Musing Interruptus

Welcome to Musing Interrupts. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. You know what is great about comedians? I’m going to tell you a couple of things. I also want to go over some principles of comedy, mind you, this is purely from observation, so I may be wrong. Come closer, pull up a seat, put your feet up, and let’s talk about it.

My first love was the first boy who made me laugh, without fail. I was 11. I really loved him. We were friends, in the same class. We had playdates at each other’s house, we have memories playing his FIFA game on my super Nintendo, watching movies, and eating pizza at my house, pitched battles with his friends at his neighborhood park, and sitting close to each other in class. On my behalf, it was a silent love, I never told him… although, I’m pretty sure it was plain to see. I’m not a master of mystery now, so at 11… I mean. Whatever… What I most admired, was how he just knew what would make everyone burst with laughter. It was not only the phrases he said, it was his timing. I so admired that. I desperately wanted to be funny too. He was not they only funny person in my life, a few years later, my sister filled our home with comic relief. We were not great friends then… but ohhh, she made me laugh. She still does.

Comedians have this fantastic ability to break down walls, emotional, moral, the 4th wall, through observation, commentary, and a playing with perspective. Comedy is a vocation for serving laughter and helping people discover the boundaries of their laughter and their imagination, sometimes through the power of deduction. Like explorers and scientists in the field, they observe, mix, condense, project and make it go boom. Comedians should be sent in when diplomacy has failed. Think about it, TNT vs a Release of Serotonin… the effects are clear.

From the moment you meet a comedian you know you are in for a treat. They have the best ice breakers. Ahhh, the first impression can be poetic. It could go both ways too, you could be funny right off the bat, or you could present yourself as a very modest and serious person, whom, when you least expect it, makes you laugh hard. Yeah... Some people like to laugh so hard that their bowels move and their face becomes completely distorted. Some people, and me too. I love to laugh. Laughter is the great defeater of sadness, a champion against angst, a mediator between the anguish life has to offer and breathing life and color. Making laughter, what thing.

The best ice breakers are those that catch us off guard and make us laugh out loud, in the most unguarded way. Like when you are at a funeral, and you approach the grieving widow and ask if she thinks people are having a good time.  That might not go over so well. However, if I go first, I do hope you ask my husband that. Also, I hope my admirers put on a proper display of grief. At least one should drape themself over my casket, and the speeches should also include words like loving, an unparalleled seductress, brilliant writer, master teacher excelcium, and overall, humble. Which takes me to my next point…

The principles of comedy. The following list is neither exact nor all-encompassing. It is an exercise in observation and an invitation to continue the conversation. Continue reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening… I’m going to take you on a little trip. It is not comfortable, it is not sweet, and it does not end well. Let’s do this together. I’ll take your hand while I talk you through it.

Open to a room bouncing with kinetic energy, product of every single object residing there.

A man and woman are talking about declarations of love and anxiety.

The burden of risk is placed on men, and that is not fair. - He said.

You don’t realize how much I risk, just being here. Just entertaining the possibility. If you understood that, you would embrace the burden, as you phrased it. You would understand the true stakes. You would never be ostracized, but I would. She, explained. This is the mindset I grew up with, when it comes to relationships, being vulnerable, making friends, and falling in love.

He interjected, you are not wrong, but I am going to share something with you, and all it makes think is, I had had already learned this in the movies. You can’t imagine what I went through last week. I’m in love with a married woman. It makes me sick to my stomach.

The last thing she told me, is that she felt sick, it’s like the last time. I’m seeing my doctor later. - Great, good luck, hope you feel better. I said to her. Something in the pit of my stomach clenched. Ok, it wasn’t my stomach precisely. That was in the morning, that afternoon, I messaged her, checking in. There was no answer. Hours later, no answer and no indication of anything. It’s not my place to pry, this was going round and round in my head, going against every single fiber in my being. You know where this is going. You can see it approaching and increasing in girth and height. It’s the darkness and discomfort and the fear and skin crawling doubt that the one extreme thought that popped into my mind, explaining her absence, was true.

