*This pales in comparison to what I saw.

I wanted to give a shout-out to the woman wearing the largest Easter bonnet I have ever seen outside of an Easter parade. As a matter of fact, it was an Easter parade float—on her head.

I was with Sally (the hike Nazi), and we weren’t in a church where you might expect to see a giant bonnet or two.

Nope, we were shopping. Or better said, she had taken pity on me, her bent-over, cut-open friend, and had offered to drive me to the market for macaroni and cheese. You know the shitty kind they have at the service deli that doesn’t contain one single natural ingredient. I’m sure the noodles are plastic and the orange dye is toxic but I was craving it—what can I say?

The fact that this woman was wearing a ginormous bonnet loaded up with colored eggs, fuzzy yellow chicks and assorted foliage inside of  Ralph’s supermarket didn’t seem to faze her in the least.

She was bipping cheerfully across the front end of the market seemingly unaware of the fact the everyone was staring at the float on her head. You couldn’t help it. First of all, this spectacle happened last Tuesday, a full five days ahead of the Sunday holiday.

Even in my debilitated state I couldn’t help but smile. And point and stare. I’m a sucker for a funny hat.

“Sally!” I yelled feebly not wanting to use my diaphragm muscles for volume lest I pass out from pain right there in the self check-out line. “Get a load of that!” I grabbed her shoulders and pointed her entire body in the direction of the float wearing lady because that’s what good friends do—we point shit out to our besties so they don’t miss it.

Especially funny shit.

She looked up distractedly, (do you blame her? She was at the market—with an invalid—on her day off), broke a smile, nodded her approval, and went back to slamming the groceries against the glass to get them to scan. Clearly, my Good Samaritan friend had lost her patience with life, me, questionable mac-n-cheese, supermarket scanners, grapes with no code, and women who wear costumes to shop.

I, on the other hand, was totally enthralled with this woman. I was dying to take a picture with her but my phone was in my back pocket and that day I was completely incapable of the contortions that would require me to perform.

I had been marinating in post-surgical moroseness (or morosity as I like to call it), and THE PURE JOY emanating from this happy-go-lucky, completely un-selfconscious, float wearing woman was like a beam of sunlight parting the black clouds that had gathered around my head. I couldn’t help but stare. And laugh.

But not AT her—WITH her.

She was delightful.
I wanted to BE her.
I wanted to crawl up inside of her bonnet which was the size of an extra-large pizza box—suck my thumb—and see the world from that vantage point.

God! It must be great to be her!

So thank you, giant Easter bonnet wearing lady. Just the memory of you has made me smile this entire week and I can’t ask more from another human being than to make me that happy.

Can you?

Carry on,
xox

Monkey: I LOVE you! You’re so cute!

Cat: Ugh

Monkey: You feel so good, I think I’ll sit on top of you.

Cat: Must you?

Monkey: I need to feel closer to you. I wish I could just crawl inside of your soft, furry little cat skin.

Cat: I already feel crowded…

Monkey: I want to kiss your face. No, that’s not even enough, I want to breathe your breath. Kiss, kiss, ohhh, your face! I squeeze that cute face!

Cat: Is it hot in here? Uh, I can’t breathe…

You guys,
Sure, this is adorable. Unless you’re the cat.

See the monkey? I used to be the monkey. I used to “love” just like the monkey you guys.
And it’s adorable for like, five minutes.

Five MONTHS later? Not so much.
The cat ends up hairless with a twitch and a bad case PTSD.
The cat hides from the monkey and eventually stops returning her calls.

Mauling someone is not “being affectionate”.

“Janet, you don’t love, you take hostages.”

My therapist at the time dropped this pearl of wisdom one day in the middle of her office. It landed with a thud and then rolled underneath the couch where I was sitting, and once I was done being offended, I got down on my hands and knees, pulled it out into the light of day, tried it on—and it marked me for life.

I’ve never forgotten it.

You guys! Don’t love like the monkey.

