Bed-lam

Once upon a time I remarked casually to my husband that there were days I wished we could drag the mattress off of our bed, out to the living room where we could plunk it down in front of the fireplace.
And his eyebrow rose so steadily and so slowly, creeping higher and higher on his face that I began to worry. I was having some serious concerns that his eyebrow was going to detach itself and just run away all together. Which would be a shame as Alan has lovely eyebrows. But I am off of my point if not my rocker.
The boldly stated bombshell lay between us. Our mattress in the living room.
Before the word "Why" could so much as begin to pucker his lips in the slightest I rushed forward like a lawyer horse, launching outta the starting gate, racing to fill in the air between us with not just my words but excellent reasoning behind such a move.
"So we could sleep in front of the fire!! It would be like camping only lazier and we could watch tv at the same time!"
The eyebrow halted it's steady climb.
Alan's eyebrow is his barometer indicating his feelings on how crazy an idea is.
"It would be warm and cozy and instead of heating the bedroom we could stay out here where we already have it heated."
The eyebrow lowered.
"Well....." He said, chewing this idea over in his mind and I do believe I fell in love a little bit more.
That is the true litmus test of a soul mate. When you throw an idea out there, no matter how wacky, it's considered. If even for the briefest of moments.
Sure your idea to defect from all North American Countries and creating your own on some small island where we could live on rum and lobster for the rest of our days, whittling coconut shells and writing our National anthem might ultimately be dismissed. But for a half second, that precious half second when his mind leaps ahead with yours to that place that exists only in imagination, the place where he joins you in decorating your new country's flag and helps build a lovely 3 story hut out of bamboo and flamingo feathers, working in harmony, before reality slams itself against your dreams and hauls you back to the here and now....that half second....is amazing.
"I guess it would take up a lot of space....." He finally says. And I see him mentally measuring the living room floorspace. If I could pop inside his brain for a moment and peer out through his eyes I almost bet I'd see faint green lines laid over every bit of anything that could be measured in the living room. And next to each faintly glowing green line would be the measurements, guesstimates of course he's not a computer. And the units would be in feet but not standard's , rather his own size 11's.
I gaze with rapt attention and baited breath as his head swivels on his neck and I can see that he is envisioning our bed in the middle of the living room and I can see that he can see it wouldn't be half bad. I follow the invisible path his eyes trace, as he mentally pushes our King sized mattress around the available space options. I see when he sees that if we push it right up to the kitchen area we could not only access the fridge from bed BUT do dishes. If we had a keen interest in doing so, which I don't but I like options.
If we push the mattress the other way we could press it up against the patio doors and during the hottest days of summer we could open the door and sleep with our heads practically outside. I see his brows lower as he considers the loveliness of a soft cool breeze in the middle of the night during the hot summer.
Now his eyebrows are not only back to their normal position but they are attempting to crawl down over his eyeballs, perhaps the brows wish to see what his brain sees and want a peek inside.
He grabs the tape measure and starts measuring how much space we'd still have for incidental things like walking.
When he speaks, it's with the far off tone of some one who isn't all the way in the here and now. He's in the there, the there where the reality is different than it is in this exact moment. In that there, the reality consists of pretty much everything as it is now BUT with one crucial difference. We could sleep in front of the fire place on our beautiful king sized mattress in the middle of the living room.
"We could always put the sofa in the bed room, make it a second storage area type place......." His voice trails off and now I walk with him through imagination into the room that would formerly be the bedroom and would then be the sofa storage room in the future, should we go down this life altering mattress moving path.
With those words I know he is hooked.
Life fricking rocks.
When you are a teenager they tell you all sorts of overly recited pap like "You can be anything you want to be, do anything you want to do when you are an adult." The unspoken words include the disclaimer "As long as what you choose falls into what is the accepted norm and doesn't differ too much." Meaning chances are no one would reallllly support the dream of creating one's own country with lots of rum based drinks and a 3 story house made from bamboo and flamingo feathers.
So that moment, when you realize you don't actually have to follow the list of "rules". The ones that are unspoken, the ones that say beds go in the bedroom, and your sweetheart agrees with your mattress revolution. That moment when the eyebrows are significantly low on the face and the mattress is but a half second away from being hauled into new and uncharted territory, with unparalleled access to the television, computers, fridge and patio doors. That moment, that's not only love, that's just fricking cool.

