Noooootttttttt sure if you noticed or not, but my last post was oh, I don’t know, maybe DURING THE RENAISSANCE.

Ok.

September.

But in the blogging world, it may have been centuries ago.

“Why?”, you may ask.  {Actually, if you’re reading this, I’m just glad you’re not asking, “Who?”}  Well.  Um…  LOOK!  OVER THERE! {exit stage right}

Okay, fine.  So… I kiiiiiiiiiinda sorta broke up with social networking?  Kinda?  More like I’m in an “it’s complicated” with social networking…

It’s been so long since I’ve written ANYTHING, except maybe the occasional narrative of awkward maybe dates that I sent to muh girls which OBVIOUSLY can’t be posted… yet.

I started to wonder what happened to my site in my absence.  Like maybe there were little bugs crawling around on it, circling their feces or something.  {Too graphic?  Sorry.  I just dealt with a RAT INFESTATION AT MY HOUSE. more on that later.}

So the best thing I thought to do was to do a little tidying up, so to speak.  See?  New headline thing and widgety doo dads over there!  I have no idea how to work any of them, but they look cute and make the place feel a little more homey, like a painting going up on a barren wall.

But even starting over again with a clean slate, I still felt pretty intimidated about returning.  I mean, I have so much to say!  How do I choose what to say first?

So, I thought I’d heat up a bowl of soup first.  I mean, who can work on an empty stomach sans Ghandi, right?  And that’s when it hit me, as it always does.

Are you ready for our first obscure parallel?

Here it comes.

So, my gluten-free roommate left an evenly spaced row of soups outside of my room on Monday morning.  Three of which were tomato soup, which inadvertently contain wheat, thus why they were arranged in front of my door.  Typically, I’m not a tomato soup from the can kind of gal.  In fact, I’m not a canned soup kind of gal.  Furthermore, I’m not a canned anything kind of gal.  But, later Monday night, the gluten-free roomie and I went to a nice restaurant for some “us” time, and I had a bowl of spicy tomato soup served with thin slices of toasted baguettes with goat cheese spread on it.  And my mouth will never be the same again.

Last night, I had 30 minutes at home before heading out the door again{#NicoleWillBeTheFirstPersonInTheHistoryOfEverToDieFromOverscheduling}, and I needed to make something I could eat at work for the next few days since that day I’d finished the chicken salad sandwich I had bought FROM.A.GAS.STATION {see previous hash}.  And then I remembered that amazing soup…

3 cans of tomato soup, 1 large can of crushed italian style tomatoes, 3 tablespoons of crushed red pepper,5 cloves of garlic {#ihaveaproblem}, a stick of butter {#ihavealotofproblems}, a pint of heavy whipping cream {#didimentioni’malsolactoseintolerant}, and a dollup of pesto later, I had a masterpiece.

So, when I decided to write this post and realized I was hungry, I jumped at the chance to heat up a bowlful.

But it’s also appropriate.

{obscure parallel in 5… 4… 3…}

Because that’s where my life is right now.  I’ve got three cans of condensed  tomato soup.  And I can’t sit here and whine about how I want something better {no offense, oh wonderful gluten-free roommate of mine!}.  I’ve got to make something better.  I’ve got all that I need.  I just have to use it.

And my friends, my family, my community… they’re the everyday ingredients that turn mediocre into gourmet.

Thanks for reading.

Why I began playing Spider Solitaire on my lunch breaks is neither important nor thrilling.  What is is that I’m now up to “medium difficulty”.

I certainly am a novice at Spider Solitaire, but I’ve picked up on a basic understanding.

Minutes ago, I began a game.  From the beginning, things looked mediocre.

A minute or two in, I was astounded at the mess.  There was so much going on.  I had so many non sequitir cards in stacks that I wasn’t even sure that I had done it.  I was in it deep and, knowing that my resources were sparse, I knew that I should quit the game and start another.

But I didn’t.

I don’t.

Instead, I stuck at it.  Even when the “Show An Available Move” option showed me nothing, I kept adding more cards to the stacks until finally there was a break through.

That’s when things started rolling.  I was anticipating and planning my steps 4 or 5 in advance to make everything fit and work together.

And then, just as abruptly as it came, the break through expired.

Now, I had everything as tidy as I could have it, but it didn’t matter.  My resources were gone.  There was nothing else that I could rearrange.  It’s over.  Gears were in full motion, but it’s just completely, suddenly over.

And now I’m stuck looking at what was almost a win.

And as much as I would have felt a quitter to walk away when it was an indistinguishable, tangled mess, now my heart sinks at all that I had poured into it to make it better.

It just wasn’t enough.

