Being a T-rex means never having to say you're sorry.

D'OH!! <whap> <clunk> <thud>

Me: <sigh>Well, there goes another one...

I turn around and look at my husband after dropping a coffee mug in the sink and breaking it.  The look on his face is what I would expect if I had run over his puppy with a monster truck, gunned the engine and driven off cackling with glee while I squealed the tires.

Me: What's wrong?

Him: Well, you should at least show some remorse!

Me: What??  It's a ceramic coffee mug!  It's old, stained and boring.

Now I'm starting to feel weird.  Am I a kitchenware sociopath?  Am I going to start sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to mutilate and murder the dishes?  Will I stand by entranced and watch stainless steel flatware slowly rust in baths of salt and acid while I rub my hands together in delight? After a dinner party, will I put the crystal and grandma's silver in the dishwasher and stand with my ear to the door listening to the screams of despair?

This is distinctly unsettling.

Then I glance over at the cupboard and see my High Desert Flameworks T-rex Girl glass.  Rashan didn't give it that name, I did, because it was made perfectly for my spastic, fumbly T-rex hands.  When I took it out of the box and placed it in my hand for the first time, my fingers slipped perfectly into the delicate pink bumpy pattern and it was love at first grip.  A glass I could love and trust not to slip out of my hand and crash on the floor like the rest of my treacherous, betraying glassware.

I understood the attachment my husband had to his ugly old plain white ceramic travel mug that had accompanied him for many years like a faithful pet and felt some remorse.

Me: I'm sorry honey bun.  Let's dig it out of the trash and bury it next to Fred Gutierrez (our hamster that died of heart failure in 1997).

Check out the T-rex friendly and other wonderful glass created by Rashan O Jones at High Desert Flameworks

Surfing the Big Dirt Wave

Our first big dirt wave of the monsoon season arrived like an unwanted relative for a stressful holiday weekend leaving dust, tree parts and shingles everywhere instead of wet bath towels on the floor, used Kleenexes tucked furtively under the couch cushions and various disgusting things in the bathroom.

I went out for a bike ride the next morning, and as usual, the thoughts started buzzing in my head like a hive of Africanized bees who'd just had their nest whapped by an errant baseball from the neighbor's yard.

This is how I write - with angry bee thoughts that eventually form that big cartoon arrow aimed at some hapless passerby.  Which would be you if you are reading this.

The bees settled down and started to form some kind of Shakespearian soliloquy about the leaden gray skies and the indiscretions of my youth weighing heavily upon my body like a sodden woolen mantle. I think I stuck some thorns or nails in there somewhere for extra effect.  And something about the price of that youthful joyride being worth every penny.

And then the hysterical cackling of my inner fifty-something critic ( I think her name is Marge) started. She was laughing so hard she must've peed herself a little.  You know how that sphincter thing goes when you're over 50.  After the last chorus, my chagrined bee thoughts gave up their aspirations for flowery creative writing and gave me this...

"So I am out riding my bike this morning, collecting dust all over my sweaty body like a giant cornmeal crusted slab of pasty white catfish, and it feels like a pack of rabid badgers is using my body for an amusement park."

I don't think there were any sphincters or rabid badgers in Hamlet.

Brain Pajamas

At one point or another in our lives, we've had that 9 to 5 day job that requires some sort of work clothing - be it the head to toe brown uniform of UPS (I've always wondered, do they have brown underwear too?) or the business attire complete with the ugly closed toe pumps that squish your toes or the hideously boring tie that feels like it's going to choke the life out of you any second.

So you crawl home on the freeway during rush hour traffic, sweating, itching, squirming in your uncomfortable and restrictive clothing that reeks of the spent adrenaline and disappointment of the day's struggle.  You pull into the driveway, accidentally drop your coffee mug and have to chase it with the dregs now dribbling down the driveway, grab your briefcase/tote/purse and bolt into the house.  The door slams and you start ripping off your restrictive, stale, chafing work clothes - practically running out of your shoes and draping a bra or a tie over the back of a chair as you head for the bedroom.  You throw on your pajamas, so soft and comfy, a cotton cocoon of pleasure, and step into your plushy slippers and scuff out into the kitchen to grab a beer or a pudding cup and throw yourself onto the couch with a collapsing groan of pleasure.

Pajamas, that universal uniform of "I'm not doing anything but disengaging and slothing about now".

And just like that act of coming home from the daily grind and putting on your pajamas, sometimes, when things get unbearable, your brain puts on its pajamas.  My brain has a ridiculous pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and matching pink plush slippers on right now.  It got tired of dealing with too much pain, disappointment and anxiety and one day just quietly pulled the PJs out of the drawer, relishing the feel of the soft flannel and the way its feet just sank into the foam soles of the slippers, and wandered into the kitchen to mix a martini.  And it has been on the couch watching life go by for quite a few months.

At one point, it actually dozed off and when it awoke with a startled "Wha...?" it realized that it stunk, there was an olive stuck on its cheek and it really needed a shower.  You can't go back to work in stinky Hello Kitty pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers with scary hair and an olive stuck on your face and expect them to take you seriously.

It's time to go back to work....