watermelons and lingerie

"It's cold here," I tell my aunt, living in Albany, NY, who's been racing the snow to the ground, armed with nothing more than a shovel and an indefatigable determination, for about a week now.

"Is it eight degrees?" she asks.

"No, not quite," I laugh.

"Then it's not cold," she says.

But it is cold here, for here. And I'm sitting now in the chilly showroom of Discount Tires, the same showroom I've dallied in on three separate occasions over the past month and a half. A nail here, a curb there, another curb.

And as if that isn't enough to get my attention, last week, I thought for a few days that all my possessions -- everything but some pictures, my clothes and bedroom furniture -- abandoned to storage for the past several months had been auctioned. Defaulted payment they said. A glitch in the system it turns out, and not my (de)fault, but regardless. . . stuff gone. And then, to make a long story short, it wasn't. Thankfully. But still. Something is off.

As I wait for the change, acrid smell of new rubber wrinkling my nose, I'm reading E.B. White's "Here is New York." My boss gave it to me for Christmas with a card that read, "To my writer friend." And when I thanked him, he said, "That book will turn you into a writer."

I like the book. I love the card. I love the sentiment and faith behind it. The feeling of being welcomed into the fold. My boss is a writer and one I admire greatly, but if I told him how much his gift means to me, his nose would wrinkle as if stung with sour smells. But still, one day, I might.

The book is one Mr. White wrote one sweltering summer in New York after he'd relinquished his residency and returned for a season as a "transient," a "vagabond," staying at The Lafayette Hotel. His account so specific. Attentive. Rich. ("In the candid light from unshaded bulbs gleam watermelons and lingerie.") Reading it reminded me that being aware is key. And I haven't been.

When I thought my books and tables and glassware were all gone, I kept saying (and for the record, truly believing), "It's only stuff." And then, "Well, I guess now I'm free."

But it didn't feel free. It felt cold. And irresponsible. I don't want to lose what I've spent a decade and more gathering close. And even with all intact -- no love, no life, no stuff lost -- how much richer would I be today, if I'd been attending more carefully to the details?

please don't call the a.s.p.c.a

I walk out of the coffee shop and over to the bench where I've tethered Fred -- for no more than five minutes and with enough slack on the leash so he can't pretend to hang himself in protest at being left outside and within plain site through floor to ceiling windows so I can see if he tries anyway -- and find him huddled in the lap of a woman I don't know. This complete stranger is shivering in the cold, arms goose-bumped and blue as it seems she's wearing only a short-sleeved shirt despite the forty degree cold. And then I see she does, in fact, have a leather jacket. Only, she's taken it off. And wrapped it around Fred.

leap of logic

She said, Freud said there are no such things as accidents. Or something like that. But that we'd save that discussion for another day. (We only ever have 45 minutes at a time, and so we must stay on task.)

Regardless, I didn't know we didn't think Freud was a kook. But then I'm always sort of walking into walls in these conversations. Tripping along happily when I'm stopped up short.

I say, "Uhhh. . . " a lot.

And, "I guess?"

And, defensive, defeated, "I don't know." The frustrating part of which is that I think she does know and just isn't telling.

Usually, though, I'm down with that. Not the not telling, but rather the idea of an intentional universe. I can point to specific examples in friendships, in relationships, in jobs, in travel and in blogging even, that feel so wonderfully, specifically un-accidental. Moments and stretches that feel guided, orchestrated in a perfect symphony of synchronicity. Even if Freud agrees.

But what about when I want off the hook? It's only spilled milk, right? No latent anger there. No hidden sadness. No frustration made manifest. Just milk on the ground.

Can't we leave it at that?

And then this.

Lately, my most concrete acts of good-citizenry are met with bizarro karma.

I help a stranger at the bookstore jump her car.

A few days later, I get a flat tire.

I help a friend jump his car.

A few days later, I get another flat tire.

Yesterday, another friend calls, stranded with a dead battery and could I swing by to help. Of course I oblige, because what am I going to say? The universe says I'm not allowed?

Tires fat with air, I worry them and the meaning of this circle. Am I creating something? Do I mitigate healthy pride with misery? Or can it just be spilled milk?

You know, I just don't know.