Post-Apocalypticness

I do not want to live in a post apocalyptic society.
Or even in a post apocalyptic world that is society-less.
In fact on the list of things I don't want to experience, post apocalypticness is rated very high. Somewhere between laser eye surgery and snake juggling.
And yet I keep things, things I imagine I will need some day. Not tomorrow, not the next day not even 10 years from now but things that would be very handy if suddenly the human race goes boom locka boom and I find myself living in a world that is totally wiped clean of it's technological advances. No electricity, no computers, no phones, no nothing. Strangely enough I never imagine rubble so maybe it's not post apocalypticness I am preparing for but one of them polar magnetic shifts.
The kind the scientists fret over and say will wreak havoc with all of our satellites etc should suddenly the magnetic poles ever get tired of their current magnetic status and decide to switch themselves around.
Can you imagine? I mean I know I can but can you?
So much stuff is tied up with our computers and the internet and televisions and phones that really I feel we ought to be addressing bigger issues than politics and be thinking hard about our technological marriages. We're all polygamists now, me, my hubby and apple computers are living a very happy little life together. And if it's a sin then send me to hell baby.
We research anything and everything at the drop of a hat. We know how much it will cost to run one of those jet packs that run off of hydrogen peroxide and how high we could fly and we can switch tabs and peer mournfully at our bank accounts because jet pack funds are damn hard to grow. We look up what's going to be on tv, then we watch tv ON the computer and we record ourselves and post ourselves on Youtube so other people can watch us. We get recipes and jokes and more fricking stories about Jesus, no offense son of God but you are one popular email forward, than we ever thought we'd need.
So if the earth goes boom locka boom. We are screwed.
How will I know how to make homemade pasta? Or how to change a light fixture or find alternate words for awesome if the world goes boom locka boom?
I'd be forced to rely on the material possessions I have already accumulated.
Now I don't want or need a fallout type shelter. I'm not crazy, just wondering when I stare at an old dictionary and thesaurus that takes up room on my bookshelf and have LITERALLY never had their spines cracked open in this house, why I am keeping them? I look everything I need or want to know up on the internet.
But my hand hesitates, hovering over the faded yellow pages of a book that isn't even old enough to be an antique but is probably old enough to not know the definition of cool as "having qualities of supreme awesomeness". I can't quite recycle it or donate it because maybe I'll need it.
But when?
When would I ever go to the bookshelf instead of using a quick flick of my computer mouse to open another tab in my internet browser and look up my favorite thesaurus site to find alternate words for slimy. Never.........unless......unless the world went boom locka boom and I found myself bored out of my skull because the television was now being used as a doorstop and I had read all of the pocket novels in our bookshelves 18 times each already and there was NO access to any fresh material from my favorite authors because they too were experiencing the boom locka boom and distributing and printing new materials was given up for more practical concerns like researching alternative toilet paper sources and trying to survive in the post apocalyptic magnetic whatchmacallit time.
So THEN, I may be tempted to do some writing along the edges of the paperbacks we already owned and in between the lines, basically entering a new story into the the pages thereby turning the paperback into two books instead of one. And THEN I may have desperate need for a thesaurus because at that point in time my brain will be older and slower and also will have had the words "Holy fricking cow on a stick" etched into the ol' grey matter as will the rest of the world, having experienced the complete and utter breakdown of our technological side of society and all and so a thesaurus will be a very handy thing.
Perhaps in our neighborhood I will be the only person with a thesaurus and what with the world suddenly shrinking in communications size, to basically you communicated with to who could hear you hollering, my thesaurus might provide some level of stature.
Perhaps I shall be crowned the queen of words and I can start a wee little monarchy.
Perhaps a post apolaclyptic society won't be all bad, abominable, atrocious, awful, corked, corky, counterfeit, crappy, defective, deplorable, distressing, dreadful, evil, fearful, forged, frightful, hard, harmful, high-risk, hopeless, horrid or icky after all.

