left in a right world

I'm nothing if not adaptable, but here is a short list of things that, as a left-hander, I find short-sighted and terribly frustrating...



The door of the microwave oven hinges on the left. The control buttons are on the right side. This is not the most accessible design for lefties.

Dish soap comes in a right-hand form-fitting plastic container that has to be poured using the right hand (else, big whoop for the meticulously designed form-fitting hand grip). The flip top also works easiest if you flip with the right hand. To dispense using my left hand means the front of the bottle faces away from me so I get to stare at the directions, with which I am now infinitely familiar.

Shampoo and other personal care products also come in flip-top containers that look sleek and cleanly designed from the front. But for a left hander to use the product, the container has to be turned around backwards. And again, companies are manufacturing so-called ergonomic containers, but they're catering to the righty market. Those bastahds.

Good luck taking an 8th grade music class if you're a lefty. All the school guitars were strung for right handers. Lefties have to just make it work or, as my cousin Patrick did, purchase a lefty guitar.

Some knives are sharpened on both sides of the blade, yes. But most of the kitchen knives in the drawer have a blade edge that is quite specifically fantastic for a right hander, while they pose a safety hazard for lefty me.

Oh good lord, the stories I could tell about scissors.
Starting from the earliest years, all those dumb safety scissors were made for right handed students, leaving the left handers to bend their construction paper more often than successfully cutting it. One of my favorite gifts from my mother that I still use so much that it lies at the front of the drawer full of dangerous kitchen implements is a left-hander's kitchen scissor. Big, fat red handles and heavy bone cutting blades on that sucker. Which, incidentally, never goes missing because it is one of the few things that nobody else in the house can use.


I would like to add a few more un-left items that popped to mind as I was listing the previous.

- Sewing classes. Try learning to knit or crochet when being instructed by a righty who refuses to adapt the lessons to my dominant - their non-dominant - hand.

- Ink pens. A lefty can generally forget about using gel pens unless she doesn't mind carrying the smudgy remnants on the edge of her left hand. Most other ink pens pose the same trouble, unless the lefty learns to hold their hand below the writing line so as to keep a clean paw. Fortunately, I saw that one coming early-on and it's less of a problem.

- Holy crap, can I just add that my favorite item of all - MY CAMERA - is a right-dominant tool. I cry foul.

yet another good band name possibility

...The Backdoor Babes.









They play facing opposite the audience but nobody seems to mind much.

rearing up

hiking surprise, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Here's the place where I will tell you about my idiotic tendencies.
Once I've listed them properly, I mean.

How do I fail thee? Let me count the ways.

We like to think we’re cooperative caring beings. We are. I mean, we do have good in us, we do good things for others and we strive to be the best at whatever and whoever we are. I don’t fault us for this tendency to overbrighten by omission, but I think this rosy painting can make it very difficult to belly up to the confessional bar with a contrite and accurate picture painting heart.

Therefore, I’m taking this opportunity to lay prostrate some of my embarrassing and otherwise bad habits out - right here; right now.

- I had to stop taking my child fishing because I’d get so sucked into my own mesmerizing fishing challenge place that I’d get snippy with him if he had 6 year old audacity to say something as untoward as, “I need your help, Mom. My lure got caught in weeds”. How dare he expect me to put down my own pole to help his little frustrated self!

- I don’t ever corner well. Give me the opportunity to escape out a back hatch during times of conflict or I promise you it will turn ugly, quickly.

- I regularly, unintentionally, leave things behind. Everywhere. Meds, phone chargers, books, clothing, just about any personal item that can be picked up, transported, and set down elsewhere. I live between my own home and KD’s apartment but the materials I bring along with me to her place are things I am actively using and want to have nearby, so there is a regular assortment of personal items I schlep back and forth in my car that stands a very good chance of never finding their ways home with me. As a matter of fact, if you visit Tutto Pasta et Trattoria’s lost and found box, you’re welcome to the lovely double-sized umbrella with pie slices of the brightest primary colors and a solid good-feeling grippable wood handle because – for as many times as I’ve forgotten or have left behind my favorite (fill in the blank) – I could not be bothered to go back to collect my beloved umbrella after I’d been there shooting stills for my brother’s friends' short film. I also like thinking that it’s really okay that I leave things behind and lose what I mean to hold onto because, as I’ve rationalized it, someone else who really really needs them will be thrilled to re-use all I leave behind. I hope some person is relieved to have found those fantastically cozy form-fitting winter gloves I invested in then promptly misplaced last year.

