1). If some asshole from Trading Spaces ever paints my walls zebra skin, puts fake plants around my bed, or dangles stuffed monkeys from my ceiling, I’ll sue their ass.

2). If you leave a bag of potting soil outside for over a month in the rain with the top open you will prove the existence of alien life.

3). They DO use actual dead people as crash test dummies.

4). Avis is a rip-off.

5). Someone explain to me how Delaware is a State and D.C. is not.

6). No colon should be able to hold 40 pounds of shit. And if one should, no one should know about it.

7). The telephone will not hurt you.

8). Someone, namely Missy, should figure out a way to (sometimes) shut me up.

9). It’s not the Virgin Mary.

10). Why did Joe and Jake break up? I can’t remember.

Apparently, it’s not always good to have long “Away Messages” on AIM. My boy sent me

this picture.

I’d like to take the time to say I’m sorry, for those of you with my AIM name (which is not michele, btw), who thought all those times I was in a “meeting with mr. poopiepants” (i.e. my boss) you thought I was doing something entirely different.

I met three, well-dressed men at a bar one night. They were older, probably mid-fifties. I was still smoking at the time. It was a place where they seat people at long, cafeteria-like tables which means, often times, you’ll end up next to strangers who are part of another party.

“Light another one, little lady, we need the business!”

The man was greeted with a boom of laughter from his friends.

Realizing they were talking to me and slightly intrigued by what they said, I looked over at them.

“Do you work for the tobacco company?”

I asked politely, blowing my smoke upward into the air above their heads. They laughed and then their faces, in contrast, turned serious. The thin man across from me answered

“No. We’re coroners.”

More intrigued, I put out my cigarette. I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than being seated next to three, drunk coroners. I still can’t come up with anything more exciting. The questions began to charge the inside of my skull.

What courses were you told to take in college? Is it ever just too hard? Describe a bad day, because Tom over here is always bitching about ‘bad days’, and I’m sure a bad day for an art director doesn’t even compare, so what’s a bad day for you fellas? What is the grossest thing you’ve ever seen? Is there downtime? Do you have kids? Are you religious? Where does your job stand on the totem pole of a funeral process? Have you ever cleaned up someone you know? Why, in your opinion, are there more men in your profession than there are woman?

I asked them everything.

“Michele, leave them alone, you’re being rude!”

A member of my party put their hand on my shoulder in order to hush me. Rude? How am I being rude? I’m merely asking a group of coroners about the most taboo subject there is. How is that rude? If there’s anyone who’s willing to answer me about this sort of stuff, if there are any living folks willing to give me honest answers, it’s a group of drunk coroners. And I couldn’t stop now. I needed to know.

The man looked at my friend,

“It’s perfectly ok. She’s not being rude. We’re wondering if she needs to seek mental health or wants a job, but she’s not being rude.”

There was some more laughter. The same hands which earlier that week were entangled in human remains, raised a beer for a toast.

“To dead people and cigarettes.”

He smiled.

I realized something that evening about myself and those I enjoy being seated with. If you were to ask me what I thought the hardest feat for a surgeon, or the perils which lay behind a door at a meat packing plant, or even the sites, sounds, and fears one might experience as a logger or a miner, I could probably wager an accurate guess or, at the very least, make someone laugh with my ignorance. And, if I were to ask any of these same questions to my closest friends, they too would most likely come close or entertain with idea. Wonderment is a powerful thing and keeps the mind from becomming stagnant. And I like that most about people, their ability to empathize. But the day in the life of a coroner, I can’t even imagine about really, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a hundred questions to ask.

Last night, I thought about these men again. I was sitting on my couch thinking about death and funerals, how the body is laid, the plants are put, the tissues placed, the snap shots poked, and as my mind was scanning the memories of every funeral I’d ever been to, I realized that every body is placed with the head facing the left side of a mourner’s body. I haven’t ever been to a funeral, nor have I seen a movie, where the head faces the right arm. After my night with three drunk coroners and their gracious answers, I know that thought lies beneath this. I’m sure of it. And I want to know why.

Toby just called, it seems our neighbors have left, headed west. And Kurt was blue. Toby bought a bike from them and I was given another plant to kill. I’m sure, once I return home with my hormones, I’ll see their empty back porch and get weepy.

::raises glass::

To Heidi and Kurt, may they wear a lot of sunscreen.

This morning I saw a man on the map of the Navy Memorial. Even before I saw the items pinned to his cap, I assumed he was a veteran.

I work a stones throw away from the Navy Memorial. I see people stand on the world map, find D.C., draw and imaginary “X” on the ground, look at those they’re with and say

You are here.

Sometimes, they find where they left from and fly a line from there to where they stand. (It’s nice to know there are people from Idaho). Sometimes, the more spirited people break into song

…. top of the world….. looking…… down on creation….. and the only explanation I can FIND….

People do that thing they do. People run up the stairs while humming the tune of “Rocky” at the Philadelphia Art Museum, people repeat

Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament

while driving around the circle in London—or any circle for that matter. People do these things. People find the place in which they stand at the Navy War Memorial while a dark statue of a sailor stands there, bag at feet, and salutes us all. Constantly.

But not this man. He was alone and slightly unpredictable. He stood three feet from the statue and took a picture of the sailor with a throw away. He looked up for second and then down at the world. He looked toward the flags at Pennsylvania and then toward the fountain to watch one, wading duck. And I couldn’t help but compare the two.

(Low-ball glasses and two ice cubes. T.V. set with static and a bent antenna. No cable. The smell of dust, moisture and age. Dark wood. Old, non-ticking clocks, yellow stains settling onto off-white walls and bathroom fixtures. [Why is he here alone at 8 a.m.?] I check for a ring. There isn’t one. Perhaps the pins clinging to his baseball hat write his history).

What is it about some people and how they sweep me out of my own life for a few minutes? They don’t speak to me, they don’t even know I’m there most of the time. But somehow, whether it’s by way of an unconscious smell or just some quick visual flicker, there are people out there who I want to collect and serve mashed potatoes to (or maybe pancakes). I want to listen to whatever story is pinned to their head and I want them to use as much gravy (or syrup) as they wish. This man looked sadly content, just exiting or coming to or grasping something I will probably only understand much later on in life (if ever). And I’m sure he’s much wiser than I am, and I’m sure he knows better about how things really appear at night.

Perhaps it’s from a hormonal down. Perhaps the air decided I was feeling too elated today, that I began to forget about sadness and it needed to remind me. But something about this man made me feel sad today. And I hope he’s not alone on weekends and holidays.

Here are some pictures.

…. what the hell ever happened to PJ Harvey?

My hair is gone. And I’m sore. Saturday morning I thought I’d try out a more advanced yoga class. Muscles? Somehow, it hurts to cough and sneeze. I threw three bowls on Friday at pottery class and had indian food with my sweet boy. Saturday, we went out with a bunch of nice, pretty people and probably drank too much. Who knows. There were two heads shaved, many pictures taken (and erased), there were plants potted, potted plants, and then some of the worst heartburn I have ever had. Chewable Pepcid, you are my friend. That’s all for now…