The Mysteries of Life

The last two days have careened past me in a blur. Strangely, I have little recollection of how I spent that time, which I find disconcerting. All I know with certainty is that I accomplished nothing.

There’s so much in life that completely baffles me. No matter how much I twist my brain around in search of answers, I simply can’t find a reason for some things: why masks and vaccines are political, why some people believe it their duty to control women’s bodies, why there’s so much hatred and judgment and suffering in the world. 

And also, why was there a dead rat in a trap in my front yard? (Don’t worry: I didn’t take a picture.) How did it get there? My only thought was that someone had walked the twenty feet into my yard and tossed it under the bush. But why? I do hate it when I can’t make sense out of my world. My friend PT suggested wryly that this was the work of the Mafia, which led me to remark that I was at least lucky I didn’t find the deceased rodent in my bed. Molly’s subsequent theory seems remotely possible: that the poor creature had been trapped elsewhere and managed, with broken neck, to flop its way onto my property before expiring. If that’s the case there’s an apparent rat problem in my neighborhood.

Despite my dental woes that prevent proper eating, I have managed to put on a couple pounds over the past few days. The contents of my trashcan reveal the explanation:

Eleni and I have a blast texting back and forth throughout the day. We have an uncanny and unsettling tendency to write the exact same thing at the exact same time, as our messages cross in the ether. She informed me that Chico has suddenly shifted from triple-digit heat to windy and autumnal, and that when Ember stepped outside yesterday morning she said this:

This kind of weather reminds me of Mama Ginna and making cookies together. The day after I got there we would always go to the store and get the puffy guy cookie dough.

It will hardly surprise you, then, that within hours I had laid in supplies for the next time I see the little one.

Later yesterday afternoon I was delighted to receive several unexpected and extended video calls from Em. Most of the time she spent leaping around the trampoline, with Jesse making cameo appearances now and again.

During a subsequent vid-chat, Molly joined us as we played with phone filters.

My sister in West Virginia regularly sends me goofy cards. I like this one:

Okay, Marianna: here’s the latest episode in my unconscious nocturnal adventures: 

I faced an endless bank of niches in some kind of columbarium. Every cubby had a locked metal door, behind which lived a sort of tiny sprite or spirit, each with a different personality and function. Most were troublesome. For example, according to the woman who was their guardian, one would bite off your nose when you released it from its bag. 

I was to choose a random door without knowing what was inside. The creature within would then become my totem, for better or worse. After much deliberation I made my selection and the guardian pulled out the small muslin bag behind. Out popped a small pink ball of fluff. When it started talking I realized it was a ditzy, jabbering goody-goody. I couldn’t imagine going through life with a companion like that, so I asked the guardian if I could choose another: a risky proposition, since the majority ranged from pesky to evil. But I opted to take a chance and the guardian complied. I pointed at last to another door. She lifted out the cloth sack and out came a tiny dinosaur-like creature with a long tail. It flew right at me and started attacking my face. “Oh, too bad you got this one,” the guardian said. “It’s one of the worst.” I pleaded with her to let me return it and keep the first one instead. Finally she agreed, so I reclaimed the babbling, air-headed fuzzball. I asked it to say nice things about me, and it did.

This morning I swung by Ikea for curbside pickup of a computer desk I’d ordered last night (it’s the same one Lulu has) and then made my way to her backyard in Alameda where we had a lovely visit. As you can see, we have more than just matching furniture.

She has lovely things growing in her garden (the passionflower was visiting through the fence from the neighbor’s yard):

Back at home, I hauled the two very heavy Ikea boxes from the back of my car. As I struggled down the sidewalk I had the following conversation with my neighbor:

“Those look heavy!” he called.

“Uh, yeah,” I agreed. 

“Is that Ikea furniture?”

“Yup,” I panted as I staggered up my front stairs.

“Boy, then that’s really heavy. Who’s going to put it together for you?” 

“I am, if I can get it inside.”

“Well, good luck!”

Between phone calls with Ember, Eleni and others, I got to work. The instruction sheet made it look simple. I mean, how hard can it be when these are the only tools you need?

Actually, I’m not sure what that third one is, but I figured it must be a screwdriver.

Then I read a series of warnings, including this cryptic one:

If it was trying to warn me away from attempting the assembly alone, I didn’t pay attention. I proceeded through the steps with no issues until I got to the part where I was supposed to attach brackets to hold on the legs. There were pre-drilled holes aplenty, but none where the brackets were to go. Stymied and frustrated, I consulted YouTube and eventually learned that I needed an electric drill, which in no way resembles the artist’s rendering of that last tool. Luckily, as you know I love power tools and recently got a new bit set, so I was equal to the task. The half-hour job took me a mere three times that, but I succeeded in the end.