Never put off ’til tomorrow

Well, hardly ever.

My tip for today is identify one thing that you’ve been putting off. Maybe it’s too hard like cleaning out the attic. Maybe it’s too scary like going to the dentist. Maybe it’s too complicated like doing your taxes.

Whatever it is, do it.

If it’s so complicated that you cannot possibly finish it in the time you have, do the first steps.

It’s not because the things we put off have a tendency to jump up and bite us—although they do. And it’s not because I think you simply must be organized and efficient.

It’s because I’ve found that all those little (and big) things that I avoid doing are sucking drains on my peace of mind and they interfere with the creative process.

When I’ve got a thing like that hanging over me, there is always some little corner of my mind clouded and shadowed and knotted up with having to remember it and dreading it. It’s a dark inky blotch on my To Do list. It’s a mosquito buzzing around my head, a twinge in the stomach, a headache waiting to happen. In short, it’s a damned nuisance.

There’s this contract I’ve made, and I’m not living up to my part of it. The energy it takes to worry about and/or try to repress it is far less than the energy it will take to do it. In the end, it’s just easier.

Sometimes, it even turns out not to have been as hard or unpleasant as I’d anticipated. That’s often the case, in fact, but the real point is that the brain cells that are taken up with the looming task are brain cells that are not available to help you write your novel, invent the next big thing, or play Chutes and Ladders with your kids.

And wouldn’t that be more fun?

Aren’t you glad?

I know you are.

This Monday’s Miracle is that I have run out of things to say about lizards. For now.

It reminds me of that old Knock, Knock joke

Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock, Knock
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?

Repeat until your parents accuse you of not knowing the punch line and THEN you say

Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Orange.
(with relief) Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again?

And much hilarity ensues. At least, when you’re seven.

So, aren’t you glad I didn’t say lizard again?

But, I must point out something else about this whole thing.

I got seven (eight, if you count this one) blog posts out of a five minute incident.

And that is surely a miracle!

You just knew there had to be one, right?

A lizard Smith

After the week we’ve had discussing lizards, you didn’t think I would let a Smith Sunday pass without finding out if there were any Smiths anywhere remotely connected to lizards, did you?

Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard to find one!

Meet Hobart Muir Smith, the most published herpetologist of all time.

As best I can tell, Mr. Smith is still alive—and probably, still publishing. He’s over 100 now.

Not many people have had five species named after them, including—how could you doubt it?—a lizard!

Best wishes for a long and healthy life, Mr. Smith!

Here lizard, lizard, lizard

ROFL!

My series of posts about the lizard shenanigans have, inevitably, brought to mind one of my all-time favorite commercials.

Every time I see this commercial, I laugh like that baby in last week’s post—the one that was inexplicably amused by tearing paper. My reaction to this ad is nearly as inexplicable. And attempting to explain it will likely ruin it, but I’ll try.

First of all, it’s the Taco Bell chihuahua. A chihuaha. And it’s calling Godzilla. “Here, lizard, lizard, lizard.” The sheer effrontery tickles me.

That tiny little thing.

Godzilla footsteps.

Boom, boom, boom!

Giant shadow.

I’m rolling on the floor right then. I don’t even need the rest of the spot.

But, then, does the chihuahua panic? Does it flee? Does it drop dead of a heart attack?

No.

The reaction isn’t total terror. It isn’t to give up. The reaction is purely practical.

“Uh-oh. I think I need a bigger box.”

I wish I could react to all crises in the same way.

Big problem. BIG. Get a bigger box.

I’m going to work toward that kind of sangfroid. When I get done laughing, that is.

Next time

I’m gonna be prepared!

We’ve seen how well my bravery held up to an escaping lizard. I mean, it was a good try, a valiant effort, but it was mostly luck. For the lizard, too, because who know what would have happened if I hadn’t been able to open the window and give him an escape route.

So, the question is what happens next time?

There will almost certainly be a next time. Eternal vigilance is not possible. I mean, a person has to go in and out of the door.

I have considered the problem from all sides.

