Stitched: Halloween on My Finger.

Eat a bite of fish everyday-and blame it on too many fishing trips as a child.

As with most things, my eating habits, those who know me will agree, are slightly OCD, ok, ok, very OCD. What do I mean by this? Well, going to the same store every time, namely Trader Joe's, and buying nearly the exact same things every time in the same quantities is where it starts. My receipt's list of purchases appears as follows: spinach, carrots, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, rye bread, and tortillas. The order depends on how the cashier checks it through. Add in's include string cheese, almond milk, peanut butter Puffins all natural corn cereal, and ground coffee. I diversify further sometimes with ice cream, on the rough days when all seems lost. You probably will think I am exaggerating when I say I buy these items every shopping venture, but I'm not. I do buy these things every shopping venture and I'm starting to disturb myself.

One more item on the receipt, the last "Anika must have now" food, to complete this introduction: salmon.

Frozen salmon, like all things icy, likes to stick, plastered to itself until thawed. I was in a hurry. I did not thaw the salmon. I attempted prying two pieces apart with a long, skinny bladed kitchen knife.

In the next two minutes, a lot happened. I watched the knife move forward and strike the salmon, in the frozen crevice. I watched the knife struggle against its stubbornness, then in the next instance, pop it apart and continue advancing, very quickly. I watched the knife shatter the tranquil space between the meat and my right ring finger, and lastly, I saw the knife pop into the underside of my fingertip, unresisted, and out the other side.

Oh my...the silver blade was red and wet as it peeped out from the side of my nail, it disappeared underneath again and in the next instant, rested quietly in my left hand, as if nothing had happened. Liar.

I can't believe I just did that...No blood yet, but quickly the thin lines on both sides of the appendage turned pink skin more and more scarlet, growing and blurring. Cold water, kitchen sink, hydrogen peroxide, clean towel...I searched out the last two items and ran to the bathroom for the disinfecting and application of pressure to the wound. So far so good, feeling alright, feeling...a little light-headed...

Front porch, Elton's feet sticking out under the passenger door, he's loading things into the car. "Elton...Elton?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Can you come here please?"

"Yeah, sure."

Back to the bathroom, clutching the finger, sit on the toilet, cheap plastic creaking under my weight. Definitely light headed, definitely not promising...

"You alright? What's wrong?"

"Small problem...I stabbed my finger through in the kitchen."

"What? Are you ok?"

Going, going, grey and firm floor.

"Whoa! Babe, here, get up, sit here." Attempt at sitting, bad idea, back down to comforting hard panel flooring.

"Wait, give me a second..." Darkness, nothing, nothing at all. Like the deepest sleep ever and please don't wake me up because it feels awesome. My head is cool, I know I'm laying flat on the floor, the finger forgotten.

Elton's perspective:

"Wait, give me a second..." Watching her lie down, watching...the color drain from Anika's face, pure white lips, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling, pupils dilating and shrinking randomly. His hand jerks to touch a frozen-in-place-face.

"What is HAPPENING?"

High speed, acceleration, I feel fast feet vibrating on the paneling beneath my ears and I start to giggle on my way out of the tunnel, I know Elton is tearing around the house like a maniac looking for something, must be the phone. He wants to call 911.

"Elton...I'm alright, come here..." I hear him run in and stop abruptly. My eyes are still closed and when I squint them open I look up and see him just starring at me from the doorframe, stunned.

Poor chap, thought I was done for.

I'm fine now though and slowly get up, he helps, and I'm so thirsty. Cold water, clearing head, finger's stopped bleeding. But starting to hurt.

Checking out the wound revealed extroverted little bubbles of adipose tissue pushing out-not charming, not matter how chummy. Stitches necessary, no doubt.

It was off to the ER on a sleepy Saturday; somehow it still took two hours to get the thing done up-half my hand numb after two pricks to the palm (purgatory...), nylon threads in place, like black gnats grouped together-Halloween on my finger. We escaped out of the waiting room leaving coughing patients in face-masks in our wake, wonderful, we are going to now contract something... We haven't. Yet. Pandemic...

