Inner Doodles

I may have ordered too many crickets. The fragmented and nibbled on watermelon in the cage looks like a dystopian work of art. Simultaneously stunning and foul. The smell of cricket permeates the living room. At least our A/C is fixed and the air is no longer humid. Yesterday the stagnant humidity retained the smells of our meals from too many days past. Layers and layers of egg crate covered in tiny flecks of poo and cricket. It looks like a bee hive. The egg crates seem to be moving, but it's the crickets cleaning their antennae and legs. I've never actually witnessed a fight, but the morbid piles of cricket bodies tells me that the alpha cricket is at large. A new box of 250 arrives today. I don't have enough containers to fill. At least not ones with holey lids for breathing and enough space to fit egg crate hiding spots. Frankie is fat. The vet was impressed. If she was appalled, she didn't let on. I'm supposed to give her only 5 crickets a day. But when ...

One Hundred Days. This should be a mile marker. Shouldn't it? "There are exactly 100 prime numbers whose digits are in strictly ascending order (e.g. 239, 2357 etc.)." (Wiki) Well, that's pretty cool. The Angel Numbers website says that seeing 100 means an angel is trying to communicate with you. It is time to cast off all negativity and change your way of thinking. A positive attitude will help you achieve your goals. I'm not sure about all of that, but positive attitudes, self reflection, and casting off negativity certainly never hurt anyone. "100 is the square of 10 (in scientific notation it is written as 1x102). The standard SI prefix for a hundred is 'hecto-' (Wiki)." Today feels pretty square. And yet it feels like it is more complicated than just 100 days. More like 1 long day times 102 terrible things. Although I still have a hecto' a lot of hope we will pull out of this one day. har...har...anyone? [cricket, cricket] ...

Needless to say, I got slightly derailed since my last post. I was about to give up writing this blog all together when someone thanked me for writing these today. So, here I am. Back in the saddle. But...how can I write about my goofy self when humanity continues to spiral downward into a withering hole of its own making? I have gone back and forth in my head daily about what I could possibly write on this page that would be appropriate. If I stay silent, I'm not doing my part as a white person. If I speak up, how can my words not sound preachy and white privileged and all wrong? Whatever I write, it will not be enough. It won't right the wrongs. It will sound wrong. It won't scratch the surface of making a difference. But it is a start. And it will be from my heart. Perhaps at the very least, it will spark a ripple in the right direction. My heart is still breaking. I still suck in air and fight back guttural sobs when I watch heartfelt videos or hear moving speec...

I come downstairs to an overpowering and musty scent. "What is that smell?" I ask the boys who are having breakfast already. It is not as pungent as the chameleon's uric acid-filled feces, nor does it seem like the small mammal house at the zoo, which is what I usually think the litter box resembles. It's not earthy and offensive like the crickets. Admittedly, we have too many animals in our humble house, but this smell was not one of them. Nor did it quite seem like burned breakfast or anything else human-made. "Do you guys not smell that?" The boys continue to ignore my question. Mom noses are always combing the air for things that are uninteresting to boys. Oliver grooms himself on a pillow. The smell is strong near him. I check him for renegade poo. There is some sort of tannish gray matter sprayed all over the couch cushion. It looks like rotten baby food. "Yeuch," I inspect it without getting too close. Then I see the source. Oliver...

It's muggy and overcast today. The plants lap up the water as it rains off and on. My impatiens vibrate and dance in the fine spray. We may not be at the beach, but the forest is not half bad. Birds chitter and flirt as they flit from limb to limb. Squirrels fill their chubby faces with the last of the bird seed. Trees rain big sudden droplets of water as squirrels chase each other round and round the branches. I sip my Surprise Coffee that arrived on Friday. It is Stumptown quality. It is called Four Leftys. I want it to be my Forever Coffee. Even at the end of the pot, slightly charred and lukewarm, it is better than what a certain coffee chain likes to call a fine roast. "Start your morning right. Choose from a bold assortment of burned plastic." No thanks. Chief Mate furiously scribbles in his school notebook. They are working on animal habitat graphing. He raises his hand when he has a question so Teacher Captain Mom can answer without disturbing the entire class...

Today we built stations for a virtual field day. Laundry basket, cardboard box, balls of socks, and an empty oatmeal barrel became a Skee-Ball game. Spoons and wine corks became a spoon race. Paper airplanes and cardboard box became Paper Airplane Cornhole. I could only laugh as my construction paper airplane curved, did a double barrel flip, and came right back to me every time. Not anywhere near the target. The aerodynamics of construction paper are quite different from my usual copy paper planes. Chief Mate spent a significant amount of time covering his in masking tape only to be abandoned by me when it was time to fly. (It was also time for me to make dinner.) We will test it out tomorrow. Hush puppies with rice and beans for dinner. Every once in a while you need a good ol' taste of the south. Perhaps it was Memorial Day or cornhole inspired. Perhaps I'm feeling patriotic because I want our country to get its $#!@ together. Sending good vibes never hurts. In any event...

Dreams are getting stranger and stranger. The stress of social distancing, global deaths, and lack of jobs intertwines in bizarre ways. We are fine, but as an empath, I tend to let it all in to bleed out through my subconscious. ~ I was back at the school and we were slammed. Phone call after phone call to find the children who couldn't make it back to class. Were they at work with their mothers or at home without a ride? Did they have lunch? Did they need new clothing and is there enough in our bin to supply to those in need? I looked at my schedule and there was no way I would make it in time to my reading group. I was still manning the cafeteria. Putting out fires between stressed out coworkers and upset children whose oranges were moldy and who were being overcharged by kitchen staff.* I walked briskly up the winding staircase and found myself in a living room. It was poorly lit, bright blue carpet and there were piles of books and knickknacks in all corners of the house...

Happy Memorial Day. Thank you to all those whose bravery made this weekend possible for humans to enjoy, even in our temporarily limited ways. We are forever in your debt. Tonight we relished some homemade ice cream that was left to incubate in the freezer. After ten minutes of shaking an iced bag with soaking wet towels, frozen appendages, and no help from the crew, I resigned to stuffing the baggie in the freezer and waiting. Half-assed is the way to go. It was delicious. That is all. END TRANSMISSION