The parallels between parking and crime.

(the face of crime today)

I was wedged between two garbage cans, the front end of the sweet little Honda at an almost perfect 45 degree angle. Back end doing a good impression of the cheese in the sandwich of garbage cans. Front end poking out at the afore mentioned angle and quite possibly over the yellow line in the middle of the street.
And the telltale symbols of a police car were fast approaching in my rearview mirror.
If my palms were any sweatier I'd start giving serious consideration to some sort of moisture retrieval device because California suffers from droughts you know and my palm sweat just might keep us all in avocados and oranges for another year.
The back alley of a shopping complex is a strange place to spend any amount of time. All kinds of odd characters end up walking through.
Like teenagers.
I saw at least 4 of them, though not together, but 4 I am pretty sure constitutes a gang. They may have just been headed to the movie theater down the street and maybe they were and not up to anything nefarious but one of them had a skateboard...A SKATEBOARD. And though I didn't get a good look at it I can surmise from him being a teenager taking a shortcut down the back alley of a shopping center and from the thundering of my heart that he was at the very least sporting some sort of flaming skull sticker on the underside of his skateboard and at most going to see an "R" rated movie. There could be ta ta's and liberal use of the "F" word in said movie. Which now that I think of it was probably why he was in such a hurry, whizzing by at breakneck speeds of at least 1.2 miles an hour on his quite possibly flaming skull festooned skateboard.
And I was wedging our sweet little Honda between two garbage cans.
And my heart was pounding with a combination of nerves, excitement and a dash of paranoia. A potent cocktail of emotions.
The garbage cans are important to this tale. As they were brought from home.
Never have I felt more criminal then when we took 2 large rolling garbage bins from the back seat of our car and placed them in the back alley of the shopping center. I was half sure the workers taking smoking breaks in the back of the grocery store would come over and place me under citizen's arrest for intent to use a privately owned trash can in a public setting without a permit. I was alarmed when they didn't, assuming of course that they were video-ing my felonious use of home owned trash cans for some sinister purpose like posting on Youtube or selling back to me in a blatantly blackmail-esque scheme....or......maybe they were just calling the cops. Avoiding physical and verbal contact with me all together.

Perhaps they glanced across the empty parking lot to the little street I'd arranged my trash cans on and was wedging my car between and could see that I was Canadian. Which means I'm hardy and can withstand freezing temperatures and possibly wrestle polar bears and maybe....just maybe they saw in that one nervous glance they shot my way...in that moment when our eyes connected that I was some one who had the notable distinction of having watched EVERY episode of the first generation of Power Rangers, except for the one where they got the green ranger, and knew I could probably do some serious back alley street fighting if need be. (I have to take a moment and curse pre-vcr and pre-dvr days. Damn you archaic past with no means of recording the Power Rangers, especially the episode when they got the green ranger...damn you.)

