn’t tell which, as I often get want and need confused on a regular basis.

The fish held my stare for longer than I wanted and for every second that passed I became ridden with the weight of their expectations.  I felt immediately guilty I would never be able to live up to the standard they were setting fourth with their pleading gazes. I am certain they were only wanting food, but the intense look in their eyes made it appear like they wanted something more.  As I walked away, I realized that I needed to, or is it wanted to… go back to therapy.

I replayed their incessant gazes throughout the evening after leaving the restaurant, much like the replays during a football game. It was similar to the plays that are reviewed over and over, either horrific or amazing, depending on the circumstances. I am not sure what spurred my mind to do so, but in several of the replays if I concentrated enough, I swear, with my limited fish lip reading skills,  one fish actually mouthed, “I need school clothes!” I never considered that a Koi pond would be the measurement for me to understand the state of my mental health, but it seems so.

I haven’t returned to this restaurant yet, but plan to as I used to frequent this place a bunch. I can only surmise I have been waiting for it to get cold enough that there is no chance that I would have the choice to sit outside. Knowing myself the way I do, I would most likely choose to have a second encounter with the fish, if only, to gain some type of understanding about the current state of my mind. However, I am not certain my mental fortitude is in a place where I can withstand the weight of the agonizing gazes that wait for me in the bubbling water.