Friday Jive

I'm supposed to be blogging over at Dean's World, but we're having technical difficulties. This actually makes for some anxiety, since my "shift" started several hours ago. I got home late after work and another commitment, and was raring to go. Instead, I'll have to wait until we get the whole "logging in" thing sorted out.

In the meantime, I'll blog here about all the things that jumped into my mind when I found out I'd be guest-blogging for Dean. Because of course the thing that enters your mind when you find out you'll be guesting at a high-traffic blog is, "I'll have to make an extra good impression. Maybe I'll try being ladylike this time."

As if it's a sort of job interview. And what, pray tell, is the electronic equivalent of wearing a turquoise microfiber suit with nude-colored pantyhose? (Interviews are the only time/place you'll see me in hose, BTW--otherwise, it's tights. But it's a damned snappy suit, if I do say so myself.)

I believe it's coming up with some sort of nude-colored pantyhose post. Something innocuous that won't offend people. One starts to make a mental list: mustn't blog about sex. Or roadkill. Or fire. No excrement. No menstrual blood.

Of course, someone who wants to hear from a chick named Little Miss Attila is probably expecting to hear about some or all of these things.

The shit and menstrual blood will have to wait. In the meantime, here's my Roadkill Post.

I may have to start carrying a BB gun in the trunk of my car. For the second time, I've encountered an injured animal near my house, and it's unbelievably distressing.

The first time, I was running nearby and there was a bird in the road with an injured wing. It was flapping in a ghastly manner and seemed unable to take off. I came back to the house and asked my husband if I could use his pellet gun. He volunteered to go with me, but by the time we returned to that same spot in the road the bird had gone. I hoped it had died quickly, because I had trouble believing that it would have been able to fly again.

The brutality of nature can be very disturbing.

The second time was this past week. I saw the familiar furry mound in the middle of the road, and swerved to avoid running over it, as I always do. There are lots of squirrels in my area, and it's not at all uncommon for them to die under someone's wheel. But something made me look back this past time, and I was horrified to see that the animal was moving frantically. It was sickening. I turned the car around, determined to make myself drive over its head. I felt at that time that it would take all my will to do this. As I approached again the squirrel was still, though, and I eyeballed it as I pulled level with the spot where it lay. It was dead, now--I felt pretty secure about that.

I began sobbing as I drove past--because there is so much suffering in the world, and because I'm such a coward I have trouble with the idea of putting things out of their misery. Because I knew driving over a squirrel's head would be hard for a squeamish gal like me, and it's a stupid, small thing to ask of oneself, after all.

I told my father about the squirrel a few days later and he said that when he was very young--five or six--he was walking with his parents and they encountered an injured rabbit. His father stomped on its head to kill it quickly, and dad tells me he gained great respect for his own father that day.

My grandfathers were very different from each other, but they were both men who could be counted on to do what was necessary. They could be relied upon.

The older I get, the more I respect that. It's something I see in my husband. It's one of the reasons I married him.

Do what you are called upon to do: large or small. Walk along the road. Kill the injured animal. Work, play, sweat. Breathe.

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There's your nude-colored pantyhose post. Do I get the job?