Saturday, March 18, 2006

Ahhh. The weekend.

Before the clock hits 8:00 a.m., in the search for vital income tax and legal papers, I chuck out useless wads of outdated paper and I'm feeling pretty darn smug. Following the advice of a friend, I'm dejunking my life, downsizing, improving the feng shui. I will cease to be a mere boarder in an apartment whose actual tenant is self-reproducing stuff.

I cart the stuff triumphantly to the garbage and jam it down firmly, forgetting that earlier I'’ve disposed of a broken glass. I should not have forgotten this because I break a glass approximately every two days, so sharp things shark around the top of my garbage on a regular basis.

After I run cold water and peroxide over my thumb knuckle, trying not to look too closely, I apply three inadequate band aids and attempt to get on with my day. I shower with my hand bagged and rubber banded at the wrist. This is unsuccessful. There is a delay in the proceedings while I try to stop the bleeding again and figure out a way to get dressed without bending my thumb.

Finally,– and not without leaving little red smudges on everything I touch,– I set off to catch the bus. Leaving right on the dot, I almost miss it when it comes early. Run! But I'm wearing clogs, which are determined to slide off my feet at anything over strolling speed. I just make it, show my pass and plunk down red-faced, bloody-handed and gasping.

I have several stops to contemplate the first errand. A notice announcing that an envelope containing photographs is being held for me at the local post office. Actually, two notices, the last one final. I have no idea on earth who is sending me photographs. There is no return address stated on the notice.

Inspired by recent news items on overly enthusiastic and wide-sweeping arrests of people (many innocent) suspected of possessing child pornography, my mind seizes on the idea that some demented stranger has sent illegal photos to the wrong address. My address. What to do? Call the police, I expect. And say what? Good God, would they believe me?

The bus stops, derailing this insane train of thought. Turns out, after I'’ve shopped for groceries and leaked my way home (with better bandages in my shopping bag), the envelope is from Miz T. A letter and not a photograph, but a drawing.

A simple pen and ink line drawing of a naked woman with her hands covering her face - mortified, embarrassed. She has a leaf stuck in unruly hair and is holding an apple between her knees. "A doodle”" she calls it. And she affixes two sticky notes to it.– In one, the woman is thinking, Oh God! How am I going to ride my bicycle and wear white pants? In the other note, Adam speaks from a cartoon bubble: GIVE ME THAT!

Make of it what you will. I'’m still laughing. And adequately bandaged now.