Park Walk in the Clouds

A tree branch snaps somewhere off to the right, and I register its descent, counting the seconds, anticipating the thud as it hits the ground. The sound barely echoes in this evening stillness, yielding quickly to the silence like a child told to hush. A single stone is disturbed and is sent tumbling, a few inches at most, yet I am certain about what happened as if I were watching its short-lived journey with my own eyes. It so happens that I am not watching it, because my eyes are closed, and have been for some distance now.

As we walk, I become more and more aware of the world around me, the world I would ordinarily only perceive by pattern recognition - tree, rock, yellow tractor. Deprived of my most overused sense, I am forced into the present moment by a combination of fear and curiosity. What if I walk into a tree? What if I step into bear droppings? What if I look somewhat different from the way normal people are supposed to look, different from all those people who don't walk through the park at sunset with their eyes closed… Gradually, curiosity takes over - Let me listen to the birds and … wait… what happened to the birds? The tranquility of this evening moment is disturbed only by a handful of distant bugs, making our footsteps and our thoughts the loudest events in the park.

It may seem that we are also subject to the decree of silence seemingly accepted by all living things here, but this is not the case. Our silence is premeditated, or perhaps - currently meditated. We are here to listen to the energy of the park, and to practice guided walking. Intellectually I know that I am not in any danger, for my hand is held firmly by my lovely companion who is not only excellent at avoiding bear droppings, but is managing to create an energetic space of acceptance and ease as we walk. I move inwards, and try an ancient Tibetan practice of cloud walking. I picture myself walking confidently right up to a cliff and then stepping off, onto the blue infinity, continuing to walk on that which is nothing. Although my goal is to feel weightless, all I manage to achieve today is a certain degree of lightness and ease. This is fine as well, there is no rush, and there are no deadlines.

A feeling of gratitude arises spontaneously in my heart, and we switch roles. No matter how many times I've experienced it, I've found being trusted to feel unusual. I am now balancing a feeling of responsibility with a sense of joy. I'm responsible for her safety, true, but I'd also like to return the favor, to provide her the best experience possible. I know intellectually that this is not in my control, so I try to drop responsibility in favor of pure love. It mostly works.

The road comes to an end, and so does this practice. A pair of green eyes offers me unquestionable love and understanding and a pair of my own reflections. There are two, on two levels at once - the images I see is just the surface. I realize now that she is not thinking, and that's the very state I'm after. In her perfect stillness she is reflecting my nature as a perfect mirror, and my own stream of thoughts begins to finally put on the brakes. This is like having real-time biofeedback that actually works. I understand now the poetic desire to jump into the pools of your lover's eyes, and I do this with my consciousness, joining with her and feeling a oneness that requires no words. I know that both of us are entirely content, and there is nowhere else to go. Not this moment.

Method Man

My feet contact the ground in a steady rhythm, loosely protected by a pair of unfastened sandals. I am running across a dark Rite-Aid parking lot towards the welcoming entrance doors, left wide open on this beautiful October night, an indication that even the mosquitoes know that this warm weather is only temporary, and that they no longer have dominion over human outdoor experiences.

I typically do things for a reason, and this time I have two brilliant justifications for my apparent pedestrian impatience. On one hand, I am keeping one very lovely human waiting for a pack of Zyrtec (because just because you are comfortable enough to cry in front of each other does not mean that you should be crying continuously), and, on the other hand, I do like to run.

I scan the shelves carefully in an attempt to fulfill my quest without significant delay - but to my dismay, Zyrtec is the only item I am not finding. Still hoping for quick service, I approach the pharmacy counter and discover my coveted prize stacked neatly behind the two highly trained and professionally attired attendants, currently engaged with the two people ahead of me in the queue. A stern warning sign reminds me to respect their privacy and wait my turn, and that is what I do.

After a while, one of the employees decides to improve throughput through the use of pipelining, and asks me a question via human long distance communication technology (aka yelling): "What is your last name?" Having watched the process for some time, I immediately infer that she is expecting that I am here for a pre-existing prescription, and thus I preempt the useless search she is about to embark on with a direct answer: "I am just here for the Zyrtec". She gives me a knowing nod and proceeds to look around her in a somewhat absent minded manner dominated by focused disinterest.

It is quite clear that her surroundings are failing to entertain her for very long, as only ten seconds later she looks up at me and repeats the question, an inquiry which, unsurprisingly, yields the same answer.   I believe that this time I see a spark of cognition in her eyes, and indeed her second survey of the land is not limited to the ceiling, but appears to be focused on the general area of my interest.   As I finally approach the counter, I find myself looking at a pack of Zyrtec that is so close that I could (and do) touch it, and yet it is so far…

In truth, I knew this going in - a few cursory Google searches revealed that Zyrtec is a highly controlled product because it can be used to make meth. Thus I am not surprised when the two indifferently nice ladies request my drivers license. I am surprised, however, when they request that I swipe my license through the credit card reader. Figuring that they must know something I don't, I obediently run my non-magnetic piece of plastic through the magnetic reader slot. The ladies clearly believe that in addition to presenting a malfunctioning license I lack fine motor skills to properly operate complex technology, and proceed to swipe my license for me repeatedly for some time without success, producing only a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

Eventually, they switch tactics and attempt to have my license communicate with the RFID reader in the same device. We are clearly living in the dark ages in New Jersey, because my very pretty holographic identification card does not appear to be all that open to either form of communication, and is thus probably vastly inferior to its Pennsylvanian counterparts. Some five minutes later, the puzzled and frustrated employees finally admit defeat and concede to proceeding manually. This process involves typing the entire 15 digit license number into the point-of-sale unit using only their fingernails.