My finger tip is still delightfully deadened, I suppose this might pass if my nerve endings ever forgive my stupidity. For now, mercifully, the slice does not hurt, for which I am grateful.

In fact, so much so, I ate salmon for dinner tonight.

Scammed.

Little did I know.

Little did I know that while I sat philosophizing on my money being a rather fickle imaginary friend in my last blog, I was, in that moment being scammed.

(I will elaborate further, but let me just say that once I recovered from my initial shock at this event, I was actually quite excited because I had new story material, thus reinforcing a sneaking suspicion that I am strange.)

I've been on the hunt for a roommate and had placed an add on Craig's List-an edgy move, I know. That same day, a 25 year old girl from Spain wrote back saying that she needed a temporary place to stay here in the U.S. while on a special local project with her international company. She wanted the room asap and was sooooo thankful for the arrangement. She wanted to secure the place immediately, and would be arriving in two weeks. All key employer titles and project names remained mysteriously anonymous, everything was especially urgent-all should have been red flags but instead, I was actually lured into feeling pretty heroic for helping out a fellow young female from fellow latin roots. Dios mio...

Her name was Juliet, a now verifiably ill-fated name.

Everything was set into play one unsuspecting Friday, just after. A email from my mysterious romantic friend told of a UPS parcel that I needed to pick up containing prepay for rent. A check? Already? When was this girl arriving? She had said the end of the month, now two weeks earlier, she's setting things in motion. Oh, and another small detail: the check contains rent and her plane flight expense, to be forwarded through Money Gram to her travel agent by me to...Colorado? What in the world?? Lovely, I have a helpless idiota for a future roommate. This poor girl is sending money to a complete stranger, totally trusting me to do the right thing. And Colorado? I'm sorry, is there a Colorado near Madrid, Spain? Wouldn't a person plan their trip abroad from home instead of from...abroad? I wrote back cautioning her about such trusting decisions-ten cuidado, chica. Be careful. The next day, I read her sentimental reply:

Like my Dad use to say that ''TRUST IS GIVEN AND NOT EARNED''.....You get to know and trust people one day until they disappoint in you but in your own case;I can trust you since i will be coming to you and we will have to stay together and also show me some places when i get to states right?Try and get the package from UPS and get things done the way i explained to you in my previous e-mail....thanks once again for your effort and understanding...I can't wait to meet you in person.....Do have a nice weekend...Bye for now.

Regards
Juliet.

Again my heart was touched by this limited English explanation. Of course she was telling the truth. Of course... One more minor detail that gives me some mirth: the check was from La Puente, CA, hometown of my father. La Puente, the barrio, the L.A. suburb stylin' with shootings in narrow streets, completely strung out drug addicts, the hispanic cholos, the concrete playgrounds, etc, etc, etc. My Dad "escaped," as he still puts it, at the age of 25, after some months spent in jail for his involvement in the neighborhood. So now this check from La Puente, Valley Blvd...Dad said, "Oh I used to hitch-hike Valley Blvd, man!" I should have known something was wrong.

I deposited the check and stress began to mount almost immediately when my Money Gram attempts, aka my end of the deal I never signed up for, were thwarted. My debit card was out of commission, with a new one coming, so I couldn't use it for the online transaction. I tried to sign up for an online account, but accidentally entered my bank information incorrectly, so after waiting three days, I learned it was going at least three more to redo the whole process...meanwhile love letters from Juliet were coming twice daily with gentle proddings that she really needed the money soon to plan her trip, because again, she was sooooo excited to come since I was suuuuuch a good person...hmm.

But again, my affection for Juliet apparently got in the way of my distantly rapping reason.

The pressure of having this girl's money was something I wanted to be rid of immediately, therefore I had to find a way to send it asap. I even tried going to the Money Gram machine at 7-11 but it needed a debit card, the machine though, as the clerk assured me, "Works berry gud and it tell you how it work cas i don know." Thanks. Next I thought of Western Union, or just sending a check; my work schedule was making all of this difficult though-classes, after school meetings, and everyone closes shop at 5 o'clock out there, too early. Finally after nearly a week of having this lingering headache I was ready to do whatever it took to get it done-I should call Juliet's travel agent and see what she recommends here, in the essence of time.

