A Terrible Secret

I have a dangerous addiction that I am not proud of. I felt the need to share it with you in the hopes that the interwebz will show me a vast outpouring of love and support, but knowing that I am most likely just going to get judged and mocked.

But I don’t care. Because if anyone else struggles with this, If anyone else has this problem, well, they need to know that they aren’t alone.

Hello. My name is Lauren, and I am addicted to cereal.

I’m sure all of you know cereal, and it can be used recreationally with little to no harm. In fact cereal addiction is such a misunderstood problem that many companies don’t even warn you of the hazard. There is no warning on the boxes that it can become a problem. That is why I am here today, to bring this issue to light.

Are you like me? Incapable at stopping at a serving? At a bowl? Until you finish the box?

Do you eat cereal for breakfast, and pretend to eat healthy meals the rest of the day only to go home to that cardboard carton of delight? Maybe you try to say it is dinner. Maybe you try to call it dessert. The words you use to justify it don’t matter. We have a problem, and it is time that someone started talking about it.

So, how do you cope with your cereal addiction? Do you avoid the brightly colored aisle at the store? Buy only Grape Nuts or plain Total? You’re in a supportive and loving environment. Please feel free to share. I am thinking we should have a meeting with some sort of drum circle, and refreshments.

But if anybody brings a box of Honey Nut Oh’s to our support group please be warned I will have to confiscate them for your own safety. Actually, Lucky Charms too. And Honey Nut Shredded Wheat! Actually, if it has honey in it you should probably just hand it over. That stuff is like boxed crack.

Breakfast Wisdom

I love my grandpa, and I am blessed that I have him in my life in such an active way.

*insert photo montage of me as a kid learning how to make soap bubbles with him, him getting so aggravated with my math skills that he had to leave the room, a couple rocky years where I stole my grandma’s ashes from the house because his new wife was living there and I didn’t think grandma should have to share a roof with her, reconciliation, proud graduation pictures, repeat jerky making adventures, gardening, canning together, eating, drinking, laughing, etc. here*

He keeps ninja-ing me with free breakfast. Most days this is remarkably pleasant. I have an amazing relationship with him now. I love that my job gives me the flexibility to go and spend quality time over coffee and fried food. Yes. Fried food. They don’t serve anything that isn’t friend and covered in sugar. My diet is so screwed, but my grandpa is more important, which is why when this happened yesterday I went with it.:

Me: “Hmm it is 8:45, surely I can eat something.” Because I starve myself until the breakfast window is closed. “I’ll have some toast.” I freaking LOVE whole grain toast. It is a problem.

Two minutes elapse.

Grandpa walks in. “Well, I’m ready for breakfast.”

Me:“Dang grandpa! I just ate toast!”

Grandpa: “Well, it’s just toast. It would wear off soon anyway.” Gotta love his logic.

So, after replacing my toast with more toast, and eggs, and ham we were enjoying our third (or fifth) cup of coffee and discussing what makes the world go around when grandpa said something to the effect of “Your learning is the only thing that can’t be taken away.”

It struck me. It sounded a chord. Somewhere deep within my soul it resonated. Heaven opened up and angels sang. Or maybe the room getting shimmery was just the caffeine coursing through my system like a magnificent waterfall.

He was right. We had had similar conversations before, but they hadn’t stuck enough for me to wake up at four am dreaming about instilling such simple words of wisdom in the minds of the youth. (Yes. In my dreams I have the kind of awesome following that Allie from Hyperbole and a Half, or Jenny from TheBlogess have. I make a f***ing difference damnit. My words inspire people to live better lives!  [In related news I read a bunch of blogs yesterday, and reading blogs has the same affect on me that watching movies does. I’m going to shield bash someone’s face with my awesome humor and wit! Take that creepy Nazi guy that represents the difficulties many people have with understanding abstract ideas. I will beat you down and make things pertinent by God!])

Our minds, our experiences, our learning; those are the only things that we can take with us. Money, cars, all other objects can be taken away so quickly, but we as a culture keep building ourselves up with them rather than focusing on ourselves. And it is freaking tragic. Our skills, our personal knowledge, are the single most valuable thing that any one of us possesses. It is our contribution to the world. It is what gives us value when all of the other pretenses are stripped away, so why do we feed it so little? Why do we resent the act of learning? Why is it dirty? Every one of us has so much to offer the world with our gems of insight, so why do we smother their light with pillows of materialism?

