Tell Me All Your Politik

Recently, my husband and I have been getting into the routine of eating dinner while we watch political dramas (and every Tuesday is Panda Express night). The moment dinner is ready, whether it's meatloaf with a side of a baked potato, a ham and cheese sandwich, or orange and kung pao chicken atop fried rice, we instinctively, as if we were conditioned, go upstairs, sit down on the couch, and turn on the show.

Before we got so comfortable in this routine, there would always be a comment of, "So, do you want to watch Commander in Chief tonight, or....?" as if we were tiptoeing around the subject, as if in the back of our minds we were wondering if maybe we should use our table for once, as if there was anything else we could possibly have done during our meal time. Now we've done it for so long, we don't even need to make eye contact--I bring up the food and drinks and he gets the TV ready. What a great marriage we have.

Some people may think that it's such an American thing to eat in front of the TV. I know some people forbid it, citing that as the source Americans are so overweight. It's those damn TV shows, they'll say, somehow invariably turning into an old, cranky man, no good use they ever bring except the weather or Johnny Carson. I like that Johnny Carson. Okay grandpa, we get it.

You know, I could see that argument that people who eat while watching TV are more likely to be overweight because they become mindless eaters, eaters who are so consumed with Geena Davis (my husband) or Rob Lowe (me) to even realize what they're putting in their mouth, but I don't think that's the only reason. For instance, eating too much makes people overweight. Not exercising makes people overweight. What, do you really expect me to eat 4 carrots and run on the treadmill while I watch The West Wing? Will then it be acceptable?

So we watch these shows and while we eat and we don't exercise--and it's okay. It's more than okay because we've actually learned something about our political system. For instance, we learned that, if Geena Davis were to run for president, we would unequivocally vote for her. She's a rock star of a president if I've ever seen one--the way she listens to both sides, the way she never buckles under the pressure, the way she stands up for what she believes in, even if it's unpopular. The way her red hair looks outstanding against that very presidential navy blue pant suit. I mean, she has all the workings of a great president for the American people.

I also learned that everybody in the White House has a perfect, quick response to everything that happens, never misses a beat, never stumbles over their words, and almost never, ever talks to someone while standing still. It's all walk-and-talk, walk-and-talk. I'm sure they eat and walk and talk in the White House--maybe the people who watch TV while they are holding the Shake Weight or doing jumping jacks will approve of this.

Also, I learned it sucks big time to be president. I wouldn't ever want to be that guy (or girl!). So many decisions, so many meetings, so many shaking of hands and so little sleep. That's one thing I find fascinating about these political dramas--they always show the President and his/her staff running on minutes of sleep, if that. Rightfully so, too--I wouldn't want my president to be snoozing away while there is a crisis going on in North Korea. But I imagine this part to be fictionalized. I mean, if the President hasn't slept in four days, and he or she gets on Air Force One to be in Hawaii in two hours, why aren't they going absolutely, certifiably insane? Why aren't they scratching down the mauve drapes with their claws like rabid cats, or singing "We Didn't Start The Fire" on repeat into a hairbrush all throughout the press quarters? Like, why aren't they faceplanted into their bowl of organic oatmeal as phone receiver is lain elsewhere? Or catatonic as they sign paper after paper after paper?

At least, that's what I'd be doing. I get like five hours of sleep and I'm already going crazy, my eyelids becoming heavy and my head bobbing. I guess that's why I'm not President.

Unfortunately, Commander in Chief ended abruptly and without conclusion, so we had to start another, and that's when West Wing came in. It'll be a while before we finish it, though, what with it being six whole seasons longer than Commander in Chief. I don't know what we'll watch after West Wing, though. Are there any other good political dramas, or are we going to have to resort to watching CSPAN?

I Never Saw the End of No Story... 'Cause No Story Ever Ends

On his stomach, with this arms outspread like he was a plane, a soaring eagle, a boy crucified to his skateboard. It was the blue skateboard, the one that would never crack and never break and never get lost. His best friend would hold his ankles and push and pull him until he got the momentum just right, and, in one final lunge, he’d just go, faster and faster and faster, the ground beneath becoming blurry, all the while death in his mind right beneath his chin, a scrape away. And they would do this, risking their skin and their faces and everything else, down this forever steep hill, all summer long, when they were twenty.