- At my old meat factory office job there was a handsome man who came weekly to tend to the rented plants all over the building. I had a crush on him and, because he so closely resembled the More Little Visits with God caucasian storybook version of the white hairy muscular savior with the kind eyes, I renamed the plant guy Jesus. But to be clear, I didn’t want him to get too big a head (‘hey everyboddddyyyy, lookit me I’m all walkin’ on water and everything!’) so I called him Hay-zeus. I called Raphael, or whatever his real name was, Hayzeus. To his face. Anyway, Hayzeus and I flirted shamelessly with one another every Thursday when he was tending our office rental plants and one day, while he was leaning over my desk to reach a peace lily, I asked him what kind of plants he kept at his home. I imagined a garden of Eden sorta setup – an atrium dense with lush tropical varieties and colorful birds flitting back and forth between the highest branches. Hayzeus paused from what he was doing to look at me and he responded with a guffaw. Then he said, “Are you kidding? I take care of plants all day long, every day of the week. The last thing I want to look at when I go home from my job taking care of plants is more plants that need tending to. I have no plants at home. None. And I like it that way.” I thought Hayzeus’ response was hilarious, and it wasn’t until this year that I realized I have started down that same road. I help a friend tend her large gardens every week and while I do adore pulling weeds, I’d be completely weeded out by the time I’d get home and my garden started to look like the exterior ‘before’ image of an Extreme Home Makeover yard. I expect that there are Wild Thing creatures living below the thistle flowers and the puffy dandelion heads; even below the creeping Charlie which, near as I can tell, has established dominance over all other green leafy things I’d purposefully planted over the years. I can talk the gardening talk but I fall short of being a capable representative of walking the gardening walk. What the hell, I figure, most of the weeds are green and mostly blend in; the slugs need somewhere to establish residency if they’re ever to receive mail so they can get a library card, and I take care of others’ gardens so I expect a full pardon on my lack of attention to my own. More than anything, this all makes me misty and examinate about my Thursdays with Hayzeus because I really think we could’ve gone somewhere with my newfound sympathetic understanding of the difficulties inherent in his career.

- I exercise so I can rationalize eating more. I cannot claim this as my own personal discovery, by the way; my friend Claudia started me along this particular road to self-discovery the night she said she was feeling stuck and couldn’t decide whether to shake the ennui by going to the gym or by crawling under the blankets. We agreed that she could maybe go to the gym for an abbreviated workout routine (‘forget about the free weights, just do the treadmill’) and she could then reward her righteousness with a bottle of wine coupled with tasty undelicate servings of mostly off-limits food. I’ve come to realize that I dangle reward carrots in front of my own nose for just about everything I do that I don’t want to do. C’mon McB., just make the bed as soon as you get out of it and as reward for your fantastic bed-making you can then go downstairs to the kitchen where the coffee grinder and electric kettle will be waiting for you. Or, clean off the surface of the computer desk, then you can play 22 continuous games of Bejeweled 2. Or, collect the mail from the mailbox and if you actually open any of the envelopes you can then watch two hours of mindless television. If you don’t open the envelopes, mmm, you can still watch two hours of mindless television, because you’ll be upset with yourself for not having opened the mail and two hours of mindless television will help soothe your agitation.

- I tried having a bitch-free week, yet I complained the entire time about how a full week is too long to have to go without complaining. I’d appreciate partial credit for not having shared my complaint-free week of complaints with others.
- Any laundry in the washer or dryer that is in the way of my own laundry will be dealt with as I see fit. That's just too bad if you want your clean shirts hung on hangers, if you weren’t there to immediately hang them the way you prefer, you’ll get your shirts I’ve had to deal with in a folded stack. I will be courteous enough to at least turn them outside-out so you can differentiate between the dirty clothes on your floor and the clean clothes I’ll stack on your bed that you will inevitably toss onto the floor.

- I constantly chew the inside of my mouth. My dentist would be appalled.

- I have generous definitions of the things that can be Febreezed to include dirty laundry that I want to wear but can’t be bothered to wash.

I’m not sure I can continue this accumulated list of my bad habits further than a toe dip into this brief list. I can always come back to it, right? Like, right after I watch two more hours of mindless television.

So what are yours?

the quiet life

campsite visitors, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I lived in solitude in the country and noticed how the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind.

-- Albert Einstein

vespers

originally uploaded by McBeth.

Let my prayer rise before you like incense; the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice.

-- Lutheran Book of Worship, p. 145

vision

gimme the beat, boys, originally uploaded by McBeth.

We think too small, like the frog at the bottom of the well. He thinks the sky is only as big as the top of the well. If he surfaced, he would have an entirely different view.

-- Mao Tse-Tung

self-confidence

sassy swinger, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.

-- e.e. cummings

I-94

twist in the road, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I am driving into the sun
Up I-94.
You know how I love
Open roads and cruise control,
Squinting into the reflected glare.

That girl is going places
Does backtracking to an outlet mall count?
Briskly, the wind swats at my hair
Pushing violet brown
Into my eyes,
thousands of cylindrical slaps
admonishing me to snap to.