Some 20 minutes later, I leave the store with a pack of Zyrtec and newfound interest in watching Breaking Bad.

Home

Today.
I'm sitting in the Westport cabin next to a roaring fire while a light summer storm blows on the river outside the windows. We'll be moving on to our next adventure next week, and I'm thinking about the summer we've spent here.

Day 1.
We arrive on a rainy evening to a house on a beautiful river that has no electricity or running water. No, that's not quite true. When we turn on the pump, water gushes out from a severed pipe under the kitchen floor. Which we know because the floorboards aren't attached so we can easily lift one up to reveal the half-drowned crypt beneath -- a graveyard for plastic milk bottles, for reasons I will not spend time attempting to fathom. Oh well. At least we remain hydrated from above as well as below. There's plenty of water coming from the ceiling, fresh from the clouds, with only a tinge of roofing tar.

We look at each other for a while, each reading the other's face for whether we are going to abandon the whole idea of living here and just find a motel that'll take us and the dogs for the next two and a half months. But finally, with a nod, we acknowledge that we won't turn back now. We take stock of the task ahead.

The main room is full of furniture in various states of decomposition, most of which seems to have come with the house when it was purchased decades ago from an even then long-defunct boys' camp. The floor -- which itself is comprised of boards of wood that seem to be in a state of disagreement amongst themselves about which way is horizontal -- is covered in threadbare rugs with a zeal for one-way transmogrification (into dust). And on top of all of this is a pile consisting of the summary of five years of modern living, most of which seems completely pointless now that we've clearly returned to basics.

As Asa goes out onto the porch -- most of the slate tiles of which have been torn out and removed, leaving bumps like concrete roots in the resulting stone jungle -- and takes a maul to the most accessible and least moldy furniture, I start and tend to a fire in the huge stone fireplace that acts as the centerpiece of the room. (In the dark, I can only see the outline of its majestic form. It won't be until later that I notice the yellow expanding insulation that Asa and his brother used to seal up the cracks in the stone twenty years ago.) As I feed pages of a mold-eaten zoological volume from 1880 into the flames, I can't help thinking of two young fugitives in a fairy tale who've stumbled upon what is obviously a witch's house in the woods. Slowly but surely, we begin to revel in the adventure.

Today.
There's a comfortable familiarity now to the sound of raindrops falling into pots in the kitchen and the faint smell of gas that leaks out whenever the hot water is on for too long. A floorboard is leaning up against a wall -- surprisingly, it was the only one that gave up under our weight  in all this time and broke to reveal a four-foot drop to the ground below. There's a collection of shells on the porch that we've gathered on our daily walks on the beach. The dogs are sitting by the river and wistfully watching the droplets hit the water. I think they, too, know somehow that our time here is almost up. Maybe they know that if we come back next summer, this house and its decades of do-it-yourself fixer-upper history will probably be gone.

Something about our time here turned this abandoned witch's hut into a home, and we'll be sad to see it go. But it's given me faith that anything can be an adventure worth having, and that's not a bad thing by which to be remembered.

But for now, please excuse me. Our rain pots are overflowing.

Braking Bad

I am keenly self-aware as I set the emergency brake and finally kill the engine.  The ringing silence leaves me with a sense of accomplishment diluted by a tinge of accumulated stress.  I slam the rusted door of my truck without looking and step over a bubbling stream of iridescent brake fluid running out from under the vehicle.  Brakes are entirely optional.  Thirty minutes of towing, three dozen stop signs, red lights, and crazy jersey drivers - and I never touched the brake pedal.  Wouldn't have accomplished much, anyhow, except making me feel better, maybe.

Some hours ago, back in the age when I was still convinced that I would be driving this truck well into the 22nd century, I arrived at the municipal boat launch and encountered my first challenge of the day.  Imagine typical city gridlock during rush hour, and now imagine the same experience without traffic lights or any semblance of rules.  Now, add boat trailers and randomly subtract driving skills.  Leave excessive common courtesy, at least for the most part, and you have your standard boat deployment wait time.

As it turned out, gridlock extended all the way into the Raritan Bay, and that proved to be the second challenge.  As a solo sailboat operator I am faced with a self-imposed dilemma: I need to get the boat off the trailer, park it safely, and then return to move the truck into the parking lot.  This procedure might seem simple, but it involves considerable variability for two highly related reasons:  this is a racing catamaran with no motor, and the wind is not entirely in my control, regardless of what delusions of grandeur I might entertain.  In actuality, launching often involves the following entertaining moments:  slamming into other boats, slamming into a pier, getting your lines tangled on the trailer as well as the general inability to dock.  The latter is an extreme and rare event during the launching comedy hour, but today was a day of rare opportunity, and I was able to accomplish nearly everything on the list, but not before I kept the boat ramp tied up for a good 20 minutes while waiting for a docking spot to free up.  In an attempt to confuse the already puzzled spectators even further, I waited for the docking spot to free up and then chose not to use it - I just went for the beach.

Barely an hour later I was coming back to repeat all of the above in reverse order.  The wind was stronger than I expected and the experience is simply not that enjoyable when you realize that you need to gain about 100 pounds in order to be able to properly manage the craft by yourself.  Since I am both unwilling and most likely incapable of turning myself into a walking ballast, I decided to surrender at this point and return to base.  This time around, I gave up on the idea of proper docking and beached the craft again, leaving it in the care of the wind as it gently but insistently pushed the boat onto the sand.