But when they were younger, perhaps when the zits were fresh and the feelings foreign, these two guys would crouch on all fours under his friend’s giant tree, where the grass was speckled with light, and they’d eat—they’d graze—the grass below. It was good grass, tasted like spinach, and when Becky Cavanaugh drove up in her dad’s Mustang and saw the two teenaged goats, she looked at them and couldn’t utter a word. They continued to eat, to graze, for hours after that—for months after that. Becky drove by once more a few weeks later, and this time she didn’t stop.

At a party years into college, he wore a Robin costume and carried a Batman cardboard cut-out as his side-kick. It was funny because Robin was the main focus this time, and Batman was limp in the neck and fell over at the slightest draft. It was even funnier because he put a sock in his suit, in his crotch, because his friend told him to cover it up. The sock didn’t cover anything up but slid down his thigh and made it massive. There is a picture to prove it, somewhere under the bed in a box or in an album on the shelf. They’ll find it soon and give it to me.

When they were teenagers, with the group of friends that all went to church together, they put a sofa in the back of a dad’s pick-up truck, borrowed a dad’s generator, borrowed his unused television from the basement, and they drove up a hill, any hill, it didn’t matter, and watched a movie in the open and under the stars. A mother of one of them wanted to come and sit under the blanket and laugh with her kids on the hill, but she didn’t want to go to jail, which maybe would have happened, but nothing did end up happening, and they watched movies like that almost every weekend.

The cops did come, though, one night when they were doing something completely harmless. He was the voice of reason and said that they shouldn’t be sleeping on the roof of this pet store, but his other friend said no one would ever know. They slept peacefully, the boys did, and in the morning, they heard people inside the building below. In a hurry, they threw their stuff into the middle of a sheet, tied the sheet up, and lowered it down the side of the building. The people inside saw this large ball of stuff descending and that’s when the cops were called. A few of them scrammed and made it to the nearest IHOP, but one ratted, and the cops showed up for pancakes. He thought it was funny, so he took a picture with the officer for proof.

Then one night, when he was rooming with a fellow musician, he fell asleep on the couch, still in his clothes, no less, and when his roommate came home late, he awoke in a panic at the sound of someone coming in—panic screaming, panic yelling, panic movements of arms and legs in circular fast moments, panic that lasted for minutes, just like this. When the roommate asked the next morning if he remembered anything, he just said nothing had happened that night, nothing at all.

He also went to the Bahamas with his boss one summer, and they had a server at the cantina whose name was Ronald McDonald. He tried to sell them weed. It was a blast, they said, probably the funnest trip they both had ever been on. It was the picture in his office that sparked this memory, induced this nostalgia that happens every time he comes around.

But when he walked into the barbershop, the barber stopped shaving a man’s head, held up his arms like he was witnessing the return of his prodigal son, and yelled his name so everyone in shop turned and looked. And it was all eyes on him from then on out, as he got his hair cut, as the barber told the story to the whole shop, as if he had a mic and a spotlight, of that one time his woman slept with Jim Carrey. The man with the tattoo sleeve remembered him and gave us tickets to a comedy show we wouldn’t be able to make as he clipped a another man’s beard; a bald man sat waiting for his service as a man named Ernest cackled and turned red in the face from having such a high pitched voice.

And on the first date of the couple we came to see get married, he performed with just a guitar, a harmonica, and a crash symbol—this time, as people ate doughnuts and greeted the happy couple, careful not to get powder on his lapel or chocolate on her dress, he sang, his guitar with the strap attached with a shoestring, his crash symbol just about to crash to the boomchicaboom of Cash. The groom told the story of how he performed this, kicking the symbol and all, on their first date, and five years later, he’s performing it for their wedding day. An eighty year old woman who had nine hogs and eight dogs back in Okalahoma wanted to take him home, and if I hadn’t said I was his wife, she might have grabbed him by the elbow and changed her name to June.

It was when were sitting in the living room of the cozy house, somewhere out the forest, that the conversation turned to me, a story still about him, but this time I am an active participant, one that plays a part in the story instead of just sitting and listening, nodding and smiling at the right moments. And this former bishop of his told me he knew, right when he saw me, that I was the one for him, knew it in his heart without having talked to me before. His bishop told me how glowing and gleaming he was when we were dating, how he had told his bishop he wasn’t going to let me go.

