Into the Abyss
Yesterday was one of those perfect autumn days. Crisp air and a blazing sun in an azure sky guaranteed a starry night filled with pumpkin ice cream and Arsenic and Old Lace (on my side of the couch, anyway -- The Dear Husband prefers Pumpkinhead and Knob Creek.
The fine weather resulted in a decision to fill that wicker picnic basket that we received for a wedding gift eight years ago but have never used and picnic. Toddler in tow, we drove out to Lexington to walk Battle Road. Ah, the Minuteman National Park. Nature at its finest. A well-packed, stonewall lined path meanders through the forest and farmlands of Lexington and Concord, past historical homes and October flowers. One is immersed in the scents and sights of nature without a potentially bug infested tree branch slapping one in the face.
I had paused just past the old tavern to admire the view of a giant sunlit boulder at the edge of the woods across a lush expanse of field beyond the path’s stone wall. Breathtaking. Until the DH announced that the boulder was a perfect spot for lunch, a sentiment that my traitorous son echoed.
I opened my mouth to protest – who knew what waited in those woods and the ankle high grass was a veritable sea of Lyme disease --- but the DH was halfway across the field with the basket brimming with scrumptious delicacies from Pemberton Farms. I scooped up my son and ran to the boulder.
There were bugs. Lots of them. Crickets, spiders, ants, large beetles, and bees. Big bees. Yellow jackets. Bumblebees. I started to cry. My toddler stopped eating his brie and baguette to look at me. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
“B-bees!” I sputtered.
He took my hand.
The DH rolled his eyes.
“Mama,” my little angel said, “I’ll take care of you.” With that, he swatted the bees, yelled at them to go away, then smiled at me. “See Mama? All gone. They won’t bother you again.”
All I can say is that my son is going to make some future girl one happy wife. But that is neither here nor there, if one is of the Eeyore persuasion. We won’t be around long enough to meet her. All signs point to the imminent destruction of mankind: global warming, nuclear threat, Sarah Palin (and, just in case, Joe Biden, too), the loss of Doc Hudson, and the end of the Mayan calendar. After today’s boulder experience, I can only hope that I go out the first day of world’s end. Starvation and bugs. I am so not a brave woman.
The boulder moment no doubt prompted my apocalyptic dreams last night. In them I was the sole key to the salvation of humankind. Translation: people were yelling at me – a lot. After my mother scolded me for not washing out the kitchen sponge (a clear trail for the Enemy Monsters to track), I felt defeat. Tired of hiding, of fighting, and just plain tired of being tired, I figured it was easiest just to stand still and let the monsters devour me. At which point, Eddie Vedder, who may or may not be on the side of the Enemy, arrived for our music class. He informed me that I am a horrible singer and would I mind waiting just a second? He had to stop the tornado from destroying our building but then he would offer me his services, if you know what I mean.
Unfortunately, I then woke up.
There is no point to this particular blog, as you can see. All that has been determined is that I do not like nature (aka reality), that the end of the world is coming (probably), that Eddie Vedder may be a demon, and that I have far too much time on my hands.
On the Nightstand, Kitchen Table and Bathroom Floor: Good reads all – Faefever (Karen Marie Moning), Some Like it Wicked (Teresa Medeiros), Howard Zinn, and Eckhart Tolle.
On the iPod:
The Good: "My Father’s House," Bruce Springsteen
The Bad: a rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah played on the banjo by yours truly, which will be deleted as soon as I have my next lesson
And the Very Ugly That Are Not Actually on My iPod but Keep Creeping Into My Head (hence, another sign of the world’s doom): "Moondance" (have no clue who sings this creepy-corny song) and Jack Jones’s "Wives & Lovers," an absolutely revolting, bottom feeder of songdom.
The fine weather resulted in a decision to fill that wicker picnic basket that we received for a wedding gift eight years ago but have never used and picnic. Toddler in tow, we drove out to Lexington to walk Battle Road. Ah, the Minuteman National Park. Nature at its finest. A well-packed, stonewall lined path meanders through the forest and farmlands of Lexington and Concord, past historical homes and October flowers. One is immersed in the scents and sights of nature without a potentially bug infested tree branch slapping one in the face.
I had paused just past the old tavern to admire the view of a giant sunlit boulder at the edge of the woods across a lush expanse of field beyond the path’s stone wall. Breathtaking. Until the DH announced that the boulder was a perfect spot for lunch, a sentiment that my traitorous son echoed.
I opened my mouth to protest – who knew what waited in those woods and the ankle high grass was a veritable sea of Lyme disease --- but the DH was halfway across the field with the basket brimming with scrumptious delicacies from Pemberton Farms. I scooped up my son and ran to the boulder.
There were bugs. Lots of them. Crickets, spiders, ants, large beetles, and bees. Big bees. Yellow jackets. Bumblebees. I started to cry. My toddler stopped eating his brie and baguette to look at me. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
“B-bees!” I sputtered.
He took my hand.
The DH rolled his eyes.
“Mama,” my little angel said, “I’ll take care of you.” With that, he swatted the bees, yelled at them to go away, then smiled at me. “See Mama? All gone. They won’t bother you again.”
All I can say is that my son is going to make some future girl one happy wife. But that is neither here nor there, if one is of the Eeyore persuasion. We won’t be around long enough to meet her. All signs point to the imminent destruction of mankind: global warming, nuclear threat, Sarah Palin (and, just in case, Joe Biden, too), the loss of Doc Hudson, and the end of the Mayan calendar. After today’s boulder experience, I can only hope that I go out the first day of world’s end. Starvation and bugs. I am so not a brave woman.
The boulder moment no doubt prompted my apocalyptic dreams last night. In them I was the sole key to the salvation of humankind. Translation: people were yelling at me – a lot. After my mother scolded me for not washing out the kitchen sponge (a clear trail for the Enemy Monsters to track), I felt defeat. Tired of hiding, of fighting, and just plain tired of being tired, I figured it was easiest just to stand still and let the monsters devour me. At which point, Eddie Vedder, who may or may not be on the side of the Enemy, arrived for our music class. He informed me that I am a horrible singer and would I mind waiting just a second? He had to stop the tornado from destroying our building but then he would offer me his services, if you know what I mean.
Unfortunately, I then woke up.
There is no point to this particular blog, as you can see. All that has been determined is that I do not like nature (aka reality), that the end of the world is coming (probably), that Eddie Vedder may be a demon, and that I have far too much time on my hands.
On the Nightstand, Kitchen Table and Bathroom Floor: Good reads all – Faefever (Karen Marie Moning), Some Like it Wicked (Teresa Medeiros), Howard Zinn, and Eckhart Tolle.
On the iPod:
The Good: "My Father’s House," Bruce Springsteen
The Bad: a rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah played on the banjo by yours truly, which will be deleted as soon as I have my next lesson
And the Very Ugly That Are Not Actually on My iPod but Keep Creeping Into My Head (hence, another sign of the world’s doom): "Moondance" (have no clue who sings this creepy-corny song) and Jack Jones’s "Wives & Lovers," an absolutely revolting, bottom feeder of songdom.
posted by Dina Keratsis at
6:45 PM
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