Friday, January 21, 2011
A few days ago I realized that I might become the 80-year-old woman armed with a BB gun shooting at squirrels. This is not something you want to know about yourself. I don't mind squirrels. Not really. I just want them to do what squirrels do. Our backyard has four gigantic oak trees that every Fall drop a plentitude of acorns. The oak trees serve as a free buffet as long as the squirrels are willing to dig beneath a snowy landscape. Apparently they aren't. They'd much rather dig through my bird feeder for free seed. The lazy bums! I want birds to eat bird food and squirrels to eat squirrel food. What's wrong with that? So when a fat, gluttonous squirrel leans toward the bird feeder off our deck, I do what any normal, rational Midwestern woman would do. I pound on the window, lift it and scream bloody murder at them. I've even taught my daughters to do the same. My husband thinks I'm insane, but if the little critters would go mind their nuts, I might mind my business.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
So there I am in a coffee house. My Ipod is on. My large peppermint tea is by my side. My computer is humming away ready for the words I'm about to spew into it. In short, it's a perfect creative moment. The husband has taken my beloved children on an adventure in order to give me some treasured solitude. I'm doing something that I rarely do -- I'm relaxing. And then the smell hits. At first it assaults my senses like some elderly woman's overpowering perfume. And then the coughing starts. I can hardly breathe. Did I mention that I was minding my own business? Then a gentlemen leans in towards me and confesses that he "accidentally" sprayed a little bit of pepper spray and I'd better go outside. Are you kidding me! He was nice. He was apologetic. He even offered to buy me an overly-priced coffee drink. And I smiled and told him it was okay. I just wanted him to go away. And eventually he drove off, clutching his own overly-priced drink in his hand. But in my head, okay and here, I'm calling him a freakin' idiot! I mean, who does that? Who sprays pepper spray, even if it's just to "test" it, inside a Starbucks? So my perfect moment is broken, by pepper spray of all things. I packed up and headed home. After a time my eyes stopped watering. Is there a lesson here? I think so. Perhaps there's no such thing as a perfect creative moment.