It will be ok. I said to myself, Practice mindfulness… repeat what you are doing three times at a time. That will definitely make you less crazy. Definitely. This isn’t working. I have to work. I have so much work to do. I start spiraling out and reattach myself to my work. Breathe in and breathe out. Why wouldn’t she be ok? I keep thinking to myself. Time for bed. It’s ok. Sleep comes, but at what cost. I must have smoked, popped pills, and dropped more cbd under my tongue than ever. I couldn’t risk another restless night. Morning came and there was no answer. She’s gone. It must be true. She’s gone. Don’t resist this, just accept whatever life has in store for you today. I can’t message her… her husband might see and see straight through my message… I’m in love with your wife and can’t imagine my life without her. Sorry about that. Yet I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t put her in that position. In my mind, that is also me saying I love her. I start thinking about the funeral. Would I come up to the grieving husband and express my condolences, all the time thinking, you should express yours back to me. I imagined her casket, and how I would finally express the things I carried for her inside. She was gone, in the worst fiction I could imagine and all a product of my anxiety. The murderous bastard. Continue reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. I’ve been thinking about success and failure. All or nothing. Making it big or watching it all fall-through. Being courageous doesn’t me you are free from fear. Doing something scary can be half the fun. Other times, it takes courage just to dream it, let alone work towards it.

The word towards stems from the 9th century. The other day, a friend told me he was old. I asked if he really felt it. -No answer.  I wonder how the word towards feels, being born in the 9th century.  Imagine a word feeling. What a thing. What a one-sided relationship we’ve been in, with words. If only words knew what they make us feel and do. Perhaps that is precisely why they don’t feel, it would be, altogether, too much. But I digress…

Today on Musing Interrupts… everyone gets a medal…

There are stories we tell ourselves to live. To survive, to make it work, and sometimes, even be victorious. This is one of them.

There are situations that seem more difficult to swallow or get through than others. Tragedies, of course, but then there are others that are just plain hard. Situations that put us in a complicated place, maybe scary because of the implications, the changes they could bring along, the risks. Why not, some put into question worthiness, because, what if it actually happens? Would I deserve something so great, what if it takes something away from someone else? My parent’s made sure that thought pattern was ingrained in me. We add, we don’t subtract.

Moving to a new city, getting a new job, starting new projects, rebuilding after a separation, separating, falling in love, starting a novel, going on an adventure… it all starts with a single movement forward that serves as an indicator that you are not giving up on happiness and love and life. Which doesn’t mean that it works out the first time you take a stab at it. Anyone who works with children knows the value of teaching persistence and recognizing efforts. Adults who were brought up this way or who have learned this, are the lucky bastards that push through adversity, sometimes with a smile, courageously brandishing a sword. Lucky for us, this is something you can learn, even later in life, even if you’ve been around since the 9th century. I realize that last phrase is neither here nor there, but I have a feeling you understand where I’m coming from.

I confess I’ve survived life, sometimes with courage, other times, in fetal position. The thing about the fetal position, is that you eventually have to get up anyway. Courage doesn’t always come easy, especially when it comes to my own happiness. I was taught to give and sacrifice. A little too much, I think. My parents making sure they weren’t raising a psychopath. Jokes on you! I drink me coffee black!! (have you seen the meme about drinking unsweetened coffee?? I think I was the only one who saw it. Every time I bring it up, I just get blank stares and I feel I have to follow up with… but I’m not really, I’m just kidding). Every time… :( Would a psychopath write this stuff?? I don’t think so… to be on the safe side, I’m not going to google this. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. There are memories that I will take with me to the ends of my life as I know it. This is one of them. The day I was much too satisfied with myself.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of sheer happiness after conquering a fear or facing adversity. Even if it was all in your head, the whole time. The exhilaration of achievement needs to be nurtured and lived intensely. It all starts with the turn of the ignition key, lowering all the windows, opening the sunroof, and playing your favorite tunes on the radio… chased by the feeling that this will be short-lived… but how long? That is irrelevant. Right now it’s just you and the open road. Wind, speed, tunes, nothing but the road ahead, and happiness.

Every road has a turn, and there are no exceptions to this. In my case, a turn that led to speed bumps and the smell of a factory that interrupted the feeling a little, but not enough. The right song came on to rescue me back from the ill-conceived location of the stinky factory.  The sun was perfect and the wind did its part to stop the nauseating smell from putting an end to my ecstasy. I kept driving, but something did happen. I am suddenly aware of how happy I am. How light I feel. I’m as light as air. What is wrong with this picture?

