I had a little beetle

I returned a call at work today, and the man  started talking about how he lost his job and is trying to recreate his life with more intention than he did twenty years ago. I was interested, but wondered if he thought I was someone else, like a head hunter, as he described his educational and employment history.  He said he’s also working on mood management.  I wanted to ask what that entailed, but it seemed off topic, even though I had no idea what the topic was yet.

I broke in and asked what I could help him with.  Since I barely have my own job at this point, I didn’t have much to offer in the employment conversation.

“Well, I’ve had to move in with my parents, who are in their 80’s.  Their neighbor, who’s my neighbor too now, has a warehouse full of dermestid beetles.  Should I spell that for you?”

I said yes because I was trying to be positive, what with him being unemployed and moving back in with his parents and stuff, not because I couldn’t sound out the word, or needed to write it down.  The kind of beetle in the shed was irrelevant.  Like, OH, Dermestid beetles, yeah, we’ll take care of that. Now if you’d said some other kind of beetle, nothing doing.  But I wrote the name down, and tried hard to listen to his story because that’s what we all need, right?  Someone to stop and listen for five minutes?  Or, in his case, 45?  

“So he raises these beetles because they eat the flesh off of cow skulls.  The beetle dung smells very bad, to a point where we can’t even go outside.”

I could see why mood management might be an issue.  But I was privately wondering if the smell emanates from the beetle dung, or if it could have something to do with the rotting cow carcasses themselves.

I started daydreaming as he described dimensions of various sheds and driveways in great detail, and began to think about R., who I know would have a bunch of questions.  Earlier this week, we went on a 90 minute narrated tour of Western Washington University.  Towards the end, we visited a dorm room, and while there, our guide off-handedly mentioned that the only pets allowed are those who can be under water for five minutes.  She talked about other things, and then asked if anyone had questions.  R. raised his hand.

“Um, could we go back to that 5 minute under water thing?”

I’m laughing in my head, because I know exactly what this is about.  It has nothing to do with him wanting to bring a pet to college, but everything to do with his need for precision in language, which I’ve mentioned before. 

Our guide replies, “Well, I was trying to make the point that fish are okay.”

“Oh,” says my son, “I was just wondering if this is a flood area or something.  It seems unlikely, on top of this hill, but I am curious about why all the animals have to hold their breath for five minutes.”

I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Yeah, don’t worry, he’ll be going to Evergreen,” but I was pretty sure that would only be hilarious to me.  Also, I totally love this quality in him, and didn't want to be misconstrued in a negative way.  He just really needs to know if she’s got it right – if there’s a rule, have they captured the intent accurately with the language?  Would a mouse in a cage be okay, or must it be able to hold it's breath?  He could care less about bringing a cat to college, but he wonders if a cat that swims underwater would be allowed.

I know that R. would have asked about the mood management strategy, why the man had cow carcasses in the shed, where he got the beetles, if the smell was definitely from the beetle dung, and so on.

I tune back in, and he’s still explaining – “one shed was probably built in about 2004, and I’d say its, wait, let me go look over there, yeah, maybe 12 by 15?  Or maybe 11 by 14, I’m not really sure.  It’s east of the shed I just described, maybe 10 feet.  Not directly east, but a little bit south and east.” 

I think its good customer service to give people a chance to tell their stories, especially when they’re unemployed, working on mood management, had to move in with elderly parents, and have some weird taxidermy/carcass cleansing operation going on next door, and even better customer service if I can actually really listen well.  But it’s really hard sometimes.

I go back to R.’s question about flooding, which I know is him being ridiculous, but not in a rude way; it’s just how his curious mind works.  After the tour, as we back to our car, I commented, “Good thing you asked that question, R.”

“Well, it just wasn’t clear.  If the pets need to hold their breath for 5 minutes, do I need to bring a snorkel if I come here? Should I bring my own oxygen? Angle for the top bunk?”

I tune back in to the phone, and decide I need to try to focus. 

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, if you could just clearly explain the regulations.”

“From what you say, the sheds constructed without permits next to the salmon stream wouldn’t be allowed.  There may be health department regulations about the odor and the beetles that I could look into, be we wouldn’t handle that here.  Would you like me to turn in a case for investigation of the sheds?”