Usually, when people describe experiencing "that sinking feeling", they are referring to intuition.   What I experienced should not be confused with listening to your inner guidance, as it was an entirely physical sensation of my right foot encountering no resistance from the brake pedal.  Now, my truck has its share of brake system variability, and I was almost willing to chuck it up to a bit of air in the lines or a defective caliper (again!), when I experienced what I would in fact describe as listening to inner guidance, and so I got out and checked the fluid level.   I stared in disbelief at the empty reservoir for at least 10 seconds, which is a long time to spend on gauging fluid level.  This is a moment when your mind searches wildly for a straw of sanity to grab onto, for a way to explain the perceived reality away, for a way to deny it and to continue on with life the way you wanted to barely a moment ago.

I looked under the truck and was quickly denied the last grabbable straw - brake fluid was running down both rear wheels, a feat seldom accomplished through even the most severe brake system malfunction.  Everything was so thoroughly coated and dripping that I quickly gave up trying to narrow down the location of the rupture.  What I was as yet unwilling to give up was the possibility of a makeshift workaround.  Did you know that dollar stores sell brake fluid?  Three jugs of brake fluid later (and one rather confused cashier, for I was still wearing the hat and sailing gloves) I determined that the brake system is, shall we say, mostly off-line.

One hour later I was off the phone with Good Sam Roadside assistance, now heartily assured that there is no way, under any circumstances, for any amount of money, that they would tow my boat trailer, much less extract the boat from the water.  And that's after the "we'll tow whatever you're driving, no matter what" sales pitch.  Well, at least I tried.  And suddenly I saw it - I saw my future, I saw myself still sitting in the Keyport Municipal Boat Launch parking lot, grey and old and mostly toothless, still waiting to pay an exorbitant fee to multiple tow companies just to get my two vehicles home.  And behind it, glimmering with radiance, I saw a different future, a future in which I was home, having raw greenola and a relaxed conversation.  And I made a difficult (not!) choice.  

This was what I have been training for my entire life.  All the perfectionist power shifts, all the coasting, religious downshifting, timing traffic lights and braking distance and the general disdain for the brake pedal - there was a purpose behind it all, a method to my madness.  That's what I tell myself, anyway.   So I took a deep breath and re-calibrated my brain, my instincts and my reflexes.  And then I drove my truck and trailer onto a ramp leading straight into the ocean, having no hydraulic help in keeping my already rusty vehicle from getting a saltwater bath.  And I survived.  And then I drove it home.   And everyone else survived.

There should be a conclusion of some sort in this paragraph, since this is the end.  But since "And this is why I drive stick" sounded too evangelistic and "I'm so awesome" was already adequately expressed, I'll have to forego all that in favor of an expression of infinite gratitude for this and all experiences.  Thank you, universe, for letting me get away with all sorts of stuff.

Don't stop for some stop-leak

Yesterday was a good day.  Justifications for this statement include perfect sailing weather and the complete absence of incidents that could be described as "making an ass of myself at the boat ramp".  Seeking nothing more from life, I drove home, unfazed by shore traffic and drivers' apparent inability to make it through a traffic light in an orderly manner.  To my great surprise, the abundance of life and its gifts of joy did not stop there.  I found myself nearly decapitating an innocent looking mailbox with my truck when I received a text message that would completely alter my plans for next week.  It appears that I prefer spending my days on the beach in spectacular company over braving rush hour traffic in the deceptive comfort of a bus full of irate commuters.  The story leading up to the message that placed postal equipment in jeopardy is long and rife with self-reflection, and to say that it was a pleasant surprise is an understatement - but it is not the subject of this tale.

Today was also a good day.  After spending some hours seeking comfort and self-approval through bulk task completion, I found myself left with a rapidly shrinking to-do list.  Shopping would be next, I decided, and promptly drove over to the stores on my list, blissfully unaware of the pending doom. I do rather enjoy the 90 degree weather, but what I enjoy even more is keeping it outside of my air conditioned vehicle.

Auto parts store came first, and I found myself pillaging the Freon section along with other rather sweaty looking men, who, unlike me, were probably buying it for their own cars.  June is national Freon hoarding month in New Jersey, and while I had the foresight to take care of my truck early, this time I was shopping for someone else.  The store's air conditioning itself appeared to be in need of a refill, and this situation did not contribute favorably to either staff morale or amicable customer demeanor, which, in turn, translates into a rather gradual checkout experience.

Next, I found myself at a sporting goods store, because when the woman that invites you on your first vacation together tells you that your running shorts make you look like a hobo (perhaps not in so many words), it's time for new shorts.  My old shorts were always a multipurpose article, combining the function of public decency compliance with the tough job of a cat scratching post.  They also survived some light summer tiling, several house painting jobs, and at least a few dozen hours of attic wiring.  Running short selection process is tough for any man, but this time it was a particular challenge.  What statement would I like to make to my new (though very tolerant) love?  Should I go conservative and stick to long and black?  A flashy colorful stripe might appear playful, and would be practical for running in the darkness of the early spring mornings, but would I remind her of traffic cones and caution tape?

Having made the impossible choice and exited the store I discovered that the parking lot underneath my truck has a hue eerily similar to the color of the shorts I ultimately picked.  Unlike shorts, however, parking lots generally don't go for flashy or colorful, thus this warranted an investigation.  To my great surprise and mild discomfort, my vehicle did indeed contribute to redecorating the pavement.  A steady stream of brick-red goo emerged from my radiator cap, oozing slowly and coating everything in its path in a suspended animation of mysterious shapes.  No liquid was observed in the cooling system, and all the hoses felt like they were firmly coated from within with a crusty and solid layer of the red matter.