I reconsider my surroundings. I look at the door handle where I normally hang my mask. Something is amuck. I double-check the rearview mirror and it hits me. For the first time in two years, since the start of the pandemic, I left the house without a mask. Mind you, I’ve been meticulous about masks, portable disinfectants, and carrying on in open spaces. It was bound to happen. I let happiness get the best of me. Not all was lost! I always have a stash of masks in the car! I had always had a reserve of masks in the car. I shoved my left hand into the space between my seat and the backseat door. Nothing. It’s empty. My god, my car is clean. It’s too clean. My husband cleaned my car. He is so thoughtful. With my right hand, I dump the contents of my enormous purse onto the copilot’s seat. I’ve also changed the soundtrack to something a little more appropriate. Chopin’s Funeral March in C minor seems fitting. The front seat has nothing that will do. I even try to fashion a mask out of a little blue microfiber cloth I use to dust the surfaces. Wait! The glove compartment! There might be something there. As I opened it I knew that I knew the exact contents of that glove compartment, I rifled through it anyway… and no, there are no extras in there either.

I’m looking on both sides of this very long and stupid street for a pharmacy. Come on! We are enduring a pandemic, there should be pharmacies all over the place, especially on this long and stupid-looking street. I have to turn again. I’m glad to leave that street behind me. It’s ruined everything. No worries. I’ll fix it. I could raise my blouse over my nose, thus exposing the bottoms of my breasts to the world. This could work twofold, considering the baguettes I was on my way to purchasing… did I mention I was on my way to the bakery? It was lunchtime. If the attendant at the bakery liked what they saw, we could have a reenactment of Aerosmith's Crazy music video. This afternoon could still be saved. Then I remembered that I live in a very conservative city and that the lady sales assistants at this bakery are seldom kind to me. Keep reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Time expressions contextualize. Two years ago, last Friday, and May 12th. 23 hours ago, since last we spoke, 1983. Today, 20 years after Lorena’s grandmother drew from her experience on the Foundational Elements, Lorena returned to the patch of earth, molten green as she remembered it, where she knew she could feel her. She needed those frail arms and hands to stroke her hair one last time. She needed to ask her if she could do it all again, would she make the same decisions? -Had it been worth her time? Lorena could only think these questions. It is almost shameful to bring it up, dishonoring her memory. As if admitting she made a mistake would dishonor her legacy. She got back in her car and drove to the café. Movement made thinking come easier. So she continued thinking. The best places were her car, morning walks, and evening bike rides, always with music, always lost in her thoughts and music and dance. Lorena thought about herself at 16, she hated when people wanted to be right about everything. That was her thing. Fine-tuning her phrases, forcing an argument until she won or at least wore out her interlocutor, these were her go-to activities when she needed some mental stimulation. It is a wonder she had any friends at all. She saw compliments where there were none… You just always have to be right, don’t you? Which only led her to think… Yes, I’m always right, after all, I am Ms. Smarty Pants from the land of knowitall.  She had reigned it in over the years. She learned to pick her battles. There were some she simply would not put any effort in, and that was her definition of a healthy balance. Rehabilitated, indeed. Her days of meticulously setting argument bombs around the people she most liked arguing with were over. Except with her mother.

Her mind raced back to her grandmother. Lorena could not understand her decision to pack up and leave, as anything else, other than a tragedy. She closed shop, and closed her heart. She was in her forties. Is that the age of giving up? Wondered Lorena. She couldn’t help feeling the weight of her own years under her grandmother's. She continued walking in the parking lot of the upright minimall. What a concept. It was 25 years ago when she first stepped foot there. It was new. Now it was so old, it had been repainted several times over. It looked and felt fresh and familiar. Lorena couldn’t help feeling the same way, despite her experience and countless mistakes. She climbed the stairs to the outside, the outdoors. City outdoors are so different from suburb outdoors, she thought to herself. Unsaturated colors vs saturated colors.

There is a light that never goes out repeating endlessly since morning. She didn’t even like that song anymore. It always made her think of a Rabbit she used to like, one of her cousin’s friends. He had curly hair and kissed by the book.