It seems to me there are four possible solutions:

I could just ignore any lizards that are out-of-bounds.
This seems rather hard on the lizards. I don’t think they will fare well in this environment. It would be like those cargo bays on Star Trek when the environmental controls go wonky. And I would have to dispose of the bodies which is nearly as bad as rescuing the living.
I could get a cat.
This, too, would be hard on the lizards. Plus, cats like to bring you presents, and I don’t really want a lizard, dead or alive. Then, too, I have known cats that won’t touch a lizard—so then I’d have a lizard and a cat.
I could get better at catching lizards.
This solution has possibilities. Next time I am outdoors with my gardening gloves on, I will practice. There’s a lizard that lives inside the spigot by the garage. He tends to tumble into the watering can whenever I fill it. Usually, I just dump him out, but maybe a water-logged lizard is slower. Then, too, capture attempts outside are free of the fear that I’ll chase the lizard behind a bookshelf only to have it leap onto me at some later point from off The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. (I now have 7 copies of that, by the way, for a project I’m starting. That’s another story.)
I could get a lizard trap.
A lizard trap! Is there such a thing? Quick, call Google-fingers! (Okay, you can have Superman and Mighty Mouse. Personally, I get much more use out of Google.)

Here is what I’ve found today.

It is possible to catch lizards on glue traps. It is also possible to release them from the glue trap using vegetable oil. On the other hand, do you want to deal with a lizard that’s been oiled and glued? I googled again.

There doesn’t seem to be a big market for lizard traps. Not a lot of different models. Hardly any, in fact. Actually…none.

But…there is a website with some lizard-catching advice, and it suggests…head smack!…a shoe box. Why didn’t I think of that?

You can bet, next time, I’ll not only know where my gardening gloves are but also the location of the lizard loafers.

Leapin’ Lizards

At long last.

The conclusion to the great saurian saga of 2013.

If you recall, I was relating my adventures in pursuit of a solution to an enormous lizard problem. Enormity is a relative concept—relative, basically, to your level of cowardice in the face of non-humanoid beings. Mine, historically, has been high, but I am striving to overcome that, and I welcomed this opportunity for growth. (Welcome may be too strong a word. I…accepted…it.)

When we left our story, the lizard was on the windowsill, the gardening gloves were in the drawer and Elaine was in an unusual state of courage and determination.

Which lasted about two minutes—or the total amount of time it took for me to get the gloves, put them on, and reach for the lizard.

The lizard, being a lizard, was not one to sit like patience on a monument* (Flapdoodle!) while rescue was effected. At the first touch of a gloved finger, it leapt!

Leapin’ Lizards!

Every girl’s dream start to a day.

Now, bear in mind, when I say “leapt” that you must consider the source. I have a level of…discomfort…with rodents and reptiles (and spiders) that tends to lend connotations of warp speed to their movements and Japanese horror movie magic to their size as I relate my adventures.

This poor little thing “leapt” all of two inches. There was nowhere, after all, to go. On the one side, the window. On another, the window frame. On the other two sides, my advancing hand.

A little more ruthless effort, and I’d have had him.

Incipient bravery only takes you so far, however.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to grab. (Who wants to end up with a tail in her hand and half an escaped lizard wandering the halls?)

We retreated to our respective corners. Or, the lizard did, anyway, skulking in the corner of the sill, window, and wall. I took a step back to catch my breath.

The prospect was dim.

Failure loomed.

Was I going to have to…oh, the shame…wake up the MotH?*

Just when that horrible prospect seemed inevitable, victory was snatched from the jaws of defeat!

The lizard was sitting on the window sill!

Window sill.

Window.

Window!

I am thankful this Thursday that my brain woke up to the realization that windows are designed to be opened, that these particular windows do not have screens, that I moved slowly enough not to spook the lizard into further flight, and that the lizard was brave enough to wait for me to open the window and smart enough to get the hell out while the going was good.

So, okay.

It wasn’t my finest moment.

On the other hand, the MotH slept on, the house is lizard-less, and the lizard roams free in its natural habitat.

Things could be worse.

Next time…well, I’ve found some things we’ll discuss tomorrow to deal with the next time.

* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, sc 4

** MotH=Man of the House

Conundrums

Why? When? And, more importantly—how?

