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.

Is there some special technique

to leaf blowing?

This is what I am wondering today. I’ve had my leaf blower for about 2 years, and I must confess that I do not seem to have grasped whatever nuances there are.

You’d think it would be easy, right?

It’s a blast of air.

Point at the leaves, and they blow away.

Well, yeah.

They do.

Blow away.

But, here’s the thing. They blow in multiple directions. So, I very carefully clear off one section of the driveway, say, and as soon as I move to the next section, I am blowing leaves back over the cleared portion. It’s…disheartening.

Now, the lawn guys I see working around the neighborhood don’t seem to have this problem. They go whooshing around, jump back in their trucks, and leave behind a nice clear driveway.

That’s not what happens for me. I blow the leaves off the rocks in the flower beds, and they land on the front porch. I blow them off the porch, and they’re back in the flower beds. I don’t think I’m getting the hang of it at all.

I’ve googled.

I don’t find any new ideas, really, except for one guy who suggested making sure your beer is covered before you start leaf blowing. That wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I was looking for.

Now, I don’t want you to think I’m buried in leaves. I have had some success. (Some? My budget for bags is BIG.)

I’ve been blowing leaves since October and expect to continue through March. First, the sweet gum leaves fall and the popcorn tree drops its foliage. Then the crepe myrtles and various other trees to which I have not been introduced (so I don’t know their names). Right about now, the cypress needles start drifting across the yard. I think the water oaks begin just when you think everything is done.

Leaf removal is a six month (at least) task. I don’t even try to get all of them up. I just try to keep the hardscape clear.

I’m not terrible at it, but I’m wondering if there’s a way to be better.

I’d just like to be able to aim with slightly more…specificity. Is that too much to ask?

Where will I be?

I wonder.

Where was I this time last year?

I don’t mean physically. My memory is not yet so far gone that I don’t remember my actual location. I am trying, though, to remember where I was mentally. Did I have a plan?

I don’t think so.

I think, at that point, I was still too absorbed in adjusting to our move and in trying to get the house in order to have a plan. I had a To Do list (I always do)—and I was letting that stand in for a plan.

It’s not really the same thing, however.

This year, I want to have a plan. I’d really like to put together some specific goals. I’m just wondering what they should be.

I don’t know about you, but I find that as soon as I start wondering what they should be, I’ve lost the battle. I spend so much time trying to figure out what the best path to take might be that I don’t take any path. I just wander aimlessly. Lots of interesting things happen, but they aren’t always the ones I’d like.

I’m reminded again of the Teddy Roosevelt quote I mentioned here. Because the worst thing you can do is nothing—and failing to plan pretty much leads to nothing.

Part of the trouble is that picking a goal opens you up to failure. I often think I’m reluctant to pick one thing because it closes off all the other possibilities. But it is just remotely possible that it’s a fear of commitment. If I don’t actually plan to write a whole novel, I won’t be disappointed in myself when one doesn’t materialize.

The way to think about that, however, is to remember that failing to meet a goal is a single failure, and failing to even make a goal means failure on all fronts. I won’t have written a novel or a play or remodeled the kitchen or lost 10 pounds or learned to cook or. . . .

So, I don’t know where I will be this time next year.

This time next week, however? I’m not going to be wondering what the plan will be. I’m going to have one.

It’s dippy

Sometimes.

So, I’m wondering…well, maybe not wondering so much as marveling. ‘Wondering’ implies a question, and I don’t even know how to phrase this question.

I’ll just tell you what happened, and you see if you can figure out what the question is.

It’s all about dip.

Some people love dip. A bag of chips, a bowl of dip is their idea of food fairyland.

I’m not so dippy for dip. For a long time, I didn’t eat any. Then, I discovered that I like bacon and horseradish dip. But it was hard to come by when I lived in New York. Very, very rarely, you could find it at the grocery store.

It became sort of a holiday tradition because I would have it when I went to my parents’ house in Delaware. Their grocery store stocked it around the holidays. If you were in Delaware for Fathers’ Day, you weren’t getting any bacon-horseradish dip.

Then I moved to Florida. The grocery stores here have it all the time. This was an unfortunate development until a little self-discipline kicked in. However, I haven’t had any in quite some time. But, here we are, in the middle of the holiday season. Time to buy a little dip to have some during the days of celebration.

And guess what?

I’ve been to two grocery stores. No dip.

Now, of course, that is not quite true. Both of them had French Onion Dip and that cheese stuff. One of them had a brand new (to me, anyway) concoction called Black Bean and Onion dip. I seem to recall jalapeños figuring in several selections. All of these, I am sure, some folks find delicious.

All grocery stores, everywhere, seem to have salsa at all times. That’s good. I like salsa.

But right now, for the holidays, I just wanted bacon and horseradish dip.

For some reason, I am fated to have difficulty with that. And I had thought one of the smaller entries on the plus side, of the ledger I use when figuring whether the move was good or not, was the easy availability of the dip I like.

Apparently, it is not to be.

I guess I’m just wondering why that is.

What is wrong with me?

Seriously.