She shook off the memory and wondered if Bono ever felt this way. And, does the music consume him like it consumes me? Probably more so, it’s his life. What consumes me?, Lorena asked herself. - Senseless questions. I could make a career out of senseless questions, that aren’t really senseless. They aren’t. Not if they cut to the essence of the thing. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. My greatest aspiration as a child was to be cool, fully knowing it wouldn’t mean anything if I called myself cool. I had to earn it. I would have to get someone to say it. Kinda like a Beatlegeusse, Beatlegeusse… Beatlegeusse …. thing.

I knew that cool people looked and acted a certain way. At 7, The New Kids on the Block, the Fonz from Happy Days, and Amelia Earhart;  at 9, my cousin the musician, at 39 Lilly Tomlin and Simone de Beauvoir… and Bono.  From 7 to 9, they all had a few traits in common, they were aloof and calm, assured, attractive, had leather jackets. They looked like rockstars. The real kind, not glam rock. The New Kids On the Block had their own collectible cards.

A few years later, I struggled to identify coolness in the people around me. Maybe I was the cool one. Although, I most definitely didn’t feel calm, controlled, aloof… far from it. I forgot about my quest for coolness and got wrapped up in being me and not what was expected of me. I realized I wasn’t cool, and that was ok. By the time I got to high school I knew a few things about not being cool and the importance of controlling the narrative. So I got a friend, who was very sociable, to start calling me by a particular nickname. Still not cool, but at least I wasn’t going to be called something that would socially scar me for life. Plus it was versatile. Clothing is a big part of being cool. I didn’t like fashion trends or any trends. I kinda wanted to dress in Victorian-era dresses, long busty dresses. I thought they were sexy as hell. The whole, decolletage thing was aspirational.  Later I realized that the empire cut is not for me, it just made me look like a pregnant teenager. Not to dis the pregnant teenager niche here, but it wasn’t my idea of cool.

I understood that perception was important. Being in control of people’s perception of me was something I wanted to do, never actually succeeded in, awkwardly. I was not good at it. A series of bad acting moments, strung together one after the other. I still remember and cringe. Putting it into perspective, the best people have cringe-worthy moments to speak of. That is just a fact. Best people for what, I couldn’t tell you.  Maybe, just maybe I got all of that out of my system. Probably not. It's a matter of self-discovery if you ask me. I’d like to say, no regrets. But I would cringe at that too.

I don’t long to be cool, like my 7-year-old self. I like to be me. Still awkward, confidently awkward. Like when I had to tell the waiter today that it smelled like urine was baking in the sunny garden area where we were sitting. For some reason I felt I had to clear up, it had not been me. Confidently awkward. You just know that I would have owned it, if it had been me.

I once thought my taste in music would make me cool. But a dear friend once exclaimed, mid gettogether that he knew it was my iPod playing because my music made him want to speak in words of more than three syllables. I assume that he was not remarking on my coolness. But it's ok, I was over wanting to be cool- I wanted to be a writer. The words comment would somehow work in my favor. Cont. Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. I was watching House of Cards on Netflix. Patricia Clarkson plays Jane Davis,  deputy undersecretary of commerce for international trade. Apart from the skill and eccentricity, she brings to the role, she gives a voice to one of the most interesting characters of the whole series. In my humble opinion… humblest of opinions…  Before her character is stripped of all its power, she makes a poignant statement about power and women by invoking the Second Sex, by Simone the Beauvoir, She was right about everything.

A couple of weeks ago I got into a heated discussion with someone, who shall remain nameless, who posited that it wasn’t keeping with the times having students read and write essays. Students are learning faster, technology can stimulate our brains and that is how we learn. We were talking about higher education, by the way. I believe there was a defense of the use of TikTok as an example of how issues should be simplified, into bite-sized capsules. Honestly, what I felt was a hot sword sear through my brain. My upbringing included being told that not reading was something to be ashamed of. -Mind you, I live in a country where people read 3.9 books per year. Teachers have their work cut out for them.

Why should you pick up a book (or kindle or bootleg pdf or photocopies)? According to Batini, Toti, and Bartolucci in Dementia and Neuropsychology (2016) Mental stimulation… the processes of mentalizing (understanding a narrative) and autobiographic memory are stimulated. The authors indicate that reading stimulates changes in connectivity, and it is an efficient training not only for language but for all cognitive domains. So if you ever worry about dementia and are one of the many that have a glass of red wine and a cup of coffee as preventive measures, this might also be one of the reasons you read. Even if you don’t have that much time.

