: what are the odds? :

You know that skin-prickling sensation you get sometimes? The one that feels like you’re being watched. Well, think about it, maybe we are. Being watched, that is.

Ask yourself this, ladies and gentlemen: how certain are we Earth is the only planet capable of supporting life? Are we:

a.) Absolutely certain?
b.) Somewhat certain?
c.) Not at all certain?
d.) Don’t know

Personally, I wouldn’t bet the rent.

The visible universe, our universe, is vast. Boundless. Some would say infinite. And it’s still expanding — as we speak, the galaxies continue their retreat from each other all these years after the Big Bang. In fact, what we call outer space is now somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 billion light-years across. (One light-year, by comparison, is 6 trillion miles, plus or minus. You do the math.)

Not only is the universe big, it’s crowded, too. It’s packed with:
> 500 million galaxy groups
> 100 billion dwarf galaxies
> 10 billion large galaxies
> 2,000 billion, billion* suns

And then there’s the whole multiverse theory. With so many distant planets and mysterious stars and other assorted floating matter, don’t you think there’s a pretty good chance life goes on somewhere out there? That a smarter, more sophisticated, more advanced civilization than ours exists?

Heck, Earth might be some übernerd Martian’s version of an ant farm. How would we know? Or a superior society’s snow globe. Wait, maybe Earth is the storehouse for another planet’s misfits and weirdos? You have to admit, these are all well within the realm of possibility.

Of course, it’s just as likely I’ll win the $600 million Powerball drawing and lead a life of idle, decadent luxury. Here’s hoping.

*billion, billion is not a typo.

Copyright © publikworks 2013

: hooray for hooky :

I think we can agree, you and I, Mondays suck like a Shop-Vac. Except for today, today was bliss.

The alarm went off as usual, clanggggggggggg, and the drudgery began; the showering, the shampooing, and the monotonous preening. Gawd, how I hate the preening. As a rule, I don’t expect much from Mondays. I’m happy if I start off with the right shoes on the right feet and my zipper up.

Then there was my commute, consisting of a hop on the interstate and a zip along mostly featureless roads. Followed by a trek across a crowded parking lot and a long slog to my workspace. I used the time to inspire myself with a rousing pep talk.

When I arrived at my desk, I was prepared to cheerfully do my duty — in accordance with Girl Scout bylaws. I sat quietly and awaited my assignment. Instead, I got a call from the governor; I’d been pardoned. Set free. Released. There was no work for me today. Suddenly I was Ferris Bueller.

With a song in my heart and a spring in my step, I blew that pop stand. My first stop? The ATM, of course. Then McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and hash browns. The morning had turned glorious. Literally. Overcast skies had, magically, become sunny and clear. The birds were singing. and the breeze was blowing.

I sat outside Mickey D’s, noshing on a breakfast that had never tasted so good — although I’ve had it a hundred times. I watched the cars go by and smelled the lilac-scented air and breathed deep. I forget to do that sometimes, breathe deep. It feels good, you know? Just breathing in and out.

Then I came home, strapped on my backpack, and hiked off to the library where I spent the rest of the morning. Now? I’m off for a walk with the man I love — my dear old dog, Bart. It’s been a lovely, relaxing day, a gift, really. It was like playing hooky, only better: My day off, you see, was sanctioned.

Bueller? Bueller?

Copyright © publikworks 2013

: career move #2 :

Career? Ha, good one.

You can’t really call this a career. By definition, career implies a kind of trajectory, doesn’t it? A climb up the corporate ladder. It conjures images of fancy offices, business suits, expense accounts, that kind of stuff.

I don’t have a job like that. I don’t even have dreams of a job like that. So the title ‘career move’ is an outright embellishment — itself a snazzy way of saying I’m lying through my teeth.

