Afternoon Massacre

Early this afternoon I killed a robin. I didn’t mean to, it was entirely an accident and I felt badly about it for a whole few minutes afterward.

Mr. (or Miss) Robin was flirting with its mate, twitterpated and ruffled, dancing all over the middle of the road in characteristic spring fashion. As my car rounded the corner, it never had a chance to get out of the way. My public dislike for all feathered creatures could easily make it seem like premeditated murder, but I assure you that the entire episode was a total accident.

Coincidentally later this same afternoon, another massacre took place. Two giant bumble bees decided to make their home in my bathroom, tucked conveniently behind the shade on the window beside the commode. At first I tried to ignore the constant buzz, but their presence became increasingly unsettling after I was informed that many can, in fact, use their stinger as a weapon of mass destruction.

So, with the US government as inspiration, I took matters into my own hands and quickly eliminated them before they eliminated me. Oddly enough it was a more gruesome ordeal than the earlier fatality. Neither bee expired on first attempt and I was forced to smash at their buzzing bodies over and over until they finally crunched into four separate pieces. It wasn’t until I was scooping them into the trashcan when I realized I was guilty of three murders and a broken heart all in one afternoon.

Later I wondered how many other creatures I could “eliminate” without straining my conscience. I’m not a fan of snakes, bats, or bunnies; however I can’t imagine bashing their brains in for sport. Once when I was little, a possum crept into our garage and bit my cat Snicklefritz. That was the closest I ever came to wanting to harm an animal myself. Luckily Dad destroyed the foul beast with a shovel on my behalf.

Within each of us lies the ability to do terrible things, that is a given. Fortunately the desire to indulge in wrongdoing often does not align with the opportunity. And even so, though God may forgive our many sins, our nervous system will not. Despite the dreadfully violent video games and graphic horror flicks, no one can be fully desensitized. Though we cling to our tyrannies and self righteous nonsense, when absolutes such as death or God seem close by, we are quickly reduced to vulnerable and apologetic children.

Our character is defined by what we do when no one is looking. Unfortunately for the robin and bee, my character did not reflect well on my pacifist agenda. I dedicate these words to them now as a peace offering or at least some reparation for the upset I caused in moments of haste. RIP.

“But that’s always the way; it don’t make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person’s conscience ain’t got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had a yaller dog that didn’t know no more than a person’s conscience does I would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person’s insides, and yet ain’t no good, nohow.”

Mark Twain, Huck Finn

Blueberry Pie

Due to a series of fortunate events, I have joined the carefree club, the liberated league, the free spirit federation. I am unemployed. Jobless. A vagabond.

At first it was disconcerting. How will I pay for my vanilla chai lattes and weekend fajita excursions to El Rodeo? Kidding (sort-of). Oddly enough, fear quickly gave way to tranquility. Stillness. Freedom. I feel unbound, unwound, and unsettled, but in a good way. I still wake up early and go to bed before 2. I see this as a sign of growth, a positive sign of post-college maturity.

True, it’s only been a week. I suppose I will eventually panic and wonder how I’m going to pay the electric bill, among other expenses. I spend about twenty minutes each day browsing craigslist and other job sites, trying to convince myself that I can mentally withstand another office job. I write uninspiring cover letters and send half hearted inquiry e-mails. I try to try.

The truth is: this is too easy. And by easy, I don’t mean lazy. It isn’t summer vacation, so there’s no pressure to savor idleness. TV doesn’t interest me, so I don’t have to worry about becoming a couch potato. I actually have time to enjoy things. I cook food in the oven instead of the microwave, read chapters instead of a pages, sing at stoplights instead of swear, enjoy breakfast instead of skipping for an extra ten minutes of sleep. I even make the bed.

Mother would be proud, right? Despite 23 years of begging me to make my bed, she’d probably rather me make my rent. I suppose the parents have good reason to be concerned, having just invested time, money, and energy into my college education. And I understand the parent circles are vicious when it comes to comparing offspring. So how’s Timmy doing, Janice? Medical school, how wonderful. My Marsha is just excelling at Julliard.

