Being Mr. Bean

 I was thinking about Mr. Bean the other day while pouring myself some water. I'd taken the carafe from the fridge and was filling up a glass when suddenly, it overflowed all over the kitchen floor. I also make a mess watering my house plants. And at those moments I always think, just stop it. Because, I don't like the Mr. Bean side of myself. The one that occasionally misses her mouth while taking a sip. But the uncoordinated of the world often misjudge the size of the glass, or the situation.

Like Mr. Bean, there are moments when no foot is too big for my mouth. I travel through life with the same goofy, good humor, but also with the tendency to say the wrong thing from time to time. Like Lady Catherine de Bourg from Pride and Prejudice, I can raise thoughtlessness to a whole new level. 

But there is something that saves me from my role as the crass, uncoordinated being bouncing off the walls in my own house. And that's spending time outside. I believe this is true for everyone, especially those struggling with Mr. Bean syndrome. ie: Feeling like a loser. 

When I'm kayaking in the summer, or skiing, walking or snowshoeing in the winter, I feel very differently. It's not that I'm particularly good at those things. But being outdoors is like receiving a back pat from God in the self esteem department. Even on the occasion when I've turned too quickly while lifting my kayak, thus bashing a dent into my car, I still feel okay. Because overall, I've had a successful outing. I didn't drown, fall in, or even worse, stay home. I went, I saw, I paddled. It's the same in the winter. However slowly you move, as long as you're putting one foot in front of the other and taking in the view, you're one hell of a success story. 

That feeling goes a long way toward thwarting the 'turkey on the head' feeling of being Mr. Bean. 

There are those of you who go through life smoothly. You are the Cary Grants of the world...suave, coordinated, well spoken. Then there's the rest of us. The ones who fear that dementia in old age is the fallout from all the times we banged our heads on something. You know you're being Mr. Bean when you haul too many things at once up the stairs or in from the car, and all that's missing is a banana peel to slip on. You try to hammer a nail in the wall but miss, creating a dent. Which you cover with a picture, of course. As you go through life, you tend to say things to yourself like, 'Slowly, now. Careful. And the ever popular, 'Don't die.' 

So, go on. Get outside. Show the world the real you, the 'Not quite athletic but knows how to appreciate the great outdoors' person. I'll meet you there at the corner of 'There's ice under the snow and I wore the wrong boots.' We can have a chat while we brush ourselves off. 

Christmas Math, a True Story

  My relationship with the subject of math has always been strained. Like every kid of my generation, I memorized the times table, learned long division and had no trouble with the basics. But once I got to high school, things changed. In the tenth grade I actually did okay due to an excellent teacher. But after that year's glow of self worth and the short flirtation with a slide rule had worn off, our relationship went downhill. 

As I was arranging the Christmas lights on the pillars outside my house, I was reminded of all those math feelings, and also of my dad. I remember him pulling out the box of lights, his face filled with the belief that this year would be different. But sometime over the past year the strings of lights had once again decided to mess with him by tangling themselves together. 

 'What the...?' I remember his shoulders slumping as he realized that sorting them out would take a whole evening. So here's a heavenly coin, dad. Buy yourself a beer, and get one for Clarence, too. Decorating the  outside of the house is not all that much fun, and I'm sorry I didn't sound more appreciative at the time. 

Anyway, back to me. As I swung around the first pillar, one foot on the top rung of the ladder and my De Walt drill in hand, a surge of vertigo washed over me. This has become my new normal, so planting my feet, I grimly screwed a hole into the wood overhead and then twisted in a hook. My problem? I'd recently come into contact with a math germ, ie: Christmas lights and electricity, and was having a hell of a time figuring things out. 

All four strands had gone up a few days before, but only two pillars would light. For people like me who live in a world of faith, God, and occasionally a fairy or two, this was not good news. Was it the cords I'd used? Could one of the many strings I'd joined together be broken? (Full disclosure: I forgot to check them before winding them around the posts.) The strings had been braided through with fake greenery. Working with them can be a challenge. Especially when I'm up high, and the world is swinging crazily around in spite of my not actually being high. If you know what I mean.

I brought out a portable radio and plugged it into the cord ends along the way. Aha! One had only a single in-thingy that worked. The one on the other side didn't. (For the official name for in-thingy, please consult google. Or anyone who knows about plugs. Or who hasn't lost words over time. But that's another story.) 

Sadly, I have recently discovered that electricity is not my friend. When I was installing two small chandeliers in my bedroom ceiling, my brother, who was at work and probably hiding in a closet, was talking me through it. I felt like the latest hire on a bomb squad. In the end, it worked. But after that, my bathroom lights would flicker on and off at random times. I've changed the bulbs twice. We'll see.

