Moose in the Kitchen

Weather, Uncooperative: Indian summer is tampering with my ability to get things done. Staring at a computer screen is both soul-rending and physically torturous when the sun is shining and tank tops are a valid wardrobe choice. Does that smack of clawing for weak excuses for going to the park instead of working? It does? How about this excuse: I feel quite certain God invented the sun for people to enjoy and would be rather peeved if one ignored his bounty. You don’t want me to piss off God, DO YOU?

Thinking, Wishful: A friend and I determined that fatherhood made him psychic. I’m greatly looking forward to whatever super power I get when I become a parent.

Dear Person In Charge Of These Things,

I WOULD LIKE TO FLY.

Thank you,

Moose

Drinking, Unwise: When someone concocts a special drink for a special Getting Together and Eating Delicious Food in a Newly Married Couple’s Living Room occasion, it would be wrong not to enjoy one or several. Even if the next morning forcibly reminds you that you no longer have the liver resilience of a 19-year-old. Or the thighs of a 19-year-old, but whatever.

Saturday Night, Violence: Saturday marked the advent of my first experience as a roller derby spectator. My understanding of the sport is rather vague, friend participation and Whip It! viewing aside, so it mostly looked like a tangle of limbs with the occasional spectacular instance of brute force and reminder of why helmets are a really good idea. The enthusiastic roar of the crowd didn’t seem to have any discernible correlation to the action, but I yelled along like I had a clue and bobbed between the hipster headgear to look official. Derby fans have a truly inspired notion of what constitutes proper headwear – see: top hats, pork pies with feathers, and sparkly faux snakeskin cowboy hats.

Saturday Night, Nonprofit Collusion: Saturday also marked the time I almost got myself kicked out of my apartment. There was one of those Adopt-a-Pet setups and my word, those dog foster people are manipulative. Putting the animals in cute collars and handing you treats to feed them so you become the subject of immediate canine adoration. THAT’S CALLED HITTING BELOW THE BELT, SPCA. I fell in love with one dog and almost walked out with her, lease be damned.

Realization, Most Recent: Life has been somewhat turbulent the last year and a half. I sometimes fall into the trap of defining success and Life Well Lived in very outward terms: job, living situation, stable relationship, number of times you’ve been to Italy/Latvia/Insert country of choice, ability to bake a fluffy souffle. But when I’m not being all egocentric about it, I remember that my definition of success – on the lifelong, it’s a marathon-not-a-sprint level – is about learning and becoming a better version of myself. Yes, it sometimes requires a painful amount of lesson repetition, but life seems perfectly willing to provide that. Put in those terms: DAMN IF I’M NOT THE MOST SUCCESSFUL PERSON ON THE BLOCK.

Thanks, life. You’re a pain in my ass sometimes, but you’re quite helpful. And I rather like you. Feel free to stick around for awhile.

Related posts:

1. This Is When People Tell Me To Breathe Because I’m Turning an Odd Shade of Purple
2. The Dog is Just Happy We Finally Hooked Her Up With an Indoor Bathroom
3. Like Trying To Reverse the Earth’s Rotation
4. The Undead Are Good at Balderdash
5. All This To Say, I Haven’t Done Anything Social Since Monday (Insert Squawking Chickens Here)