"Oh, no, I definitely don’t want to create more animosity in the world.  I’d just like to go talk to him, and let him know that what he’s doing isn’t allowed.  I’ll start there, see if I can offer to help him get things cleaned up."

This is a pleasant twist, because the calls never go this way.  “Wow, that’s excellent.  Let me know how it goes.”

“Oh, definitely, I will.  I think it will be fine.”

Maybe I’ve gotten too cynical, but I don’t have high hopes for the man who raises flesh-eating beetles and pours roundup on the plants next to the salmon stream to eagerly accept input.  “If you can work that out peacefully, you can be the poster child for our mediation program.” I say that as if we have a mediation program and a poster. 

“Oh, great!  And you can be the poster child for government.  You’re really a great listener, this has been so helpful.”

I feel sorry that I was doodling, drawing beetles, and thinking about other things for much of the conversation, because I think I should have tried harder...

The Dawning of the Age of Precarious

Aries (3/21 – 4/19): Diana Nyad, coolest woman evah, says that the goal should be “to live a life with no regrets and no worries about what you are going to do with your time. Fill it with passion. Be your best self.”  Do that, Aries.  Or, you could be like me and play lots of solitaire online and think about all the stuff that needs to get done like contacting the exterminator and the people who fix leaks and stuff.  You decide, Aries.  But swimming to Cuba definitely exposes you to more sharks.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I saw a headline today, "Google May Finally Bring Chrome to Android."  If you fell asleep ten years ago and just woke up... Taurus, don't become obsolete.  Keep up.  You absolutely cannot afford to fall asleep for 10 years. Drink coffee, breathe into a paper bag -- whatever it takes.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): When I talk to young people, I sometimes ask what they want to be when they grow up, and the usual answer is, "I want to review permits."  You've probably noticed this trend yourself.  If you have any influence on the youth of tomorrow, encourage them to keep that as a hobby. Making work out of an avocation, well, we all know how that ends.  Tell them to make music, fight fires, or write books for a living; save permit review as a fun hobby to pursue on the weekend.

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21: I'm sitting in a coffee shop, and there's a Chinese lesson going on next to me.  A middle-aged man is learning the language from a younger woman.  It seems so freakin' hard, and now he's asking her how to say, "what if the hand made the mistake?"  Is that my problem, cancer?  I barely know how (or more importantly, when) to say "what if the hand made the mistake" in English, and I can't even conjure up a circumstance when I'd need to say it in Chinese.  Is that a good horoscope?

Leo (7/23 – 8/22): The problem with having a facial recognition disorder is that every white guy looks like D.B. Cooper.  One of these fellows believes that evolution is a theory that's out there, one believes that corporations are people too, one has already been in and out of the presidential race, and one jumped out of an airplane with $200,000 in 1972.  They all look alike to me.  Oh, and then there's Dow.  But seriously, the only Republicans who don't look like D.B. are Newt and Michelle, don't you agree?  Your horoscope, my friend, is change it up a little.  Be recognizable.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  I hope all time travelers are as courteous as the one who posted this sign.  Be that considerate this week. 

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): Apparently, there are two types of intelligence, fluid and crystallized.  Fluid intelligence is the ability to solve problems, recognize patterns, do puzzles.  Crystallized intelligence is the ability to use knowledge, skills, and experience.  People are supposedly made up of both kinds; I'm pretty sure I'm 95% fluid intelligence and 5 percent Wikipedia, but I haven't actually taken a test.  Libra, this week, take a few tests.  See what you're made of.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I've spent so much time on Regretsy and Kickstarter that I barely have a horoscope for you, poor Scorpio.  I wouldn't recommend getting hooked in there; swim to Cuba instead.  I see a beach vacation in your future.  Oh, and is that your mother in the bushes? 