Having this entire mental battle with possible gang members and do-gooder store employees whilst I do something out of the norm in a back alley rarely used street played on my nerves. So when I saw that car in my rear view mirror, the cop car, silently stalking up the hill behind me, Officer inside most likely coming to arrest me for taking our garbage cans on a public outing, for subjecting the fine citizens of Oceanside to strange parking and unusual use of a Honda, I was damn near frozen with fear. The car came closer and I winced and gritted my teeth and tried my best not to fling myself out of our vehicle and onto the hood of a moving Police vehicle begging for mercy. Then I wavered, the car drew almost level with ours and I bit my tongue trying not to have my fear twist around inside me and morph into defensive anger resulting in me spewing my annoyance at having a Cop disrupt my work by showing off my impressive vocabulary of 4 letter words.
And he drove by.
What the.......fricking hell?
Did that cop NOT notice that I was in the midst of some seriously sloppy parallel parking? Was he not at all concerned about the possible threat I posed, hauling my own trash cans miles from home to an empty street with convenient parallel parking along the sides? Was me sticking my trash cans out there, subjecting the world to their unusual presence, obviously pretending they were cars to park between, not of criminal importance?
Seriously?
I mean I had an escape route all picked out, I was grabbing hold of my honey and prepared to haul my ass and his over the sandy embankment, weaving between the palm trees until we hit the highway at which point we were going to start thumbing a ride to Mexico, Cuba or Canada. I can not reveal which, as this pretty much constitutes all of my secret escape plans, and if I told you which location I was headed for you could be coerced into revealing that fact and I might very well end up prosecuted for such crimes as practicing parallel parking between trash cans.
My husband says I should not worry. And that the Cop just rolled on by all casual like with out so much as a blurp from his siren or flash of his lights because he obviously summed up the situation. That we were practicing parallel parking in a safe, out of the way location. And we were using trash cans instead of stranger's cars so as to minimize the potential damage.
Hmm. Possibly.
OR he could have been radioing us in and calling for backup, having seen the same thing the store employee saw when he flicked a glance at me from behind his standard issue cop sunglasses.
Alan says that gnawing, palm sweating edge of my seat ready to strike a Power Ranger pose feeling is just nerves. Driver's inexperience. A case of too much embarrassment.
I think it's because a part of my brain knows that I most definitely must be committing some sort of crime. I have to be.
Why else would it feel so crime-y?
I just can not bring myself to believe that the only one with a problem about practicing parallel parking with trash cans is me. I am sure it is an issue that is weighing heavily on every one's minds.
The skateboarder kid probably went home early from the movie, unable to concentrate on on the ta ta's and spent the evening polishing his flaming skull thinking about me. Me parking the car parallel style. And the cop has got to be kicked back in his lazy boy recliner, dog chewing on his handcuffs, the Evening News a low murmur in the back ground accompanying the rapid flip of pages as he thumbs through his Cop rule book. Looking for the law that says practicing parallel parking with trash cans is wrong. I have seen the tv shows. I KNOW how this works, a judge some where is on hold, growing increasingly frustrated with me, a person he's never met, as he waits for the Cop to find the law so he can issue the warrant and they can come haul me and my trash cans away to jail. I am not sure I have enough bail money for all three of us.
Alan says nobody cares if a beginner driver practices parking in a parking lot, that we're not all born just knowing instinctively how to parallel park. He gently points out again the only one acting oddly is me........ Hmmmmm.
Tomorrow I am going to go practice parallel parking again. I am defying the fear, of either embarrassment or of going to jail for playing with my trash cans in public. Either way I'm overcoming the nerves. Perhaps I'm cut out for a life of crime after all.

Holiday Hibernation

(Look at all that empty space. Where the tree once stood there is nothing now but one plastic grandchild which lays there drunkenly until I stuff her back in the closet until next Christmas. Look past her to the SPACE. A gal could do a lot with space like that. I feel giddy.)

