#%@**#!!

He who angers you conquers you.- Elizabeth Kenny. 

Oh, bull pucky. 

He who angers you is going to get his ass kicked, that's what. 

I've been thinking a lot about anger over the last few weeks, because it's been the dominant emotion I've been displaying- if not outwardly, certainly within my very rich and, apparently caustic, inner life. 

There are plenty of reasons- PLENTY- for this. I'm just not going to tell you, because then this will become one of those tiresome complaining things that I have no time for. 

I prefer passive aggressive hinting.  So here goes- 

I'm angry at people who don't now which cashier they were talking to before, because they DIDN'T FREAKING LOOK AT THEM. But that cashier. They know what they did. I'm not a cashier (right now, anyway, but I'm still angry about this).

I'm angry that the new guy got a brand new desk and the last two women in that office used a beat-up piece of plywood over two non-matching file cabinets, so it was always a little slanty. 

I'm angry at the bastardization of the word family. The way some people make it this thing to be practically worshipped if it meets some impossible standard is bad enough. What really gets me is when cliques of people use it as a way to badger you about being late, or whatever. And never miss a rehearsal, because we're a "family". Riighttt… And GAAGGG- for good measure, anyway. 

I'm also angry at Vesicoureteral Reflux and the way doctors don't care about it unless you're almost dead. Reading the comments and posts in that particular support group is an exercise in righteous indignation. Get it together, medical community! You should be doing better here. My child doesn't deserve the current standard of "care"- and neither do any of the others. 

To make it less tedious at this point, I'll just make a list of everything I'm angry about/at. I'll even throw you a bone and be a little more specific (complainy and fingerpointy).

Loans. And grants, for that matter - which just make the loans look more palatable- somehow. 

Cars. 

Musak and especially that woman who sang that 'I don't wanna wait, for our lives to be o-ho-veh-her' song. Yeah, I don't wanna wait, either. 

That dark muddy purple color. 

The WTO. The FDA. The USDA. The World Bank and the IMF. For that matter, WF, BoA, and the DMV. 

Chris Christie pandering to Iowa's pork producers (weird, yes?).

Pork Producers (of a certain variety). 

Pork consumers (of a certain variety). 

People who only buy donuts and red bull with their EBT card. 

People who stereotype EVERYONE with an EBT card as being the type of person to only buy donuts and redbull with it. 

Whoever it was that stole my Teddy Bear when I was 8. 

Cancer. 

Really large parts of my education. 

Depression/Anxiety.

Damage to the environment. 

People who put pictures of dead starlings they've shot up on Instagram.  

Absence of enough time. 

Misogyny. 

Rape culture. 

People who mess with my kids. 

People who mess with other people's kids. 

Animal abusers.

Oh.. I could go on and on and on. 

Except that I'm tired and it's been a long day and now I'm angry for sitting down to make a list of things to complain about out in the open, which is what I didn't want to do. 

Of course, alongside my anger, I have been quietly lecturing myself. Telling myself that this is all a season- it isn't the whole story. There is beauty here, even in the anger. All the things I deeply believe, but like all fragile people, have such trouble remembering in the thick of feeling. 

But you know, anger is okay. Anger is necessary. Father Bede Jerrett, the greatest preacher in Catholic England during his lifetime (a very limited biography of the man tells me) said, "The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn't angry enough." 

Precisely. 

I've made some of the above seem less serious than they really are, which is how I handle telling people about my anger. Some of them are very difficult. People have been hurt and for no good reason. Justice hasn't appeared in these situations, and I can't provide it- another reason for me to be angry. 

Colin Powell said "Get mad, then get over it." Which is what I'm working toward. 

What I won't do once past is to totally forget. I'm the elephant of angry memories- not a good thing to be unless those memories are used as a catalyst to make sure those things don't happen to other people. Which is part of my plan. You can't just get over it if you haven't done something about it, Colin, you should know that. Speaking of which, I'm still mad at you for that ridiculous WMD talk you gave to get us into another war. Remember that?? Huh? HUH??

Demographic Discomfort, or Get Over Yourselves Mi Amigos

mood music-

One of my favorite moments of a work day is when the Mexican Restaurant across the highway runs out of something and sends one or two of the kitchen guys down to restock- usually tomatoes, jalapenos, onions, cilantro, avocado- and I get to practice my iffy Spanish greetings on someone. They've only laughed at me once, but they persist in their instruction. They haven't lost hope in me.