And he hasn’t let me go, not yet and not ever will.

The Cheese Princesses and their parade through Old Hang Town. The time he took his friend’s wife out on a date and a week later she was engaged to his friend. The mutual friend and his fairy tale wedding with a forty-five minute love story and a nineteen year old bride. The country singer on stage with wind blowing in his hair, lights bursting from behind. The gigs when the mother-in-law would just not shut up. The nights in the basement where the jocks were over here and the parents were upstairs, not minding the ruckus down below. The people still calling into the station, a handful of years later, asking if he’s still around, they haven’t heard him on the air in a while. All of these stories, some old and some brand new, now that I have them, are stories I would never let go of and stories he will never let go of, either.

Just a Passing Moment Gone

If you remember from last year, I blogged about taking a road trip with two good friends down to good ol' Pie Town, New Mexico. Well, I'm happy to say that we went back--this year, we went to the annual Pie Town Pie Festival.

I love festivals. You could call going to them one of my hobbies. But I have yet to be completely and utterly wowed by one here in New Mexico. If it weren't for my personality which is intrigued by the weird and uncommon, and if it weren't for my husband who makes any event enjoyable and memorable, I would, well, have to find a new hobby.

The Pie Town Festival was the same thing--too small enough to be absolutely floored by, but small and strange enough to love it and blog about it.

You would think that, duh, because the festival is in Pie Town, you'd be inundated with everything pie. And true, while there was a pie stand with slices that you could buy, and yes, there was a booth for corny pie-themed t-shirts (I got one that said, "piece out" with a picture of a piece of a pie missing. I'm still laughing at it), that was about it when it came to pie related stuff. Well, there were pie eating contests, but I feel you have to be a straight up sadist to enjoy watching something like that.

I chalk it up to being a small town. There's only so many things a town can do with its 40 residents. In my mind, I guess, I imagined much grander activities, like pie throwing contests, a group of math nerds doing problems with pi, a pie baking station with a handful of ingredients (Top Chef style). Like, why was there not a slam poetry performance dedicated to pies? Or why couldn't I get cross-stitched pillows and textiles with steaming pies that of course induce feelings of warmth and happiness? Why weren't there lectures on the history of pie and pie experts, those who taste test and bring out rulers and magnifying glasses to inspect and scrutinize?

The most exciting part of the whole adventure? The horny toad races.

Actually, that's a lie. It started viciously hailing, like the sky knew how lame this party was, and that was actually the most exciting thing to happen, and when the hail calmed down and finally let up, feeling accomplished, the horny toad race commenced as usual. But the ground was so cold and so wet for those poor horny toads, they army crawled across the cement like super sticky silly putty being dragged by a kid not strong or smart enough to just pick it up. Also, I'm pretty sure it was 'horned' toad races, but I prefer to say horny.

After the four of us (me and Randy and Emily and Aaron) had our slices of pie and ate lunch at the cafe, we headed to the small town of Magdelena, which is about an hour east. Just outside of Magdelena, you see, there is a ghost town called Kelly--an abandoned mining town that is ripe for explorers like us. We drove up the mountain a little ways, but the road was too rocky and the gravel too loose, so we parked at a questionable church, a church almost too quaint to be where it was. As we approached the town's entrance, we saw a visitor's sign, providing information on the town's uprise and downfall.

The sign admitted that thousands of people once lived in Kelly, and a few souls never left.

After we read that, as if this were the period to that sentence, black crows cooed and cawed and flew over head. Yeah, LIKE STRAIGHT FROM A HORROR MOVIE. Aaron and I thought it was fantastically creepy. Emily and Randy were fantastically creeped out.

Not much of the town has survived--only a perfectly macabre brick tower and the gigantic jungle-gym mill and mine down below. We threw stones down in the mill and we never heard them hit the ground.