I love a roof over my head and the food on the table too; don’t get me wrong. I’m am not a monk by any means.

Although, I have made a pact with myself to turn the tv on less, and to books, painting, friends, or Rosetta Stone more. I can say that since then I have amazed myself with the amount of things I accomplish in the time I would spend sucked in to Criminal Minds or NCIS reruns, and I am a lot less paranoid about a serial killer breaking into my house and abducting me in my sleep. I’m going to call that a win-win situation. (Seriously. I live in the middle of nowhere with three cats. When I’m not paranoid that Sasquatch is going to kill me on my parent’s driveway I’m paranoid that someone will break in. I have issues. And a 9mm. And a sword. Read as: Don’t break in to my house. I’m a little unstable, and I don’t respond well to surprises.)

Just a hundred years ago most people didn’t have electric lights, they didn’t have a steady supply of food from a store, they didn’t have cars, but they had their minds and they had each other. Don’t lose sight of the things that have given value to our ancestors from day one. Don’t lose sight of your own value while oohing and ahhing at the stuff that others have amassed. Don’t lose sight of your mind. All your things can be taken away, you can be imprisoned, but your awareness is the one thing that is yours to the end. Love it. Love yourself (even your irrational Sasquatch fears. They give you character, and everyone loves character.)

Well, it is after nine now. I think I’m going to go risk eating toast.

<3

Television Dreams

Do you ever do that thing where you watch a movie and suddenly you feel the impulse to be like the lead character? Hell yeah, Captain America! I’m gonna get a shield and bash some Nazis! I continuously see things and I’m like, “I can do that. Why couldn’t I be Captain America?” and it takes me days to convince myself that getting a garbage can lid and a mask to fight crime and corruption is actually a bad plan. Though this case my inspiration is that chick from Freedom Writers.

My thoughts: Wow, that lady is so inspirational. I bet I could do that. I’d make a really cool teacher. All my students would call me Miss Z (because Miss L or Miss R just sound dumb, and the letter Z is my favorite letter to write in cursive) and we could learn things and I’d make them engaged and they’d love me. I bet I could even do it with inner city kids. They’d be all angsty and stuff in the beginning, but I’d get through to them and be a teaching hero. I would make things applicable, like Shakespeare. The other teachers would be like, “We can’t get through to them! They hate classic literature!" And they’d keep trying to make them read it like:

"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.”

But I would be smarter than that. I’d make it applicable. I would be like:

“O Romeo, Romeo why the F*** are you Romeo? Tell your dad to screw off so you aren’t a F***ing Montague anymore. Or, if you’re too chicken shit to do that, marry me you lazy SOB and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

[Aside] Shit, that bitch found out. Should I take my ass chewing now, or later?

It’s your F***ing family that is my enemy. You are so much more, not just a damned Montague. What the hell is a Montague anyway? It isn’t your hand or your foot, or face, or any other part of your totally hot body. God, I wish you had a different last name! What the hell is with a name anyway? A rose smells good no matter what the F*** you call it. So, you’d still be banging hot even if you weren’t a damn Montague. Ugh! Romeo, give up your damned last name, it isn’t really that important anyway, and in return I will give you the night of your life.”

The kids would get it, and they’d all nod and smile because someone got through to them; because someone finally CARED enough to bastardize Shakespeare for them. They’d love me and all of them would attain better things because of my presence in their lives.

Then I would die tragically in a gang war; because my shield isn’t made of cool bullet proof metal like Captain America’s and I can’t fight corruption with it, but I would still try.

Which is why I really shouldn’t watch TV. Ever.

I might have a problem with personifying things too much.

Carlito entered the world on a cool summer night; but he was empty, listless. He didn’t have a path or a purpose. He questioned the meaning of his life. What was he here to do? What did his maker will him to accomplish? As he wandered the streets he felt hollow and ashamed, as many of us have while we too experienced crises of faith. He felt called to a greater purpose, but to what? What direction should his paper mache hooves take him? Sometimes he envied his friends. They stuffed themselves full of candy, trying to fill the void that they couldn’t explain. Was it healthy, this lifestyle? Was it right to mask the emptiness with something, anything; as long as they did not have to feel hollow and alone? Most days Carlito would have said yes, as he sought some greater meaning to his life, but on others he would sigh and merely say, “Perhaps.” You see, when he was honest with himself, Carlito envied them their satiation; however empty they truly still were.