The younger of the two came in today and was obviously entertained by my coworker's hat, which is something of a tradition here. For the entire month of October, she wears her witch hat- and people actually come in to see it. He smiled, he said something none of us understood, and he paid- cash- for his purchase. He shouted a "como estas?" at me, and I answered, "bien!"

I got a big smile in return.

At the time I was checking- taking my turn with the awful lotto machine and cigarette shelves. An older couple came into my line with their purchases. Dapper and charming and normal, a cart full of organic milk, bananas, bologna, cereal. I went through my auto-speil- Hi there, did you find everything okay? Do you have our rewards card?

This is approximately when it fell apart.

"Rewards card, huh? How will I be rewarded? I mean, with Obama the illegals coming over the border get plenty of rewards." He motioned towards the door that my friend had just exited through.

I couldn't stand it. So, I said-

"Actually, if you work in a grocery store for awhile, you'll see who get's most of the rewards- and it isn't our neighbors to the south. It's mostly white Americans, like you and me. And that guy that just left works hard everyday- legitimately. He isn't on any assistance."

The memory of earlier in the day and a conversation I had with another customer jumped to mind. White, like me. She often comes into the store and shops for her family with foodstamps and WIC, none of which I have a problem with- until she follows up her foodstamp purchase with $75 of alcohol- in cash. Today, she was upset because the rewards system kicks the WIC purchases off-line. In other words- you don't get points for WIC purchases and you won't get free milk/bread/eggs without points.

Oh, there was going to be hell to pay if I didn't fix that! She was convinced I had masterminded the entire problem, and that I was an anti-government-aid-conservative. Like her. Because she isn't one of "those people" who abuse the system. She needs all the help she can get!

Har. Yeah.

Back to the older couple- the man told me that I should probably learn to speak Spanish, since that's what we'd be required to speak, soon.

I ignored his prophetic psychosis and answered in the affirmative- "Yes! I really do want to learn to speak Spanish!" Smile, smile, happy smiles.

And then he signed up for the rewards card. Because, of course he did.

Over the years I've noticed- and handled- a number of these kinds of conversations, and the fears expressed within them are always pretty evident- and as most fears go- faulty.

The brown people are taking over. The brown people are coming. The brown people will take your jobs. The brown people will disrupt *our* Way Of Life™.

My way of life has always included a certain amount of ethnic diversity. By the time I was an early- teen, I was the only white kid of my age in my neighborhood. And it was fine. No one bothered me. There was one incident in eighth grade that I handled pretty well- and here I am. Alive and well.

In fact, my predominantly white, private, Christian school was more difficult, on average, than a walk through my neighborhood ever was.

Our Way Of Life™ on 5th Street in Greeley, Colorado went something like this. People woke up and went to work. The kids went to school. Buses streamed through, cars drove by, neighbors worked on their lawns and cars. We had garage sales and played our music too loud. Dogs sometimes went on long walks and cats were sometimes hit by cars. The couple on the corner had fights that brought out the cops. The old man down the street hoarded Fingerhut boxes in his windows until they faded to white in too many years of the afternoon sun. Jerry's Market started stocking more "ethnic" foods alongside the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and Red Delicious Apples. The Bait Shop painted itself purple and started selling candy to pull in the after-school-kid demographic, rather than relying solely on the local fisherman. (Really? Where did these people fish? The mystery persists.) People moved in and moved out, moved on and moved up and did the things that all Americans do- bought too much crap, and went into too much debt.

And none of that was dependent on skin color or ethnic origin, for pity's sake.

In the last several years- particularly the years since 2008- I've been surprised by the things that older people are comfortable telling me to my face. Me. Me with the mixed- race family. Me with the children who aren't considered "white" by any domestic standard.

You must have adopted your kids, right? They don't look anything like you.

Answer: Actually, they do. You just don't see it, because your eyes only see color and stop there. I'm sorry you have this affliction.

I don't think a black man should be in the white house- this isn't their country.

Answer: Oh please. This wasn't "our country", either. I don't remember asking to be born here.

I don't think it's right that blacks marry whites.

Answer: Okay. So feel free to abstain, idiot.

English is our language, people shuld lern (sic) it!

Answer: It's our language insofar as it's what we most commonly use, but the United States has no official language. Deal with it, and learn something new. Better yet, learn English!

The thing is, immigration has always been an issue here. And probably everywhere. It's what people do- they tribe-up and fend off the advancing hordes. The advancing hordes win, and then it's their turn to fend off whoever the new threat is.