"Karma", I said to myself.  Now, mind you, this is not my karma - the previous owner seems to have placed enough radiator stop-leak in the system to paint a house red.  I have since spent hours flushing and back-flushing, only to wind up with more of the blob rearing its red face some months later.  Of course I can't truly claim that this isn't my karma - I did buy the truck, and then repeatedly chose to keep it, as I will undoubtedly do again today.

Explanations and musings aside, this is a mildly disconcerting situation - I have no certainty that there is anything but goo in my cooling system, it is 90 degrees and sunny, and, incidentally, I drive an 8 liter V-10, a somewhat extreme example of the classic American problem-solving approach.  And so, back to the auto parts store, except this time I am watching the temperature gauge about as much as I'm watching the road.

The hour that passed since my last visit did not improve the employees' mood very much, but after some failed communication attempts I finally get the answers to all of my inquiries.  Unfortunately, they are all the same: "We don't have it in stock".  Well, at least they have antifreeze - and at 26.5 quarts, my truck doesn't skimp on that and neither should I.

I should mention at this point that patience isn't always one of my strongest personality traits, and so, after spending the entire drive home thinking through the diagnosis and repair procedures, it is no surprise that I began as soon as I turned the engine off.  I should also mention that this is not a great idea where cooling system repairs are concerned.  I should probably mention that to myself next time.

It was not until later that I discovered that the problem was not a cap failure or any sort of boil-over  but rather a stop-leak obstruction to the expansion tank, which has basically turned into a stop-leak repository.  Preventing hot liquid from expanding is a somewhat bad idea, as it turns out.  Not knowing the problem, I started draining the radiator immediately.  About a gallon later I decided to remove the radiator cap to see what's going on in there, figuring that a gallon of removed liquid would have taken care of all possible pressure.  I was mistaken.

Yes, I am apparently that guy - the guy that pulls the radiator cap off a hot car.  The cap, also thoroughly coated in stop-leak and thus glued down, produced no indication of the pressure it was containing until I loosened it completely and pulled.  The explosion was epic, and had I parked the truck backwards, the entire neighborhood would be able to appreciate a once in a lifetime performance, complete with the cap smashing into the raised hood, followed promptly by a continuous flow of hot water and steam.  Having a front row seat to this performance left me with a scalded hand and a face dotted with red splatter.  Only after this shock therapy did it occur to me that I am subjecting my engine block to rapid temperature swings, and the only solution that came to me in the heat (literally) of the moment was to run cold water from a garden hose into the gradually emptying radiator.  I don't know how the truck survived this cold treatment worthy of a Kundalini master, but a few seconds later the noises subsided and all was at peace.

Two hours later the water ran clear... the water from the engine block, that is - which suggests that my street is probably all red now.  But I have other concerns for the moment, as my hand is seriously overdue for some attention.  So the next time you feel like reaching for that stop-leak... stop.  Think of the children, and if you can't - at least think of my hand.

How Tim and Matt saved my life

Let's be clear on this: I've never been in the military, and neither Tim nor Matt has ever had to drag me home from behind enemy lines, conscious or otherwise.  Now that we have that straight, let's examine the events that did occur.

The morning was cold, though it was certainly not going to set any records, even in our end of the world which is hardly famous for temperature extremes.  The weekend's snows were rapidly yielding to the onslaught of the suddenly unfiltered sun that has definitively claimed its place in the endless blue sky.

The world that lies beyond the boundaries of my house was gradually becoming more hospitable, and I found it more and more difficult to resist the urge to brave the elements and attend to the nagging problem with my vehicle which I can only describe as incontinence.  The fact that the truck leaks exhaust fumes rather than gasoline or some other essential liquid does not make the driver's experience any more bearable, since said fumes are deposited directly into the cabin.  In short, intervention was needed, and due to a combination of reasons, it was something I had to do myself.

I soon found myself underneath my beast of a vehicle, surveying the mass of rusted metal above me with a dull stare, and asking myself the dreaded question: "If I start this, can I finish?"  Reality, in the form of a compulsively buzzing phone soon forced me out of my stupor and I was past the point of no return in no time.  As it turned out, a quick poke with a screwdriver caused the remainder of my exhaust system hardware to disintegrate into a cloud of fine dust and small to medium size particles.  As I had known from the beginning, the only option was to fabricate a complete replacement, and I made sure that I was prepared to do this using the tried and true "I'm sure there is plenty of junk in the garage" approach.

Welding of the replacement part was nearly complete when I flipped up my helmet and was instantly reminded of why I had reservations about using acetone prior to welding:  my left glove was on fire.  It was a pleasantly warm sensation, and in the time it took me to process what I was seeing and perform the "Holy crap I'm on fire but I can't drop the electrode holder in my other hand" dance, the glove did not experience any visible damage.  I thanked the Harbor Freight gods for manufacturing something out of unexpectedly high quality waste products, and proceeded to fight honorably with the 8 foot long exhaust pipe that was not inclined to be manhandled.

It is relevant to mention that throughout my under-truck experience I was subjected to a constant sprinkle of oxidized steel, interspersed with flurries and periodic all-out showers.   These showers occasionally included small hail which bounced precariously off my cheeks and forehead, occasionally succeeding at outsmarting my "Seems Safe" brand of protective eye wear.  While I'm not a fan of having metal in my eyes, it is not something that concerned me terribly at the time since I would simply blink it out the one or two times I noticed.  It was not until some hours later that I noticed the persistent but mild discomfort which I attributed to irritation or abrasion.