One day all of that changed. Carlito saw her. The woman that changed his life. In an instant he knew a love so complete, so enveloping that he would give everything he had to make her smile. He would charge through fire to bring her laughter. He would wade through the world’s oceans a hundred times to bring her even the smallest bit of pleasure. And in that instant he knew, though it shocked him to his very soul, that he would die to give her joy.

The woman, his angel, shared her burdens with him. She filled him to the brim with her hopes and dreams and fears. He bore them for her, even as he bore the precious bottles she had given him to carry. At last he knew completeness. At last he had fulfillment. He knew friendship the likes of which he had not even imagined could have existed before. For too short a time they went everywhere together. They took photos. They visited faraway places. They explored beaches. They dreamed, and they LIVED.

But joy is a fleeting thing. It is a sad state of the human condition that change must come for good or for ill. Pure happiness much be seized in the moment and cherished in the memory of those that go on. Every week, every day, every moment brings changes that can alter our lives in unforeseen ways. So it was for Carlito. In one moment he and his lady love were dancing on the beach. In the next, a group of thugs came. He put himself between them and her. His only thought for her safety, and the safety of the burdens she had placed on him, in him. How could she go on without those things? He had to protect her! He had to try to save her! But how? He yelled for her to run, but she did not. She stood and watched as the group advanced. They beat him. They tore him apart. They took the bottles from his remains with glee. Carlito looked at her. He begged her to turn, to not watch. Instead she knelt and took a bottle. She uncorked it and put it to her lips. She looked at the group and laughed. He searched her eyes, traces of sadness were there, yes. But so was joy. Carlito heaved his last breath.

Peace and redemption comforted his soul. His life had been short, and brutal, but he had brought joy to the one he loved. He had made the world a better place, however briefly. As his soul lifted upward and heavenly music filled his ears he realized that there really is no better accomplishment than that.

His name was Carlito. He was a piñata. A piñata with a belly bull of liquor minis, and a heart full of love. His quest? Share his love and boozy bounty with the world.

You too can achieve your nightmares! I mean dreams! Dreams!

I did it. This weekend I achieved one of my lifelong dreams. You know those dreams that haunt you? Day after day? Night after night? Pushing you? Pursuing you like a hunted stag? Those dreams that motivate you on a core level?

I attained one of those. Yes. I did it. I fell through a barn. Again. What do you mean that isn’t a dream? You have never had that dream where you fall through a barn floor? What is that? Oh, a nightmare you say? Psh. Nightmares are dreams too. Don’t be a hater. You have your goals. I have mine.

You’re just jealous because I achieved something glamorous. Bruises are considered glamorous, right?

Saturday was supposed to be Farrier day at Prinrock Farms. Farrier day is a magical day from hell that involves gathering up every single horse and having a farrier give them the equivalent of an equine pedicure. For the most part this isn’t bad. Generally 23 horses out of 26 are good. They are catchable and they don’t fight too much, but oh when the hellions decide to fight it is a sight to see. Anyone who thinks people kicking or smacking their horse around is abusive should really observe what they will do to themselves and each other when they are in a pissy mood.

Let me tell you, a horse is a half cocked gun. Take Luna for example, she can be the most docile thing ever, but Heaven help us all if she is PMSing. She can clear a six foot tall fence from a standstill and cause concussions with the best of them. I watched Dreamer break two halters and her own face rather than allow herself to be tied. They’re nuts. They’re exquisitely beautiful creatures, but they are nuts. Anyways, between Luna trying to prove herself the world’s best jumper, Joey picking your pockets and wandering away with any tools that aren’t tied down, and Barbie being the wild mountain horse who will never be touched! Never!!!! Farrier day is one of the days that I look at with trepidation.

So, at 7:30 ON A SATURDAY I already knew the day would not be in my top ten. Then the farrier was late. Then he was an hour late. Then we realized he wasn’t coming, which made life suck for a variety of reasons.

1.       I had been up at 7am on a SATURDAY for nothing.

2.       I had a pen full of agitated horses that I somehow had to feed without them beating each other up too much. This pen would also get grosser and grosser with every passing moment. So I would have to wade through a foot of muck rather than six inches when I eventually tried to capture them. Lovely.

3.       I had made a big deal out of being busy all day with Boyfriend the night before. Now I was no longer busy, and my entire argument that had been emotionally charged and ineffective to begin with was void. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

What to do with a free Saturday? Call Boyfriend and eat crow? Can? Winterize my yard? Clean house? Clean barn? Do laundry? Sleep? Relax?