You see, my new situation is temp work, at best, and a gig, at worst. But even that sounds a little lofty. I mean, the job doesn’t even have a title, aside from the generic, all-purpose ‘low man on the totem pole.’ This is dues paying, ladies and gentlemen, plain and simple.

What I do is collate documents, I stuff envelopes, I fold and tape and label. For a refreshing change of pace, I enter time sheet data into a computer and meter the mail. In essence, I do whatever no one else is interested in doing. This is not challenging work, but, oh my, there are advantages.

The hours, for one thing: eight in the morning until 2 in the afternoon, who wouldn’t love that shift? There’s no dress code, either. You can wear whatever you want — this is a jeans and t-shirts workplace. (Possibly shorts and t-shirts in the summer, I’ll have to get back to you on that.) Best of all, there’s a noticeable lack of ass-kissing and brown-nosing and backbiting. The people are genuinely helpful and friendly.

All in all, this was a good move. Heck, it was a master stroke. Why? Mainly because there’s no freezer involved. You see, for a short time last winter I stocked them — freezers, that is. I spent hours filling icy shelves with boxes and bags and cans of frozen foods — everything from waffles to fish sticks to orange juice. If it was frozen, I toted it. And in the middle of the night, too. I was miserable.

By comparison, this is the lap of luxury. However, I would like to get my hands on the sticky-fingered dope who stole my rain jacket from the break room last week. If anyone sees a Marmot Precip, bright blue, size M, with a hole in one pocket, let me know. I have a can of whoop-ass I’m dying to open.

Copyright © publikworks 2013

: sunny thoughts on earth day:

Living here, in the refrigerated section of the country, you start jonesin’ for sunshine and thawed toes along about January. By April, you’re nutty as a fruitcake with spring fever, a disease that bedevils folks north of the Mason-Dixon.

How can you distinguish between spring fever loony and personality disorder loony? Good question. Speaking for myself, I check the calendar. There’s definitely an uptick in weirdness in March, so I give most folks the benefit of the doubt. And a nice wide berth, in case I’m wrong.

Maybe because winter’s so grim and sunless or maybe because I was born under a fire sign (Leo) or possibly because of the clothes, I have an outsized love of summer. I love everything about it. I love the longer days and the open windows and the chirp of crickets; I like going barefoot and sitting on porches and clothes drying on the line. But most of all, I love the sun — the sweet, sweet sun.

In my little world, life begins on Memorial Day and sputters to a close on Labor Day. That’s pool season, if you’re wondering. An all-too-brief, but delightful, time of sharks and minnows and Marco Polo. A season of pruney skin and zinc oxide-coated noses, sun-bleached eyebrows and chlorine-scented skin. Of high dives and sun-warmed concrete and running where the signs say don’t.

Then you turn into a teenager. And the rules change.

The pool goes from being a playground to being a showcase — the place to see and be seen. Swimwear morphs from a sensible one-piece Speedo to the de rigueur (and very dicey) two-piece bikini. An easy transition it isn’t.

When you jump in the pool, the top flies up. When you dive in, the bottoms plunge to your knees. It’s a conundrum. A dainty slide into the pool is the only practical solution, but, alas, dainty I’m not. So I spent most of every summer furtively tugging my swimsuit this way and that.

The rest of the time I sashayed and lolled around like an oil spill. That’s what you do when you’re marinated in Bain de Soleil, you shimmer and glisten and ooze. Your skin’s as slick and slippy as a hard-boiled egg. You’re a greased pig at the county fair.

Good times, right? The best. SPFs and UVAs and UVBs were unheard of; they hadn’t even been invented yet. What did we know? We were young and vain and invincible and very, very suntanned. And now, tada, I look like a drawstring bag.

I miss the ozone layer.

Copyright © publikworks 2013

: sorry, I’ve been busy catching the flu :

In other words, I haven’t been here.

Now, there are two schools of thought regarding truancy. One is the old cliché, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Then there’s the opposing, but equally hackneyed, out of sight, out of mind. Hmmm.

What to believe? What to believe? My experience tends to prove the latter, but my hope remains pinned to the former. I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? Either you’ll have missed my posts or you won’t even have noticed my absence.

You see, I’ve had the flu. Yes, my dear and faithful reader, this is a clumsy and obvious bid for your sympathy. And no, I didn’t have a particularly severe case. It was just your average, run of the mill virus: coughing, sneezing, aching, and lots of nose blowing. Wait, did I forget to mention the chronic whining and complaining? I had that, too.

Sure, I could’ve been stoic; I could’ve hung tough and continued posting, but I didn’t. Instead of regaling you with amusing tales and anecdotes, instead of thinking of your needs, I curled up like a salted snail. I did, I turned into a dull, slow-witted, heavily congested slug.

But like a slimy trail, I’ve left all that behind me. Showered and dressed in freshly laundered clothes, I’m prepared to return to the world of the living. And you know what? It’s good to be back.

Imagine that. Absence has, indeed, made my heart grow fonder : )

Copyright © publikworks 2013

: a big, fat dramatization :

Life is an unpredictable proposition, in a very predictable sort of way.

It’s like when you inflate a balloon. You huff and you puff until you’re dizzy then, while you fumble around trying to get the silly thing knotted, it shoots off like a rocket — blowing a long, loud raspberry in farewell. That’s life, right? You expect stuff like that to happen.

Unfortunately, the same type of phenomenon occurs each time a thought pops into my head and, I’ll be honest, it’s confounding. Not to mention exasperating. It’s also becoming a problem.

Once upon a time, and not so very long ago, I could hold a thought. I’m not kidding. I could mull it over; I could ponder and contemplate and reflect with the best of them, ruminate, even. For hours if I wanted to. And, if I had to, I could go around thinking for days on end. Really, I could. I’m not bragging or anything, I’m just saying.

Thinking came easil — wait, how’d all those crumbs get in my keyboard? And would you look at my cuticles? Are you kidding me? I’ve got to make an appoin

Copyright © publikworks 2013

: housebound :

Okay, uncle, uncle, I give up already. Heck, if I had a white flag I’d wave it; if I had a towel I’d toss it in the ring; I’ll put my hands up; whatever you want, I surrender. Now make it stop.

I’m talking about stoopid, stoopid winter. What a perfectly horrid, malicious season. A few days of its frigid, blustery shenanigans is about all I can take, you know? More than that is just plain spiteful. And wrong, very, very wrong.

This year, for some reason, has seemed particularly long and unnecessarily dreadful. We’ve endured days and weeks and months of bleak, discouraging skies and biting, bitter wind. Snow and sleet and ice have coated our sidewalks and roads and roofs and lawns and cars, freezing everything solid. Including me.

Enough, dammit.

Yesterday, the weather sent me right over the edge — plink, ahhhhhhhh.  Every time I looked out the window, every stinking time, snow was falling out of leaden gray skies. It was blown hither and yon, zigging and zagging, swirling and eddying in an unrelenting arctic wind. The poor trees stood with stark, bare limbs outstretched in supplication, begging for mercy.

My friends, it was like being trapped inside a snow globe, one that was strapped to a paint shaker. I snapped. I’ve had it up to here with collision alerts and parking bans; with school closings and advisories and warnings; with chapped lips and chapped faces and, yes, a chapped ass. I’m fed up with feet like ice cube trays and teeth that chatter and the unflattering blue tinge my skin has acquired.

So I cranked up the heat to 80º, turned on every light in the house, replaced my sweatpants with shorts and my wool socks with flip-flops, put Jimmy Buffett in the CD player, and I’m not coming out until spring. Until the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming and the skies are not cloudy all day. Or until I defrost, whichever comes first.

Until then, I’ll loan the Easter Bunny my hat with the ear flaps and my parka. But if I were him? I’d call in sick.

Copyright © publikworks 2013