Are we over that, yet? I think it's time to accept that we are becoming more diverse- and this can be a strength if we pull it together and stop labeling each other as simply "other".

Read this.

And for a little reality-

Add to the Beauty

I have always liked the song Add to the Beauty by Christian artist Sara Groves, because it seemed to say practically everything I believed about how life was and how it should be viewed, lived, practiced.

Which is to say, it doesn't have anything to do with ease or comfort, but everything to do with hard work, personal vision and a burning desire to do whatever your story demands. The problem here, of course, is finding the time.

This last week has been overly hectic in the places of my mind. Plural, yes. My mind exists on several planes at once, and usually not in one sector of reality. I am- to put it lightly- all over the place in my head, at all times. An educational psychologist given the job of figuring out why I was such a mess at one point in my life said that, while I was bright and well organized in my responses, I seemed overly visual. And I had dyscalculia. And synaesthesia. But he didn't think I had ADD, because I wasn't bouncing off the walls. In fact- I was pretty laid back. This evaluation helped exactly not at all when it came to my academics, but it did make me more interesting in my own eyes, itself a positive, I suppose. And only I could find a "disability" interesting- another quirk.

But where was I? Oh yes- all over the place and hectic.

The kids have returned to school which means I get to make lunches. Why this freaks me out every year, I have no idea. It might be because my current kitchen situation bites. Or maybe it might be because I feel uninspired by the usual lunch options- Egg salad gets a bit samey. Baby carrots do as well. Most of the peanut butter has palm oil in it (it doesn't here!). Early in the week I bought a bag of cotton candy grapes for the kid's lunches. One day that lasted. Don't even get me started on packaged crackers/cookies/biscuits/pastries and bread. Gah. But I had a drop of inspiration hit earlier today- make their lunches what you're always yakking about concerning restaurants you would like to run one day. Duh. Oh yeah- do the thing I really like doing, instead of relying on the status quo for lunch. Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces- even lunch. Add to the beauty.

I'm in the last week of a job I particularly liked, with people I love, to go to a new one. I need the hours, and it isn't all about the money. Mostly it has to do with getting me out of the house so I don't plant myself A: in bed with my cell phone, forgetting to shower, B: In front of the computer for hours, wasting time, C: Manically cleaning out the house, room by room by myself, only to have certain people wreck my hard work in 10 seconds flat. While I definitely am not great at structuring myself in the house, I do a lot better when someone gives me structure in the form of a job. Therefore- I work. What will I be doing? Some baking. Some taking-of-money. I'll be able to talk to people- interact and be social- and not stand around monitoring my phone in my house and waiting for inspiration to sparkle itself into a corner of my brain. I'll be doing something I'm pretty good at, anyway. Add to the beauty.

I turned 40 over the weekend- I'm pretty sure this should mean something, and in an odd way it does. Example: I felt the reigns of some expectations and dreams loosen a little. This is important, if only for matters of purpose and reality- I'm not going to get it all done, and that's okay. Stories need editing and not every chapter is necessary. I need to shorten the list to what is really important to me. That said- what is important was most of the list, so the sorting and deciding will be fun. Not. This is where grace arrives, inviting the beauty to arrive on it's own, regardless.

Today's story is still playing out. I think it might involve something called Apple Blackberry Cake in the next little while.

The Gosling

A little less than two weeks ago, Elijah and I were out for a walk, and when we came around the bend toward our house, we saw the goose family of Ink Pond walking slowly up the hill- all but one. On closer inspection, one of the babies seemed to be thinking about taking a nap on the street. As we approached, she started to get up and fell onto her back, wings flopping, feet struggling in the air.

We ran toward her, and watched as she righted herself, struggled up the hill and laid down once more at the top. Her family seemed satisfied that she was with them and started foraging. Elijah and I stayed to watch.

She seemed wrong on one side- when she had gone up the hill, one foot wasn't working properly, and she was relying heavily on her wings- pushing herself along.

For a few minutes she rested, and then, as her family walked toward the pond and began getting in, she got up and followed them- still limping. But as she got in the water, she seemed much better- to the point that we couldn't tell which one she was as they swam away.

The next morning, Elijah and Matt walked up to the pond to check and found her upside down in the lake, struggling to keep her head above the water. Elijah jumped in and swam to her- and then he brought her home.