Google Search: Kathy, travel agent, Brighton, Colorado...

...

...

Pop! First link reads...Kathy, travel agent, Brighton , Colorado, Money Gram Scam.

Freeze. Come again, scam? As in SCAM? I looked over the article quickly-it was a series of postings related to a fishy Secret-Shopper scam in which random addressees received checks of large amounts to go shop for customer service evaluation in certain stores. Excess money was to be sent through Money Gram to KATHY. The folks posting these stories were the suspicious ones, and it turned out many of these letters had gone out. Beware the scam was the general idea.

Now here is the part that I will relate honestly, albeit with much chagrin and embarrassment-my reason was as follows:

But Juliet isn't from Walmart. She's going to be my roommate. She apparently has nothing to do with this, must be a mistake...I gotta get rid of this money.

I know, I know, DISGUSTING trust. Need I say never again? But let's continue...I did mull it over, I thought through all the possibilities, all the ways I could get burned here-maybe I was being pulled unwittingly into some sort of money triangle, whose passage needed several hands. Worse case scenario, I just needed to get out from under these funds so that I couldn't be accused of "stealing it," or attempting to do so. Looks like it's Western Union, ya'll. I rushed to the bank after school, 4:40pm and counting. Those luminescent blue numbers of the clock in my honda burned bright with each minute it took to get there. Pull in, hop out, grab a withdrawl slip, sit down, give account number...

...

...

"Um, did you know you had a returned check?"

"What?"

"Yeah, that large check you deposited. It was returned. Counterfeit."

Scammed. Skeptical me fooled. Wow. This was the one possibility I had not foreseen in my list of "ways for Anika to be burned." Counterfeit. Had I sent funds any earlier, it would have been my money going to "Kathy & Ko." DUDE. There was another pause, I think the teller felt sorry for me, but was then surprised by my enthusiasm,

"Really?"

"Yes..."

"So the money's just gone?"

"Uhuh."

"And so that's it, right? I'm done, nothing that can 'get'

me?"

"No, it's just out of the account."

"That is actually good."

"It must have been that one scam?"

"I think so. But I'm good...thanks!" Apparently "good" was the only adjective I could think of at the moment.

"Not a problem." I could feel her watch me walk out.

Perhaps I should have been disillusioned, disappointed, but I was only very very relieved, and felt the afternoon air smooth over my stressed brow. Free at last, free at last...Thank you Lord, free at last.

Looks like the little I know is expanding.

PANDEMIC

Today I found myself reflecting upon the possible impact of global pandemic.  Tell-tale common cold symptoms helped me take this initiative.  Sitting here, sniffling my seconds away, an odd thought struck me:  no matter how prepared, fortified, courageous, and William-Wallace-like I may endeavor to be, when the end comes, it might just begin as imperceptibly as a sniff, as inevitably menacing.  I'll feel ill, and then, when 10 days comes and goes, I'll know. 

Pandemic.  

I will know that no amount of planning has vaccinated me for this moment.  I will not be immune to the tides of the end.  I will get sick, wonder what's going on, and perhaps in the last few moments of coherence, I will remember this blog and I will know-it happened.  

This type of aversion towards disastrous disease has quietly imbedded itself in the collective unease in this country, like a germ.  We may not put it into words exactly, but first the economy, next my health, and then the end will come.  Back in 2001, letters burst from bulging mailboxes because no one wanted to contract anthrax.  And although I certainly don't blame my fellow Americans, I do find myself wondering if anthrax was always considered a dangerous biological weapon since its inception sometime in 1600 B.C.  One of the oldest "grazing diseases" recorded, anthrax is mentioned by Homer, Virgil, Hippocrates, and is thought to be the active agent in the Book of Exodus as well.  Maybe people snuck infected skins under dusty doors to bring nations to their knees then too...I just don't know.  

