Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
-
meticulous
I have bed-making down to an art. Tens of thousands of practices over my lifetime have developed a habit and an approach that is as efficient and perfect as they come. I am precise and thorough, with the extreme attention to detail that can only be defined as meticulous. Inside of five minutes I can boast hospital corners, fluffed pillows, and perfectly aligned tucked-in sheets and blankets with not a crease in site. It’s quite the accomplishment.
Recently – and somewhat disturbingly – I found myself making the bed in our hotel when my wife and I would travel. Even though housekeeping comes along later in the day and their very job is to make the bed, the habit is so ingrained from childhood that I simply can’t leave the room without giving the bed some semblance of an orderly look.
All of this attention to bed-making has me questioning the entire practice, so let’s just put it out there. Why do we make beds in the first place? Who really sees your bed besides you and whomever you share it with? Why make it nice and neat if you’re just going to mess it up again later the same day? Or how about this: isn’t it more sanitary to leave the sheets exposed to the fresh air instead hiding them under blankets and comforters all day long?
Maybe these questions are really just excuses born from a childhood of not wanting to make my bed.
In the classic children’s novel “The Twenty-One Balloons”, author William Pene du Bois imagined a fantastic bed-making device. The sheets formed a continuous loop that disappeared into the floor on both sides of the bed. The portions of the sheet below the floor passed through rollers into a flat washing machine and a drying press before looping back up to the bed. A crank inserted into the footboard would rotate the sheets exactly one width of the bed. Therefore, not only is the bed made all the time but you always have clean sheets. Brilliant!
Sometimes my wife and I wake up in the morning, and the bed looks like it’s still made even though we haven’t gotten up yet. In fact, if I carefully turn back the sheets and blankets as I get out of bed, it only takes a single tug to restore order. It’s the simplest form of bed-making. Is that my answer; learning to sleep lying perfectly still all night long so the bed practically makes itself?
More likely I should take a lesson from the not-so-classic film “Along Came Polly”. In a scene that absolutely resonates with me, Ben Stiller’s character would make his bed every day meticulously, topping it off with a dozen or more perfectly-placed decorative pillows. In an even better scene, Jennifer Aniston’s character – a wonderfully free spirit – launches an all-out assault on the pillows, reducing them to a storm of ripped-up cloth and flying feathers. And there’s the lesson. Let the bed go unmade every now and then. Forget about the hospital corners or the sheet aligning with the blanket or the arrangement of the pillows. It doesn’t matter. Goodness knows you have more important things to do with your day.
-
certitude
Several posts ago I told the woe-is-me story of leaving my Kindle e-reader in an airplane seat pocket. Much to my chagrin I wrote, this was the second time in two years; exiting a plane without my prized portable technological wonder. In the post I made two predictions about the eventual destination of my e-reader. The first was into the hands of the Delta employee who cleans the plane. The second was into the hands of the next traveler who reached into my seat pocket (“Congratulations! You’ve just won an Amazon Kindle!”) So one or the other of these scenarios was the end of the line for my e-reader. I drew those conclusions as if they were fact. I wrote with certitude.
Here then, “the rest of the story”. On the eventual destination of my e-reader I was wrong – way wrong. In what I would label a small miracle, my Kindle ended up… in my own hands. The perseverance of DALLIRT (Delta Air Lines Lost Item Recovery Team) won the day. Perhaps my Kindle was found immediately or perhaps it traveled on to one or more exotic destinations. Either way, a human took pity on me and made things right. Imagine my disbelief (and chagrin) when I received an email from DALLFC (Delta Air Lines Lost & Found Central) that began “Dear David Wilson: We are happy to tell you that we have located an item that closely matches the description of your reported lost item”. Twelve dollars and seventy-seven cents of postage and three days later, my Kindle was dropped on my doorstep. No damage. No note. Everything intact.
I must own up to one other aspect of this story. A day or two after I filed the lost item report with Delta, I promptly logged onto Amazon and bought another Kindle. That’s right; before I gave Delta’s process a chance, I purchased a new e-reader. I even upgraded to a newer version (“Voyage” – oooo). That’s certitude in a nutshell. Zero faith in the alternative.
I suppose the lost dollars to Amazon represents my penance (another good word for my blog) for not trusting a process designed to correct my mistakes. But to further cleanse my guilt, I sent DALCC (Delta Air Lines Customer Care) a glowing email, complimenting them on their lost item recovery process. And they wrote right back, beginning with the following line: “It’s so easy to leave something important behind while flying”. Gee, thanks for making me feel better. Except I did it twice.
My son will probably inherit my recovered Kindle. Yes I should probably keep it because things happen in threes but I’ll take my chances. I’ll trust the process. And I’ll certainly consider Delta Airlines the next time I fly.