By-the-way, that’s not love, that’s a bottomless pit of neediness and thank god there was no YouTube or cellphone video back in the day because I swear to you. I was the monkey.

Carry on,
xox

Hello my fellow seekers,
This is a post from back in 2015.

It is my one and only Good Friday post so I trot it out every year on this day only this year it holds a bit more significance than the previous two since my deceased father has been around a lot more than normal.

As I wrote that I wondered about what constitutes “normal” when it comes to visits from dead relatives, but I have to say, in this instance, it has gone from almost never, to several times a week.

He arrives as cigarette smoke. Day, middle of the night, in my car, when I smell smoke—I know it’s him.
He hadn’t smoked in over twenty years when he died (of lung cancer) but he did my entire childhood and he LOVED it so I’m certain when he crossed over, as he stood at the Pearly Gates, they handed him the rule book, a white robe with M & M’s in the pockets, and an endless supply of Lucky Strikes.

We don’t chat like I do with the other disembodied ones. Apparently, he’s still not a chatty guy. But I will continue to ask him why he’s around and congratulate him on the use of cigarette smoke as his signal—it’s genius.

I hope this finds you all practicing devotion wherever you find it.

love you & Carry on,
xox

DEVOTION

de·vo·tion
dəˈvōSH(ə)n/
noun.
1.) Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity
synonyms: loyalty, faithfulness, fidelity, constancy, commitment, adherence,allegiance, dedication.

2.) Religious worship or observance.
synonyms: devoutness, piety, religiousness, spirituality, godliness, holiness, sanctity
“a life of devotion”

3.) Prayers or religious observances.

Devotion. What does that mean to me? What does it mean to you?

As a Catholic, I thought I had an idea, but the edges have blurred and I’ve been left to define it for myself.

This is an interesting time of year.
It’s ripe with the energy of endings; and new beginnings.
Deaths and re-births —— figuratively and literally.

We can practice our devotion inside this energy of change with Easter, Passover, the full moon, eclipses, and all other assortments of ancient and new age cosmic rites of passage.

Take me for instance; I am sitting as I write this, in a pew, basking in the warm glow of stained glass, inside of St. John The Baptist De La Salle Catholic Church— the church I grew up in — the church of my youth.

The one where I whiled away hour after hour of my childhood.
Some in innocent devotion, kneeling with sweaty little girl hands piously folded together, fervently praying my little girl prayers and later, in a pre-pubescent stupor, stifling yawns during my eight years there in the late sixties, early seventies.

Now, I’ve gotta tell ya, this retired Catholic is finding it…surreal to be back here, and I have to make this snappy.

I could spontaneously combust if the powers-that-be realize that I’m here, or the light from that stained glass baby Jesus hits me just right.

All kidding aside, recently my Catholic roots have been calling me. Their Siren’s song running lightly in the background of my life.

It all started when I began burning Frankincense incense in the mornings. I attempted subconsciously to counteract its effects on me by simultaneously playing a Buddhist chant with mixed results — that smell to me—still to this day–signals Lent.

Then I noticed, lo and behold it is exactly that time of year. Hmmmm…

That smell transports me back to Stations Of The Cross, a ritual of remembrance of the absolute worst day in the life of Jesus Christ.

As a little girl I loved rituals.
The smells, the cool, dimly lit ambiance, the notes played on the organ that resonated inside my chest and head, and the drone of the priest’s voice. They all conspired to “send me” to another place and time. They still do.

As I write this there is an actual organ rehearsal happening right this minute. Sending me…

Yet, even as that devout little girl, I had a hard time wrapping my brain around commemorating the days leading up to someone’s horrible, torturous, barbaric death and THAT little kernel of doubt, that one right there, started my life as a seeker.

Devotion as a religious observance.
I sat with my dearly departed father Friday in another church much closer to my home, (that now makes my church sitiing twice in one week, a personal record as an adult).

We sat together devoutly, he with his invisible hand on my knee to keep me from bolting during Stations Of The Cross, the first one I’ve sat throughout since eighth grade. It was faster and much…dryer than I remembered.