I know you are all madly curious to discover the outcome to the lizard adventure (see my two previous posts if you aren’t up to speed), but we need to pause for just a moment and ask ourselves some important questions.

How did the lizard get into the house?

This is a piece of critical information that is sadly lacking. You see, when I lived in a NYC apartment and we had a mouse, it was possible to find a hole in the wall behind the stove where the gas pipe came into the apartment. The proper procedure when dealing with uninvited guests is:

Get over the shock.
Remove the interloper.
Figure out the point of entry.
Close it.

This worked very well with the mouse. You do have to remember that I was not the person who accomplished the removal. At that stage of my personal growth, it was a triumph not to remove myself. Nonetheless, the mouse was gone, and we were reasonably certain it wasn’t coming back.

So, how did the lizard get into the house? Lesser questions—more a matter of curiosity than critical pieces of information—are why did the lizard get into the house and when?

I can’t say for sure, but I assume the when was not too long before I discovered it. Lizards, unlike spiders, aren’t known for skulking in the shadows and lying in wait. In addition, there’s not that much for a lizard to eat in this house (I hope and pray). Any lizard that has been here for any length of time would not need catching and releasing. It would need sweeping up.

The why is immaterial except insofar as it has an impact on future preventive measures. I suppose he thought it was a good idea at the time. (I’ve gotten myself into some predicaments in the same way.)

The how, though. The how is a puzzlement.

Definitely something that deserves consideration. Unfortunately, I think I’ll be wondering about that for a while. I suspect, since I don’t have a ravening horde of invading lizards—and I do have a lot of lizards outside—that it’s not some breach in the home’s defenses like a hole in a wall.

I think it’s more a crime of opportunism. The lizard saw an open door and took a chance.

I’m going with that, anyway, in the absence of any other theories.

And tomorrow, I will tell you what happened in the great lizard wrangling of 2013.

Organization is the key

to lizard extraction

In yesterday’s episode, our heroine (me) made the momentous decision to remove an interloping lizard single-handedly.

For those who are not troubled by reptiles and/or other small scurrying creatures, this may not seem a sea-change* (Flapdoodle!) But for someone who once (long ago in a galaxy far, far away) spent a terror-filled night tortured by a cricket and, somewhat later in life, nearly fell off the rocking chair she had leapt onto at the sudden appearance of a hamster in an apartment previously hamster-less, it is, indeed, the miracle which warranted beginning the story yesterday as part of our series of Monday Miracles.

In a state of mingled what-am-I-thinking and how-brave-am-I as I contemplated reptile removal, I considered the options.

The MotH** just picks them up. As, in fact, had my grandmother and my mother, in the past, so that’s pretty much all that occurred to me, and clearly, that was what I was going to have to do.

Now, visited by sudden bravery I might be, but I am also a person with a certain amount of self-awareness. I knew it was extremely unlikely that this resolve would be carried through bare-handed.

And this is where today’s Tuesday Tip comes into play.

Always know where your gardening gloves are!

I have several pairs of work gloves and gardening gloves, and none of them are kept in the garage (me having a healthy—some might say ‘elevated’—sense of self-preservation and no wish to encounter a brown recluse spider being reclusive alongside my index finger). In fact, my best gardening gloves—the ones with the rubber fingers allowing for more manual dexterity than the leather work gloves—are in a drawer next to the side door.

Now, this is the important part. Not only are they supposed to be in the drawer next to the side door, they actually are there.

Look out, lizard.

Will Elaine find her gardening gloves? Will the lizard wait until she does? Will this story have a happy ending? And how did the lizard get on the window sill, anyway?

For the answer to these and other questions, tune in tomorrow to Wondering Wednesday.

* Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, sc 5 (Ariel’s song)

Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change,
into something rich and strange,
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell,
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.”

** MotH=Man of the House

Nothing to fear

but lizards in the house.

And the miracle is that I’m getting past that.

Actually, lest my sister refuse to visit me again, let me hasten to explain that I don’t have many lizards in the house. Hardly any. In fact, I’ve been here nearly three years, and the one of which I am about to speak is only the second. That’s not bad considering the number that hang around outside. (I have named the house Casa Lagarto, after all.)