Now, it’s even harder to quit.

Likely, I’ll keep this game minimized in my system tray today.  I’ll glance at it from time to time, hoping that something will stick out to me that I hadn’t seen before, some glimmer of hope.

Eventually, I’ll have to end the game, either because my ancient work laptop won’t be able to handle so many programs running or because it will simply be time to go home.

And all I can think about now is what would have happened if I’d just quit when I first felt I should.  You may be thinking I should look on the bright side and look at all that happened and how far I took it, but this parable echoes into the deepest caverns of my heart, ending with a resounding thud.

No, I do wonder if my better judgment was persuading me to not start something I knew I couldn’t finish, even if I had the inclination to give it a try.

In the end, I wonder what it would have been like if I had followed the implications presented when no available moves were shown.

And whereas I know I should just count my loses, buck up, and play another game, I know I won’t.  Not for a while.  Not without a twinge of pain in my heart that triggers a tear.

But maybe that tear is just from the allergies.

Yes, I’ve come up with quite a few excuses for their presence.

…

It’s just a game, right?

I ate macaroni and cheese for lunch.

I ate an orange for a snack.

I ate cheese crackers for another snack because I have a tapeworm.

I made curry for dinner.

But it was taking too long, so I ate dried apricots.

And then I felt nauseated.

…

The end.

Donald Miller said it’s okay that I deleted my facebook account.  In fact, he’s gonna do it, too.  He’s just afraid that he’ll miss out on things…

I get that.  I’ve already missed a few birthday party invites.  But I know that he, too, will find that some friends don’t forget you.  Some friends will still call, still text, still email.

The world keeps spinning… even the facebook world… even without you.

Once upon a time, on August 25th, 2009 to be exact, a young woman began her 30 minute commute into work.  How did she know it was August 25th, 2009 when she obviously hadn’t had to write the date down on a daily basis since high school?  She may never know.  Perhaps it was the persistent, hypnotic even, subtle, crisp clicking of her turn signal that enticed her psyche into a transient clarity.  Perhaps it was induced by a morning of reflective meditation and tea.  Regardless, as she drove into work she knew the date.  She knew the date and repeated it in her head.  Her inner monologue, though boring and repetitive, was peculiarly not her own.

“Today is August 25th, 2009,” it said.  “August 25th, 2009… a day I will remember…”

She drove into work more slowly that day.  She was no longer concerned with punctuality, just her recurring thoughts on the date.

Much to her surprise, she arrived at work three minutes earlier than usual.  But she quickly dismissed the peculiarity of her redundant thoughts on the day’s date as well as her secret, mysterious wormhole that she had found by accident, leading her to arrive at work earlier than usual, and filled her head with thoughts of stock images, error messages, color schemes, and pizza.

Yes, pizza.  Afterall, who wouldn’t want to think about pizza?

…

On her drive back home, she mentally surveyed her refrigerator for topping options.  The crust was waiting in a can in the cheese drawer.  It had been there for quite some time and would likely taste yeasty, an added bonus.  Naturally, she would brush the crust with olive oil, smear on crushed garlic, and sprinkle on cajun seasonings, before flipping it down onto the pan.  She had plenty of finely shredded mozarella… but what else?

Upon arriving at home, she transitioned abruptly into her modus operandi:  get out of conventional clothing as soon as possible.  It was a ritual she went through every time she came home for the day, whether it be at 11 AM or 11 PM.  And much like the “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie…” series, she enacted her daily chain of events.  Now that she was comfortable, she’d walk back through to the kitchen to get started on dinner.  But as she’d walked through, she’d see the couch with the goose down, velvet throw and overstuffed pillow.  She’d convince herself she wasn’t starving and cuddle with the couch.  She would then be facing the tv… You see where this is going.  But before she started an endless “Bridezilla” marathon that would undoubtedly make her angry to be alive and single, she somehow remembered the pizza. 

Upon opening the refrigerator, the inspiration for barbecue pizza was birthed.  With two, boneless pork chops pushing their expiration dates, she decided to make a protein adaptation.  Within minutes, she had a small pot of salted water on the back burner to boil the pork, retaining its moisture, as well as a few slices of onion sauteeing in a small skillet on the front burner.  It was right after she added the pork chops to the water that it happened. 

It.  The event that would make this day the day she would always remember.

As she crossed the short distance across the kitchen to retrieve parchment paper… no… aluminum foil… no….

POP

{the metal of the bottom of the pot receeded}

ZZZZT

{blue lightning tendrils shot forth to tickle dangerously close to her face across the kitchen}

SSSSSSSSSSssssssssssssssss

{the liquid began to gush out the bottom of the pot}

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”

{she dropped everything, curled her toes, and ducked for cover}

 Lightning had found it’s way through the power supply of the house, into the stove, out the heating element, through the pot, and within 3 inches of her neck and face across the kitchen.  But, miraculously, it didn’t go the last three inches.  It just stopped, and vanished as instantly as it had appeared.

After the hysteria subsided, she and her roommate examined the damage.  There was a hole the size of quarter in the bottom of the pot.  The heating element had melted in the spot directly below the hole in the pot.  Her toes, it appeared, were permanently crippled from fear.

Yes.  August 25th, 2009 would be remembered. 

Short of it burning her flesh off her face, the date would forever be burned in her mind.

Senior English in high school, Mr. Arendt opted to cover “Hamlet” instead of “Animal Farm”.  At the time, I thought it made me more classy and sophisticated, having so thoroughly studied the tumultuous relations within the play, but it wasn’t until an easy day of subbing in May that I perused a bookshelf and dove right in to the rich, deep political illness of “Animal Farm”.

Though most would walk away, or should, from “Animal Farm” with a sense of righteous anger or social injustice, I also walked away with a mild anxiety for farm animals.  The lines of reality are easily blurred for me and I often hold on to both the humor and seriousness of a jest, of satire or make believe.  This is why I can’t watch muppet movies, people.  The thought of muppets in everyday life is just too alarming.

At first, I would say the anxiety was perhaps even less than mild.  Perhaps it wasn’t even on my mind’s radar.  Rather, it was hidden deep within my subconscious… waiting…

And there it waited, silently, unnoticed… until a few days ago.

I work on a small farm in a small office for a small company in the challenge course / team building industry.  With the family that owns and operates both the small farm and the small company out of town, the other full time employee and I have been performing the daily tasks and duties around the farm.  One morning, on my way to gather eggs from the hens, a gathering of a dozen chickens were seen huddled in a perfect circle, all facing inward and downward, all clucking incessantly.  As I walked by, I found that to be a strange behavior for chickens, so organized in their efforts.

“That’s weird,” I either thought or said aloud.

As if they heard me and we’re able to comprehend it, the entire flock of chickens abruptly turned to glare at me, in a synchronized effort.

My heart froze.

Then, just as swiftly as they looked up at me, they all turned their heads back down and clucked vociferously.

Obviously, they were conspiring against me for taking their eggs.

It was then that my mild anxiety for farm animals emerged from the depths of my subconscious.

And where it went from there, you shall soon see.

I went down to help my Grammer pack up /clear out her house before her big move to Missouri this month.  Because she’s such a super neat lady, a friend, a couple of my aunts, cousins, a sister, a niece, and my parents were there too.

Let’s just jump into the story, shall we?

I don’t know why my dad only had on pants and suspenders back in the sauna room when he beckoned me back there to ask me for the second time if I need luggage when I told him, for the second time, that it is not I who needs luggage but my younger sister’s boyfriend.  It is because, however, he was shirtless that I noticed “it”.

“It” was on his left shoulder blade.

“It” was blaring at me at eye level.

What was “it”?  I didn’t know, but I freakishly panicked.

Why?  Because “it” looked like a dead maggot who had previously been consuming my father’s flesh.

What did I do?  Yell for help.  First one called, last one out the room:  Aunt Karen.

As soon as she came in to look at “it”, I tapped her on the shoulder, bolting out the room, exclaiming, “Tag!  You’re it!”

What did she do?  Call for my Grammer with the same nervous panic as I continued to run down the hallway into the living room.

There, a great many of us were gathered.  In came dad and Grammer and “it” was further explored.

That’s when I heard what “it” was…

“It” was a tick.  A HUGE FRIGGIN’ TICK THE SIZE  OF MY PINKY TOE.

That’s when the dry heaving began.

That’s when I ran out the house.

That’s when a slew of others ran out the house gagging and dry heaving with me.

…We’re so related.

Pat and I were sittin’ outside of Hastings when an old man walked by.

“That’s a sweet beard.” Pat called out to him.

The man turns around and asks him to repeat himself… That’s when the conversation that might actually still be going on started.  Granted, we’re not with the old man anymore, but he didn’t really need us to carry it.

Among the amazing things that he {I assume his name was Joe Young because he made a lot of third person references…} spoke to us about, THIS happened:

“Now, I’ve got 82 year old eyes, but you see that  person over there in the white pants? I think it’s a girl.  Is it a girl?” Joe asked Pat.  ”I think it’s a girl.  Could be a boy.  You never know.  But if a boy had a butt like that, I’d probably date him…”