And no fragrance of frankincense — a crushing disappointment.

Still, I sat with my dad on the tenth anniversary of his passing… in a church…during Lent. And only one of us made it out alive…barely.

I’ll tell anyone I did it for him, but truth be told, that experience was calling ME.

Devotion.  

To others?  To a practice?  To a cause? 

I think we can all relate to that.

How about…

Devotion as Love and loyalty, enthusiasm for a person or an activity.

To tradition.

To family, friends, and matters of the heart.

To times past.

To ritual.

To the planet.

To sacred places; temples, sanctuaries, churches, nature, Sephora, the bakery.

To whatever sends you and floats your boat.

To kindness and courage.

To mala beads, crystals, chanting, yoga and meditation.

To ancient childhood memories resurfacing.

To triggers; Smells. Sounds. People.

I’m getting a bit misty-eyed over here.
It must be a combination of the lousy organ music (he just needs more practice), and the fact that my fifty-seven-year-old butt is currently seated on the same hard wooden bench that my innocently sweet, but always questioning, seven-year-old butt sat.

Devotion to change.
I used to believe that religion and spirituality were mutually exclusive.
One told you no, the other said… perhaps.

Call it old age, or just a general unclenching of the fists that happens naturally over time, but I’m finding myself more and more belonging to Team Meh where our motto is: “Well, that’s not my thing — but good for you!”

Devotion to Neutrality or I’m in a Switzerland State of Mind
Daily I struggle with judgment. I know, it’s just me.
I’m striving to be for more things than I’m against.

I feel like after this week I can move the Catholic religion to my neutral list. At last!

Some people hang out in groovy cafes and write. I sit weeping in Catholic Churches.

Who knows what’s next?

Can you explain devotion? What are you devoted to, I’d love to know.

Happy Easter & Passover my loves,
Xox

I was going to write about what a very alright, really great day I’m having.

How last night I dreamt of witches and Donald Sutherland and the vague memory of my dog offering me a pork chop and donut smoothie.

About how I had the stamina, not just the stamina, the desire to put on the false eyelashes and leave the house. (If you know me at all you know that if I’m rocking the eyelashes I’m firing on all cylinders.)

That fact that I drove myself somewhere BY MYSELF for the first time in ten days without falling asleep at the wheel, ricocheting off other cars or hitting puppies and babies in crosswalks.

Then I got a parking space right in front of my destination (which came in handy because I’m still walking like a toddler with a full diaper.) Not only that, the meter still had and hour and fifteen minutes of time left on it which always leaves me in a state of awe and wonder when I see it—like someone has just pulled a diamond out of their ear.

That’s all good and well but while I was sitting and waiting in a bright blue linen chair that was too deep for me to dismount in any kind of elegant way, I read this.

This. 

This beautiful essay by Anne Lamott that sums things up. Big things. Little things. All things. Government, hopelessness, getting gutted by a well-meaning doctor…Every damn thing.

“I think they are a tiny tiny bit tired of hearing me say that grace bats last, and that in the meantime, we practice radical self-care, pick up litter, flirt with old people. They’re probably sick of hearing my secular father’s Golden Rule: Don’t be an asshat. And above all, listen. Listen. Listen. Hear each other.”

I’m not tired of hearing it, Anne. I needed it. Like a mango margarita on Taco Tuesday.

I Love you, Anne. I Love you guys. xox

“I have been traveling around the country for nearly two weeks on book tour, and without exception, my audiences have been filled with lovely bright people who feel doomed. In New York City they were too sad to be ironic, just devastated, and in the Deep South, where they pet me and give me home baked cookies and pocket crosses, and where I develop an accent, their eyes tear up.

People do not feel “anxious” or “frustrated,” or doomed-ish, in a mopey Eeyore kind of way.

They feel cursed, cut down, scared to death, like during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It’s as if we’re all waiting for biopsy results for someone we love. We try to be brave.