-
irk
Watch out. I’m about to ruin your theater-going experience. If you want to enjoy your movies without the nagging of my detail-oriented world, do not read any further. You have been warned.
I am one of those who can’t help but notice the little things. When I enter a theater I am immediately aware of my surroundings. How big is the screen? How comfortable are the chairs? Is the sound too loud or just right? Did I get freshly-made popcorn or the slightly stale stuff from the bottom of the bin? Yet these are minor distractions when I consider my recent experiences at the movies. Drum roll please; I give you the twelve items that irk me most when I’m at the theater. No matter how intense the action scene or how enrapturing the love scene, one or more of these dozen offenses are sure to get up in my face and say “hello”:
1) The sounds of snacks. At the movies I demand the silence that Simon & Garfunkel made famous (get it?) but instead I’m surrounded by crunches, slurps, wrappers, pours, gulps, and chews. Is this a vote for early-onset hearing loss?
2) Cell phones. To the credit of my fellow movie-goers, I can’t recall the last time I heard a cell phone bleep during a movie. But they still buzz. And they light up. And I notice. My peripheral vision gets high marks at the eye doctor but makes me pay dearly at the movies.
3) Ushers with flashlights. Here’s a new one. Ushers pass through the theater once during the movie to check things out. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a good idea with some of the crazies out there. But I see them. I know why they’re there. And my movie gets a “time-out” until they leave.
4) People movement. This one is trending upward. Why are people going in and out of the theater during the movie? Did they not take care of business earlier? Are there lottery winnings distributed in the lobby that I’m not aware of? And what about missing those couple of minutes while you’re gone? Don’t you want your money’s worth? Sit still people!
5) Commercials. I include movie previews in the value of my ticket purchase. But not commercials. Nor previews that are really just commercials in disguise. Nor ads for television shows. Not what I came for.
6) Seat kicks. Which begs the question, are they intentional or is the person behind you overly-aggressive with their response to a given scene? No matter; you never see them coming and once you get one you’re on edge wondering when number two will hit.
7) The louder movie next door. Beware the lure of a soft romance or poignant drama. Hollywood has produced an action-packed blockbuster that just happens to be playing in the adjacent theater. There are no words to describe the moment when a bomb goes off in the middle of a love scene.
8) Ticket/concession costs. Okay maybe this is just me, but it takes time to get over the fact that I just paid more for my concessions than I did for my movie ticket. I know, I know – concessions equal profit margin. But I’m already well into my movie before I can make peace with that.
9) “People” sounds. In addition to the sounds of snacks, I give you loud breathing, distinctive laughs (otherwise known as cackles, whoops, snickers, and howls), coughs, sniffles, and those other sounds better left to the imagination than described here.
10) The wrong movie. I kid you not. At a theater a few months ago our romantic comedy opened with a towering image of Will Ferrell’s face. I knew instantly they’d queued up the wrong movie. Will Ferrell and romantic comedy do not belong in the same sentence. Or movie theater.
11) The person sitting next to you. Admit it, you arrive early and choose your seats hoping no one will sit next to you. And when they do, you wonder who gets the arm rest. Or the drink holder. And what’s that funny smell?
12) Talkers. Sorry ladies, but women who go to the movies together like to talk ABOUT the movie DURING the movie for EVERYONE to hear. They also seem drawn to the seats directly behind me. One time I actually confronted them about it and promptly learned the meaning of the phrase “dagger eyes”.
So there you have it. Life used to be so simple. My gauge of a good movie was getting to the closing credits without wondering where I put my car keys. But those days are gone. The movies are officially a gamble, but only with respect to which (or how many) of the above distractions will be included. I hope you’re enlightened. I’m irked. Enjoy the show.
-
exhilarating
Imagine a jog on a quiet trail that wanders through the forest. Nothing but gentle breezes and sunlight filtering through the trees. All you can hear are birds in the distance. Your own little slice of heaven. Except you’re not breathing very well. In fact, you’re gasping for air as you run, trying to establish any kind of rhythm and focus, and wondering where the enjoyment is in all of this. But at some point further down the path a page turns. Your breathing relaxes and you’re moving easier. You can focus and you’re feeling good. What just happened? You found your “second wind”! And the sensation is nothing short of exhilarating.
I found my second wind on a recent run. It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment it kicks in, but it’s similar to driving as you shift from a low gear to a higher one. Everything feels smoother and more efficient. In this instance I intended to run several miles but after the first couple of minutes I wanted to quit. I couldn’t get my breath and I wasn’t getting any satisfaction out of it. It’s like I wasn’t in the mood to be there at all. Yet I was familiar enough with the trail to know I was coming to an easier stretch – some downhills and flats, and a scenic tour of the pines. I figured the least I could do was to complete that portion before I started walking. Next thing I knew, I was even further down the trail and running with ease. My pace and breathing were controlled and comfortable. So I completed my run without ever stopping. There you have it: second wind.