The next day I found myself sharing my story with my non-combatant comrades who promptly insisted that I seek the opinion of a vision professional.  Their insistence was sufficient to sway me from my otherwise "Wait and see" course of action, which, in this case, may have been problematic on several levels.

I found myself in an office occupied by two men and one dog, all apparently belonging to one household.  The two men practiced dentistry and optometry, respectively, while the dog practiced cushion flattening, although it may certainly have other talents.  One of the men instructed me to look in various directions using a compassionate yet very steady voice showing no emotion, or at least no variation of emotional overtones.  He proceeded in that same invariant tone: "look to your left... right... up... you have a piece of metal in your cornea... I'm sorry about that... look to your right...".   As I did my best not to move while he extracted the extra part with a 27 gauge needle, I had no choice but to mentally say what he wasn't saying: "I'm glad I bought the iron-free multivitamins".

I returned to work feeling much less metallic, where my story was greeted by Tim and Matt's: "We totally saved his life!"

Sometimes the heroes among us have no weapons or tactical training, require no unusual bravery or even the ability to sell girl scout cookies - and yet they save a life.  And a piece of Dodge legacy thanks them.

On avoiding Santas

I'll cut straight to the point.  It's 3 in the afternoon, I have an ice pack on my burned wrist, there are 5 firetrucks on my street, and all the appliances in the house are blinking "12:00", as if to say "I think it's noon... no, I changed my mind... yeah, maybe noon, yeah... wait what time is it?".  Yet the day started out so peacefully.

Like most mornings, this one began with an encounter with Nyka, my bedroom door guard cat.  Since I can't afford 24/7 guards for my bedroom door, I make do with the schedule that the guards I do have are willing to work.   Nyka seems to prefer the early morning shift, about 5 to 7 or so.  On the rare occasion when she is otherwise engaged at any point in this period, she subcontracts the job to her sister Byka, who is gullible enough to accept the post at whatever rate Nyka offers.  This morning Nyka was available to do the job herself, and she greeted me with a silent look I know all too well - you know, the one that says: "Food preparation will bring you grief today so consider eating out".  I promised to consider her warning and proceeded about my day.

My first task for the day was to check on a very slow processing task I left running on one of the computers overnight.  Still running, I remarked to myself - a synthesis of approval and criticism.  I'm glad that the job has not died (it would have to be started over), but it's taking longer than expected, about 20 hours at least.  The task does not require my involvement other than me cheering it on as it reaches percentage milestones, so I pre-cheered several and moved on to more interesting things, proceeding without incident all the way until lunchtime.  

Karma dictated the events that followed, as I've set the wheels in motion several days ago.  A pre-cut Butternut Squash cannot be ignored once purchased - if you don't use it it will beckon each time you open the refrigerator, calling to you, teasing you, making you self-conscious about your inability to follow through with a plan.  I find that it is usually pointless to argue with a vegetable, but this time I decided to prove the squash wrong.  I combined the squash with several other unsuspecting ingredients, which all seemed harmless enough, at least until the pot came to a rolling boil.  

This is simply the way life is.  My kitchen is full of things that seem friendly enough, but true friendships are tested under pressure.  I know this well enough, and so, heeding Nyka's warning, I chose against using my new pressure cooker.  The rapidly maturing Butternut Squash soup waited patiently for its chance to express its feelings, and soon enough I presented it with this opportunity - I opened the lid and stirred.  Little did I know that the potato chunks conspired with the squash to create a carefully positioned air pocket, a pocket that would lay in waiting until I disturbed it with my silicone spoon... only to spring into action, propelling a quantity of boiling water in my general direction.  I don't know what made my edible friends feel the way they did - perhaps it was the "Genie In A Bottle" syndrome, as I've kept the potatoes waiting for quite some time.  Perhaps the squash was simply coming of age and acting out its adolescent need for self-assertion.

I don't usually hold a grudge.  Instead, I am holding a bag of frozen peas against my wrist.  It's not that the burn is that severe, but I'd rather go through life without having to experience blisters.  And so it is with a bag of peas on my wrist that I encounter two sounds, both familiar and yet unexpected.  The first is the beeping of a UPS as it responds dutifully to a sudden loss of electrical power. This beep comes to an abrupt end as the UPS utters a dissolving "I told you so...." and quits.   Indeed, the UPS did tell me that the batteries are spent months ago.  So much for my computing task.  As I wallow in the prospect of restarting that infinite wait, I am shaken into present moment awareness by the simultaneous roar of five fire trucks delivering a plethora of Santa Clausi to the unsuspecting residents of my street.  I had no idea that my small town had that many of either, but I am glad that it's winter and my windows are closed.  I like my eardrums.

Forgive and Forget

In Review: Mount Cube in winter
Rating: Some like it more than others

We're hiking up Mount Cube with our human friend Laurie and her dog Winslow. Misha is leading the charge, undeterred by the mounting winter conditions. "You have got to be kidding me," Oliver grumbles behind us silently (because he is a dog) as he picks his way gingerly across a thin layer of ice, his feet crashing through at every step and sinking him into a cold but shallow stream. "It said 'winter weather advisory'; can't you read?" But then Winslow runs by carrying a stick (more of a small tree than a branch, but let's not split logs here) and Oliver's biological imperative to tug kicks in, making him forget about his woes. They efficiently clothesline me, because I am peacefully hiking up ahead, not prepared for the coordinated assault on the backs of my knees by a young pine well-balanced between two big dogs. Who knows why not; this is probably the tenth time during this hike alone. But I have my own troubles. I've chosen a pair of boots most ill-suited to the task of climbing a steep mountain covered in a thin layer of ice, because they are not insulated and have less tread left on them than on the tires of our 1994 Corolla. I don't know how many times I've now ended up sprawled on my belly, clinging desperately to a root with my for-some-reason-not-waterproof mittens and attempting to use my upper body strength to get past this particular icy slope while my legs wiggle uselessly below, occasionally being nudged by a curious paw. And we've only been hiking for half an hour. And it's three and a half miles to the summit.