So maybe our scope is a bit narrow—but don't we have reason to be paranoid?  At this point in our rather cataclysmically inclined world, it does seem any and all insanity is quite possible.  Whether it’s my money dissolving somehow in a series of complex overseas trustfund somersaults or suicide bombers resurrecting the kamikaze approach, there seems to be no reason anymore.  Now added to this, I suppose, is the irony that my “money” is really imaginary currency of agreed upon value, so deemed by whoever’s in charge, and since technically anything can happen in imaginary play, perhaps the idea of disappearing items of unreality shouldn’t be so strange.  It’s still annoying though, like a thieving Monopoly banker.  And “suicide bomber” and “resurrection” showing up in the same sentence is just profane, I think you will agree.  And isn’t it just that? 

Now added to all this stress is PANDEMIC.  How long would we last if say, this swine flu thing really took off?  Would I even know what happened?  Probably not.  Like most high school relationships, I’d give it a week.  And like my students, you may deny, deny, and continue to deny this, but in the next moment, inevitably the text will be sent, “You’re a nice guy, but…” You know it’s true.    

So looming ever over us is the horrid possibility of extinction by mutating, evolving disease.  But such was the plague to Europe, small pox to natives, and currently aids in many countries of the world—fortunately our adapting immune systems and science laboratories have caught up in time, before total wipeout.  Will they this time?

But perhaps more importantly, what does it all mean??  Sure, I’ve filled your head with a lot of monologuing in high definition 6 o’clock news style, but why?  Because my nose started running.  This alteration in my sense of normalcy led me toward questions, toward my computer, toward the keyboard, and into realms far beyond.  Are any of these points legitimate?  Who knows.  All I know is that no matter the height of my concern for the human race, foremost on my mind right now is did I bring my tissue with me and do I have cough drops…? 

             

  

Balloons and Bingo...

“So Fred, do you want to come over and join us?”

“I know what you want me tah do,”

“Oh yes? What is that, Fred?”

“You want me tah spank ya!” 

            Sometimes age doesn’t matter.  Sometimes 89 and 42 can work.  At least in a nursing home.  Fred lives there, the nurse might feel like it, but in actuality, “purely platonic” is more the general idea.   Service day for Puget Sound Academy students held such surprises.  The aforementioned event was the prequel to BALLOON AEROBICS.  During this acrobatic activity, you hit, kick, or swing at and miss the balloon because you move with a five second delay—you still make contact though, which is really talented, as the balloon strikes you on the head instead.  A similarly suspended reaction to this occurs as well,     

  hit…………………………………………………….*blink*………………………………………………………..”Oh!”       

Also while there, I, as a self-respecting English aficionado, noted the particular literary tastes of the residents.  I was quite pleased by this inclusion!  Wheeling resident Orville into the exercise room, for example, gave all those surrounding a glimpse over his shoulder of a nude backside from Guatemala, glossy on National Geographic magazine paper.  The magazine remained opened to this page throughout the exercising—Orville managed to keep “reading” while absently kicking at the balloon—and also through most of the Bingo game to follow.  Later, I must confess, I searched for that particular page, just for documentation purposes of course, but failed.  I may have imagined it, but I think I caught a flash of luminescent ceiling light glinting off a folded piece of shiny paper in Orville’s pocket as they wheeled him out…

            Bingo offered its own entertainment, great sport that it is.  After each muffled cry of the game’s title, the winning card needed to be checked to see it was correct.  There were a few occasions where a mysterious uncalled “O-75” had somehow slipped in.  Winners received $0.25 in the “bank,” to be applied toward tasty treats like pretzels and unidentified sugarless hard candy.  Now, to be honest,  $0.25 seemed a bit cheap really, especially after all of the effort straining to hear the spaces called, realizing the space existed on the card, picking up a chip, and actually placing it onto the correct space—and all this done while sipping instant hot cocoa from plastic maroon mugs.  $0.25?  Really?  That totals to something ludicrous like $1.50 an hour.   Does being retired mean you’re beyond the helping hand of minimum wage and labor unions?  Apparently.  The facility looked pretty nice from the outside, but who knows, obviously my perspective was limited to the neatly kept grounds, the modern building, the cozy lobby, the nice workers, the instant hot cocoa.  But no matter, the residents seemed entirely content, in a slightly entranced/anesthetized, and therefore mild sort of way.  This effect was mostly universal, though when the nurses were going about inviting one and all to the day’s events, some residents seemed a bit more recalcitrant to comply:

“Merille, do you want to join us for games, hun?”