I knew it was time when I heard that very distinct sound. The subtle, hypnotic sound akin to trickling water from the eaves of a house on a rainy day in Spring. The sort of sound that is soft and gentle and makes one's own eyes start feeling heavy, falling under the mesmerizing spell of something else falling asleep.
But I am not in the mood for sleeping.
I am in the mood for throwing open my craft closet doors and peering into the very depths of chaos and grabbing hold of messes by the throat and throttling them back into submission. Until at such time when I am done, and the beast of clutter has been, if not tamed, subdued, and I shut the closet doors on new order. On neat and tidy little rows of jars labeled prettily with little stickers that say things like "Bottle Caps" and "Dead cd's".
This may be an unattainable goal, I may end up with teetering piles of things that should not even share the same closet let alone the same shelf like clay and broken drinking glasses I can not bare to part with, but it IS my mood.
So this slowly creeping, softly crawling fog of dozy contentment settling over the house just will not do. If it were a child it's head would be dipping further and further until it's chin bumped it's own chest and I would grab the video camera and record it so we could all sit about later and laugh. If it were a bear it would grumble softly and snort and snuffle and lay it's mighty paw across it's eyes and burrow underneath it's own weight as best it could. If it were my cat the snores would already be alarmingly loud and shaking the walls of a house better than any earthquake.
But it's not any of that. It's Christmas.
Christmas is tired and as much as it and I would love to keep it up all year there comes a moment when you realize it's time to go to bed.
Even the most exciting time of year slows down. It can not keep such a frenetic pace forever. But it tries, if you let it, Christmas will try and keep up, like a faithful puppy following along wagging it's garlands and glittering lights. But eventually it's energy lags, it's light dims and you see the drooping of it's ornaments, the Nutcrackers are no longer standing to attention as much as they are asleep on their feet. And every so often like a gust of wind a soft sigh sweeps through the house as Christmas yawns and struggles to stay awake.
It's contagious too.
I would love to see all my Christmas surround me the whole year but as the sun shines longer every evening and the weather warms and my urge to organize has my fingers itching, Christmas weaves it's spell. It hunkers down and yawns again and I find my eyes tearing as I struggle against my own urge to yawn. To perhaps just curl up on the soft white blanket beneath the tree and have a little nap.
But beware.
Christmas is used to napping for 11 months and if you do not wish to do the same then you mustn't fall under it's spell.
So I concede.
It's time.
Christmas is all but asleep on it's feet so I begin to haul out the bags and containers that it will hibernate in for the year. And just like that, as if sensing relief from the constant effort of being merry, like a smile held too long and hard Christmas droops and folds in on it's self and I hear the faintest rustle of ribbons snuggling tight together and then nothing.
It's eerily quiet as Christmas is tucked away into the garage.
Almost too quiet and I worry for a moment that it could smother in it's bag. I wonder if I know tree cpr and I wonder if perhaps I left Christmas up just a little too long if I am frozen with indecision and guilt and glancing back longingly at the huddle of shadowy shapes that is Christmas asleep in the corner.
But I shake it off. And I do not walk away but run. Renewed energy.
The absence of Christmas makes the living room look naked and vulnerable. But I kind of like it. I run over and stand where the tree was and spin a circle glorying in this instant space. I marvel at how much rooooooooom there is and it makes me itch with an un-natural urge to vacuum. To fluff pillows and dust shelves and rearrange the books. Christmas is asleep and the energy of a new Year has me half drunk with desires to move the sofa and alphabetize the spices and arrange my clothes in the closet by color.
I want to wear tank tops and walk bare feet and have ice cream cones. I want to make jams and salads and raise every blind in the house so that sun pours in and reveals the sparkling dust motes in the air and covering every surface. I want to go wild with my duster and sweep and brush in crazy places I haven't ever dared look before like on top of door frame, tippy toe style under the watchful eye of my cats. I want to think about gardens and plant herbs and sit down to some serious figuring about whether I can grow a giant king sized pumpkin in a container on my second floor patio. I want to hear bees and smell flowers and stalk the lizards who warm themselves on the patio and crawl with my butt in the air after them with my camera jammed against my face and hope that google earth takes a good picture of my ass.
And then, to top it all off. I want to do things I never even thought of doing before.
I want to raise the garage door and reveal the pandemonium inside to the January sun. I will stand there, back lit with my weapons of choice. My broom and my spider stick and will resist the urge to giggle maniacally lest the neighbors hear.
I want to FIND the garage floor, I want to stack and move and shift and arrange until it is unrecognizable in it's new trim tidiness. Then I want to sweep that floor and spin circles on it too and maybe have races with old backless office chairs across the concrete whilst Christmas sleeps mere feet away, unknowing, un-caring.
Dreaming about snow and candy canes and mulled wine and little oranges that make stockings bulge roundly, boxes of chocolates, full tummies and carols blasting from the speakers and maybe...of me.