It was interesting to see the character differences in us four. Aaron climbed and investigated with reckless abandon, not giving any heed that this might be a dangerous place. He led the way, and surprisingly it was me who was right there behind him, snapping pictures and being awed at this horrific history before us. Randy stayed behind, a spectator, and began to worry about the token sheriff-turned-serial-killer who, he knew, would approach us any minute with a shot gun on his belt. And Emily--well, she thought we were all going to die.

It would have been a perfect horror story, actually. The elements were all there: four friends out in the middle of no where, no cell phone reception, trifling with the dead and gone, obstructing with perhaps sanctified and haunted homes of yesteryear. We could have been knocked out and thrown down the mine and no one would have even heard us.

After exploring that abandoned mining town, I think I've found another hobby that might be more rewarding than silly little festivals: adventuring ghost towns. Of course, coupled with silly little festivals and a road trip with friends, there aren't many things that get better than that.

Gotta Know How to Bend (If You Don't Wanna Get Broke)

I opened the door, and the heat was suffocating. I looked at Randy, he looked at me, and we for a moment exchanged a glance of do-we-do-this-or-do-we-not? But we had committed, we had paid, and we were meeting a friend--we couldn't back out now.

I stepped into the room, and the floor was saturated, completely, like I had just stepped in a puddle of water while wearing socks, but I wasn't wearing socks because when you do yoga, hell-o, you're barefoot, but I know you know the feeling of what it's like to be wearing socks and get them wet--and that's what it was like.

Everyone was already on their hands and knees, their butts in the air like a stretching cat, or with their stomachs on their mats, their chests up, looking like a praying mantis who is actually praying, or on top of their heads with their legs spread eagle, perfectly balancing, smiling at me upside down as we, the newbies, walked passed and laid out our yoga mats. A man in front of me was already sweating, and he was just sitting there, cross-legged, his palms upward to the sky, his heart and mind following--in uh, sukasana, as it were.

No one made a sound. No one looked at anything else but themselves in the mirror. People disrobed to their underthings, and people squatted, and they clinched, and they pulled, and it was weird.

It didn't start off so bad. In fact, at first, I kind of liked it, feeling how the heat really helped to loosen my limbs and encourage flexibility in my muscles. Our instructor, a man named Noah who had a weird Scottish/Spanish accent appear intermittently, wore only tiny swishy shorts, which was appropriate and I didn't mind because he wasn't bending. His blond chest hair looked like a freshly mowed lawn of wheat, and it didn't seem to bother anybody else.

What we didn't know going into it was that it was going to be near impossible to do. That the suffocating heat wasn't something we'd get used to, but something that only added to the pressure. That the stretches were not beginner stretches but stretches for the really limber, I'm talking Gumby type limber, and Randy and I were the only sorry souls who were far, far behind. I tried holding my leg out at my hip at a nice 90 degree angle while holding onto the ball of that same foot--cupping it, actually--in the heart of my palms, but that only lasted as long as a blink. I tried pretzeling my arms and legs simultaneously, then bending at places that I didn't even know bent, but I just fell over like a broken egg. I even tried lying on my stomach and lifting my arms and legs up to create a beautiful U-shape, but when I looked back, I realized my legs hadn't even lifted, and I thought for a moment I was paralyzed from the waist down.

During the Warrior Three pose, the pose where you balance on one leg, extend your arms straight forward, and lift the other leg parallel to the ground, so that when someone is looking at you from the side, they unmistakeably see a letter T and not a human, I totally saw some dude's junk. That was the best part. Not.

I mean, c'mon! Yoga is already pretty exposing enough, what with rocking side to side as your ankles are above your ears--Man in front of me, did you not get the memo that people, specifically an impressionable young woman, who would no doubt write about this sort of thing, would be behind you and would look up during Warrior Three, trying to meet their eyes to the sun, and instead meet their eyes to that?!  It's called underwear, for cryin' out loud!

Luckily, the man next to him, the one who wore even shorter shorts and was dripping--and I mean dripping like a facet drips when it's not quite turned off, or dripping when you squeeze out a soaking wet sponge--was kind enough to wear spandex underneath. Thank you Lord for that one.

When it was about five 'till the hour, I began lying on my back, again my palms up and open to the sky, thinking--wow, I made it, I actually made it through the whole session and I didn't throw up, didn't blow up, didn't get completely beat up. But, no--it's hot yoga, it's elite and paramount, only for the true yogies, and it would be going another half an hour. 

So, what did I do for the last half an hour? Laid there anyway. I just pretended to look like I was going to barf, so Noah would understand. He even nodded a few times and held up his hand, signaling he knew, he hasn't forgotten what it's like being new to this endeavor. I would have fallen asleep if I weren't in sauna.

When we left, Randy, poor Randy, he had worked so hard, grimaced his way through the whole class, he was twitching by the end. As we left, Noah grabbed him by the shoulder and rubbed it a bit--the equivalent to the welcome-to-the-firm handshake for yogies--and told him, in these exact words (remember Scottish/Spanish accent here): "I know it was hard today, man, but if you keep coming back, you can do two classes for the price of one, and I swear, you'll go to the doctor and you'll blow their f***ing minds at how f****ing healthy you are, man."

And that's what made it all worth, money shot and all.

Burning Ring of Fire

It's the middle of July, and we finally, finally got our swamp cooler working. No more sleeping out the deck (although I felt like such a kid), no more putting ice on my neck to cool down, and no more worrying that guests will just melt before my eyes because they are so uncomfortably hot. Ah, swamp coolers in the Southwest. Sweet relief.

Not being able to escape from this sweltering heat has reminded me about an experience that happened this month two years ago. It was my first time in New York City, and it was the first time I ever slept in a sauna.

Okay, so not a real sauna. But it was hot--so hot, I might as well have stripped down to my bra and boy shorts and initiated the downward dog pose. At least then I would have released all those negative toxins and affirm my inner self, awake every cell in my body, and feel my soul come alive.

My friend Patty and I, exasperated from the work and the stress and the work and the stress of our office job, decided to take a weekend off and spend it in New York City. Living in Baltimore at the time, it was only a few hours drive--we could take a bus that cost only $20 each way, and we could stay with one of Patty's friends, someone who had recently moved to the Big Apple to work in theatre. We would see Broadway, we would eat good food, and we would, of course, forget for a little while, the reason why we went on the trip in the first place--it would be the trip to New York I had always dreamed of.

We arrived in New York City, and it was after ten o'clock at night, but the buildings were so big and the lights were so bright, the sky was not black, but cobalt, and close, so close because there were no stars. I felt small, a forgotten button left in the crack of the sidewalk. We soon met Patty's friend, who I'll call Ange (short for Angela, because Angela is just too feminine). Clad in a black t-shirt, Jenco jeans, a backwards black hat, and stringy hair, long entangled from grease and smoke, she wouldn't look me in the eye and her jaw stuck forward like a bulldog's. Patty and I wondered, as we ate a less than satisfying taco from a taco truck that we absolutely had to eat while we were in New York City, if maybe forking over the money for a hotel would be preferable. But it was too late; before I knew it, we were on the subway, zooming, the lights to my left and to my right now bright, blurry lines.

She lived in a placed called Astoria, and as whimsical and fairy-tale as it sounds, it really wasn't: the neighborhood was slathered in grease, painted black, smelling like rats had just gotten out of a bath of scum and sewage. The people were sad and slumping, and we would soon find a cockroach crawling along the wall as we ate at Mike's Diner, which had ironically displayed a banner above its entrance pronouncing "Voted #1!"

But we were in New York City! We were among city people, their art, their creativity, their desperation, their busyness, and those alone mystified me. I didn't care about the fact that I was breathing in smog; I didn't care that the train above me shook the ground, shook my insides. It was New York City!

All that went out the window (it was 'defenestrated,' look it up) when we stepped into her apartment. Inside a brick building that looked like it could have been a telephone booth at one point, she gave us the grand tour. Over here was the kitchen, which had peanut butter, Brussel's sprouts, and honeydew on its counter, and over here were the bedrooms. Hers was down there. Mine was right here. Patty would sleep on the couch. We were tired, but most of all, we were hot.

She apologized briefly for the lack of air conditioning, but, as you know, the life of a stagehand doesn't pay. Her crippling couch cushions sans couch and wire rack full of nothing but rice cakes could have told me that.