No one has a clue how we are going to come through this fever dream. They come to my events because I am usually a cranky optimist who believes that if it seems like a bad ending, it’s not the ending. They hope I have found some spiritual, political or psychological tools to cope and transcend.

Yeah, right.

I think they are a tiny tiny bit tired of hearing me say that grace bats last, and that in the meantime, we practice radical self-care, pick up litter, flirt with old people. They’re probably sick of hearing my secular father’s Golden Rule: Don’t be an asshat. And above all, listen. Listen. Listen. Hear each other.

I think they are tired of me repeating that the only things that ever help are Left, Right, Left, Breathe.

I think they are tired of me saying around Easter that the crucifixion looked like a big win for the Romans. The following Monday, Caesar, and Herod were still in power. The chief priests were still the chief priests. (And meanwhile, in a tucked-away corner, the 12 were transformed. And some women, too.)

It’s amazing to stop pretending that things are not as bizarre and dire or hard as they are, in the marriage, for your grown child, in the nation. To be where your feet are, and to feel it all: the swirl of doom, of gratitude, of incredulous fear, of wonder, of hate, judgment, love.

Doctorow nailed it when he said writing fiction is like driving at night with the headlights on–you can only see a little ways in front of you, but you can make it through the whole journey that way. That is true about every single aspect of life. Maybe people are sick of me quoting that, too, but it’s true.

It doesn’t make sense to stay fixated on what we don’t know–say, hypothetically, whether we will nuke North Korea over our special friend’s feelings getting hurt, or who turns state’s evidence first, or what crazy scheme might save the mountain gorillas from extinction. We only know now. We have all been through long stretches of feeling truly doomed–deaths, divorces, breakdown, failure. They call it the abyss because it’s pretty abysmal.

Maybe the Obama years were like this for you. Whatever.

But we know the precious community that kept us company. We know sacrifice, mercy, the arc toward justice. We know that the love and solidarity were real and profoundly, eternally true; and it is now, where your feet are, abundantly.

And hey, Hallelujah, y’all.”

~Anne Lamott
https://www.amazon.com/Hallelujah-Anyway-Rediscovering-Anne-Lamott/dp/0735213585/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1492046942&sr=8-1&keywords=anne+lamott

I put my earrings back on today.

That is no small feat since I have four holes in each ear, a product of a self-piercing binge back in the seventies.
My father said I looked like a Christmas tree, meaning I suppose, that I was “over-decorated.” Loving everything Christmas, and never understanding the concept of less is more or that fact that something could ever be “over-decorated”, I took his remarks as a compliment and have worn depending on the decade, either safety pins, tiny gold hoops or eensy diamond studs in all of the four holes that wind their way up each ear.

I mention all of this because when you have surgery the hospital insists that you remove ALL of your jewelry.
I saved that ritual for an hour before we left the house. I told myself that I couldn’t get nervous “until the jewelry comes off.”

As I removed each earring, putting it into a small dish of cleaning solution, I played a little game.
It’s something I do when I have what I view as an obstacle looming over me and the game went like this:

I reassured myself by saying, “When I put these earrings back on—the surgery will be OVER.
This private Everest of mine will have been summited.
I will be in the clear—with a flat-ish stomach—and a bladder that doesn’t have an elephant sitting on it.”

I thought it would just be a couple of days.

Little did I know it would be more than a week later.

Every day, as I shuffled over to my bathroom sink, bent in half like a one thousand-year-old woman to brushed my teeth and look sideways at my filthy bed head in the mirror—I saw the little dish of earrings.

You know how when you don’t feel great even the most mundane task feels Herculean? The thought of struggling with eight tiny earring backs made me nauseous.

By Thursday the liquid was gone. The earrings, sitting in a heap of dried up ear yuck taunted me.

Sunday night they made me cry. But so did breathing, laying down and sitting up, so don’t blame the earrings.

I wondered if I’d ever have the stamina to struggle with them. I didn’t feel fancy enough for jewelry. Would I ever be over-decorated again?

