It’s 9:45 a.m. The coffee’s long gone cold, with about an inch of liquid left in the cup. This is the norm—I never drink that last gulp. The problem is that it gets forgotten, on a desk or bathroom counter. I’ll find it a day or two later with a top layer of film, the heavy whipping cream curdled into an unintended science experiment.
Science experiments. I remember two from elementary school. One involved a hard-boiled egg placed on top of a bottle after boiling water was poured inside. That poor egg got sucked right in. The other, whenever I’m in a store’s kitchen supply aisle, I’m reminded of the paper towel absorption test. I don’t remember how many brands we tested, but I do remember Sparkle winning. Not Charmin or any brands bragging about their absurd number of plies—just little old Sparkle.
I’m unclear why a state of emergency has been declared here. Yes, it’s cold—below freezing—and will stay that way for another day or two. Yes, there’s a chance of snow: an inch here, a few in the northern mountains.
What I think needs to happen instead is a four-way, 30-minute Zoom call between our governor and Alaska, Michigan, and Minnesota on what the correct winter protocol is for a state of emergency being called.
From my college days, I remember eight feet of snow piled in the center median—so high you couldn’t see the other lane—on the roads to school. Did we get a day off? Heck no. As six-year-old Emma next door once said, “You get what you get, and you don’t pitch a fit.”
I will say, though: the roads are incredibly peaceful when storm-related cancellations happen. Two weeks ago, Dave, Evelyn, and I were driving home from our trip to South Carolina. The falling flakes were large and beautiful, but wet—melting on the roads at contact. At no point did I feel unsafe or like we shouldn’t be going the speed limit. And yet, the roads were empty. Churches, events, whole weekends vanished as people bunkered down to wait out the “storm.”
Morning is simply the best time for writing. My mind is liquidy—a too-full sponge waiting to be squeezed. This is good to know. The pain of the page is gone. From henceforth, I will be a scribe of the dawn, not of the yawn.
I sometimes forget that I’m a hermit. Underneath my love of Halloween parties and people, what I really want is exactly what I have right now: a tea bag steeping beside me, a quiet house broken only by the popping fire and the hum of ceiling vents, a well-stocked pantry for staying-home meals, all the doodads for entertainment I could ever need—over-ear headphones, laptop, Kindle. I also have a forever subscription to my conversational Spanish app, work from home, and spend most of my money on sitting places. Like the couch.
I want to be here. I love being here, actually.
Today we finished a 1,000-piece puzzle of miniature national park scenes. The 66 panels were a cinch once the lettering appeared, but the scenery—those nearly identical skies, grasses, and mountains—were a pain in the ass.
Still, how accomplished we feel. We know the spaces that resisted us, the frustrating and loving meditations of sifting through pieces. I’m scanning my memory to see if anyone besides Evelyn, Dave, and me helped, and I’m pretty sure no one did. We need a new puzzle. Soon. I’ve got the puzzle itch, and it can’t be scratched until ready-to-go puzzles enter my orbit.
Last—but very much not least—are the two thumbs up I give myself for a successful comment-thread conversation about ICE and the protests and why words matter. One person’s use of “violent criminals” gave me an opening to share the distinction between civil immigration violations and criminal offenses. Here, I’ll just share what I said:
“Yes—other than the civil immigration violation itself. That’s an important distinction.
‘Illegal entry’ isn’t the same category as assault, trafficking, or other criminal offenses, which is what people usually mean when they say ‘criminals.’
Many of these individuals are actively moving through the legal system—seeking asylum, work authorization, or lawful status—rather than avoiding it.”
I’m glad I swooped in and got on my soapbox for words. Go words! Because they matter! Sure, sure, blah, blah, blah.
The most impressive part? When I disagreed with him, that I didn’t think he was ignorant, just wanted the terms right, he liked my comment.
To enter a conversation littered with polarizing minefields, and tiptoe like ballerinas on pointe shoes, and float our way to a virtual hug and fist bump at the final period is a major win.
And with that, it’s time to bag the bagels. Which—oh my god—I just realized as I typed it is a fantastic band or restaurant name.
Now, onto my next hermit activity.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 