Mostly, we have chameleons (which are, probably, really anoles) and geckos and a few skinks.

The lizard in my story was, I think, a chameleon. Although I have an easier time distinguishing them from the geckos when they are their native green. Once they’ve decided brown is the color of the day, it’s a little harder. But, judging by shape, this was a chameleon.

I have long been accustomed—well, okay—I have for a couple of years been accustomed to seeing the lizards scuttle around outside without the need for a gasp and an eek. I don’t even have that zero at the bone* feeling when I come face to face with an enraged anole hanging head height on the garage wall and inflating its throat and glaring at me.

This does not mean, however, that I want them to come to breakfast. And thereby hangs a tale.

Fortunately, thereby does not hang a tail. You do know that many a lizard will just leave its tails behind if you happen to grab it, right? Then, if ever, is the time for “eek”—and likewise, “ugh.”

But, I digress.

The breakfast lizard did not actually come to breakfast. It was not, in fact, anywhere near the breakfast table. I, however, had come downstairs early in the morning with a view toward getting something to eat.

The first thing to do, in my house, when you come downstairs of a morning is to open the curtains. You want to see the creek in the morning. Often, the coots are there to offer matutinal greetings. (Hah! Never thought I’d get to use “matutinal” in a sentence!)

So…I opened the kitchen curtains. I opened the venetian blind on the side window. I opened the bay window curtains. And then, I went to open the curtains to the two big picture windows, creekside. At this point, since I don’t have the official, I-picked-these-out-and-I-love-them window treatments, this requires the use of a long stick to nudge the 4 panels of temporary curtains aside.

One slides left, a second slides right, a third…holy cow! There’s a lizard on the window sill.

Eeek.

Outside, I am accustomed to the unexpected—if that’s not an oxymoron. Inside, it’s a little different. First, there’s the involuntary gasp and recoil, by which time it never seems to me that there’s any point in a scream of any sort. (I sometimes envy the women who scream. My reaction is always too silent to awaken the MotH.**)

But, eek. There’s a lizard on the window sill—and a MotH who won’t appreciate being awakened and who is, properly, scoff-ful (is that a word?) of irrational fears.

And then came the miracle.

I decided I—I!— would catch (and release, of course) the lizard.

Tune in tomorrow to hear how I fared.

* Dickinson, Emily, The Snake—but the principle is the same.

** MotH = Man of the House

There ain’t nothin’ like a dame

Dame Maggie, that is.

It’s not a very original headline, I know, but irresistible. In the same vein, I held off as long as I could, but we have to feature Dame Maggie Smith in a Smith Sunday. You knew it was coming, didn’t you? I suspect Dame Maggie is, currently, our most famous Smith. And, with the premiere of Season 3 of Downton Abbey last Sunday. . .how could we not mention her?

With an illustrious career on stage and screen dating back to 1952, she is one of the United Kingdom’s greatest exports. I am happy to say I’ve been a fan since I saw The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie on TV. (Saturday Afternoon at the Movies was better then before Ted Turner bought all the great films.) Maggie Smith’s name in the credits will get me to a movie theater or into a Broadway house as quick as anyone’s. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life as I did at Lettice & Lovage, and it’s one of the few Broadway plays I’ve seen twice. If you want a lesson in timing, you could do far worse than study Dame Maggie.

Pure magic, long before she became Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—although I, frankly, think she always was. I can’t imagine anyone would disagree that was a piece of the purest perfect casting.

Today, there are a lot of clips for your viewing pleasure. Start with a five minute scene from the stage production of Lettice & Lovage. Then, move on to Smith’s current audience favorite with the Dowager Countess’s top 10 moments form Season 1 of Downton Abbey. Finally, there is a much longer, half-hour retrospective of just a few career highlights. You’ll see her perform with Laurence Olivier, Bette Davis, Michael Caine, Cher and Whoopi Goldberg, among others, and if you hang on to the end, there’s a delightful musical turn in which she teaches Carol Burnett to speak Cockney!

The end of Act I, Lettice and Lovage

Top 10 Downton Moments, Season 1

Dame Maggie Smith

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cF87K3cHTcI

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants