Last week, we were sitting out on the porch & we heard this crazy rattling noise, like a jet airplane caught in our shubbery. It was Garçon who was dispatched to investigate.
"It's a cicada," he said.
Mari & I more or less expressed a version of WTF before asking the why of it. "Is it in a spiderweb?" I asked.
"Maybe ... oh, no! It's a praying mantis!"
(Click it if you want it bigger, yk.)
What on earth? A cicada seems like such big game for a mantis. Maybe he was doing high-intensity interval training, because I feel like that every day.
It was Lillo who told me, when I complained to him, despairing & weary, "If all you can think of eating is candy & bacon, you know you're not eating enough calories."
Oh, my gosh, I know! But super-power smoothies with nut butters will have to do. I'm a Slow Eater Tiny Bite Taker with things to do! An unruly child! A delicate tummy! It still isn't enough food, because I am flattened by a nightly voraciousness for foods which have not been in my grocery cart for years.
But otherwise, the other hours of the day -- not the 2 hours every week I wish I had an oxygen mask to suck & blow like Dennis Hopper as the scary, weird Frank Booth in Blue Velvet, nor the 12-ish hours I can only think of Foods Which Kill, the other 3-5 hours in the gym -- I feel so fucking good. I am going to have to start sea-kayaking or alligator-wrestling, in order to cultivate a focus. Because right now, all I am training for is climbing a lot of stairs, 1.5 miles at a time. Also, conditioning a ballerina child.
Dance has reached the point -- at 10 studio hours -- where showing up to dance class is not enough to be in shape for the dancing, dangers of repetitive stress injuries, etc. Fifille needs a workout buddy. I would rather be workout buddies with Lillo, all things being equal. I told him about how she & I swam laps last week, yk, because on one of the two days you have home from the studio, you should swim with your mother.
I said, after a leisurely warming-up & brisk beginning, well into the middle of our time & mileage, "Let's meet back right here when [the pace clock has 55 seconds]."
She swam off, like a porpoise, and was sweetly waiting after 50 yards, not out of breath, cute, holding the gutter while I was wishing I was Frank Booth with scuba gear to make it the last ten yards in the time I had left.
Lillo would have been a little less peppy, I am sure. And also, he would have credited me with a greater zeal when, baleful & panting, I would have told him that it was swimming less than double my old race pace for the same distance 30 years ago. Fille just said, cheerfully, "Oh!"
I mean, I guess she only swims 10-25% faster than me, so ok. But so peppy! Like a sea otter! In everything! Pilates, yoga, Tony Horton! I told her playing racquetball with Mari would make her lopsided. She said, "I'll do one-armed pushups!"
That's all. I have to go. Oh, wait, no.
To review, because this happened to me again just last night: Guys in the East talk a lady to death, congenially, and then don't ... I don't know, it always baffles me.
Last night, awaiting Garçon's actual departure, I was talking to a cop on this third-shift transit detail. Ok. Chit-chat, chatter-chat. I'm there, mother-of-two, chatting pleasantly with a public worker, interesting, until I ran out of time to talk because I had to get my Last Words of Maternal Advice game running. Somewhere in between when I excused myself & when Fifille & I actually left, he gave me his card from the drywall side-job he has with his brother.
Ok, I'm from the Midwest, I don't know what that means. Do I need drywall? I mentioned nothing of drywall needs. Is he networking/promoting for drywall jobs? Does he think we are going to do It? Was that chat at the train station a date? Was he actually giving me his best material? These guys need help, honestly, because this is a Land of Confusion.
Guys back home help a lady out. You never wonder if a guy was really captivated by your perspective on the Porfiriato or if he was just trying to get into your pants the whole time. They are willing to do the work for you.
When you have already whipped a guy at darts & gaily met each other's people, and he is still working you over about the pragmatism of anti-clericalism, he might just really be dying to tell you about what he read recently about freemasonry. It happens.
Or he might want to see what is under your blouse. They are not mutually exclusive in the homeland, and anyhow, you needn't wonder, because when the time is right, he will broach what next with any number of questions making clear his intentions with a devastating frankness. Questions such as:
Do you like pancakes?
Would you like to meet my Irish Setter?
When my wife ran off, she left a bunch of stuff I think you might like. What size do you wear?
All of that, and more. Ever have I been a rigorous documentarian. Here I never know what a guy is talking about. Drywall. What? Please. Work more hard.
Watching that mantis tear into that cicada with his face was a fearsomely awesome thing. I wish you had been there with me. xoxo