At least I still had my nose ring.
The admitting nurse had gone mildly apoplectic when she saw it. “You have to take that out,” she said sternly at five thirty the morning of the surgery. I lied and said I didn’t know how. She came over, standing close to my face, eyeballed it suspiciously, tore off a piece of white tape she had in her pocket, and slapped it over the thin gold hoop on the side of my nose.

Anyhow, this morning, when I looked at the earrings…and they looked back at me…we all agreed that today was the day. I rinsed them off and one by one and on this lovely April morning, I over-decorated the Christmas tree.

Carry on,
xox

Before I type one more word I want to make it clear that despite all evidence to the contrary, this post will be brought to you by the word/feeling—appreciation.

I appreciate so much the fact that due to the marvels of modern medicine, I stand before you today uterus-free. That is true.

I appreciate general anesthesia and the effect it has on a person. One moment you’re lying there counting to fifty and the next thing you know your entire nether region has been dyed orange with antiseptic, a nurse is harassing you with questions like what is the capital of Nebraska? (Omaha), what is the level of your pain (what pain? We haven’t started yet—silly), and the fact that you can’t for the life of you figure out how much cotton it takes to dry up every ounce of moisture in an entire human being—and who the fuck do you have to pay around this joint to get some ice chips?

I appreciate downtime. That week or so that’s required to get back on your feet and up to speed with life.

Every word of that was bullshit.

Surgery made me lie.
There, I said it.
I can’t explain why or how it’s happened.

I did feel appreciation for like a minute and then I went directly to feeling appalled.

Appalled!

Recovery from surgery is appalling. But I guess everyone knew that but me!
And now here’s the truth:

HOW HAVE I BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH TO HAVE NEVER BEEN CUT OPEN UNTIL NOW?

Sorry for yelling, but seriously? I’m fifty-nine and all I have to draw on surgery wise are just a couple of laparoscopies which are holes punched into you that can be closed with super glue. If you’re lucky they use your belly button. It’s just hanging around, all of its best days in the rearview mirror, so why not? It was made for hole punching. It’s kinda far away from your knee or your hip, so I wouldn’t suggest that they use it for those procedures–but as for my lady part removal— it was a no-brainer.

At least that was the plan. Plan A & B. It wasn’t written in stone, but still, cutting me open was…plan Q.

The bitch put up a fight. Instead of two hours, she fought for five.

Of course, my body parts would fight to remain inside. It’s cozy in there and they are most definitely well fed.

She was a big girl. Bigger than they had expected. And stubborn. Like a bull. She was the Bea Arthur of uteruses.
“We’re gonna need a bigger…hole”, someone said.
So they decided at the last-minute to cut me open, a three-inch c-section did the trick.

It looks spontaneous.
Like the last-ditch effort to remove something that doesn’t want to leave. Like those battering rams that punch giant holes in the doors of deadbeat, crack head squatters. It is not the clean edged, precision cut of a surgical scalpel, no, I look to have been cut open by a shard of glass from a broken bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

My incision has duck-lips. (See photo at the top), and it feels like a red-hot branding iron is searing my flesh every time I even think about moving.

I have questions. Lots. Okay, two.

1. How in the hell do women have an incision three times as large as mine and deal with a small infant? I would throw a crying baby out of the window right now. I kid you not. Ladies, you have my deepest respect. If I could bow to you without passing out—I would.

2. Who do I talk to about this because I’m appalled? This was supposed to be easy! Bea, (my uterus) and I sat down for weeks beforehand with tea and those expensive chocolate biscotti and had chit-chats about how this was going to go down. It was agreed that I had been more than accommodating, that eviction was imminent, and that she would go without so much as a whimper.

No one was expecting a bar fight. Least of all me.

So there you have it. My Sports Illustrated Swimsuit days are over, Bea obviously had her fingers crossed when she swore to me she’d leave without a fight, and mothers with c-sections are fucking superheroes.

