Feeling Ver-Clipped

I reached into my back pocket and brought out the crumpled list:

Bananas, peppers, milk, bread, coffee

Considering that they weren't on the list, it's a miracle that I even remembered to look for paper clips.  And, if a person can be allowed two miracles in one day--even two lame ones--I'd go so far as to say it's a miracle that I actually found the paper clips.

HyVee, after all, isn't exactly in the paper-clip business.

But, most grocery stores--even smaller ones--have an aisle (or, more likely,  a shelf or two) set aside for what might be called the widows and orphans--those odd things that, every couple of years or so, we need and hope to God we won't have to run to Menards or Office Depot to get.  Think ream of paper, handful of screws, highlighters, and paper clips.  Like Rudolph's island of misfits (er, make that aisle of misfits), it's an easy aisle to miss, which is why I was so pleased to find it yesterday.

Scanning the myriad oddities, I found three options--three!--for paper clips--jumbo, color-coated and standard.  Settling on the standards, an odd thing happened when I grabbed the box of 200.  Immediately, I had the strangest feeling that this would be the very last time in my life that I would buy paper clips.  Ever.

Why, I wondered, would a box of paper clips cause me to have an existential moment, if not an actual full-blown crisis?  What was it about these ordinary items that jarred loose the notion that I would not always be here?

I suspect that, had there been only 50 in the box, my life would not have flashed before my eyes.  Likely, nothing would have flashed before my eyes, and I'd have scratched myself, yawned a bit and tossed them into my cart, zombie-like in my uncaring.

Apparently, 200 is my mortality-rate tipping point for paper clips.  Which makes sense, if I generally use 5 a year, because I can't imagine myself as a 98-year-old person heading to HyVee to get some more.

Maybe this explains my lifelong resistance to big-box stores. 

Most people love big-box stores for all those eye-popping savings wrapped up in mind-boggling quantities.  I hate them, though.  I always thought I hated them because they were big and  crowded and it was weird to be able to buy trampolines and t-bones all in the same place.  Now, though,  I think maybe it's because big-box stores are overwhelming reminders that I'm going to die and there ain't no way I'll be able use 400 rolls of scotch tape between now and then!

Before heading to the checkout lane, I had a fleeting, secret longing.  Safety pins!  Rare and precious, I can recall only three safety pins that I've had in my house in the past 20 years.  I have no idea how any of them came my way, but the two larger ones frequently accompanied me to work, holding together a gaping shirt or keeping closed another buttonless pair of pants, so that I might keep my job.  I'd be hard pressed to find even one of those safety pins today.

Alas, HyVee doesn't carry safety pins.  Thank goodness I'm so over caring about bulging button-ups and dysfunctional denims!  Now, I've just got to be really careful these next thirty or so years.

Making a Clean Sweep

My Defcon 5 kitchen sink.

In my house, the level of cleanliness generally confers the depth of friendship between us.  Below is the chart I use before pulling out the vacuum from the closet.

DEFCON 1: Cocked pistol--maximum readiness and immediate response.

For distant relatives or practical strangers I'm forced to entertain, I have (somewhat grudgingly) pulled out all the stops, Holt-style.  That means I will have dusted and vacuumed that day, picked up the kitchen and wiped down the counters that day, cleaned the first-floor bathroom with actual products as well as swapped out the dirty hand towel for one with fewer stains and holes--again, that day, and vacuumed the fur balls off the stairs.  Depending on the time of year and the level of judgment I anticipate, I may even spritz the kitchen-sink window to try to get rid of some of the water spots on it.

DEFCON 2: Armed forces ready to deploy and engage within 6 hours.

If you are a new friend, or a person I hope will become a friend, you will be greeted by a living room whose rug bears recent vacuum streaks and whose fireplace mantel has been pretty much swiped of dust.  Evidence of Finn will be limited to his actual body, all fur piles either in the vacuum bag or kitchen garbage can.  You will find the kitchen tidy and wiped down and the stove top scrubbed to the point where the marks that remain are simply unremoveable.  Believe me, I've tried!   I'm willing to spend a little more time on the kitchen because we likely will spend some social time there. The first-floor bathroom will smell of 409 and soap, and the towel will be folded smartly atop the rack, though you still will feel awkward using the bathroom, since it is tiny and has two doors that seldom close at the same time.  Some things cannot be addressed without a contractor and a good loan.

DEFCON 3: Ready to mobilize in 15 minutes.

For old friends who are stopping by for a visit, Finn fur has been picked up, by hand, and thrown into the library garbage can.  Dirty dishes are loaded into the dishwasher.  While the kitchen counters may show evidence of morning's toast crumbs, visitors will still feel relatively confident that they will not contract anything serious by eating or drinking whatever is offered.  The bathroom also can be used with relative confidence.

DEFCON 4: Above-normal readiness

Neighbors popping over for a beer will be greeted by minor tweaking. The dining-room table is mostly cleared, Finn fur is visible along the floorboards, although the most copious piles have been shoved into a dark corner near the church pew.  Dirty dishes are neatly piled on kitchen counters and spaghetti-stained kitchen towel has been swapped out for a clean one.  Magazines have been stowed in drawers although the morning's half-done crossword sits pathetically atop the footstool in the library.

DEFCON 5:  Lowest state of readiness

Here for a game of Scrabble?  Virtually no effort has been made to impress you.  After all, what's the point?  If you are thirsty or hungry, you will have to serve yourself and be willing to rinse out a glass or fetch a dirty fork from the dishwasher.  Likely, you also will have to flush the toilet before you use it.  Best to just go ahead of time.

It's with some trepidation that I share this chart with you, especially if you will be coming over some time in the next year.  What if you consider me a good friend yet you find my house sparkling clean when you pop in?  Will such foreknowledge threaten our friendship?  Will you be offended that the toilet has been swished, the dog hair hidden away?  My hope is that you'll excuse me for the transgression and trust that I'll do even less for you next time.  You are a good friend, after all. 

Naturally Inclined

Last night, I fell asleep imagining myself floating face down, in warm, salty Caribbean waters,  my eyes taking in the coral wonderland beneath me.  Beats the heck out of an Excedrin PM, that's for sure.

In the last dream I had this morning, I was playing pickleball with Amy Klobuchar, Pete Buttigieg and Reese Witherspoon.  Pete kept bumping into the net, which was somehow both annoying and kind of charming.

I woke with a smile and a sense of calm.

Maybe that's why I was so aware of all the wonders outside this morning--the bright bend of late-winter light, the nervous robins flittering in our crab apple tree,  the call of a lone goose looking for its peeps.

Relentless news cycles and bullying buffoons can wear a person down.  But, just when I fear my edges are disappearing for good, I find myself redrawn in sunlight and fresh air.

Ten minutes into this morning's walk, I felt my circuits restart.  A low thrum ran through me, as real as the traffic on "O".  As we strolled the path, Finn found a hundred smells that I could only imagine, and I was happy to just stand there and watch his amazing snout soak it all in.  I kept eyeing the trees, hoping to spy a sleeping screech owl wedged perfectly into a carved out knot.  It's a bit of an obsession of mine, these days.  Just last week, while exploring tree limbs for signs of animal life, I found a large opossum slumped over a high branch, worn out, it seems, from living life as an outlier.

We wandered past a dozen bluejays pestering the squirrels, squirrels chittering at the robins, robins freaking out about who knows what, and who knows what churning up little piles of fresh dirt alongside the sidewalk.

It took us 45 minutes to walk a path that normally can be done in 25.  But there was nothing normal about this beautiful morning, bright and new, taut with the news of something else altogether,  waiting just around the corner from us.