Luckily my parents aren’t overly concerned with Timmys and Marshas and neither am I. I just want to be happy, as trite and selfish as it sounds. I don’t want to drag myself to a desk everyday to answer phones, check invoices, and type up minutes just so I can have a 401k, whatever that is. I want to play outside, bake blueberry pies, feed baby goats, grow a vineyard of grapes, go canoeing. I want to stop wasting time.

I suppose some it is spring fever, and I truly don’t mind working as long as it isn’t monotonous. Everyone needs purpose and to be needed. I just wish someone would need me to explore, wander, and bake an occasional dessert. The logical part of me knows it is absolutely necessary to find something, anything, as soon as possible. But the other part of me, the part that can’t stop smiling, the part that can’t imagine giving up these warm balcony mornings with the guitar and a cup of tea, sees little reason to rush. When I try to remember part of it is my age, our culture, this weather, I still can’t get past the dreadful nature of white walls, swivel chairs, and bosses with inflated egos and coffee breath. It feels wrong to stay inside and I’m tired of over processing numbers that don’t matter. It doesn’t build character, it builds rage. It builds malcontent and relationships built on who is earning more.

Maybe someday they’ll find a cure to this insatiable desire to explore beyond the cubicle. A little red pill that instills responsibility and a sense of duty to paperclips and meetings and filing cabinets. That would make all this middle class adulthood a little easier to swallow. Until then, if you know anyone looking for a recent college grad with little more than a bacholars of arts degree and a bad attitude, give them my name.

8am Idea

I do not like listening to the radio, there are too many weak commercials, uncomfortable host interactions, and Rhianna remixes. Also, my attention span lasts about 30 second per song. But this morning on my drive to work I was forced to scan the channels after my car stereo decided to eat my Sing the Journey CD for breakfast.

My own father is a morning show host, and yet I find it hard to appreciate any sort of attempt at witty banter in the early hours of the day. I’m a slow riser; I need some time to 1) wake up and 2) adjust to the fact I must stay awake. I want to hear music, not that Britney’s in jail again or 10 useless facts about saliva.

This morning I found it particularly hard to find a station playing an actual song. Instead I was subjected to Liz and Bryan’s barrage of irrelevant information on FM97. Did you know the person that bought “pizza.com” for $20 in 1994 just sold it for $2.6 million? I did not. Did you know that 1 in 3 homes have Scrabble? I did not. Did you know NKOTB are back? I did not (and still do not know who they are….but look for their May 16th performance on the Today show!)

Country stations tend to play more music, which I hesitate to broadcast. I always feel a twinge of guilt admitting to listening to music inclined to promote ignorance, drunkenness, and patriotism. But I can’t help loving some of those sweet southern ballads and their unoriginal love stories. Plus, they’re easy to sing. This morning I listened to Rodney Atkins sing “Cleaning this Gun (Come On In Boy):”

She deserves respect
That’s what she’ll get
Ain’t it son?
Hey y’all run along and have some fun
I’ll see you when you get back
Bet I’ll be up all night
Still cleanin’ this gun

How alarming.

Eventually I turned the radio off and listened to Margo instead. She cannot disappoint me, mostly because I can predict every word she will ever say. I can also say whatever I want to her and she will not complain. I can argue her direction, grumble about the traffic, shout at her overly agreeable attitude and still be certain she will never disagree, just interrupt. This pleases me.

Margo is my new GPS unit, and possibly my new best friend. She is slender, shiny, and commercial free. And as a bonus, she tells me where I need to go without bothering me about why. It’s true; I’m not one to take directions well. My co-workers call me Katie, Katie, Quite Contrary (which neither rhymes well nor sounds very smart) and my friends enjoy hassling me with Kater Hater, but Margo is different. She does not whine about politics or squeal over Entertainment news. She does not claim it’s her purpose to play music but then litter me with trivia and shampoo ads. She is practical, coherent, and concise.

In between conversations with Margo on the rest of my trip to work I realized that the silence, though enjoyable, is much too pacifying. By the time I reached my office, I am half asleep. Then I wondered: perhaps they should make a jazzier Margo. One who sings and tells jokes and relays the forecast. You could even change channels, depending on your preference of music and hosts. A perfect 8am idea.