Carry on,
xox

Oh… Holy Jesus in Jail.

I can’t think of anything I suck more at than small talk with complete strangers. It feels disingenuous, trite and completely without merit, therefore I loathe it.

small talk
noun:
polite (keyword), Conversation made about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, (why bother) especially as engaged in on social occasions. (Ugh, kill me now!)
“Propriety required that she face these people and make small talk.”

I want to blame it on the fact that I’m shy but we all know that would be a horrendous lie.
At gatherings, I can be gregarious, even bubbly IF I know the people (loving them makes me even better), and if I care about the topics being discussed.

See, that’s the thing about small talk with strangers at a soiree where you have not a rat’s ass of interest in what they have to say.

Case in point, a fancy car show.

Me: (said to one of the wives at lunch on day one of a two-day thingy) “So, what car did you drive here?” is what my mouth asked. My brain was screaming I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! so loud that I couldn’t hear a word she said.

She, to be honest, looked as tragically bored as I felt. We were at a winery and I noticed she was drinking the Sauvignon Blanc so I gave her my sample. She handed me all of her red. All three samples. Well, I’ve slept with people for doing less. Needless to say, we became fast friends.

We sat in silence, like old friends do, sipping our wine, listening to the others prattle on. We had no need to talk. We had transcended small talk. Alcohol will do that if you let it. We did.

Later, back at the room, the prospect of a dinner with all of these same strangers loomed large. I opened the complimentary bottle of red and an equally classy bag of Pirate Booty. I stuffed my face without breathing, letting the puffed air covered in faux-white-cheese numb me out. I washed it down with a nice Shirah.

It was 4 p.m. and I was shit faced. I NEVER get shit faced. Most certainly NOT at 4 p.m. Dinner was scheduled for seven. Husband wanted to go down for cocktails at 6:30. Uh, oh.

I started drunk texting my tribe. What do I do? What do I say? How the hell did I polish off an entire bag of Booty? Help!

They were great. Very supportive. They only laughed at me a little. Ask the women what they’re reading. What’s on their nightstand. You’ll be able to comment on that, they suggested. SAVED! I thought. They’re right. I can do THAT.

Confidence renewed!

I proceeded to go and fix my face which meant reapplying pretty much everything I’d done that morning including picking my ubiquitous false lashes off of my upper lip and putting them back on my eyes where they belonged. Thank God I had two-plus hours to spare!

On the way down to cocktails, I was still a bit wobbly. Books. I’m a writer. I’ll ask what they’re reading, I reminded myself. I walked with all the conviction I could muster up to a table of wives. They barely looked at me. Tables of wives are a tough crowd. They are not for amateurs. I took a deep breath, handed my new BFF from lunch who was sitting with three others a glass of white wine as a bribe and was about to ask about books when one of them started to speak.

She was a gorgeous woman of about sixty-five in a stunning beige Valentino pantsuit. Her face contorted and she looked as if she were about to vomit as she whispered, “This is SO not my thing.”

Wait. What? Are we strangers telling each other the truth?

That’s when I lunged at her, practically sitting in her lap, hugging her in the most inappropriate and awkward way. “Ohmygodmeneither!” I did not whisper, “I love you!” They all nodded. We laughed, clinking glasses in an unspoken toast.

Then a magician appeared and did some card tricks. He finished by pulling an autographed ace of spades folded into the size of a postage stamp out of one of the wives wallet. I’m not kidding. You can’t make this shit up.

Okay…so, I have a theory. I think small talk is The Great Equalizer. Everyone dreads it and hardly anyone is good at it. Deep down people want to connect—just not that way. They want to talk about death, aliens, and magic. I really need to remember that the next time. And the nightstand question too.

How are you guys with the tiny talk? Are you good at it? If you are—please share your secrets.

Carry on,
xox

“Dear Lord — Please keep one hand on my shoulder, and the other hand over my mouth.”

Hard to find a better prayer than that.