Reading is crucial for mental development, to increase vocabulary (we need words to imagine and express thoughts, words are thoughts, imagine that), concentration, writing skills… to imagine realities other than our own, which stimulates empathy, critical thinking, imagination, and a plethora of skills I am not imagining. I need to read more.

My work revolves around reading ideas, mostly about international affairs, and I read my student’s reflections on international business and international affairs. I help them organize their ideas. I also translate, so I read about whatever I’m translating, and for fun, I joined a book club. We finished Wuthering Heights last month. I’m not over it yet. Now we are reading Cloud Cuckoo Land. I can feel the transformation happening. My reality is being transformed, once more. The glasses with which I can understand the world have a new tint. The very way I ever imagined organizing a story has changed along with it.

Joining the book club not only brought me new friends, travel companions sharing their reactions of love, hate, and conundrums over the worlds we discover with each turn of the page. It has also given me the opportunity to make new fictitious friends. They joined the others. It’s a party. I’m also painting again. The mental stimulation is intense. I needed to read something for fun, for beauty, just because. Continue reading: https://bit.ly/3s1LGuW 

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. I had a dream or was it a movie? One of my bad habits is falling asleep with the tv on. This can make for dreams with excellent production value. The thing is… that information leaks into your unconscious. The sounds, perhaps the feelings the sounds elicit, can change what we were meant to dream. Dreams are a way of dealing with our inner struggles, traumas, and the events of the day. What happens if the process is altered. The question I struggle with now: Whose dream was that?

Mine, of course, I had it, whatever elements affected my dream, created and crafted my dream. It is mine. But, could it be construed as a matter of teamwork? Let’s be serious about this for a moment, ideas don’t happen in isolation. Unless you live in a room, closed off to the world. Furthermore, some people attribute magical meanings to dreams. As if they were prophetic. I’d rather consider them meeting places. But, what if they are prophetic? How many of you remember your dreams in the morning? How many details can you remember? When you retell your dream, do you realize you are missing elements? It would be nice to have a recording service, so we could audit our dreams. They might reveal more than we know. In psychoanalysis, dreams reveal truths about ourselves, our thoughts, desires, fears, pains, and traumas. But what if we could remember more? What if our dreams actually hold more information? How could we know, if we can only remember portions of our dreams? Prophets.

This brings me to my next question… What would we do with that information? What would the point be? If you could know what was coming up, would you change anything? Do we even want to know? Could we band together as one? Imagine… all the individuals. Living for … there is a song there.

If dreams could tell the future, would they be the key to an improved future? Would our dreams sync up? Could foreseeing the future result in greater empathy? Would a collective dream lead us to finally caring about the environment, lifting our fellow brothers and sisters out of poverty? Anticipating the commission of crimes, like oracles or precogs, like in Minority Report. People would be massively interrupted in their attempt to commit a crime. Massively is a lot. Even if it is just one person interrupting a crime… that could make a difference. Someone would do it. Right?

Our collective dreams could change the world as we know it. But… what about insomniacs. They would be left out. What about the people who say they never dream? How about people who have memory disorders? We would have some type of segregation, dreamers against non-dreamers. A privileged group. An unlikely bunch who have access to strategic information. I guess the dreamers would have to know how to identify the information that is strategic and know what to do with it. Read on https://bit.ly/37CopIZ 

Welcome to episode 13 of Musing Interruptus. Guess what, it is Friday. I’m feeling it. I’m feeling something. But that is not what I’ve popped in to tell you. It’s Musing Interruptus and I am so happy to say hello, good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. How’s it going? What’s going on over there, on the other side of this? Thank you for listening. After traveling, I can attest to being shaken. I don’t regret it. I rather like it. The feeling of something fundamentally changing, unexpectedly. My perception of life changes with each person I meet, each experience I have and place I visit, like colonizing a new part of the universe. No, not colonizing, just visiting. I’m aware we are all just visiting. On this highway of life, we are all just passing by, passing the slowpoke, sometimes being the slowpoke. I suppose one of the best parts, letting it all sink in after the journey.

