Amy's way or the highway

checking in

Here I am.
Waiting for Ben to wake up.
Every now and then I hear the umph of him flipping over onto the pillow. Now that I'm downstairs, he has a whole king size bed to roll and roll and roll. I wish I could sleep that long.

I think that it's not so much biology that makes us sleep more or less. I  know they say "even if you don't have children, women sleep lighter because they're historically the ones who get up and feed the be-be."

My theory is a little less scientific. Men dream about sex so they sleep longer. Women sometimes dream of sex, but usually manifest an amalgam of pent up worry morphed into neurotic imagery. Planes going down, squirrels biting our ankles.

I wake up, because as much as I enjoy sleeping, it's exhausting. It's too much. It's eras. It's a Ken Burns series with a David Lynch twist. Ben wakes up, hours after me, glowing and refreshed. Something fishy here, boss.

So, here I am, watching the news on mute, Breast Cancer Survivors embracing each other on the news, two gay men cooking something with a french accent, an evangelist talking to some pain-faced yet hopeful people, my new account on facebook checked, I've changed the part in my hair a couple times, drank half a cup of coffee..and umph, he flips again. Must be nice.

Head in the clouds

I'd like to quickly address-quickly because I really should be doing something else...WHY ARE THE LAWN MOWERS ALWAYS STARTING AS SOON AS I TRY TO BE CREATIVE? WHAT IS GOD TRYING TO TELL ME? stop, amy, not funny, not creative, move along Bozo...thanks God, mind if I continue?

Okay, here goes. People reinvent themselves at 30+. Nothing to be done about it, just there it is. Some people start in their 20s. I call that pre-mature-reinventalation, and it's embarrassing, and no one wants to hear about it. So, 20something people, listen up. Nothing to reinvent yet; you're still growing into what you may one day want to reinvent...get it? Just keep walking.

I don't reinvent myself. I'm As-is. People who reinvent themselves, good job, but you freak me out. What's with the new wardrobe? When did we start to play chess? I mean 'good for you' and who might you be?

Where was I?

Ah yes. I'm not into reinvention, only coincidence(mind you, readers, this is absolutely heroic that I am writing through this electric lawnmower parade. It's insane out there. Someone must have just kicked a soccer goal in Brazil right outside).

Okay. Coincidence. When I was in 1st of 3rd grade, I did a science fair project on the different forms water takes. It wasn't rocket science. It wasn't even Mr. Rogers' Granola concoction. It was a text book open to page thirty-four, a class of water with ice and a glass of water without ice. Water vapor was a page thirty-four, a bluish squiggly drawing. Needless to day, the science fair judges pulled me aside and offered me a scholarship to NASA. I attended junior NASA for 6 years until they could no longer compete with me. Then I was asked to leave, out the back door, with a box on my head. Humiliating. All because I was smarter.
I mean what is smart really? Should I be brushed aside because my skull size is humongous?

Okay, well, something in me knew the science project was not the best I could be. I know this  because the moment is etched in my brain like laffy taffy on a cavity. The memory is one of those etchings that doesn't go away no matter how many other drawings you do. Like whoever was in charge of the universes wanted me to think about it for a while, until the great unveiling to what this moment actually meant revealed itself with trumpets and lawnmowers.
I believe in etching and coincidences. Religion was kept from me and absurdity filled in the circles with number 1 pencils.

Tomorrow. The etching exposes it's true intent. I will be faced with the same science experiment, but in front of 2nd graders, and as an adult. I am to teach them about clouds. Reading about clouds on-line(see ya later Encyclopedia Brit) I bumped into the same questions I experienced as a 2nd grader-connecting science to life. How do I make this real? How do I yank clouds into their daily lives, into their dibbles and spelling tests, into their crappy or wonderful homelives, into their consciousness? How do I make anything real that already is real? How do I unreal it and then real it again? How do I understand science(my weakness) well enough to give the gift of science.

So there's this bridge from what I know to what I don't know, and all the slats in between, all the weakened hinges slack on the bridge from time, the parts I might fall through(fear of fear of), the too damp steps, the wood too dry, but I press on. Wish me luck coincidence, my old friend. I'll be in the clouds, comme d'habitude.

IKEA

Not much. Thanks for asking. My toilet is making weird noises which concerns me because as a homeowner, plumbing has become my nemesis. How smart are people to become plumbers. I wish I could fantasize about one and run away with him, but wouldn't it be better to go for someone who could pay the plumber. Oy. Life. The chicken or the egg or the one who can afford a chicken or the one who looks like an egg.

I've got pictures of cabinets taped to my cabinets. I'm not one of those people. Oh shit, yes, I am. When I was little I used to point to pictures of things I wanted, close my eyes, then wish. Now I tape pictures of nicer things onto my actual things and viola, real and virtual coincide and collide.

I recently had the nasty little thought that IKEA should offer Divorce Lawyers. Maybe pre-marital lawyers too. You could split up everything just by going to different cashiers. "Okay, Mr. Brown. You'll be checking out with the couch, chaise, and picture frames in aisle two. Mrs. Brown, you'll be in aisle four with the pans and the 240 thread count sheets."
Poor Mrs. Brown. She always imaged when she got her divorce, she'd end up with 800 count Egyptian cotton bedsheets. She'll have to get a job now. She won't be part of the affluent elite divorcees, who got their divorces at Barney's.

Time to go to work. The end.