Okay, let me start over. It's actually not that bad. There's nobody here but us, and the trail is quiet and beautiful. A bit of snow is falling slowly, and having to scramble here and there is actually pretty fun. Even Oliver, who is not the most agile of dogs, is having a good time tugging on sticks with Winslow, and I think Misha is having a good time staying out of their way. Everyone has had a fall or two, but no damage has been done. We're probably almost half of the way up... when we reach disaster.

A half frozen river far too wide to jump.

After vacuum cleaners, Oliver's greatest nemesis is ice. His experience with these early winter river crossings has been consistently tragicomic (though I don't think he'd agree with the -omic part). Winslow and Misha run across easily, blundering through the rushing water and even stopping to pound the ice with a front paw until it cracks, allowing access to what must be the most delicious water, since they clearly prefer to it the iceless water surrounding them. We humans manage to balance, scoot, and jump our ways across some conveniently fallen logs. But Oliver can only stand at the water's edge, whimpering to himself as he nervously drinks in an attempt to lower the water level to a safer depth. We humans stand on the other bank, calling encouragingly and offering treats, while his canine companions run back and forth across the river, either to give him hope or just to rub it in. Eventually, we take the only tack that has ever worked with Oliver, and appeal to his fear of abandonment. We walk away from the river, down the hill, and out of sight, standing huddled together and trying to ignore his cries. It works beautifully, and only a minute later, Oliver triumphantly crests the hill, galloping on four completely uncoordinated limbs. We cheer and continue on to the summit, all six of us gleefully ignoring the inevitable: the way back.

The rest of the hike goes on without trouble, and though there are a few smaller river crossings, Oliver keeps up his positive attitude, having (in true canine fashion) forgiven us. "No I haven't," he mumbles to himself, sparing us a quick glance while chasing the full grown shrub Winslow is dragging along. We've made it to the top and eaten victory treats (Laurie's staple congratulations of cubes of gourmet cheese -- for the dogs, that is; the humans get enough snacks at home), attacked the steepest part of the descent with the grace of a recently woken bear, and unearthed several more trees before that menace loomed up ahead: the river we had forgotten about. "I definitely had not forgotten this," Oliver seems to say as he looks from us to the thin ice.

The way back is somehow more challenging. Winslow and Misha take it slower this time, but they make it across eventually. With some assistance from the other humans, I do, too. And that leaves Oliver. He knows that the only thing awaiting him is abandonment, so he tries his hardest to keep up. He's made it almost all the way across -- he's separated from the shore by no more than a few feet. A few feet consisting of three-foot-deep rapids. "Yeah, that's not happening, guys," he glares at us. "Aw, come on, are you serious? GUYS. I know you can hear me!" But our hearts are made of stone, and we don't even turn around as we walk out of sight.

What feels like half a day later, judging by the frostbite that seems to be settling in around my toes, it is pretty clear that this approach sucks. "No kidding," says Oliver. He's tried to make the jump a few times, but he just can't bring himself to lose his footing.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Asa and I head back down to the river. After some deliberation, Asa straps the two dog leashes together and I tie one end to a tree. He uses the leash to jump, Indiana Jones-style, onto a rock next to Oliver. I free one of the leashes and hand it to him, and he throws it over Oliver's neck like he's taming a dangerous wild beast. Using the leash tied to the tree for support, I give Oliver's leash a tug. "This idea is even worse," he tells me with mounting melancholy in his eyes as he digs his claws into the snowy chunk of ice he's standing on. I tug again. "Woman, do you see where I'm standing? There's no telling how deep that water is!" I tug again, harder, and Oliver loses his resistance. Terrified of the water, he lunges his front half toward a rock halfway between him and the bank, and gets stuck, his legs straining in opposite directions while his body hovers over the rapids. He looks up at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a dog as I pull him one last time, and his entire back half collapses into the water. As he climbs out, his fur drenched and clinging to him to make him look much more like a skinny-legged goat than usual, he glares at me for one quick second before he and Winslow start playing tug with the leash.

Thank goodness that dogs have such short memories.

"Yeah, sure," says Oliver as he walks slowly up the stairs to the bedroom the second he gets home, planning on sleeping on our bed alone for the rest of the day. "I've completely forgotten."

Teaching a Cat New Tricks

Today's class proceeds much the way it does on most days. After putting together what I would tentatively call "Dinner" I find myself perched atop a bar stool, leaning onto the breakfast bar with my right hand occupied by an eating utensil which is almost always a fork. I am not anti-spoon, and given the opportunity I would almost always choose chopsticks, but for reasons I don't fully understand this pro-chopstick agenda only applies at my workplace cafeteria. Perhaps it is ego-driven, as I show my western coworkers my impressive wood manipulating skills in hopes of praise or a faint whisper of admiration. In the reality I do not choose to entertain, whispers are more likely to contain terms like "weirdo" and "it's a salad, not sushi!".

Regardless of my choice of eating tool, the important part is that it is my right hand that is occupied and is thus unavailable for other actions. This is precisely why I feel an expected nudge in my left hand just moments after sitting down. I do not need to turn my head to investigate the source of this disturbance - unless a neighborhood raccoon managed to scale the uninvitingly tall walls of my deck and then breach the dual-magnet cat flap, the choice boils down to the two felines that share my residence. I will concede that from their point of view I may be a guest in their residence, but thus far we have not reached clarity on the subject.