This is not a rhetorical question. I really am wondering. Although I suspect I probably ought to close this post to comments before asking!

Oh, well. I’ll take my chances.

If you happen to know me and feel you have the answer to this question, perhaps you can either be kind or email me separately.

The reason I ask is because of the nonsense yesterday.

I went out to run some errands and look for a few remaining Christmas presents.

Everything was going so well.

Even though I didn’t find everything for which I was searching, the sun was shining, traffic was light, I was hitting the stores in a smooth and logical order.

I got to Radio Shack and, with the aid of an extremely cheerful and knowledgeable and helpful clerk—something that has become less the norm at Radio Shack than it was in the days when people were building their own crystal radio sets—anyway, with her help, I found the proper components to make an extension cord to the corded headset I like to use with my phone. Now, I will be able to sit on a comfortable chair in my office for any lengthy conversations rather than be stuck at the desk.

I know, I know. Bluetooth, etc. But, I like corded phones. The sound is better! I also like having my hands free when I talk. So I needed a longer cord.

And I found it!

And I paid for it.

And I went on to the next store.

Where I no longer had my wallet.

And so. . .

You know what happened then. Rifling my purse. Searching the car. Calling the Radio Shack. Back-tracking. Searching the car. Rifling my purse.

Eventually, I went galumphing home, certain that I was now going to have to cancel all my credit cards, replace my license, my union cards, my insurance cards. Everything.

I did, however, ask the MotH* to check the car for me, yet again.

Naturally, he found the wallet. Just sitting on the floor beside the driver’s seat.

Where I had looked at it, dead in the eye, at least four times!!!

I don’t usually think of myself as being given to panic. Having extremely poor vision and being very unobservant, yes. Panic, not so much.

I even remember seeing the black shape there. I suppose it registered on my brain as the little handle you use to adjust the seat.

Which, in my car, is not black.

So, you know, I ask myself. What is wrong with me?

But I’ll tell you one thing that isn’t wrong with me. I am not missing my wallet! My mind, yes. But not my wallet.

Whew.

* MotH = Man of the House

Where, oh, where

Do the coots go in the summer?

That’s what I’m wondering today.

You see, the coots came back yesterday.

Every winter, usually in late November, we see a few coots. First there are four or five. Then there are twelve. Then there are twenty-four. And then you can’t count them.

This year, I was starting to wonder if something had happened to them. I was hoping it was just that it was still warm enough wherever they were for them to stay there, but I confess to fleeting thoughts about strange avian anomalies—like those red-winged blackbirds that mysteriously fell out of the sky in Arkansas on New Year’s Eve 2011.

So, I was especially delighted to see seven of them swim by the dock this morning. I’m almost always delighted to see the coots, anyway, because they are so hilarious, with their white faces bobbing back and forth as they skedaddle along. They are so sociable, always hanging out in groups, and almost certainly taunting the yellow lab that lived next door. I’m not sure how they knew she wouldn’t go in after them, but they did—swimming right up to the dock and just waiting until the last minute for her to rush up barking wildly before they leisurely flitted a few feet out of reach.

I get a kick out of coots.

I’m happy to have them back. It makes me feel like nature has a friendly side. (Not always my impression when the mosquitoes are auditioning for Dracula and the sweet gums are hurling limbs at me or grasshoppers are chewing my window screens.)

The coots swim by in the morning and, usually, again in the afternoon. We greet each other cordially. (Well, okay—I wave out the window, and they don’t actually spit at me or anything.) I watch with interest as the flock expands exponentially. I think they just gather friends and relations over time as I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby coot. (A cootlet?)

I sometimes think it would be nice if they stayed around all year, but it’s likely we would take each other for granted if that were the case. It’s probably best that they remain a seasonal pleasure.

But where do they go in the summer?

How can I know what I think

until I see what I say?
~ E. M. Forster

That’s what I’m wondering today—it is Wondering Wednesday, after all—as I’m casting about for a specific topic. Basically, I’m wondering what I’m going to write. (This is a regular phenomenon since I took up blogging.)

It’s not that there is not a lot about which to wonder. Surely, there is something I think and about which I would want to communicate amongst all the mysteries at hand. Look at the state of our politics here in the United States, for example. Now, there’s something—a lot of somethings—to provoke wonder. But we don’t have a day of the week whose name begins with the letter ‘R,’ so you are all spared a regular Rant Day. I have promised myself the blog will be positive—mostly—so, you know, politics. . .off limits.

I wonder about the future. Do I need to figure out what’s next in my life, or will the Mayans solve that problem for me?

I wonder if I’m ever going to write another play, or have I inadvertently retired? (Or, is it a moot point—see Mayans.)

I wonder what I should do next in renovating my house. Is it time for a kitchen makeover? Wouldn’t we like to have a bathtub? And does that mean the entire bathroom needs a makeover? What comes first in the rest of the house—the carpet or the windows? Will I ever have furniture?

I wonder who bought the house next door and if they will be good neighbors.

I wonder why the coots haven’t yet returned from Capistrano—or wherever they go in the summer.