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  Does it seem creepy that they advertise Bing with the fact that your search results will include the preferences of your Facebook friends?  I tried to test it, and either my friends have no opinions, or it doesn't work.  But as Mark Z. said, "[Microsoft ] is incentivized to go out and innovate."  This made me look for more quotes from him, and I'd like to officially pronounce him the Least Quotable Guy ever.  Sag, be quotable.  Please don't change"incentive" into a verb.  I'm pretty sure that's not god's plan.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Today, I purchased afternoon coffee, because it's what I need.  Also what I need in the afternoon, but am reluctant to confess here, is two packets of turbinado sugar, whateverthefuck that is.  I'm a firm believer that coffee should be consumed black, unless I'm drinking it, in which case it should have half and half in it, and, in the case of the afternoon coffee, it should also have this raw organic sugar in it.  Today when I reached for it at the little station where you decorate the coffee, the bin was empty.  The man next to me pulled a giant wad of these sugar packets from his pocket.   "Would you like one," he asked  I must have given him that "wtf, are you some kind of pure organic cane sugar hoarder?" look, because he looked quite sheepish.  "Take two if you want," he said awkwardly.   Take two yourself this week, Capricorn.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  My boss returned this week, after a month in Norway or something.  At least that's what he says.  When asked him about his trip, he gave me a list of plants and animals that he saw, and then started being upset about the whole debt ceiling, which the rest of the country has already forgotten about.  "I just don't understand middle America, Betsy.  I just don't get it.  The whole anti-tax fake christianity thing.  What's that about?"  "It's possibly about our mortality," I pronounce.  "We're sad about that, and take it out on the world by joining the Tea Party."  He gives me the, "why do you work here, again?" look, and its like he never went to Norway at all.   Aquarius, we're all gonna die, and it's not going to be fun, and we'll miss each other unbelievably, but we'll carry on; don't use any of that as an excuse to be miserly or mean-spirited now.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  The sky was dark in a way I couldn't quite remember this morning.  Dark gray, but I wasn't sure if that just meant we weren't officially in dawn's early light yet, or something ominous was ahead.  So far, so good. 

Top two reasons

I’ve keep listening to the news, and even though it’s boring and annoying, I'm compelled like I would be to a slow-speed train wreck.  I’d like to quit, but I keep thinking something might actually happen. So far, no.  They talk almost exclusively about the economy, the republican presidential candidates, the economy, whether Obama’s failed, the scary picture of Michelle Bachmann as it relates to the economy, blah blah blah.   It doesn’t seem much like news, which I think of as a report on a previously unknown event. Lately, it’s more like boring people gossip – all the hearsay and speculation without the juice.  All of this long pre-ramble to get to the point, which is that I’m so cheesily grateful for my little town right now, for tons of reasons, but I’ll name just two.  And first, let me apologize, because I  think the “just plain folks” type stories are clichéd and tedious.  So forgive me in advance if this turns out that way.

Reason Number 1. We have a new farm stand that is entirely operated on the honor system.  It’s a tiny un-manned store that contains a variety of organic produce, handmade jewelry, and t-shirts in a trailer on the shoulder of a fairly busy road.  There’s a wicker basket for your money, and a notebook where you can leave a comment if you like.  The other day I went in with a $20 bill, and was able to make $13 in change from money in the basket. This just makes me happy.  That the owners trust us that much.  And as far as I can tell, we’re worthy of it.  Is this unique to our little town? It feels like such a friendly contrast to what’s going on in the other Washington, where everyone seems completely suspicious and miserly.  The other reason I love it so much is that it is exactly about 5 feet off of my normal commuting path and it takes less than a minute to shop there.

Reason Number 2: The second piano drop.  Wait, you haven’t even heard of the first one?   In 1968, an acid-loving man named Larry Van Over wondered what a piano would sound like if it were dropped from the sky, so he created a Woodstock-like festival and did just that.  Country Joe and the Fish came, as did about 3,000 spectators.  One of our friends lives on that property now, and unearths piano keys when she gardens.  But it turns out that the sound of a piano dropping from a helicopter isn't very impressive; louder than the sound of one hand clapping, but perhaps not as musical.  More like a “piano flop”, according to some.  (The piano drop, by the way, is listed as item #6 on the Chamber of Commerces’ “top ten reasons to move to Duvall.”  In case you were wondering, Item #10 is “the roundabout.”  Sad but true.)

At any rate, the reason that the piano drop is being discussed here today is because it will be re-enacted on Sunday.  But rather than one acid-tripping hippy organizing it, this one is sponsored by Safeway.  I can’t decide if that means that the Safeway here is way cooler than the others, or if the piano drop isn’t as cool as we have all been lead to believe.  Here’s a before pic of the piano that my son texted me earlier today.  I’ll see if I can get an after picture.
 

It's about time...