None of the above. I got wrangled into helping my dad clean out my grandpa’s barn. Which is good because a good wind could knock it over, and my grandpa does not need to be wandering around in it, so I’m glad that I was there, but did I mention a good wind could knock this thing over? Danger! Danger!

Naturally I am selected for the job of retrieving items from across the loft floor. It only makes sense. I am the least useful of the group. It’s like in a horror movie. You know someone is going to die, and you know it is going to be the ditzy blond chick because she contributes the least to the well being of the party. I was cannon fodder. They said it was because I was the lightest, but I know the truth. So I was like, “Hey! Okay!” and “Is this a bad time to tell you guys I have been having dreams about falling through barn floors again?” Chirp, chirp went the crickets. “Hey, Lauren. Why don’t you start by gathering up all the jars and glass [from over there on the sketchy side of the barn]?” Seriously, take the flashlight. Go down the hall alone. It’ll be cool. There isn’t certain doom down there. That’s just bad lighting.

So I collect jars, crocks, and giant wooden things like the good girl that I am. I’m creeping from floor joist to floor joist, spreading my weight out the best that I can on the termite riddled wood. I was practically belly crawling along to reach some of these jars and other mystery objects. Most mystery objects being made of cast iron and appearing to be tools of some sort that I couldn’t identify. My grandpa has some cool stuff. Some cool, HEAVY stuff. A few hours pass. We uncover two glass display cases, because every barn has two antique glass display cases in it for grain and things, right? We found a cider press. Who doesn’t keep one of those laying around? There were also some old chairs, an engine, a steam engine, a tractor, a seed box, thousands of strawberry cartons (WHY?!?!?!?!), planters, enough canning jars to make me ache with jealousy (Really. They are about $10 a box. I have bought about $50 worth of them recently. When I could have just come rummaging…AGH!), and those are just the things I could identify. American Pickers would probably jizz all over themselves if they saw my grandpa’s barns. The point is, I got cocky.

At some point in the barn’s past someone had laid down plywood over the floor in places. This gave me a sense of security. Nothing could harm me. I couldn’t see the broken and decaying boards. They weren’t there! The floor was strong. It was plywood. I laughed in the face of decaying boards! Ahahahah-AHHHH! Yup. The plywood gave out. Dad and grandpa were nowhere around, and I was stuck with one leg through a barn floor sprawled out amongst a pile of shattered glass. ‘Cause of course I had been holding glass. It wouldn’t have been nearly intense enough if I hadn’t been holding glass.

So, I’m chilling there with one leg through the floor, wondering how on earth I’m going to extract myself, when the total absurdity of the situation hits. Seriously, how many people get to achieve a lifelong dream TWICE? TWICE!!?!?! And I’m still young. Think about it. At this rate I am falling through a barn once every ten years. Actually it is freakishly close to being exactly ten years. Assuming that my penchant for freakish accidents will continue, I will fall through barns an estimated six more times. This experience was significantly less traumatic than before, so theoretically I will survive all six falls and perish of more natural causes. That is achieving my dream an anticipated 8 times over the course of my life! Can you believe that? Talk about a goal! Man, I am so lucky!

Cow Propping 101

Cow tipping is NOT as easy or fun as it sounds. Cow propping is even harder.

I live on a farm. I have done my share of teasing city kids. No more. Where did this insight come from you ask? Well, let me tell you...

When I say I live on a farm I mean it. We have cows, horses, grain, dogs, cats, the whole shebang. But unlike normal farmers that ship aged cows off to be hamburger we keep the old girls around until the pass away. Seriously. The cows are all almost older than me. That's really old for a cow. With this policy we naturally see more cow health problems than we would if we ran a younger generation. Arthritis is an issue. Sudden, random, semi-temporary paralysis is also an issue. As in, it has happened twice in the last year and a half.

The first instance was Buttercup, whom I felt very sorry for until she suddenly lost her paralysis to become a wild face butting cow demon from Hades. I was fine with her when she whipped her head into my leg and made it numb for hours.  It was the same with my arm. I shouldn't have been so close, right? 

I guess in a way it was my fault really. I had severely hurt my shin tripping over a well, trying to run from a skunk about fifteen minutes earlier. I should never have went near her with the scent of blood in the water as it were. She sensed my weakness. She lunged from a laying position as I filled her water, catching my chin with a perfectly executed cow head upper cut that left my jaw dislocated and me very stunned and stumbling for a few minutes. I didn't fall though! I didn't even go to the hospital because I was concerned they would wire my jaw shut and I wanted to go see Boyfriend without being hampered by that pesky thing called helaing properly. Yeah. I'm pretty BA.

