Blood on the Keys

I've been sitting outside in the sun watching dinosaurs at the feeder. I really didn't want to come inside. It's 68 degrees (above zero!), all the screaming children are in school, all the solid citizens are at work, only deadbeats and dinosaurs left to enjoy god's globally-warmed-one-month-premature-spring creation. Except for sustaining a minor puncture wound to my hand compliments of the rusty needle-nose I used to pry apart a rusty wind chime, all's right with the world.

Well maybe not quite.

It's appropriate that our current unit down at the ol' preschool is the ever-popular DINOSAURS!, of which Yours Truly is officially one. Yes, Virginia, it's true, I'm celebrating (if that's the right word) a particularly gruesome birthday this week, and believe you me, I'm terrified. Scared shitless. Granted I'm also thrilled (actually I'm shocked) to be alive after all these years, but I never expected this milestone to arrive so...quickly. Where did the time go? What the fuck have I been doing for nine decades?

Obviously not pursuing any major career goals. Thus the sun on the deck at noon on a school day.

When people ask me what it is that I do, what line of work I'm in, I tell them with a nod to Mr. Keillor, "I'm an English Major." That should explain it. I was a wee lass at my mother's knee when first I wept over a poem, and I've been enslaved by the turn of a phrase ever since. As I recall, the poem in question was "The House With Nobody In It," which begins,

When e're I walk to Suffern
Along the Erie track,
I pass by a poor old farmhouse,
Its shingles all broken and black...

(Give me a moment to collect myself...)

It's a testament to the stranglehold words have always had on me that I didn't need to Google this. These lines are soldered permanently into some deep recess of my brain and will no doubt play a role in the last lucid moment I ever have. Which event may take place any day now.

Being an English Major releases you from a certain type of responsibility. You can't be expected to climb any proverbial ladders, corporate or otherwise, because the truth is you're motionally-challenged (as opposed to emotionally-challenged, the active state of most Math Majors). You're held captive by...well, by nothing a non-English Major would understand. You're simply held captive. By It All. Your natural instinct is not to take part in it, whatever it may be, rather, your instinct is to mull and observe and translate, using as few adverbs as possible.

Some people are called to English Majordom as surely as others are called to The Lord or The Law or California. It's in their blood.

I can see it now: the Movie of My Life, Part One, "I Was a Teenage English Major." And as such, I gave particular subjects wide berth. But now that I've broken a certain age barrier -- let's be honest, I've nuked it to kingdom come -- I find myself curious about some things which heretofore interested me nary a bit.

Like DINOSAURS!

The other day at preschool I learned that most dinosaurs were vegetarian! Like me! Not only that, they ruled the earth for -- get this! -- 150 million years!! Can you believe it? I'm blown away! I had no idea! What an ignorant sonofabitch I've been! And not only that (hold onto your hats!), did you know modern day birds evolved from dinosaurs? Isn't that a hoot? I can hear it now: "Look! Up in the air! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a dinosaur!"

The preschool, you may recall, is annexed to a church, and I know for a fact that several staff members there have their doubts about the bird/dinosaur connection. How do I know? I eavesdropped at the ol' water fountain. I wouldn't be surprised if one or two also have their doubts about the dinosaurs themselves, seeing as how dinosaurs aren't mentioned in the bible. Neither are Republicans, but that hasn't stopped them.

It tickles me pink to realize some people are even more ignorant than I.

I suppose I've passed it a hundred times,
But I always stop for a minute,
And look at the house, the tragic house,
The house with nobody in it...

(This is starting to sound like a description of Yours Truly...)

Speaking of pink, there's blood all over these keys. Compliments of my puncture wound, which is leaking copiously through the Bandaid. I found some peroxide in the medicine cabinet, but it's waaay past the Expiration Date. Like me. I considered pouring wine onto a dishrag and using that to clean the wound, but it was only a momentary lapse. Pouring wine anywhere other than down my throat? What a hoot!

I'm losing my touch. At last count I came up with nine adverbs. Speaking of touch, everything I've touched is taking on a decidedly (ten) pinkish hue. Just call me the anti-Midas. An apt title, given my English Major status. Turning anything into gold has never been my strong suit.

Guess I'll take my pink coffee cup down to the kitchen and get myself a refill, then look around for a better bandage. I'll check on the dog while I'm at it, any excuse to step outside on such a day. I might get lucky and spot a new dinosaur for the ol' life list. It may turn out to be my last lucid moment, you never know.