What followed was a fruitless attempt on my part to contact a wildlife rehabber in the area. There were several numbers listed on the DNR website- but no one called me back, except one woman over an hour away, and she wasn't keen, apparently. After the first call, and the promise to be my backup person- she stopped returning my calls as well.

I've never taken care of a goose before. I researched possible injuries, poisonings, diseases- and nothing seemed to fit. But she got better- slowly. She stopped flopping onto her side in the box. She sat upright. She started eagerly awaiting her food each day. She even honked softly at the dog when he got too close, followed by a hiss for good measure.

As her appetite returned and her sense of balance- her legs stopped working. She stopped pushing against the floor, stopped paddling when we'd put her in the rubbermaid box, filled with water in the garden. She just balanced, or pushed herself with her wings. Sometimes she would try her wings out. She fussed with her pin feathers and acted stronger every day. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, she was still hungry, but her voice was softer. I noticed a change in her breathing. It took me back to 1998 when my little Fiona cat died after a traumatic surgery- she'd been kept under anesthesia far too long, and her heart enlarged and eventually failed. I worried that this was happening to our little gosling.

Such is the life of a wildlife rehabber, albeit a reluctant one. I breathed and said a prayer for her every night, knowing that she might not be around in the morning.  But there she was. Wanting her breakfast.

This morning began like any other. I brought her box into the laundry room and cleaned it and her up. I gave her water and a new supply of food- and she ate right away. Because of the flies outside, I have kept her in the back bathroom, where it is generally quiet during the day, and this morning, I returned her there to enjoy her food. I checked on her around ten, and she had finished about half of her water and breakfast, and was fussing with a pin feather on her wing. I pet her and noted her breathing hadn't improved. She was a little gaspy. She looked at me and nuzzled the palm of my hand with her bill as she had begun to do this week.

And at eleven she was gone. There was no sign of struggle- she had gone to sleep, tucked her head behind her wing, and died.

The boys and I dug a grave near the flowers in the garden. I don't even know if this is legal or not- and frankly, I don't care at the moment. The powers that be aren't so interested in doing their job, anyway.

After years of dealing with animal-friend death, I have become pretty good at dealing with it. I prepare myself in advance. I know that most animals aren't going to outlive us, and some of them are going to die in our care. But Elijah. Elijah is still working on balancing his sense of compassion with a knowledge that things don't always work out- no matter how hard we try. Life isn't fair, and it isn't guaranteed, and sometimes we don't get the help we need.

But we do our best- and I think, I always think that animals know when we're trying to help them. For our gosling, better she die peacefully than struggling upside down in a pond all alone.

I watched my 13 year old son today, digging a grave, burying a little friend he had jumped in a pond to rescue, and placing flowers above her to honor her life-and I realized that this burden had been a blessing. These are life's teaching moments, and they define who we are and who we become.

Prayer for the Animals by Albert Schweitzer

Hear our humble prayer, O God, for our friends, the animals. Especially for animals who are suffering; for any that are hunted or lost or deserted or frightened or hungry; for all that must be put to death. We entreat for them all Thy mercy and pity, and for those who deal with them, we ask a a heart of compassion and gentle hands and kindly words. Make us, ourselves, to be true friends to animals, and so to share the blessings of the merciful.

Complications

I seem to have this weird problem of breaking bones just prior to big life changes. Way back in 2005, at nine months pregnant, I had gone downstairs to check how much water had seeped into the basement- this was a regular occurrence in the spring and summer months in Southeastern Nebraska- the combination of totally saturated soil and ancient basement made it inevitable.

Walking down the stairs, I made the classic mistake that so many people who can't see their feet make- I thought the second to last step was the step closest to the floor, stepped down as if going to the flat, cement surface, tripped on the last step and landed my foot on my toes going down. Thankfully all I did was make a really pretty crack right through the cuboid of my right foot- but it looked awful. I have faint memories of my then four and two year olds yelling "Emergency! Emergency!" at my mother who had literally just arrived from Colorado. I remember being glad that I'd cleaned the house.

Four days later, I had Ben.

This time, I'd gone into town to visit a friend who was driving through with some of her school friends. We had planned to have lunch together- but on the way there I was rear-ended hard which shoved my car forward into the car in front of me, and then the lady behind me hit me again. Which made me hit the girl in front of me again. I had the idea that I'd maybe sprained my toe. I have one of those weird second toes that sticks way out in front of the big toe. I climbed out of my car and hobbled around back to survey the damage. It wasn't good. I hobbled around to the front to check on the girl in front of me who was already freaking out into her cell phone to her dad and rubbing her neck. They took her away to the emergency room, but she was fine. Her car sustained a small-ish scratch on the bumper. About 1.5 inches long. She was fine. She went on vacation the following week (in her car), resulting in a small amount of nail-biting stress concerning what she'd tell the insurance people when she finally came back.