When you are in the act of defusing a situation, be it a political argument or an obtuse disagreement about the pronunciation of the word foyer; and I say that because everyone knows there is only one correct pronunciation of the word foyer—Foy-yay—anyway, I highly recommend—if at all possible—a minimum of talking.

Think about it. We mostly defuse anger or frustration. We seldom defuse our joy. When I say seldom, I mean never. When was the last time you said, Oh, Holy Hell, there is just too much joy in this room, I need to change the subject!

See what I mean?

Defusing is an act best left to heavily outfitted bomb squads, street mimes, or those who have, through some cruel twist of fate, found themselves without a voice. I say that from experience.

Words tend to get… wordy, meanings become misconstrued, and at a certain point, nobody is listening anyway so I say the fewer the better.

Silent nodding is my preferred method.

Then there’s petting. I’m a big believer in defusing a tense or uncomfortable situation by deflecting attention away with some kind of awkward physical contact. I’ve been known to braid a person’s hair or lint-brush the shit out of their jacket in the midst of that kind of kinetic, twisty energy.

I do all of those things because it is next to impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. Hence the prayer at the top.

Question: Have you EVER helped this kind of situation by stating the facts, calling for common sense, or getting the last word?
Yeah, me neither.

There is always humor but humor is subjective and it can backfire and not in a funny clown car kind of way.

Let’s face it, there are times when people want nothing more than to vent. Or argue. Some like to pick fights.

It’s been my experience that this seldom ends well if I put in my two cents, so I’ve learned to keep my small change to myself and wait for people to ask for my opinion (which they don’t), or I keep my mouth full of cake. Cheese will do in a pinch, but cake takes forever to chew and swallow, especially without coffee, and by the time you do—the topic has usually shifted to something else.

Like the deterioration of the Polar Ice Caps and how the ice in my drink and the car I drive are contributing to the imminent death of the Planet.

Head… silently…nodding…

Cake anyone?

Carry on,
xox

“A bambiraptor is a savage baby deer.”
~ Alan Davies

I was randomly thinking about deer the other day. Don’t ask me why. I think it was prompted by a deer siting at the top of Beverly Glen a month or so ago but I can’t be sure.

Anyway, as we slowly wove our way up the canyon in a single file line (otherwise known as rush hour), I spied a deer casually teetering (if that’s even possible), on an impossibly vertical slope to my right.

Chewing lazily, she seemed to be sizing things up.

Should she stay and enjoy her snack until those things with wheels and bumpers and angry people inside that could kill her were gone? Or should she take her chances and make a run for it?

I could see her thinking about it and that made me mad.

Deer and cars don’t mix. Cars should be viewed with the same trepidation as any natural predator. Think wolf or coyote or Elmer Fudd. But they aren’t and you can just see it in their dark little Bambi eyes.

They are not the least bit afraid of cars.

They either have such an inflated sense of their own speed and agility that they’re convinced they can dash across a street without being hit OR they are in dire need of a Deer Newsletter that informs them of the dangers that living in the city can present.

Either way, evolution has failed them.

Cars are not a novelty. Cars have been around for tens of deer generations. They should run in the other direction the moment they smell traffic instead of eyeballing the wildflowers that grow on the other side of the street. When they see poor Bob laying there, yet another unfortunate victim of roadkill, they should have a family meeting where they yell and smoke too many Marlboro as they instill fear into the hearts of their baby does and sassy teenage bucks.

Maybe they do and nobody cares.

Every deer thinks that it won’t happen to them. Famous last words, right Bob?

I’m like a deer. We all are. You can tell me stuff is dangerous and I’ll just shrug and figure I’ll take my chances.
Sound familiar?

But maybe the deer have it right? Maybe we should ignore the stupid newsletter with page after page of what will kill us. Maybe we should just live our lives with curiosity about those flowers that grow on the other side of the street.

I don’t know. I can’t be sure any of it makes sense.

All I know is that some things aren’t worth dying for…and deer need to learn to read traffic better.

Carry on,
xox

I rest my case!