I fancy myself a fast lane driver
Yet, as ever,
I roll along a mere five miles per hour
over the limit,
puttering stalwartly with the elderly and the unconcerned
in this slow lane

Light blasts a path through flashing pines.

My brother, my sisters
we all
each
strive to create beauty,
nurtured by our profound understanding of
what it is not

Tossed onto the passenger seat lies
a tawny colored garment
The brassiere I have not worn
For two years since its purchase
Though still fresh, it has become dusty.
Strands of cat hair from a more youthful time
flitter up and off the smooth cotton
into the wind stream.
A soft layer of history
Waves goodbye.

To prevent the potentially unrecoverable risk of
grabby-fisted patrons
An ink-filled security tag had been affixed to
my travel companion, to
my indulgent purchase.
The tag remains intact
as twinkling pirouettes of light leap
off a passing lake
with watchful winks.

My child is now an adult with bewildering
broad and quiet shoulders.
This baby-man I have assisted
into his current changeling glory

Will he, like me,
struggle for twenty five years before he knows
to delight in the
colorful zaniness of a moss rose?

I contemplate whether he,
using adept powers of recall and observation
as his trustworthy guides,
will allow himself the
luxurious blanketing reward in
being loved by another?

My prayers propel off the wand and
out the open window,
iridescent bubbles of hope
aimed upward
for him;
Catch the wind, beloved.
Ride it! Exult in it!
Count on that which you believe in
Question that which you don’t.

Corn and soy fields flaunt the
simplicity of growing where planted.
Aisle after tantalizing aisle
swaying confidence
and their beguiling proposition
which, I decide, cannot possibly
interpolate the subtle combinations
of sun,
of soil,
of nutrients and seasons.
I volley a string of expletives to
the stalky streams
flying by at warp speed.
It isn’t typically so easy,
Nor is it always as simple
as standing still
and waiting.

A billboard shrieks by,
Jesus Loves You!
Its easiness careening haphazardly
into the already-distant past.

Did the responsibility of double-checking
an inattentive clerk’s work
rest on my soft shoulders two years ago?
Maybe yes.
Maybe no.

Either way,
I am now driving into the sun
five miles below the limit
and great distances from
where I am,
squinting into the reflected glare.

stuck

between the lines, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Today I am feeling worse and worse as the day progresses.

It's like when I was a kid and I got whacked around or banged up or if I fell on the sidewalk or snapped my neck while unsuccessfully trying to perform a backwards roll (I thought you were very mean to make me do that, Mister Selby. Just sayin') -- I stand up and forbid the tears to come. I tell myself that I'm tough. I tell myself I can take it. I rub the sore spot and keep telling myself, "I'm okay! I'm okay! I'm okay!". It's not that the self-talk was or is false; I believed it could help, believed it was worth the practice of uttering, but rare are the moment it felt true in the moment.

I JUST REFARKINGMOVED THREE LAYERS OF SKIN, DO I SEEM OKAY? I'M NOT OKAY! I'M ANTI-OKAY! I'M DIS-OKAY! I AM VERY UN-OKAY!!

I'm stuck between dosage levels of this latest antidepressant I've been trying. Despite the faulty start and the red welts that appeared out of nowhere when I first took the starter baby dose of Lamictal, I agreed to give it one more try. The good news is that I haven't had that potentially life-threatening rashy thing. The less-good news is that after 3 weeks of the first try, the two week break to let the rash go away, then my current 7+ weeks of this second attempt, I'm not taking enough yet for it to be considered a "therapeutically effective" dose. But I've been taking it for a long enough stretch of time that I'm catching myself having ridiculously hopeful thoughts that it might work while, simultaneously, wondering how I can possibly keep up this dumb optimism long enough to figure out if I will stay committed long enough to reach that invisible state of what mayyyyybe could be my therapeutically effective level, and when the hell I can get there, or if I'll ever get there because none of the scores of meds have helped shake this much over the past two decades of treatment. That's if we're not counting the Seroquel I loathe like no other for its side effects, but yeah I have to admit it helps.

There are a few precipitating factors to my foul state of mind but surely not enough to make me feel as though I should crawl back in bed until the feelings -and the days- pass, which is my current inclination.

Creative blocks.
Relationship issues.
Social engagements.
Cleanliness.
Merely opening the mail and figuring out what to do with it is too hard.

I haven't altogether given up my attention to personal hygiene, but with fewer showers and teeth-brushing episodes I fear that nasty stink looming on the horizon.

I crave my very own Calgon commercial moment.
I'd like very much to be taken away by bubbles and contentment, and I wouldn't argue (well, not much and certainly not with vehemence) if a magical fix-it person was to saunter in armed with a magic wand and Very Big Plans.

Yup.
I'm stuck.

evidence of a prowler

evidence of a prowler, originally uploaded by McBeth.