I wonder if anything, anything at all, will persuade the squirrels not to hang like bats, head downward, clinging to the coquina and if I will ever get used to an upside-down furry tree rat hanging head high over my front door.

Lastly, I wonder which of these and many other questions will be addressed in next week’s Wondering Wednesday post.

‘Cause this one’s done.

The red brick road

Where does it go?

There’s a picture making the rounds on Facebook of Dorothy at the start of the Yellow Brick Road. It’s a screencap, of course, from the classic film, The Wizard of Oz.

If you remember the movie, you will recall that the yellow brick road starts in a spiral. (If you don’t remember the movie, you better watch it again!) The negative space—the part that’s not yellow—is red.

Hence the caption on this screencap that says: Where does the red brick road go?

My first reaction was laughter. Not rolling on the floor hysterics, but at least one “ha!” The essence of humor, it has been said, is thwarted expectations, surprise, incongruities.

This caption is surprising because it never occurred to me to ask that question. So, what I’m wondering today is not where the red brick road goes—although that is an excellent question and might merit another blockbuster musical à la Wicked.

What I am wondering is why some people’s brains work in such a way as to come up with that question and mine does not.

It’s a dumb little internet meme. And yet. . .

Isn’t it what creativity is all about? Putting things together in new and interesting ways? Taking a leap? Asking the questions?

I’m supposed to be a creative person. I’ve been paid for creativity in the past. I hope to be paid for creativity in the future.

But this is not how my mind works.

And I wonder about that.

On a practical level, I understand that, in this instance, my attention in the movie is directed so thoroughly as those ruby slippers step along to the accompanying chant of “Follow the yellow brick road! Follow the yellow brick road! Follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the yellow brick road!” that the red brick right next to it is completely overlooked. It doesn’t register. I don’t think about it.

This little Facebook funny is a lesson to me.

I better start wondering about things more often than on Wednesdays.

“What if?” and “Why?” and “Why not?” are indispensable tools for artists—and…oh, I don’t know…everybody, don’t you think?

Why not?

Roses in December

“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
~J. M. Barrie

Today, I am wondering where my mind went.

I nearly forgot to do this blog post. How is that possible? I know I have to do a daily blog post. I’ve done one, day after day, for months. Nearly six months now. And, today, it is only by accident, it seems, that there will be something appearing.

I thought of it several times yesterday. I had a couple of topics in mind.

And then. . .I forgot.

This is a somewhat disturbing trend.

Definitely something to wonder about—where my mind went.

On the other hand, one could wonder about the equally amazing phenomenon that nearly the first thing I thought of when I awoke—far too early this morning—was OMG! I never did my blog post.

Memory is a strange thing.

An odd tightrope.

Sometimes, it seems like the more you put into it the more it can hold. When I am very, very busy with multiple projects and hundreds of details, I can often track them like a bloodhound. When I have less to do, it’s like the old brain goes on a slow boat to Bermuda.

Sometimes, though, when I am very, very busy with multiple projects and hundreds of details, the whole thing springs a leak. Multiple leaks. Things start slipping through the cracks, and the cracks—well, they start to resemble the proverbial sieve. Then, when I have less to do, a single-minded purpose, that one thing can become nearly an obsession.

An odd tightrope.

Some days, you over-balance in one direction; some days, it’s the other.

I’ve always had a really good memory. It’s a bit disconcerting when this kind of thing happens. As I get older, too, the occasional missed connection gets more worrying. Is this a trend? I wonder.

I think I’ll spend part of today learning a poem or something.

Memory is a muscle, too.

And I like roses. . .December or otherwise.

(But first, I’m going back to bed. Later, ‘gators.)

Why?

I’m just asking.

Why do men—and it must be said—men of a certain age begin to yell at the TV during news broadcasts?

I know no women who do this. (Not saying that there aren’t any—just that I don’t know them.)

Is it, perhaps, because their early spectator training is ball games? Where yelling at the ref is part of the experience?

It just seems a singularly futile thing to do. To say nothing of clearly being bad for one’s blood pressure.

Can’t we all agree that the pundits are going to talk over each other? That they are going to focus on domestic politics when you want to know about the Middle East? Or spend all their time on the Middle East when you want to know what happened with that hurricane? That the ones with whom you don’t agree are going to say utterly ridiculous and stupid things—while interrupting the ones with whom you do agree in a singularly crass and boorish manner?

And can’t we further agree that all those people in the little box? They can’t hear you.

I know when you were children—or, in some cases, when your children were children—that Miss Sally may have looked through her magic mirror and read off your name. And, yes, you could draw a bridge that helped Winky Dink cross the river. But, generally speaking, you really have no capacity to affect the behavior of those on the goggle box.

(The Kool-Aid Bunny Man did come to our house once. But that is another story, and nothing to do with yelling at the television set. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Bunny Man would have frowned on that. )

I’m sure the men I’ve heard yelling at the TV don’t think they’re really making a difference. I’m sure they are just blowing off steam. I just wonder where the dividing line comes between the point where you observe television quietly and the point where you launch into diatribes.

Hint: I think it’s around retirement age.

Maybe it comes with the gold watch?

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Tag Archives: Wondering Wednesdays