Without turning away from my rapidly cooling meal (which I am even less likely to consume at room temperature), I mentally go through the flowchart for determining which cat is demanding my immediate attention. First off, the force of initial impact is a dead giveaway. A gentle inquisitive touch with a possible ultra-high pitched equally inquisitive "mmmrrrwl?" indicates Nyka, the queen of grace and weightlessness. A sudden slam that causes my hand to bounce into my rib cage with enough force to put my balance on this stool at risk indicates Byka, the queen of, well, whatever the opposite of grace is. She frequently miscalculates chair-jumping ballistics and either knocks the chair over or requires significantly more runway to come to a stop than the top of a stool affords her, leaving her no choice but to use me as her emergency braking appliance.

On occasion, the girls make the guessing game more difficult and arrive in a manner which leaves some doubt as to the visitor's identity. Fortunately the nose rules (to quote Michel Thomas) are able to cut straight through their charades. A wet nose on your hand indicates Byka, whereas its absence indicates a feline that is able to correctly judge distance and avoid direct contact while smelling.

My domestic companions were named according to their traits from a very young age. Nyka was a name loosely derived from the word "curious" in another language - while Byka was a similar perversion of the word "scared", and she indeed tends to choose to relocate to the darkest corner of the house at the first sign of movement, noise or any weather phenomenon.

I, on the other hand, do not appear to be named according to my traits. I have a strong tendency to place much value on physical ability and self-sufficiency, which leads me to consider Byka's WWF-style behavior a disability of sorts. Therefore on nights like this I attempt to teach Byka grace.

"Look at your sister" begins "Grace: 101" for today, as Nyka takes the teaching lead and leaps up on my desk without a second thought, knowing very little about what dangerous objects I've placed in her landing zone, yet she manages to land perfectly, needing no runway, with her paws positioned precisely in between electronics, wires, screws and occasionally my fingers.

"Keep your center of gravity low" I tell Byka as I apply enough pressure to the top of her back to correct minor defects in automotive bodywork. This is the correct amount of force for her since she's 16lbs of pure muscle (mostly because she's always tense with fear), and she seems to enjoy the attention. I then rattle the stool underneath her to show her how much more stable she has become. She stares at me with huge eyes that say more or less what they said a minute ago: "Pet. Now." So I do. But there is always tomorrow.

The Pleasure of Puking Things Out

In Review: A long-awaited homecoming
Rating: Comfortably familiar and familiarly uncomfortable

It's our first full week at home since before Thanksgiving. We came home late at night and the house is a disorganized disaster. I can't find my sock, my shoes are scattered around the closet, our passports are on the dinner table, and we haven't even started unpacking. Following our two consecutive weeks out of town around Thanksgiving and our subsequent trip to Costa Rica, we spent (on average between the two of us) two nights at home before heading back down to New Jersey for three nights and then directly to Boston for another two.

So it's nice to relax after all that adventure. Our little bed has a heated mattress pad, and even though we'll be chipping off icicles from various surfaces throughout the house tomorrow morning, at least this night is going to be cozy and warm and comfortable. Pretty comfortable. As comfortable as four mammals together weighing a quarter of a ton on a little full-sized bed is ever going to be. (It's not really that we let the dogs sleep on the bed so much as they sometimes gracefully agree to share pillow space with us.)

It takes a little while to get back into the rhythm of sleeping at home. I'd missed that comforting, familiar trifecta of Oliver's tailing bouncing on my feet as he dreams, Asa's elbow embedded in my spine as he scrabbles for purchase against his precarious perch on the edge of the bed, and Misha's 100+ pound bulk resting peacefully over my face. That rhythm becomes elusive so quickly when we go on vacation, for some reason. But yes, there it is again. I remember how to time my inhalations with Misha's to minimize how much of his terrible breath I intake. I remember how to arch my back like a vaulting pole in mid-jump to minimize the number of vertebrae being coaxed out of alignment by Asa's epiphyseal protuberances. I let the sound of the scampering mice in our ceiling lull me into a deep slumber...

I'm dreaming that the mice have developed the initiative to cooperate and are carrying me on a very uncomfortable palanquin toward what sounds like a great lion having a hair ball, when I start suddenly awake. The lion must still be hacking up this hair ball, though, because the sound hasn't gone anywhere. I look groggily around in the dark, trying to make sense of my current reality. As my eyes adjust, I realize I am looking at Oliver, who has mercifully gotten off the bed and is wreathed in serene moonlight, preparing to embark upon what promises to be an epic vomit-quest. Our eyes meet and he opens his mouth, fixing me with his mournful gaze, and loudly releases a small, wet clump of slimy fabric from the custody of his bowels.

Ah, it feels good to be home. And at least I found my sock.

Holy Shiatsu

In Review: Massage
Rating: Painfully amazing

I call to make an appointment for a massage. "BRC Spa and Sauna," says a gruff Russian-accented voice at the other end of the line. I awkwardly bumble something about wanting a massage at 11:15, because I have a lifetime of unjustifiable inferiority complexes built up regarding conversing with Russian adults. On the other end: silence. "So, um," I eloquently wrap up. Some more silence, followed by, "I'm listening."

Most of my interactions with the desk clerks at the banya, as my people refer to it, go pretty much that way. It's hard to explain to a person with limited experience talking to Russians that those guys are actually really nice. But I will try anyway.