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):   Did you notice how everything comes in turkey now?  Things that are other species, like bacon, hamburgers, and smoked salmon -- they all come in turkey.  Anyway, horoscopes do not come in turkey, they're as fattening as ever.  But sadly, your week will come in panda.  You'll have a cuddly, adorable, semi-endangered week that climbs trees.  But here's the tip, Aries: things are never black and white. Study the gray.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20): I've been working hard at laughing more during the work day, and it's not easy because everyone is so annoying, and it's totally them, not me, and most of the people who make me laugh have gone, so I'm left trying to create new people to fill that role, but everyone isn't on board.  Example:

Him:  Yeah, so I think they need to sign a restrictive covenant, blah blah blah.
Me:  Hey, you should swing by my cubicle and be funny occasionally, eh?
Him:  Um... Anyway, about that permit....
Me:  I'm serious!  I'm as serious as climate change, and sadly, so is this workplace.  Make it stop. 
Him:  Um, so do they need to notarize covenant before issuance?

My point, Taurus, is don't just read the bumper sticker.  Be the change I want to see in the world!

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): Me:  Don't forget, you're on my Zombie Apocalypse team.
Him: What's the zombie apocalypse, again?
Me: It's where we hang out in a big box store trying to protect our brains from being eaten by the undead.
Him:  Oh, right.  Why am I on your team again?
Me: I know!  I've been wondering the same thing.

The point of this, dear Gemini, is that ultimately, we're all on the same happy happy team, and there's no need to worry about the ZA (yet). 

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21:  Does the news ever feel really disjointed, like, on the same day that Hosni Mabarak is wheeled into court on a bed, and bad stuff is happening in Syria, we learn that Buzz Aldrin is coming to the space needle to kick off a contest to see who gets to go into space.  (They're looking to send "an average person" into space.  That rules you out, Cancer.  Above average in all ways.)  And then yesterday, they sent a rocket to Jupiter.  Does life seem like one of those weird dreams, that are disturbing but you can't always tell why?

Leo (7/23 – 8/22): It turns out you're an Internaut, Leo, which is a lot like an astronaut without the diapers and Tang.  But you should never go into the web without an exit strategy and provisions, even though it looks safe at first glance. 

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  You Virgos always get the geeky horoscope.  But seriously, I'm just a vessel, don't blame me.  At any rate, there are two kinds of time travel  -- the kind where you can't kill your grandfather because it's a paradox, and the other kind. The Morphail Effect causes the time traveler to be ejected from the time if he/she is about to create a logical paradox, thankfully, which explains why we're all still here, (even though time travel will get discovered in the future).  I've got a feeling that Morphail Effect could happen to you this week.  Uggh.  Don't do it, Virgo.  Don't create the logical paradox.  You never know where you'll end up.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Do you ever feel like some aspects of your life could be a Jerry Springer episode?  Anyway, enough about that.  You have a bucket now; make the list.  Start doing things, one at a time.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Thank god that heat wave ended, eh?  Back to fleece, after two days of 77 degrees. I hope you stayed well-hydrated.  Okay, back to the news, though.  Did you hear about the Pakistani man who killed six of his daughters because he thought two of them were dating older boys from the university?  That is really, really sad, and probably not the best teaching tool.  I'm not getting anything on your horoscope.  Nothing at all. 

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): The other day I got a text from R that said, "I think I just threw up in your chili." I was puzzled, because, well, wouldn't you be?  I don't even have any chili.  I replied with a question mark, and he wrote back,  "Oh, sorry, that was my other quick text.  I meant to send you, 'Thaaaannnnkkks Mooooommmm", but I picked the wrong quick text."  That, my friends, is planning ahead.  Because if you were to throw up in someone's chili, it would be good to notify that person, and you might not really feel up to the task, so upon reflection, I decided that the quick text is an excellent idea.  Sag, plan ahead this week.  