Though when dad asked me to recreate it so he could put it on YouTube I mutely shook my head as I stared at him in concussion induced stupor. Never. Again. Well, Buttercup passed away a few days later with my mom 
mourning over her poor baby. The danged cow loved her and would lick her all over. The other cows lined up for their customary funeral procession, and within a few weeks life returned to the insanity we call normal.

Fast forward a bit to this summer. We have a lake. We have a hot cow. We have a hot cow stuck in a lake. I wasn't home, but the story must be told for posterity. We had just had seven inches of rain. The lake was
knee high as dad fought valiantly through the water to rescue the cow, Bessie. As he neared her and maneuvered to begin cow tipping, pushing her up he fell. Down, down, down through the stinky muck. Suddenly he was chest deep in the water and staring up at the side of a cow in a very precarious position. If she fell he would drown. Fear ate at his insides, but he fought it courageously. He would save this cow. He clawed his way through the gooey mud and wrestled the sling onto herwith God granted strength and perseverance. By the grace of good Lord, and the help of a Ford tractor, the cow was saved and pulled ashore. She head butted dad for his trouble, and proceeded to lick mom. This happened three or four times. Well, dad knew how to avoid the giant hole, so they weren't identical, but you get the picture.

This weekend good ole Bessie was down again. She wasn't in the lake this time, but she was wedged very near to the electric fence which was definitely hot when I inadvertently touched it while holding a metal chain and some metal pieces for the sling. Ow. Well, it was mom and dad's anniversary (28 years!) so dad and I hurriedly rolled her into the sling, which wasn't so bad because she was trying to stand up to presumably attack dad with her face so her body wasn't touching the ground most of the time, and proceeded to carry her up to the house and prop the front end loader of the tractor up with a large wooden post to keep her up and let blood return to her legs. 

A few hours later and she was grazing happily without the support of the sling. She looked so good that my parents decided to let her loose. The next day she was down again and was less than cooperative. We got her 
up briefly, but she didn't seem interested in doing anything more than hanging in the sling, chewing cud, taking a few bites of grass, and mooing plaintively. So we let her lay down again. Then the unthinkable happened. I
needed to use the tractor for something else. 

Mom and I looked at her. Poked at her. Petted her. She mooed back. What to do? What to do? We tried to rock her so that we could get the sling better positioned. Which means that I tried to rock her while mom sang a round of "Don't rock the cow. Don't rock the cow, baby. Don't rock the cow. You'll tip the cow over." Cow rocking, tipping, cow moving period is damn near impossible when they do not want to help you. Cows are quite dense and frankly intimidating when you are concerned that ever move of their head is going to leave you with some sort of paralysis or dislocation. I'm not nearly as good as I used to be. Darn you Buttercup. 

Anyway, after looking the situation over mom and I decided to wedge square bales between Bessie's legs so that
she could get blood flowing to her extremities. We lifted her up, wedged the bales in, lowered her down, unhooked her, and watched in horror as she started sliding off the bales. Heck. We grabbed posts and propped
her up. Would it hold? Could I possibly feed fast enough? I rushed to the tractor, sat down in a seat full of water and began my rounds in a rush. The other cows mooed angrily at me as I tried desperately to cut bale strings in the twilight. One bale down. She was still wedged up on her hay bale throne grabbing bites of alfalfa from between her front legs. Two bales down. Was she sliding? Did she look nervous or was it just dark? Third and final bale down. Yup, she slipped. We have a cow down. Mayday. Mayday. B1 is down. I repeat B1 is down.

Mom and I looked at her, contentedly chewing her cud and decided to leave her until today. Today we will try cow tipping and propping again.Maybe this time we will succeed. Maybe this time we will triumph over Bessie's blatant indifference to ever walking again. I'm not holding my breath though.


In conclusion: Cow Propping. Hardest sport, EVER.


*No cows were harmed during the duration of this story.  Except maybe their pride. Nope, definitely their pride. Her pride is now irreparably damaged.



** We really do love all of our animals, and despite the dramatic storytelling, we provide them with the highest level of care possible. Bessie has pain killers and medical treatment. She has not been neglected in any way. She has been allowed to live life as a cow, and I'm not an expert on what a fulfilling life would be for a cow, but she has had what we consider to be a full life with lots of love, grass, hay, and freedom. She is currently experiencing "cow hospice," and aside from being photographed on her throne, is treated with the love, respect, and dignity she deserves.