Asa and I arrive at the banya at 11. Have I mentioned that it is run by a gentleman who is lovingly known as - and this is true - "Metal Pete"? Metal Pete isn't at the desk this time, though, and we are greeted by the only other person I ever see working there. Let's call him Boris the Knife. I tell him about my upcoming appointment and he nods vaguely. We put our valuables into a plastic bag in exchange for a locker room key.

When I come out, fully bathing suited and bath robed, Boris the Knife asks me, in Russian, if I'm ready for my massage. This is the first time he's said a word in Russian to me because, perennially embarrassed about my accent in my mother tongue, I speak English whenever I can. "Oh, sorry," he recovers in English. But I finally decide to stop hiding behind my American intonations and tell him, in Russian, that I am in fact ready. His buddy (Mikhail Kalashnikov, say) has been leaning menacingly over the counter, and he suddenly laughs. Boris the Knife tells me, while never marring his hard expression with a smile, that he and Misha here were just discussing that I must be Russian, because beautiful women always are. I laugh awkwardly and give them what I must assume is a smile so charming, it disables their ability to make any further conversation. The Knife leads me silently to the massage room. 

Which brings me to what this review is actually about: Annie. Sweet, tiny, painfully strong Korean Annie. 

She does not speak In English sentences, but she can communicate with me pretty effectively just by using a word or two. "Robe," she points to a hook on the door. "Bathing suit," she points to an empty space by the sink. "Face down," she points to the massage table. "Muscle good," she says, looking at my back. This is cryptic, but clearly a compliment, so I mutter thanks, and she gets to work. And hot stones, does she know what she's doing. She finds my sore and tight spots within nanoseconds, and wastes no time. "Hurts," she laughs, and continues shoving her thumb into my neck. "Mrvvrrrth," I sort of respond, maybe. This conversation doesn't matter anymore. After years of the pathological caution I've grown accustomed to at American massage places, her unapologetic assailment of my anxiety-constricted muscles is disorienting and amazing. I actually feel like those ladies in massage commercials who seem transported to a wonderful place by the relaxing aroma, the mountain view behind them, and the gentle touch of their masseuses. Except I'm in what I think used to be a broom closet and instead of looking like a beautiful model with a peaceful expression unmarred by a lifetime of actual human concern, I think I'm drooling.

"Married?" Annie asks suddenly. There is a pause while I get my drool under control, which she mistakes for a lack of understanding. "Have baby?" she clarifies. She's asking this while she massages my butt, so I'm not sure this cryptic question is quite complimentary. "Not... yet?" I say somewhat doubtfully, since I'm starting to think she understands my body better than I do, so maybe she knows something that I don't. "Have baby," she assures me. Before I can really worry that this is a statement of fact, she elaborates, "Have baby, happy every day." For some reason I assure her I'll have a baby soon (anything for you, Annie), and with this out of the way, she happily resumes the massage.

When she's done, I'm pretty much a pile of vaguely connected body parts. She must be aware of this, because she pushes me into a sitting position. I wait for her to leave before putting on my bathing suit, but she doesn't seem particularly inclined to do so. Whatever, I think, and put on my bikini in front of her. "Russian woman?" she asks me while observing me out of the corner of her eye. "Happy woman," she mutters sagely when I nod. I thank her profusely for the amazing massage (have I mentioned that I can turn my head to the left for the first time in months?) and my tiny masseuse grins at me. "Have baby soon," she says in place of a goodbye.

A Nice Day (and Where to Have It)

In Review: Vermont DMV
Rating: Faith-in-humanity-restoring

I was in Costa Rica with my family a couple of weeks ago, and maybe that should be its own review, but all I'll say here is that we got expertly alleviated of many of our possessions; among them, some drivers' licenses. This meant very different things for some of us.

For my mom, it meant going to the DMV in New Jersey, getting yelled at for presenting a credit card as one of her six points of identification, having to go home and get a debit card, coming back and presenting the debit card and an insurance card and her passport, getting to the photo booth and suddenly being told that since she has a middle initial on her license but not on her passport, she needs to go find the original copy of her naturalization certificate. That is: go back home, root through the safe, find that the certificate is not there after all, ask father-in-law to go with her to open his safe at the bank, see some direct evidence of the near-delusional scale of his lifelong preparation for the zombie apocalypse (which for some reason necessitated putting empty plastic bags in the safe - "to prevent shifting"), finally find the certificate, go back to the DMV, and no less than a full workday later, come out with a grumpy picture (because they told her not to smile).

For us, it meant a trip to a Vermont DMV, which is a little different. We went up to Montpelier with our dogs (because there are some nice hiking trails right next to the municipal building). When we got inside, we were nearly the only ones there. Asa took a number and a form to fill out. The only proof of anything he brought was a single piece of mail. No picture ID is necessary here since they already have the license photo on file. Meanwhile, a very elderly gentleman hobbled over to the counter, relying heavily upon a rolling walker with a basket in the front. He asked to speak to Caroline. Caroline was busy, but he said he'd wait. A few seconds later, Caroline turned out to be available after all, but she clearly didn't recognize the guy. "You helped me get my disability placard," he told her, and some possibly artificial recognition crossed her face. "So I wanted to give you this." And he pulled out a wrapped gift from his basket, which turned out to be a cutting board that he custom made for her. She thanked him profusely and told him he didn't need to come all the way out here for that. He told her that she went out of her way to help him get his placard, so it was the least he could do. Asa's number was called before the exchange was even finished; by the time the old man was out the door (which someone held open for him, of course), Asa had his new license in his hand. And in the photo, he was smiling widely.