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Did you hear about that guy in the trailer park in Tennessee who reported his picture of Jesus stolen?  For some reason, I had to read the story over and over, and then find more stories to read about it, but they're all the same.  None of them answer the questions I have.  Like, wait, so Veronica wipes Jesus's brow when he's trudging around with literally, his own cross to bear, and that rag has an imprint of Jesus' face on it?  Okey dokey, just go with that.  But then this picture is a painting of that exact rag, and was blessed by the pope, and made it's way to a trailer park in Tennessee?  And then it was stolen?  Who goes to a trailer park for a crime spree?  Even if that does happen, who steals a picture of Jesus that's in an envelope in a drawer?  And then tries to sell it to a nearby Catholic church?  I'm not seeing it, Capricorn.  The horoscope here is this:  dig into your week.  Ask a lot of questions, see if you can really try to understand what's going on in the world.  (If you figure it out, lemme know, wouldja?)

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): Does it seem like every time you turn around, a bicyclist or an eagle is involved in a fatal traffic accident?  That is not right.  Look both ways when you cross the street, no running with scissors, chew your food carefully, and so on.  The thing with the eagle, I'm told, is that it gorged itself on roadkill, and then couldn't maneuver very well.  So that too:  no gorging on roadkill.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  I'm sure you've heard about the guy who was caught trying to split atoms in his own kitchen in Sweden.  He says, "I have always been interested in physics and chemistry," and he just wanted to "see if it's possible to split atoms at home."  Pisces, he was arrested.  My point, dear Pisces, is this:  stop excavating for that super collider in your back yard.  Play with legos or make a collage instead.  If Higgs Boson wants to be found, it will appear before you just like the kudzu jesus (which is actually trumpet vine).

The Great American Camping Hoax

It never ceases to amaze me that car camping is so popular.  In case you haven’t done it before, here’s what it is:  You pile tons of stuff in your car, drive to a beautiful location, park in a little outdoor cubicle about 30 feet from the next car, and then sleep on the ground right outside of your car.  Hundreds of other people are also doing this at the same place.

But it’s not just about sleeping.  It’s basically playing house without all the stuff you need.  You essentially try to re-create all the things you usually do (except for tracking the debt ceiling crisis), but outside, without the stuff you forgot.  Like in my case, I forgot pants and a bunch of other important things.  Other than that, it’s half-assed business as usual, but everything takes longer. 

For example, at home, if you want coffee, you just make it.  In my case, that means heating water on an electric stove, taking the water temperature with my digital thermometer (incessantly.  Like a diagnosable condition, but harmless), pouring it through my little aeropress setup, adding cold half and half from the refrigerator which is about a foot away, and drinking it.  Camping coffee is made this way:  walk about a block to get water.  Find or borrow matches.  Light the stove, heat the water.  Rummage in the cooler to find the stuff you need.  Wish you had a digital thermometer to take the temperature, but act flexible, as if you don’t care.  Meh, whatever, just pour the water.  Who cares if it’s 175 degrees?  Not me.  Assume it’s 212.  Discover that everything in the cooler is soggy, and the half and half is a little tipped over, and the ice has mostly melted, and there’s a loose egg yolk floating around.  Make the coffee and then sit near your car in a chair that you brought from home and drink it.

You get the idea, you alien who has never been camping.  The point is that it takes a great deal of effort to recreate something that’s a little bit home-like, but lacking the basic creature comforts that we’ve come to love, like warmth, indoor plumbing, a bed. 

At any rate, the fact that Americans love camping is exactly like Daylight Savings Time, which is when someone said, “Let’s everyone in the whole country (except for those of you in the sorehead states) get up an hour early tomorrow, and just keep doing that all summer long, and then let’s switch again in the fall.”  And everyone just does it.  Does it seem amazing, what high compliance we get? Somewhere around six percent of people in this state don’t vaccinate their children, and 20 percent don’t wear seatbelts.   I don’t know of anyone in a DSL state that doesn’t switch times. It’s astonishing that we all go along with the getting up earlier thing in the same way that camping is astonishing.

Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy camping, because I go to beautiful places with people I love, and we laugh and play, and they loan me pants and the other stuff that I forgot, and we talk about our favorite podcasts, and I get to be around all of their fine children. 

Oh, and I’ve been whining about the whole food thing, but for me, this is how it goes:

Me, a few days before the trip:  Hey, C, should we coordinate on food?

C:  Um, what are you thinking?

Me:  Should we do that thing where you organize the food and I show up with snacks and beer?  The way we do?

And a day later, she gives me an organized little grocery list, telling me exactly what to bring and why, and she brings the complicated forgettable little items like dish soap and a sponge, and we eat well.  Including fresh Dungeness crab that we caught with a net.