The cat's motto may well be:

No matter what you've done wrong, always try to make it look like the dog did it

but if you're a cat named Puppy, and if you live in a house without dogs, it makes your case significantly harder to buy when you try to argue that the mystery tongue marks that showed up in the pan holding solidifying bacon grease are due to a hungry mutt.

singularity

egomaniac, originally uploaded by McBeth.

To endow the writer publicly with a good fleshly body, to reveal that he likes dry white wine and underdone steak, is to make even more miraculous for me, and of a more divine essence, the products of his art. Far from the details of his daily life bringing nearer to me the nature of his inspiration and making it clearer, it is the whole mystical singularity of his condition which the writer emphasizes by such confidences. For I cannot but ascribe to some superhumanly the existence of beings vast enough to wear blue pajamas at the very moment when they manifest themselves as universal conscience.

-- Roland Barth

happiness

orbs of happiness, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Probably, oh, two weeks have elapsed since the last time I meandered out to the back garden to check on the plants. It wasn't even as though I kept trying to remember to look in on them; I just completely lost track of that area of the universe while attending to others. Until this afternoon, when a bird outside the kitchen window began causing a commotion. The commotion caught my eye, I quietly stepped out the back door to see what that was about, then I gasped as I looked over to the cherry tomato plant.

In two week's time that plant has turned into some creepy wonderful Little Shop of Horrors FEED ME, Seymouristic monster lush with pom pons of 6 to 8 tomatoes, deep red clusters that sag over both themselves and the tomato cage as though the plant is too too pregnant, as though her center of gravity has been so altered that she is unable to stand anywhere near upright these days.

"Birth me, already!", it groaned.

I ducked back into the house to grab a bowl, then obliged my neglected fruit-bearing friend. The three quart sized bowl was not really large enough to hold all the cherries I picked, but as long as I walked slowly and balanced each new addition carefully on the top, it worked well enough.

Each time I pass by the bowl I nibble. Two. Three. Two. Three more. I can't stop thinking about how lucky I am to have grown and harvested such a treat.

i don't remember

shed your assumptions, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I don't remember
how to say your name
anymore.

I stretch the edges of my mouth
Wide,
to accommodate the broad aah
of your vowels
but my throat emits a moan,
a coarse static,
as though I have tuned you in
between channels.

You died
disengaged
then I died
and died
and died
until I realized I could no longer die,
until I realized I had to begin breathing again.

And now,
I don't remember
how to say your name.

origami

two cups of wealth, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I'm learning how to make origami to remember my Grandfather, who died in January of 2002.

These two cups were created by using one of my grandfather's canceled checks - this one written on May 1, 1995 to Oneota Housing in the amount of $170.00.


.

oh, how I dislike this

Dear Reader,

Those ugly little waste of time people who create and spread spam have found their way into my blog. That nice confirmation code feature seemed to work for quite a long time and I've appreciated it, but their bored little bots have started ramping it up and I don't much appreciate their activity.

No big deal really (other than the question that buzzes persistently like a flood plain mosquito, "Why?"), but for now I have switched the commenting options over to *moderate*, which means that if you choose to leave a comment - and I do hope you will continue to do so - you'll probably get some sort of message that reads "your post will not immediately appear, blah blah blah".

I'm not doing this whole ridiculous moderating thing for the ego trip or for the hassle of being hassled, but I do hope you'll understand that that spam garbage really can start to put a kink into one's happiness and contentment and I, for one, am not willing to coexist with either trolls or spam unless it is imperative. I'm not thrilled about changing the commenting options to *moderate*, and I apologize if this seems like an extra step for you, but I'm willing to take sensible precautions to prevent further infestation. Dig?

time

I cannot promise very much.
I give you the images I know.
Lie still with me and watch.
We laugh and we touch.
I promise you love. Time will not take that away.

-- Anne Sexton

pretty -- ugly

God help you if you are an ugly girl, 'course too pretty is also your doom, 'cause everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room.

-- Ani Difranco

You scored as Albert Camus, You are Albert Camus, so you are one sweet absurdist. He built largely upon the framework of existentialists before him, but introduced the concept that life is absurd, but that we should continue living anyway. You have strong liberal leanings, although you annoy the Communists. You are susceptible to driving fast, and possibly crashing into a tree. Which Existentialist Philosopher Are You? created with QuizFarm.com

menstruation

dirty old moonlight, originally uploaded by McBeth.

If women are supposed to be less rational and more emotional at the beginning of our menstrual cycle when the female hormone is at its lowest level, then why isn't it logical to say that, in those few days, women behave the most like the way men behave all month long?

-- Gloria Steinem

unfilled wishes

JC, table for two?, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It is not good for all our wishes to be filled; through sickness we recognize the value of health; through evil, the value of good; through hunger, the value of food; through exertion, the value of rest.

-- Dorothy Canfield Fisher