So it’s Sunday morning, I’ve got my coffee to quell a roaring headache (from the pollen and not the champagne that Mr Cremer pours with a heavy hand. I love a heavy pour). I should be pulling everything out of the pantry and organizing it (again) in a manner that will make it easy for the little people who live in my house to find exactly what they need the precise moment in which they need it, because I’m gonna be parked in a room at the med center for a while and unable to do their bidding.
Once I finish that, I need to gather up all the laundry in this house and wash, dry, hang/fold it all and return it to its original home in each recipient’s dresser and closet, then try to convince those recipients to wear the exact same clothes (turn ’em inside-out if you need to for variety) for the next 3 days so that when I leave the house for the hospital, the chore I really hate will remain completed for more than 2 hours.
I still need to put away the groceries I bought yesterday (I already put the perishables away, as soon as I got home, so don’t worry about spoiled milk and moldy cheese). Then I need to clean out the fridge and discard anything that won’t get eaten while I’m gone so it doesn’t confuse the folks who try to eke out a subsistence in my absence.
One of the big tasks hanging over my head is to sit down with the calendar and make a master schedule of all the events I will miss in the next little while, to ensure that the kids get where they need to be and that Trevor and my dad (who’s coming to help run herd on my little calves) know who’s coming and who’s going. Also need to take a peek and see what events are upcoming for which I need to stockpile, be it a birthday gift or card that needs to be readied.
Instead, I’m getting ready to go play tennis and scratching my head at one of the weirdest stories I’ve ever come across. No wonder I can’t get anything done; this is all-consuming.
If you missed this story on your local news, you must read it now. Thanks to Amy Hoover for calling my attention to what is by far the craziest story I’ve heard in a long, long time.
It will take you 30 seconds to read it, maybe a minute if you slow down to read thoroughly and fully digest all the details, unlike some of us who skim wildly to find the juiciest bits.
I don’t even know where to start with this one. I’m glad the story was so short, because there are so many points on which I’d love to wax poetic. But where to start?
Ok, I’ll start with the woman’s photo. My first thought was, I sure hope she was driving to the hair stylist’s because she needs to touch-up her color right away. Yikes! I haven’t seen roots like that since Macy pulled the world’s biggest tap root out of our flower garden last summer. I mean, that sucker was as tall as Macy. And now this woman’s roots rival that super weed.
Next: her ex-husband was in the passenger seat, as she’s driving to meet her boyfriend AND grooming herself for said meeting. Huh??? Presumably it was her car, since the ex was in the passenger seat, so why was he going, too? I could see it if he were dropping her off, but what in the world was he doing in the car? And more importantly, what was he going to do once she got to her boyfriend’s house? I’m assuming he knew what activity she was engaging in at the same time she was driving a car, so why didn’t he tell her to pull over and let him drive so she could finish her other task.
Moving on: she’d been busted the day before this insanity for DUI and driving without a license. So driving while shaving her nether-region is what she does while sober? Holy tequila shots, what does she do while drunk? That must be a whole ‘nother story. Probably much longer. And crazier.
And finally: the woman and her ex drove a half-mile after the crash and exchanged seats; ok, I can see how that makes sense in the mind of someone crazy enough to do what she was doing. But my question is: if the officer had witnessed a similarly insane situation, why on earth didn’t he share that one, too?
Now I’m really curious.
“One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.”— Goethe
I’ve always liked this philosophy, and what better day than a snow day to heed his words?
Well, let’s see: it’s a snow day without snow (gotta love Houston), so the kids are home but not playing outside. No snowmen or women, no snowball fights, no sledding or tubing or ancillary snow-related activities. No giant snowbank on which Harry could leave his yellow mark, and certainly no homemade snow ice cream.
Instead, it’s 10:30 a.m. and the kids are immersed in video games and iTouch pursuits. When they become bored from those, they will likely move on to Nickelodeon. The washing machine is humming, the dishwasher is doing its thing, there’s a long list of things to do, and none of them coincide with Goethe’s missive.
Ok, wait, I will turn on my iTunes while I type this, so I am hearing “a little song” (some Jack Johnson to drown out the hum & clank of the labor-saving devices). I will attempt to speak a few reasonable words, but suspect the result will more likely be a rambling blabbityblah instead.
With the humming & clanking sufficiently quieted, I got to thinking about Goethe and who he was and what kind of a person he must have been to utter the above suggestion, which is so simple yet deep. He’s basically giving me a recipe to daily happiness. I like that. I need that. I’m digging Goethe.
If I stretch back into the deep recesses of my grey matter, I recall that he was a German writer in the 1800s from a good family. After some trouble in school, he was home-schooled, and his mama encouraged his love of the written word, just like my mama did. He’s described as a polymath, a word that’s always intrigued me. Of course the Greeks defined it best and used it to describe someone as “having learned much. ” While Goethe is perhaps best known for his written word (he was called the supreme genius of modern German literature, after all), he also was into nature, politics, and painting. A real Renaissance Man.
Goethe’s insights on plants & animals paved the way for naturalists like Charles Darwin, and I like to think that Goethe opened the door to Darwin’s theory of natural selection. Our modern-day jokes about the shallow end of the gene pool wouldn’t be nearly as funny–or true–without either of these guys. Don’t know why, but I find that interesting.
Politically, he was conservative and thought the revolutionaries in France were wasting their time because people couldn’t possibly govern themselves. He was a fan of small principalities ruled by benevolent despots. Which is all fine & good as long as the principalities want to be ruled and the despots are indeed benevolent. Wishful thinking, perhaps.
Seems Goethe anticipated being remembered for as a painter, but he gained his fame as a writer. He did study colors extensively, and considered his Theory of Colors to be his most important work. He believed that colors developed from “the dynamic interplay of darkness and light.” I’d venture to suggest that this concept does not apply strictly to art. If I were a better student with more patience and time, I’d love to investigate this concept and expand on it. But alas, the laundry calls and the dog-hair tumbleweeds grow. Goethe probably didn’t do his own laundry, and I bet he wasn’t troubled by the accumulation of dog hair on a tile floor. He was busy pioneering the idea of physiological effects of color, which is intriguing because he lived in a rather black & white world. Imagine how he’d react to our technicolor lifestyle.
Since he was famous for his writing, I thought I’d break out my copy of his most well-known poem, Faust, (anything to avoid tacking the to-do list) but then I remembered that it’s really, really long. I remember it being billed in one of college courses as relevant and timely for our modern world, but I don’t have that kind of time to sit and read it.
A little Carl Sandburg, perhaps. His stuff is easy to bite off into manageable chunks. Fog is my favorite. I’m not a cat person (d0n’t flame me, cat lovers, I don’t not like them I’m just more canine-inclined). I do like the image that Sandburg paints of “little cat feet.” If you don’t know this poem or are a little rusty on its simplicity, allow me:
“The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.”
Simple, beautiful and I can read it in about 10 seconds. Yet the imagery will resonate with me long after. I think Goethe would approve.