When I run, I like to lose myself in thought because the creative juices seem to flow better. So it was somewhere out on the trail when I realized second wind applies to other aspects of life. A year or so ago I left a job I held for over fifteen years. Initially I was not comfortable losing the routine of the daily grind. The meetings and conference calls and people just vanished. There was an unsettling feeling of no longer running the rat race. There was the constant question of “what’s going on out there in the world?” as I kept myself busy at home. But eventually I found a comfort level with my new routine – several smaller commitments instead of a single all-consuming one. I became at ease with my new circumstances. Second wind.
This is not an advice column, but second wind may hint at a healthier outlook on life. Push through the “first wind” of a given situation, especially when the going is tough and uncomfortable. Give yourself the chance to get to the chapter where the pace and the rhythm and the conditions are favorable. Once you hit that second wind, life suddenly feels exhilarating.
-
eccentric
Our neighbor to the north is what is politely referred to as an eccentric. He is that guy you probably see in your own neighborhood now and then: an older gent who tends to stay to himself, with a bizarre sense of fashion, and the uniquely long, wispy, wild gray hair that completes the picture of a silver-screen creeper. I can’t help but stare every time I see him ambling about.
Our eccentric is home all the time but he’s not someone for the neighborhood watch. You would know this just by looking at his property. In addition to his adobe-style house – which looks like it was helicoptered in and dropped amidst the horse properties of the area – he has several outbuildings remaining from an old ranch that once commanded hundreds of acres. Collectively the buildings made for a quaint Colorado postcard when you looked out my window. Then creeper tore them all down, leaving only a large silo and an old wooden livestock loading ramp.
In the ten years we’ve lived here, we’ve only run into Mr. Crazy a handful of times. Most of those encounters reinforced the idea that he’s missing a few marbles. On one occasion, his cows escaped his property (run cows, run for your lives!) and he called my wife demanding she get on a horse and go after them. On another occasion I called the fire department on him, because he started a huge blaze inside the silo burning God-knows-what. (Weed? I don’t remember but maybe that’s because I got high). On yet another occasion – in a doctor’s office of all places – psycho showed up minutes after we did to see the same doctor. Stalker. I was quietly hoping the doctor would check him into a round room and give him a bag of marshmallows to play with. But alas, there he was back on his property the very next day.
Our latest encounter with loony – an experience that cements our neighbor’s status as out-to-lunch – involves our mailbox. It’s an innocent-looking picture, isn’t it? Boxes sitting quietly on a modest stand waiting patiently for their daily fill from USPS. In fact, the boxes are sitting on a brand new stand in a brand new location. They used to live on a stand further to the north – on screwball’s property.
Here’s the quick story. In mid-December, just in time to boost my holiday cheer, I received a notice from dingbat. The notice told me the stand underneath the mailboxes belonged to him, and he was taking it down because he decided to move his own mailbox to the other end of his property. So for the rest of us – my other two neighbors and I – we needed to find a new stand and relocate our mailboxes. Get er’ done in two weeks or the mailboxes would be left sitting on the ground. Unless, madman was quick to add, we’d each kick in $50. Then he’d leave the stand in place. $50? Heck, I can get a year’s worth of a P.O. box for less than that.
Anyway, I conferred with my neighbors and just for kicks we decided to… do nothing. No response to our notices and no $50. The ol’ wait and see. Well, wacko didn’t disappoint. Each of us received another notice just before New Year’s telling us “time was running out!” Well Happy New Year, old man; we still didn’t do anything.
Okay, so here’s the one part of the story where bats-in-his-belfry gets a little pat on the back (not a real one, mind you). The final notice we received – shortly after January 1 – was an official document from the USPS Postmaster telling us we had one week to relocate our boxes. Needless to say, end of story and see photo above.
One final oddity about Mr. Crazy. He hand-writes his notices in illegible #2 pencil scrawled on yellow pad. Most people would create a Word document and print it, or write a single note and then copy it. Weirdo wrote every one of his notices by hand. Who does that? What really goes on in that house over there?
If you’re concerned my lack-of-marbles neighbor will read this, I’ve probably made his day since he seems to enjoy pestering those who live nearby. I can just picture him over their behind the curtains of his out-of-place adobe, reading my blog and doing a jig while he cackles and throws Cheetos at his computer. Yeah, yeah – have your fun pal – we’re still not moving. Just don’t ask me to borrow a cup of sugar.
About Me
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
Follow Me On
Subscribe To My Newsletter
Subscribe for new travel stories and exclusive content.
Life In A Word 