Pause...pause.................................pause.

“Merille, hun, do you want to—"

“I wanna sleep.”

“The activities are just for a little while.”

“Well, I wanna sleep.”

“You can sleep after—"

“I WANNA SLEEP!”      

“Ok, ok…” We let her sleep.         

            But oh the laughter and lessons learned from those who have lived long!  I didn’t know I would be so enlightened on what I have to look forward to--because balloons and Bingo isn’t a bad combo. 

                     

 

On waking up...

On waking up...

Normally, I would totally agree with the theory of classical conditioning, the idea that a species will begin to behave in a certain way when this behavior is linked with some outside stimuli, placed to reinforce the desired effect.  I've read the studies, been fascinated by the inevitable predictability of living organisms.  Yes, it all sounds well and very good, but then I come along, an apparent test dummy, and Monday comes along, a completely cyclic stimulus, and the convergence of the twain is PAINFUL EVERY TIME.  

Why don't I find myself lulled to sleep Sunday nights by the quiet biological nudges that whisper, "Tomorrow is coming early..."  Because of course, I know it is, you know.  I stay up instead, doing something relatively meaningless such as chatting online (not that the friends are meaningless, but you get the idea), surfing the internet for random information I don't really need and will not remember at all in the morning because I will be too tired to, or the worst, twisting and turning to stare in the mirror at blackheads, both real and imagined, on my nose.  Finally, feeling very self-disciplined, I turn out my bedside lamp, about two hours too late.  

Morning for me basically feels like the word "Noooooooo..." prolonged for a very long time. I'm not quite sure how it continues to shock and amaze me with its presence, hence my mistrust of myself as a reliable case study.  When the alarm sounds, in the deepest, darkest corners of my psyche, I know it must be a mistake.  Unless someone made time travel possible over night, there is no way five hours could have passed that quickly.  My alarm usually has to ring twice for me to connect reality with reason-yes, it is morning, yes I must get up, yes my mouth does feel and taste like a real clam, and yes, oh yes, it is Monday.  This particular realization is the one piece to the puzzle I never confuse.          

  

Probably two of the things I fear most about Monday mornings are that 1) I will accidently pursue my deeply warped psychological arguments that it is not in fact Monday morning, that it isn't the morning of any day, and that it can't be Monday morning anyway because Mondays have been abolished due to the 217th Amendment recently transacted in my brain.  And also 2) I will not be able to find my Get-the-Red-Out Eyedrops and will be forced to wear two red badges of cowardice all day.  Minutes of panic when I think either outcome has occurred usually results in a momentary pause of my heart-beat, followed by the words, "This cannot be happening to me" trailing through my mind like an off-course aerial advertisement.  I will usually hear, "This cannot be happening to me," out loud as well, which totally weirds me out until I grasp that I am saying it.  Over and over and...     

The irony of it all is that I am a high school teacher.  Now this might seem almost illegal by this point, but it is true.  My job is to show up early for a staff morning meeting, open up my classroom, make sure all is in order for the day, cut a few of my co-workers off in the copy room, and clog up the whole system with worksheets.  I must do all of this with a smile on my face, a tranquilness of attitude as benign as a cyst.  Now sometimes this is easy, or at least easily mistaken to be so due to the fact that "comatose" is about as calm as one can get. 

Somehow, someway, however, I do manage to find my way to school, breakfast in hand to avoid adding "murderer" to my lists of fatal flaws.  I open my classroom door, straighten all the desks up, symbolizing a mental putting to order, then reach to let students filter in.  They too are conspicuously quiet on these Monday mornings.  Then a genuine smile dawns because I know why.  

Bewildered Beginnings...

I've always wondered why I haven't started a blog, perhaps in the same way as some will wonder why I've started one now.  

It seems a good out, really.  After all the head-nodding and pleasant smiles...to just be me.  So here's to a healthy dose of humanism, heady and harried.