Throughout life, we meet people, some who stay, some who go, some who come and go. I am reminded of the importance of doing my best to see people for who they are, behind the bravado, pain, trauma, resentment… All of which create a chasm between themselves and the world. I’m not saying it is our responsibility to do this. I believe our responsibility is to work on ourselves. That being said, we are passing by, sometimes stopping in, invited to sit a spell in people’s lives, and we extend these invitations as well. -Come in, take a load off, put your feet up, can I interest you in a drink? How about a life together? Let’s be friends forever or at least while we’re here. The art is seeing people for who they are, not who we want them to be. Loving people without expectations of fulfilling our own needs. Of course, they are there. Our needs, desires, wants… But fulfilling those, falls upon us, those are our responsibilities. Understanding the other person’s language, strategies and words, on their terms, as best as possible, unlocks new worlds of interaction. Hello, I see you are scared and hurt, let me sit with you. Ahh, you laugh a lot, that is how you share your truth, that is how you hide it too. How sweet when we encounter people who are willing to do the same for us. What you have there is potential for friendship, and other ships.

I was harshly reminded of this during my trip. Manifestations of love come in different shapes and forms. An exercise of empathy and forgiveness, of love and healing.

Before I left on my trip, a dear friend, who, by the way, is excellent at seeing people and naturally finds ways to understand them, reminded me the seaside is an ideal place to let go. Something about salty water curing all ailments. It is a common belief. After more than two years of absence, I felt the need to be closer to the ocean. There is more to it. Walking along the beach, at the blurry edge of water and sand. There is sound. Booming, crushing, inviting, magnetic and hypnotic. I had forgotten how much I loved feeling slammed by the waves, rendered helpless only to get up and do it all over again. Sitting in the surf or just flirting with my toes and the sand. A love affair in three acts. A redundant, maybe misguided love.

Keep reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. However young or old, there is nothing quite like the anticipation of a trip. Traveling renews energy, it wakes up areas in the brain that seem to hibernate. Most likely, our minds need to protect ourselves from the drudgery of the mundane repetition of that which we cannot stop doing. From breathing the same stale air every Monday to brushing our teeth after each meal. Today on Musing Interruptus, Shaking it Up.

Some people cannot go a season without traveling. It is no surprise, as the benefits outweigh the discomforts of sleeping in a strange bed, making use of foreign toilets. Constipation, for some. A very small price to bear for all the wonders to see and experiences to be had.

Give it a little think, think about your most wonderful travels. Perhaps the most wonderful are yet to come. No matter… If you dream it, wonder it, muse over it, you will probably experience it.

Some people travel light and others… well, let me think, what do I need? Underwear, a bathing suit, pajamas, the kind with feet and an opening in the seat of the pants (are you imagining them? They look comfy, don’t they?, I’ll need my sleep aids, my favorite oversized sweater. Let me tell you about this sweater. The person who made it never, in her wildest dreams imagined I would be its keeper. This is a sweater that I fell in love with, instantly. I knew if interobject marriages were available to us, we were the right match. A love match… If you follow this podcast, and remember the one on childhood friends, then I’ll tell you, this sweater belonged to a friend of our dear and late friend Whitney. Whitney’s friend is a very tall woman, and her grandmother made her a sweater that probably fit her very well. I am the opposite of tall. I really love this sweater. It might not be much to look at. It's heavy knit, gray. However, it gives me comfort and makes me believe in creativity. So, it is my adult security blanket. Special for all types of trips. What else do I need? My book or kindle, laptop in case I need to work, lotions, toothpaste, toothbrush, half the medicine cabinet, passport (in case we need to leave the country in a hurry), earphones for work, earphones for music, external battery, offline music, reading glasses, shades, sleep mask, concert earplugs, normal earplugs, moist towels, dry towels, diverse toiletries, sunscreen. Do you remember how important it is to wear sunscreen? I never leave home without it.  As I was saying, I travel light. I can leave at a moment’s notice. Maybe two moments… I’ll get there.

Once you are packed and out the door. Remorse sets in. Not about leaving no… it’s all about that coffee pot you are wondering if you actually unplugged. Did I leave the gas open, is it escaping through the stove burners? Is there a bag of food decomposing in the middle of the kitchen? Is the front door locked? How easy is it to kick in? I would miss my bike… and the big TV. Gosh. Remorse for not being absolutely certain. Dearest, 100% certainty does not exist. Nothing is foolproof. I’ve been a known fool. However, I have created a checklist to ameliorate the sensation. Continue reading