The end

 I was relieved to see the movie posters announcing the end of the world.  Considering the enduring morosity of the stock market, I was pretty sure my 401K was so shot I would never have been able to retire.

One less thing to worry about. 

December 12 2012 is doomsday in the Mayan calendar.  2 years, 4 months and 15 days from now (I think I'm counting right but not being Mayan I am challenged with counting days) we are done with.  Kaput. 

Volcanic eruptions, flooding, tsunamis, nuclear meltdowns.  It'll be grand.

The movies and websites hope that a few of us will survive.  The people in the movie preview are looking very good with makeup and all, but although heroism is tempting, I think I'm going to pass.  It's just too much work.   I am not up to stockpiling on batteries.  I'd rather re-read Emily Dickinson than slug  through the navy seal and wilderness survival trainings to make it on time for the big deadline. 

And my chances of the federal govervnment picking me to board Noah's Ark to start a colony on the Moon are below nil.  They never pick Directors of Human Resources for these missions.  Engineers, biologists, phyisicists, neurosurgeons, priests, mechanics.  They might even throw in a seamstress and a broom-pusher but they'll be half-way to Jupiter with everybody fighting and no policy on overtime before they'll realize they forgot the HR Director.  Nope, I won't be on the Ark.

I'll have to wait at home with the rest of you, eating the last bag of stale Cheetos I will have been able to steal in the pre-doomsday melee at the grocery store.  Hopefuly I will have stolen a bottle of bourbon and some old lady's Valium too.

Yes the end will be a drag but the short-term should be a ton of fun. 

Think of it: no more colonoscopies every five years.  And with the money saved from not putting a new roof, you and me can splurge on a big motorcyle that we'll ride without a helmet.  Don't you love the end?

The little plant is very sick

I should have known: I selected it because half its little plump leaves were already missing when I spotted it at IKEA, abandoned between a stack of DOFTA potpourris and a giant pyramid of FALSEHULT lantern. 

The little plant didn't have a Swedish name, or any name for that matter.  The sticker read 'POTTED PLANT $3.99'.  At least I knew I wasn't buying some alien form that was going to take over my brain during the night.

I brought the plant home and decided it would get better under my loving care.

It didn't.

It shed its first leaves in the car on the way home. It has kept shedding since.  Never mind the Evian water and the quarter teaspoon of fertilizer, the talking, the cooing, the fine example of my thriving African violets.  The little plant has no zest for life. 

It's quite depressing, even more so because I feel a sense of responsibility for its welfare.  God, or Fate, or the inscrutable forces of Swedish marketing somehow put the little plant on my path.  My heart leapt, my hand reached for my wallet and we drove home together.  Shouldn't that count for something?  Shouldn't I be coddling that snippet of life into a joyful overgrown bush?

Why isn't this working?

Perhaps I am thinking the wrong way.    Perhaps the little plant is terminally ill with a horrible chlorophyll cancer and I happen to have been chosen to sing it a French lullaby.  Every night until the last of its leaves falls onto the bedroom floor. 

Oh God! I might be the plant hospice!  I might be there for company and moral support.  Other forces might be at work that are pulling the little plant towards the other side of the great big divide, and I am just supposed to stand there, wave and keep eye contact until it's over and the little plant is kaput.  I'll have to bury its dried up little stem in the garden and throw its plastic pot in the garbage.

How I hate that!

To the circus!

 I am tempted to join the circus.  The Ringling Bros & Barnum & Bailey train is parked just blocks from my house.  Perhaps they need an experienced Director of Human Resources.

I could recruit flame throwers and process visa applications for a whole tribe of Chinese acrobats.  I could work out a special two-for-one health insurance discount for the Siamese twins.  I'm sure I would be capable of mediating the fights between the Austrian lion tamer and the husband-and-wife team of Mexican contortionists.

I would live out of train car with nothing but a small suitcase of clothes and my pencil case.   I would shower in a bathroom the size of a broom closet and eat lots of french fries.  After the last Saturday night show, my circus buddies and I would sit in camp chairs by the rail car to drink a cold beer.  I don't like beer but I would learn to make concessions.  Unless my dwarf roommate starts snoring at night and I would get all cranky from lack of sleep.  Then again, there might be an hypnotist to help me with insomnia.

Oh, the adventures I would tell you! The dazzling pictures of my first elephant ride!  The tigers!  The red and white tents!  The music!  The applause!  The tight-fitting clothes with lots of sparkle!  I might start wearing a top-hat to hand out the paychecks!

To the circus, yes!

Stuck with the angels

 I've been singing one of my beloved's songs from his band's upcoming new CD.

Angels with me....

Actually, I've been singing one quarter of the chorus.

Angels with me....

because I can't remember the other three lines that come with

Angels with me....

And I can't seem to remember any of the melody beside

Angels with me....

But the song is catchy.

Angels with me....

There are some really good lines before 

Angels with me...

And after the

Angels with me...

And the CD's got several good songs beside

Angels with me....

I know because there was this one blues-y song about working hard that I woke up to and started to sing in my head at 2:00 a.m.  I sang the 'I'm working hard' line for thirteen hours straight until my beloved suggested I might want to expand my repertoire.  I was so grateful when he played:

Angels with me...

What a relief at first.

Angels with me....

It was so catchy.

Angels with me

But now he's gone home and I can't remember what the next line is after

Angels with me...

I know it's good

Angels with me...

And if I could sing past the

Angels with me...

To the very end of the song, I might even be able to go to sleep tonight. 

Angels with me...

But if not, at least I know I have

Angels with me... 

Angels with me...angels with me...angels with me...angels with me...angels with me....

Another goodbye

 I took a picture of my parents before boarding the return train toward the United States.  I always do.

I keep several pictures of my parents from different train stations where we've parted.  And if I looked through the photo albums at home, I would find similar pictures that I took of my grandparents.

The pictures mean we will see each other again.  Or certainly hope to.

Distance breeds its little superstitions.  For years, my mom kept a dollar in her wallet. "As long as I have the dollar with me, I know I will see you again," she would say.  When she lost the dollar - or spent it by mistake - my dad gave her a double-watch that keeps track of time in both France and the US.  As long as she has her watch, we'll see each other again.

I had not planned for a life abroad.  Fate took its own course after I spent a year of graduate school at UT Austin.  Ever since, life has been a long series of arrivals and departures, and the weekly Sunday phone calls, the birthday cards, the twice-a-year packages that don't always make it in one piece and the occasional e-mails.

My parents called us at the hotel in Lyon, and again at the hotel in Paris.  I've cried both times.  It'll get better in a few days when I get to Houston and life takes over.  Until next time.