So, getting the lights around the outside of my house to actually work was very important to me. I'm basically like every two year old you've ever met. 'Do it myself!' That's the toddler's motto I cling to these days. I don't know why. Seriously. I have very helpful friends and family members, but I like to experiment with things that might kill me. 

As I was testing the cords, figuring out where I could plug in what (eight cords were now involved, snaking along the wood facing of my overhang and tucked into the now installed hooks) I realized that I really wished magic was a thing. I wanted to be Hermione Granger and just wave my wand and mutter a few words like 'Stringem upem.' No wonder they enter Hogwarts at age 11. You don't have to worry about things like math when you have a magic wand. 

Fortunately, a few verses of 'How Great Thou Art,' seemed to do the trick. I don't know if God saw it as a bribe (it was not, it's my go to theme song for panicked moments) but in the end, everything worked out. Will I remember how I did this next year? No. I will not. Otherwise, I would have remembered doing them last year. This is not the kind of thing that sticks in my brain. 

So if you drive by, please appreciate my hard work, math efforts, and ability to stay on the ladder while surfing a wave of vertigo. And I will appreciate your work, too. We Christmas lighting people have to stick together. 

The Life and Hard Times of Inanimate Objects

 I was busy rebuking my toaster yesterday when I had a revelation. It had burned my single piece of gluten free bread, an item expensive enough to make me swaddle it in butter and honey and eat it anyway. Our friends may recognize us for who we are, our family even more so. But nobody knows us as well as our household goods. This includes walls, floor and ceilings, but most of my vitriol seems to be aimed at my appliances.

I try to be the kind of person who thanks them for their service as recommended in that Japanese book about not holding onto crap. But I'm more like an ungrateful girlfriend. I fall into abusive verbal behavior very easily. And for my poor vacuum, there's not a court in the land that will hold me to account. 'You clean my floors well,' I say to my Dyson. 'But why does your cord insist on getting caught in the furniture feet? Why do you always make me walk across the room to bend over and untangle it?? Why, Mr. Dyson? Isn't that your job? Things seemed to be going so well when I first bought you. But lately your attitude sucks."

Next, I give my drill a serious lecture. 'Why won't you hold onto the bit? My job is to hold you. Yours is to grip the bit and let me get this screw into this board!' As I holler, I can sense all the tools in the house shivering in their poorly organized cases. The walls hear everything. And I am not a silent whiner. Even before my husband became a landed resident in heaven, I was very vocal about the shortcomings of our possessions. 

And yet, I consider myself a grateful person. I am continually giving thanks, aloud, for things like my comfortable bed, warm home, family and friends. Anyone overhearing me would be inclined to think that my character is above reproach. Sadly, as my mangled can opener will tell you, this is not true. 

I'm confessing publicly to appliance abuse as the first step in my self made program I've taken to calling 'Inanimate Objects Anonymous.' Before you get any ideas about joining, let me tell you up front that this is a one person group. I'm all I can handle right now. I kneel apologetically before my kitchen stove (something I've picked up from all those Korean Dramas on Netflix) and tell it I'm sorry for swearing at it last night. I must have programmed the oven incorrectly. (See how I'm owning up to my mistakes? This program is working!) 

And then I notice the pot of soup I left simmering on a back element. Most of the broth is gone and the mushrooms and vegetables are sticking to the bottom. An almost burned smell is rising through the kitchen, along with my temper. "That damned pot," I mutter, trying to be quiet so the stove won't hear me. Is this a step backwards? Perhaps. I might have to give back the coin I gave myself for one whole day of nice behavior.

It's Covid 19's fault. Okay? There were white and black birds singing on the lake this summer that were less loony than I've become over the last six months. Besides going for a walk, I try to do one thing per day that gets me out of the house. Mail a letter. Buy groceries. Drop off some books for a friend. Little make-work jobs meant to shorten the day. But there are mornings when I wonder if I should even bother washing my face. Because, who cares? I'm wearing a mask everywhere I go. I could have spinach stuck between every tooth and no one would know.

I feel better getting this off my shoulders. And I'm sure I'm not the only one with a bit of a temper problem. Maybe other people don't take their frustrations out on their household appliances, but I think it's better than yelling at the postal worker for not giving me mail two whole days in a row. 

Last night I heard strange whisperings and rustlings coming from the basement. Since my deceased husband Clarence and I have a pact that he will check in now and again, but without being creepy, I knew it wasn't him. And I realized that if I'm not careful, the neighbors could come in search of me one day and find me at the bottom of the stairs, the vacuum posed innocently at the top, and a pot in my hand with a strange dent in it. Okay, time for another meeting. I really need to earn back that coin.