I got home by driving with my heel. My foot was complaining. I still thought I'd just sprained a toe, or possibly now the upper part of my foot. Toward evening, I realized that I could no longer walk, and so this seemed like just the time to go to the  Emergency Room. My husband was in Iowa. I didn't think to ask anyone to take me. Nope- just me and the kids in the mini-van relying heavily on cruise control and going very, very slowly down Highway 103 toward Crete with the hazard lights on.

Broken foot. Again. One week from a move to another state. Awesome.

My mom flew in. My brother-in-law helped out with the loading. My neighbor came by and assisted with the hefty stuff- and his lovely wife cooked meals for us. We made it. But I don't recommend this particular method of getting-out-of-doing-everything. It's tedious, boring, and useless-feeling.

Then my cast got wet. No idea how, but the very last day I could have gotten in to have anything done about it, I called and they took it off and put me in the Darth Vader boot. Which I've been wearing ever since.

We've been here for one week. I'm feeling better, and I've powered through most of the unpacking. We've had meals and gone grocery shopping and gone to the library and met neighbors (one does a politics show on PBS- I am insanely excited about this). Last night we watched the Heritage Days Fireworks Display. Things are calming down and organizing themselves- as complications often do.

My mind views most challenges as a hill I have to climb. When complications happen, it's as if the hill no longer has any discernible path. There's a boulder at the top, just waiting to fall on anyone who looks at it funny. And there are a large number of cougars up there who live around the boulder, completely surrounded by no prey animals, resulting in a collection of very, very hungry cougars and all it takes is one wrong move and you're done. Finished.

But somehow, you usually make it. I think it has a little to do with acceptance and the way you approach problems. If you try to control everything- if you try to become the problem to your problem- you give it power over you. Sometimes just breathing and ignoring are the best paths to take. It's what we tell children to do with bullies, and I believe that a bully can manifest itself in the form of a human being, or a bill collector (those aren't human beings) or a doctor's office policy that won't take third party insurance and which requires injured people to bear even more of a burden of an accident they didn't cause. Problems are usually caused by people, but once they become a policy, they are somehow out of the hands of every human being in charge of enforcing them. It's out of their hands as servants to The Policy. The Policy rules all.

So, breathe and ignore. And enjoy the beautiful things- which are always there.

Organized Slobs

Today was the day I unpacked ALL of the china and crystal so that I could wash it and repack it again.

That's right. In the midst of moving, I took things already packed out of boxes, washed them, and packed them up again. Tell me this isn't the definition of insanity.

On the other hand, I've been promising myself to be organized with this move- organized to the point where I go through everything and determine whether it's worth keeping or not. Simplify, simplify, simplify. No more clutter. No more crap that just gets stuffed in boxes and forgotten about between moves.

The issue here is that this china and crystal is all heirloomy/grandmother hand-me-downs. You can't just huck that kind of thing away. You can't. And before you tell me how I can or should- hear me out.

We are sloppy eaters with no manners. All of us. The entire country. No one knows how to set a table. No one knows what fork goes where. No one gives a pea-turkey about any of this because we've gone to quick and easy. We sneak the simplify word in here, feeling virtuous, but what we really mean is- we're now okay with being sloppy with "simple" things. All the time. At Thanksgiving dinner. On Christmas Day. Just buy the paper plates/the SuperTarget ceramic mugs/the clearance melamine! That last one doesn't break! It was made by a four year old in a third world country, but don't stop and think about that because that's just how things are now!

Personally, I've spent a lot of time scavenging the dish aisles at all the big-box stores. Kinda because I like to see what they have, and also because I keep wanting to buy it when I totally do not need to. Why?

Because I have a set of Haviland Limoges- white with gold trim. This is very fine china. It's also in perfect condition, although I could use a few more place settings. I have a very old collection of Edwin M. Knowles china- white with gold trim and a floral design- mostly in a dark pink. These dishes date somewhere between 1901 and 1948- which was the last year the vase design was used as the identifying logo. I have a large collection of crystal- various sizes of stemmed glasses- water, champagne, wine, brandy, several matching serving dishes (there is a rather magnificent bowl) and dessert plates. Oh, and cups and saucers. There is a silver tea serving set- pot, tray, sugar bowl and creamer.