Bracketing Brilliance

Have you ever been sitting there, minding your own business, when a thought hits you like a hurricane? And you’re like, “Holy crap. I am so deep. Why isn’t everyone this insightful? I should share my glorious mind magic with the world! Or, at the very least people that know me. Outsiders don’t deserve my knowledge anyhow. They wouldn’t appreciate it.” And then you mentally ramble so much you forget your divine-inspired-clouds partingly awesome thought? Yeah, me too.

Luckily for you though, this time I made a post-it.

Okay, so, I’m sitting there putting together brackets. Which if you didn’t know, is about the most mind-numbing monotonous thing you can do at my job.

1.       Grab bracket
2.       Gauge bracket orientation
3.       Orient bracket properly
4.       Grab t-bolt
5.       Gauge t-bolt orientation
6.       Orient t-bolt properly
7.       Insert t-bolt into bracket
8.       Grab washer
9.       Place washer over t-bolt
10.    Grab nut
11.    Place nut on t-bolt
12.    Tighten

In the beginning I’m fake excited about it. You can tell I coach kid’s soccer because in the back of my head I’m placating myself like I do the kids that suck at running, “No, no honey. Defense is WAY more important than scoring!” (<- Actually, also sucking at running, I believe this.) Anyone can build a conveyor! But put together brackets? This stuff is boring. No one would want to do that. Basically, when I begin I’m convincing myself that what I’m doing is so crucial to the conveyor assembly process that I deserve a sticker for sucking it up so others don't have to. By bracket 100 I’m a gold medal winning bracket assembler. Screw gymnastics. This is where it is at! If bracket assembly was an Olympic sport I'd be all over it. By 200 I’m like a super hero saving people from the tedium induced insanity. Stand back, ma’am I’ve got this. Then I'd dramatically throw myself on the box of bolts and use them to assemble still more brackets. Which I would use to defeat some horrible villian, probably made of all thread. By 300? Yup, I’m a martyr. I have saved hundreds of unsuspecting children (or three other employees) from having to face the intense suffering and hand cramping induced by bracket assembly. I deserve a frickin’ parade, but I won’t be able to wave. Because my hands are twisted into what I assume will one day by a bitchin’ case of arthritis. I’d settle for a holiday. Certainly I deserve a holiday for such sacrifices? Anybody? Anyone? There is no clapping. No speeches of gratitude for taking the sucky job. As I drag the last bracket from the box with clawed, calloused fingers, my hopes for achievement are dashed. I’d settle for a thank you, or a beer. Actually, I’d kinda prefer the beer. If I could put a straw in it and drink it without holding it.

In case you can’t tell, 350 of these later my mind has started wandering a bit.

One of the issues with bracket assembly is the, as I like to call it in the beginning, stupid-hippie-son-of-a-B…olt not threading properly. At first I always try to keep shoving the thing, hoping somehow that it will magically screw on despite its being crooked. Eventually though, about the time I begin sighing dejectedly whenever it happens and am too worn down to fight anymore, I do the smart thing and simply unscrew the bolt and screw it back into the nut with the proper orientation. It seems simple right? Well, yeah, but my head is a very strange place (as I’m sure you can tell) and when it is early in the game that damned thing is being difficult just to mess with me. My sacrifice is valiant! I fought against the odds! That bolt is an evil mastermind. You don’t even know…

Well, today as I threaded bolt 347 it hit me. The sky parted. Angels sang. God reached down and touched my numbed brain with brilliance. There were tears. I was overflowing with insight, or allergies, but most likely I was just so full of insight that it was leaking out. Ready for this? Are you sure? It’s pretty profound. You should stop now if you can’t handle it. Okay,  here goes:

Bolts and people are a lot alike. So why on earth do I put so much time and energy into trying to push a misthreaded person or bolt a certain direction when I know that it isn’t going to work? I could just back off a little twist it a different way, and try it again with much easier success. Why do I get so bent out of shape and think the absolute worst of that poor, misguided bolt when things aren’t going quite right; rather than just sighing and realizing that with people, as with bolts, the angle is everything?

Okay, so I’m not sure if it is because I like to pretend to be the superhero, or what yet, but I thought the back off and twist it a different angle analogy was freaking brilliant. I hope it changes your life. If it does I would like to humbly suggest a parade, or booze with silly straws.

Preferably soon, before the arthritis sets in.