Patty and I hung out for a while as Ange went to bed. We tried not to think about how smothered we were in heat; we wiped the sweat from our foreheads and thought of all the things we would do in our 48 hours in NYC: eat some good grub, see a Broadway play, live the good, fast life. It was all so thrilling, thrilling as beads of sweat dripped from our earlobes and noses.

I thought maybe it'd be cooler in my bedroom. There was an industrial sized fan in there, but really, it only mixed up the hot air instead of cooling it. Stripping down to a tank top and gauchos, I lay in the bed and began to soak. No amount of tossing and turning could send enough breeze my way. The train right above my head didn't provide any drift, either. I kept pursing up the blinds, getting a peek into the night through the steamy window, wishing I could be anywhere but there.

I somehow got through the night. I don't know how. When I woke up, I had to squeegee my arms and legs. I reached for the door, again praying for that draft at the arrival of new air, but my hand slipped on the knob. I wiped it down my pant leg, and turned the knob again. But it wouldn't budge. The door, it was stuck, I was stuck, and there was no way I was getting out of that hell.

I texted Patty, hoping she'd wake up and come get me. But she didn't. So I waited. I tried the door again, again, and again. After a few minutes of looking out the steamy window, wondering if there was a way I could jump (there wasn't), I decided to try the door again. After a pep talk and a deep breath, I grabbed the door handle, turned it mightily, yanked the door, and it finally got loose.

I took the coldest shower of my life that day, and I just stood under the shower head, letting it rain, rain rain.

I wonder if Ange ever got air conditioning.

Like it was Halloween, but it was Fourth of July

To celebrate our anniversary, Randy and I dressed up like aliens for the annual UFO Festival in Roswell, NM. Instead of giving each other greeting cards or following that old-fashioned rule of "1st year, paper goods" or whatever the heck it is, we figured returning to our honeymoon spot and transforming into beings from outer space that come in peace would be the best way to go. And it was. It certainly was.

We actually got pretty lucky, in a strange way. See, we had dressed up--me in a lime green bob, gold eyelashes that touched my bangs, and a floor length, entirely sequenced dress (yes, from Savers, and yes, the checkout lady called it "absolutely stunning"), and Randy in a silver space suit with green pointy ears and a laser gun--all in hopes to enter the costume contest. It was a good thing, really, that we were late for registration (I just had to put on more glitter, more glitter), because one, we would have most definitely been overlooked by the kid who was a transformer that literally transformed into a police car (can I get an "OPTIMUS!"?), and two, we wouldn't have had to opportunity to strut our stuff downtown, thus becoming celebrities to these alien loving people.

For some reason, we were the only ones dressed up. We figured, you know, after the contest, everyone would mingle downtown, meet the locals, visit with the tourists. But no. It was just a bunch of moms in jeans, kids in strollers, teenagers on cell phones, and dads in hats. So what happens when you really are alien? You get your picture taken. Again, again, again, and again.

It was as if nobody had ever seen people dressed up in costumes before! Here we are, thinking we're going to fit in, be one of the crowd, hoping to gawk at and take pictures of others--not the other way around!

But the more we were asked to pose for the camera, and the more little girls pointed and said, "Mommy, I wanna be like her!" the more we fell in love with it all. Instead of us looking and watching and me taking mental notes on blogging about that guy or that girl being a character in a future story, it was us who were the subjects--it was us who would be posted on Facebook with the caption, "Only at the UFO Festival," or "This is my hometown. How weird." It was us who people would tell their grandchildren about, tell their siblings who thought going to the UFO Festival was a waste of time. It was us who made peoples days, made them forget about the sun's heat and the never-ending day just long enough to snap our picture and shake our hands.

We even got a free snow cone for being in awesome costumes! A young kid, presumably the son of the owner of the van, came up to us and told us we could get any snow cone we wanted, and it would be on the house. I tell you, small town people really got it going on. Nothing beats that kind of kindness.

As we got our free shaved ice, perhaps our biggest fans came up to us, and although the woman only had a small digital camera, it was not unlike what J.Lo must feel when the paparazzi ambush. She told me to pose a certain way to get the good lighting, she got full-body shots and up close shots. It was all so magical, really, like this woman and her husband (who was off talking to Randy about alien abductions) were so serious about their UFOs and their beliefs in aliens that, when they saw a few young people having fun with it all, they realized just how silly it all can be.