My favorite little thing is my children's tea-set by Jeanette Glass in Cherry Blossom Pink. These were made during the depression years and my grandmother was given them sometime during her eighth year- she gave them to me the Christmas I was 8. Later on we had a very magnificent tea party with that set- tea and cherry pie I remember.

We used these things. For Grandmother/Grand-daughter  tea parties, for Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas parties.

And today, I keep them in boxes. In the basement. They see the light of day every 12 years or so. This is really, really silly and rather unfortunate.

We keep the beautiful old things in boxes because we're afraid to use them. Or we don't want to wash delicate things. Or polish them. Come to think of it, we've forgotten how to polish them. What do you use? How long will that take?? Won't the kids just break all of them? They won't appreciate them anyway. Just like all those old quilts in the attic.

Well who appreciates what they have no memory of?

After 9/11 there was a shift somewhere. I remember President Bush standing up and yacking about enjoying America and going shopping. What most of us really wanted was to participate in some kind of effort. Well, other than being good little consumers, that is. Suddenly crafting was groovy. People started to make things again. They rethought their ideas about gift-giving at Christmas and made things for each other, or donated money in that person's name to a good cause- and they started thinking about being together as a family and appreciating the less-fleeting things (unlike that new set of unbreakable Target melamine that will go out of style in about five minutes flat).

They remembered things their grandmothers baked. They started knitting sweaters and socks and crocheting blankets. They quilted and painted and built things.

And they're still doing it. If you doubt this- check out the many hilarious articles about Pinterest Stress, which really means that crafting/making/creating is on the rise- we just need to remember to take the busy-ness down a notch and have a little fun with it. We need to remember what matters- what kind of legacy we leave behind and hope that it's the kind of legacy that will want to be replicated in future generations- rather than stored in a box in a basement.

So back to my dishes. I think I'll actually unpack them this time. I'll promise myself to set the table with them and eat off them at least a few times a week. I have this theory that table manners can suddenly appear in children when they're confronted with a formal place-setting and too many forks.

We'll talk about the kind of meals those dishes have seen. The pot roasts, the fried chicken, the fruit salad with marshmallows. And we'll talk about the times- the Depression, WWII, Korea, the 1950s, 60s and 70s- and how I remember them as a child in the 1980s- the last time they were regularly used.

And I'm going to bring back tea.

A reminder from the starling

We've been sorting all morning. Wait. Change that. We've been "sorting" for over a month and we've come to that nasty place where you think you have a lot done, but the house looks absolutely trashed. Papers everywhere. All of the important and pretty *things* are packed away and out of the way. The detritus that fills in the cracks remains and is no longer hiding in those cracks. It's out in the open. Mocking me. Ridiculing any effort.

The boys have been going through toys and negotiating which stay and which go. We've settled on Thomas and Legos as the main taking-along-forever toys. This frustrates Josiah who believes that we must not keep engines that are without their tenders. Totally opposite of myself as a child- an imperfection is a good reason to trash something for Joe. For me, it was a good reason to keep it forever, otherwise how would it feel??

Yes, I had compassion for inanimate objects at one point. Especially if they had a face, but even if they didn't. Pencils. Erasers. All of it might have a trace of life-energy running through it, and therefore, feelings.

While looking frantically for a pen earlier, I was called to Victor's cage by Victor himself. I was in a hurry to get to the post office, but I paused and stood by his cage. I put my hand in and he jumped onto me and gave me the sweet look that he seems to save for our moments of communication. I've always said that Victor seems to really listen when I talk to him- unlike our other pets, or even the other people in this house- he quiets down, looks me in the eye and really listens.

Instantly I felt a little guilty for the lack of attention that Victor has had these last few weeks. It isn't just Victor that's missing out, though. I've missed hanging out with him. On a normal day, I'll usually spend a few hours with Victor out in the house. He'll flock with me from room to room. He'll steal my food if I have any. He'll tangle any yarn I happen to be working with. He'll yell for more water for his endless bath-taking. He'll take a few rides on Darby's very patient back. And then he'll chill with me for awhile after the energy is expended. That's my favorite bit. The hanging-out part.

And there is the difference between a tender-less, wooden engine (face or not) and a live, feathery person like Victor.

Makes me want to get mean with the detritus and be a little unmerciful with the objects that once caught my attention.