What is worse than waiting?

Death, maybe, if you subscribe to the belief that death is an ending. I don't, so then what? How about unrelieveable pain that doesn't allow you to think? That seems a little extreme. Waiting doesn't really compare to that- not even in the same ball park. The fact that waiting seems so bad is just a reflection of our wanting to know the future. If I could ask one question about the future per day (and get the correct answer without any seerish tricks) would waiting feel better then? I am waiting to hear if my daughter got into vet school. She thinks they will call today if she got in. Last year, they called as late as 9pm to let her friend know he was accepted. Her name is toward the end of the alphabet, if they call in alphabetical order. Her name might be near the beginning of the list of kids that were accepted, but we don't know when the decision was made, or when the first call was (or will be ) made. This feels very much like when we were waiting for the doctors to read my husdand's PET scan. (That was good news.) Have I used up my quota of good news? When I was with the preschoolers, we used to sing the "Hate to Wait" song. If I sing that the rest of this day, I'll annoy far too many people, but will develop that nice little non-thinking buzz that comes with tedious, repetitive tasks. Maybe I should just try meditation. Same effect, less annoying to those in the vicinity.

Now I also am worried about that whole "watching-what-you-wish-for" scenario. A co-worker accused me once of magical thinking. What's the point of thinking, if it can't sometimes be magical? If we just plod along without considering the potential for magic, I think things would be pretty dull. (You can call it divine intervention if you like.) One man's religion is another's mythology. Melvil Dewey was right about that, at least.

Try it. Try to think of a wish you want to come true. Think of all the wonderful things that will happen if your wish is granted. Now think of all the terrible things that might also happen if your wish is granted. Read "The Monkey's Paw" and see what happens about wishes gone awry. Maybe if she gets into vet school, she'll do zoo work and get eaten by a lion.

It just takes a lot of bravery to live into the next moment. Thank goodness time flits by so quickly! I wouldn't have the nerve to take the next step if time moved more slowly. Maybe that's why time seems to speed up as we age. We become more aware of the terrible possibilities that can happen in the next few seconds, so we need time to furiously pelt on.

I really hate to wait. I should work on that.

pull over to the left

"Hey! Hey! Pull over to the left." This is the latest instruction from Mitt-mitty-mitt, as the bird has begun to call herself. She is not much of a good car rider, especially in cold weather. She is too interested in drilling holes in the interior and trying to undo the door lock knob. It is difficult to drive with a large bird loose in the car, so I avoid it. It is also difficult to drive with a large bird in a carrier in the car, due to the loud protests and violent escape attempts. We avoid going anywhere in the car, except up and down the long driveway- and even that is too thrilling if the dogs are out. There is no place to pull over to the left. The driveway is only one lane, with no shoulder.
"Awww!", said in the same tone as a little kid who watches out the window as you pass the ice cream drive-through without pulling in. I ask her why we need to pull over, but just get mumbling. Don't let the bird drive the car!

where has the past year gone?

Tashi delek! Julley, julley! To Tibet and back (no kidding.)
But seriously now folks, being back is fine, except that I want to be THERE. There is too much oxygen here- too much everything.

And here we are again in the throes of the February homework rush. Teachers seem to think that giving a child a list of obscure inventors and telling them to go to the library to get a book about the people on the list is a good idea for an extended lesson. Well, for all you would be authors out there, we sure could stand some books on the people who invented the electric windshield wiper, the furnace blower, and the hairbrush. If they could be written on a third grade level, with lots of color photographs (of folks that lived in the 19th century), that would be even better. For some of the folks our young customers seek, the only information available is the patent number and their name. Not exactly riveting reading or inspirational! Wow! Patent number 17239894913939!! Gee, Mom, I want to be an inventor, just like her!

It's also hard not to tell the kid that is hell bent on making a volcano for the science fair that he is the 35th one from his school to ask for the directions, and that it's not really an experiment anyway. I wonder what happened to the kid that insisted that his teacher said it would be just fine to bring "a fake bomb" to school for his project. My personal opinion is that she just wanted to get rid of him for the rest of the year, and that he's in juvenile detention somewhere. Or maybe Gitmo.

I have a new favorite reference question! "What about the eel?" slips to number 2. The new question, asked by an actual grown-up who is probably driving in the car next to yours and chatting on the cell phone while she lights a cigarette is: "What is this third dimension that people are talking about?" That's the spot in the reference interview that I'd love to be able to say, "What people are talking about it? Can I hear them, too?" I don't' think it's the folks at her MENSA meeting. Maybe it's the people in her fillings, or the ones in her cell phone. Why don't people I hang around with talk about this so-called third dimension? Maybe it's because everyone I know is FLAT. We just edge around on our paper. At least things are always looking up if you are flat- unless a whim of the wind flips you over. What indeed is this third dimension people are talking about? And why don't they talk about the fourth and fifth dimensions? (Surrey on down!) (geezer reference- sorry, kids) Which reminds me- I saw the old Monty Python skit of the extreme sport of sidewalk climbing. It was filmed so that it appeared as if the sidewalks were vertical surfaces. Very tricky, getting over those curbstones!

Mitty is stringing together longer and longer sentences these days:
"HEY! Come check on the bird!"
"There are chairs in here."
"I'm not busy."
"Oh, isn't Scout a good-good doggie!"
"Do ya think ya could turn on the light?"
"HEY! Let the bird out!"

I wish my friend could travel with me back to the mountains. I wonder what she'd say!