I walked down my dimly lit pathway to the mailbox. A fresh rain glistened across the concrete where I walked, while the crunch of winter’s last leaves beneath my feet permeated the sound of the cool night’s air. I drew in a deep breath and marveled at the smell of fresh rain. And Spring!
Spring is in the air!
On the way back to the house, I could see my path of destruction and their tiny, lifeless shadows of despair. Squashed slug carcasses, already dead or slithering close to death, were everywhere! It was then that I realized I hadn’t been stepping on winter’s last leaves at all.
I stopped and inspected the bottom of my Ugg’s, confirming my suspicions. My soles were adorned with thin shells, mollusk guts and mucus. I had killed the snails. And, the mere presence and proliferation of the California slug can only mean one thing. Spring has most certainly sprung in SoCal along with the reminder to be careful where I walk. #odetotheslug #californiaslug #mollusk
Here’s what to do when you lose your iPhone. Follow my step-by-step guide to get it back or at least regain your sanity:
Call it immediately from another number. If it rings to voicemail, the Son of a Beast/Daughter of a Beast (SOBDOB) who stole it won’t answer because he/she knew to shut it off.
Log into iCloud and click, “Locate your phone,” which you discover isn’t plausible (and is actually a stupid step) because you already knew the SOBDOB shut it off when he/she pocketed it like an off- Broadway street boy/girl practicing his/her role from Les Misérables.
Click “Report your phone lost or stolen” and mutter “by a SOBDOB” under your breath loudly so an entire convention center of your industry colleagues can hear you.
Click “Erase your phone” so when the SOBDOB begins to feel high-and-mighty, turns it back on and tries to creep into your password-protected life, it immediately gets wiped clean.
Brush off your alter-ego (your alternative personality that would never be so dumb as to put the phone down in a public place), go to the Apple Store and purchase a bigger and better phone (from a young, handsome man that lessons you on iPhone (and anger) management and up-sells you a better phone by preying on your love of photography while also suggesting one that is water resistant because of your previous phone accident history, e.g., murky pond water CIRCA 2013, pedicure water CIRCA 2014, panga/bottom of the boat water CIRCA 2015, et al.) But, the real reason you upgrade is because you should be rewarded for the extra 11,377 physical steps you took on foot the day before trying to hunt down the SOBDOB.
Finally, and this is the most important step, get down on your hands and knees and pray that the SOBDOB who stole your phone gets all the karma he/she deserves.
I woke-up early to a the sound of sweet, beautiful, pelting rain; an utterance that’s become more familiar this fall and early winter. It’s tune, rhythmic; it echoes and reverberates throughout the house.
No, that’s not it. That’s too trite. Banal. I’ve trivialized the importance of this rain.
Tonight, the rain heralds more like a song, or a victory dance upon my rooftop, denouncing the drought we’ve been in for so very long. I can almost hear the melody being tapped out by the rain’s tiny feet.
“Drought be damned! Drought be damned!”
A murder of crows flew over hundreds of them, each as dark as night, wings wildly flapping
CAW-CAW-CAW-ing from the painted and falling dusk sky, high-up overhead
There we stood, feet planted, necks stiff from watching the sheer lot of them pass by on their way to another world
Post holiday hustle
Taking it all in
Last day of the year
Fond memories made
heart and mind
On a year of mini triumphs,
successes and defeats
Comprising who I am
Time to let bygones
I can’t take them with me
As a year blossoms
I can breathe it’s fresh air
in a new direction
Sad, still, to say goodbye
Grateful to have lived
and loved another year
#poetry #newyear2017 #newyear
Yesterday, I had to jet to the bakery to grab some bread for Christmas dinner. I had just arrived at the counter where a woman began inquiring about her custom order. The bakers were scurrying around looking for her bread, but to no avail. “We’re so sorry, Ma’am, it looks like your order is not here,” one of the bakers said.
“What? Are you kidding me?” the lady screamed! “YOU have RUINED Christmas! You have RUINED my whole family’s Christmas! I am feeding 20 people! What will I do?”
Her tirade went on and on for minutes, as the bakers searched for some sort of resolve, and as the rest of us stood uncomfortably by. The lady was unrelenting.
Finally, I had to speak up. I had to say something!
“Ma’am these people are working here on Christmas Day. It’s Christmas Day! And, even if it were not, no one deserves this kind of treatment. No one can ruin your Christmas, but you. I can tell you are a smart and crafty person, and you can make any bread work for your special dinner tonight. Take what the bakers have to offer and be blessed you have food on your table, unlike some who do not.”
She took the bread they offered, mumbled a lackluster apology to us all and scurried off. I was tough on her, and probably should’ve bitten my tongue, but I remembered this quote while she was going off about not having the right kind of bread at her table:
There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread. -Mahatma Gandi
Andrew d’Entremont -photo credit
The city pulses and throbs outside my seventh floor window. Sleep escapes me – everything from the occasional wail of a siren, or the honk of a horn, to a faint whistle in the far off distance – keeps me from drifting off. Even the Metro’s rhythmic trundle of wheels on steel tracks that buckle tired railroad ties, tethered beneath – keeps me awake. The old wood suppoerting the train, creaks and moans, protesting the weight of an era of passengers who have relentlessly traversed The City of Magnificent Intentions, the beautiful Capital of the World. And, when my ears become immune and my eyes finally droop, the air conditioner in my room rattles on and hums her own tune. The percussion of a city from a hotel room, reminds me of the musical, STOMP. It is all at once both mesmerizing and environmentally overloading, and I am completely lost in it like writers are when they try to find words that describe what their senses see, hear or feel.
When I can’t sleep, I write. And, when I write, sleep most certainly never comes.
Good morning from Washington D.C.