The woman told us we had made their trip, that meeting us was the highlight. How little she knows we feel the same way towards them.

I Come From the Water

Last night, right before we fell asleep to an uncharacteristically boring episode of X-Files, my husband and I discovered a show on Animal Planet called River Monsters. Unexplainable creatures being one of our many "things," we were instantly intrigued. The show, hosted by the ever enigmatic Jeremy Wade, takes viewers into the territories of harrowing fish monsters in the depths of sometimes uncharted waters, pushing the boundary between safety and danger, and providing a sense that, truly, we are not alone.

About fifteen minutes in, we got bored, so that's why we switched to X-Files (which, too, followed suit). But before we got uninterested, Jeremy Wade went finishing in an ancient lake in Japan. He was searching for a gigantic catfish, the very same catfish that, once it wiggles, causes all of the earthquakes in Japan (!). Right before it cut to commercial, and right after the menacing music started pounding, he caught something, and it writhed, and he writhed, and it was possibly the monster he was looking for.

Turns out, it was just a catfish. He held it with both hands and it opened its mouth wide and heaved, choking, essentially, as Wade explained what kind of catfish it was and that maybe, maybe it was the relative of the river monster he was searching for. It had two long, thick whiskers coming from its mouth, pointy whiskers that I'm sure could stab anyone if messed with; it was the color of garbage and it flailed once it again realized it wasn't in water, not unlike the way an old man throws a coffee machine across the room because it doesn't work correctly. His beady eyes, dark and hollow and staring straight me, never lit up, never showed any sign of friendly recognition. I imagined this catfish was the grump of his school, the way its lower lip slouched in disapproval.

Finally, Wade let the fish back into the water, and his search continued on.

Usually, things I watch on TV don't affect me that much. (Okay, so like ONE time after watching an episode of X-Files, I thought Randy and I were going to get abducted because we knew too much, but that was a looong time ago, I mean like two weeks ago). But for some reason, that cranky catfish never left my subconscious. This morning, right before my dog started barking at the door to let him out, and right after my husband got up, I started having this dream that didn't really have a beginning:

I was in a lobby, a place that looks like the guest services and gift wrapping area of Macy's, but it wasn't exactly that. I was sitting in chairs, and it kinda felt like I was at the DMV waiting to be called (nightmarish, I know). Once my name was called, I went up the counter where the people were, and I was given a new cell phone and a new cell phone plan. Once I agreed to everything and signed the papers, I was handed the very same cantankerous catfish that Jeremy Wade caught on TV only a few hours before.

He still had the beady eyes. He still had the bottom lip that protruded and judged me. Those whiskers were still there, still pointy and dangerous. I looked at the lady behind the counter, she just blinked and smiled. I grabbed the fish in my hand, thinking, wondering, worrying how I was going to make calls, how I was going to text, how in the hell I was going to put this thing up against my face and talk into it. I looked in my purse, looking for something that would magically make this fish into a cell phone, and what do I find, I find my orange headphones. I stick the jack into the fish's head, and he doesn't so much as mind or notice. Thinking this could actually work, I then proceeded to put the earbuds in my ears. To my sincere surprise, I didn't hear a thing.

I took the fish home with me, thinking that maybe I just had to get used to it, like how it is with all other new phones. I set it on the kitchen table and stared at it, and it stared back, this time being as still as a dead fish. But it wasn't dead. It was inhaling, exhaling, even sighing once as a passive aggressive signal of disapproving my inability to accept this creature as my new cell phone.

I sat down on the couch and began to commence worrying again: what about the smell? Would would people think if they saw a fish against my face? How would I fit it into my back pocket? Would it be able to take pictures at a concert? How about ringtones--are they annoying midis, or can I download famous TV theme songs for free?

Finally deciding to once and for all get on with it and quit my worrying, I reached for the fish and turned it over, its breast facing up. I stated dialing on an invisible dial pad, then held the fish up to my ear. It was slimy, cold, wet, like the grossest part of the river was right on my face. I started to gag, heaving at stench of fish and river water now mere inches away from my nose. After a beat or two, my mother picked up the phone and said, "Oh, honey, I'm so glad you called!"

That is the last time I watch Jeremy Wade before bedtime.