#homeopathetic

Of all my childhood friends that moved to Los Angeles to mature into their twenty-something self—the vegan yogi/masseuse; the budding indie film actress; the Hare Krishna enthusiast; the urban city planner—the one person I have come to shamelessly envy is…Brian, also known as: the one with the famous cat.  

The said cat has thousands of instagram followers. Strangers have composed artwork in her image. And most importantly, the fame has resulted in the attainment of free stuff. Not sure what “free stuff” entails, but it sounds absolutely fancy.

And so the story goes, I spent the better part of last month projecting my aspirations for fame onto the little Shih Tzu, Baubles.

Phase 1 of the plan: Baubles becomes instafamous

Phase 2 of the plan: Sell Bauble calendars, t-shirts, and trinkets to the masses

Brian advised me to use the same hash tags that paved the way to fame for his cat: #weeklyfluff, #petsofinstagram, etc. The trick to gaining followers is to network: comment, follow similar accounts, and utilize hashtags.

Equipped with a foolproof plan and sound advice, I launched an instagram account for Baubles.

“My name is Baubles. I like trouble. Check my wobble. #baublewobbles”- @baublewobble

After a week of countless minutes spent thinking of captions, commenting in posts as though I were a shih tzu, and searching for relevant hashtags …9 low quality, highly filtered posts… culminating in a whopping fan base of 59 followers to date… all of whom, Baubles appreciates so much. Although the allure of “free stuff” remains steadfast, I have come to terms with my lack of the dedication to network or the skill to edit photos, nor do I have the adequate  amount of windows to allow for proper lighting.  And yet, I have not fully given up the pursuit of fame. Oh my dear Fame, you have proven to be anything other than instantaneous…

My 11 year-old nephew has offered to manage @baublewobble instagram account for a fee.

I am considering the offer.

Superstitious: Holding unreasonable notions regarding causation of events.

Unreasonable?

True, I may have blamed “ghosts” to explain numerous things: Why the room is so cold; why dogs howl; why untouched doors creek open. Indeed, the reason I often deduce to is…ghosts.  And true, if salt spills, I will toss a pinch over my left shoulder. Why? To blind the devil’s evil eye. Similarly, I will readily go along with the social norm and clink my glass against yours before a drink, but not entirely to give cheers. More so because the clinking sound drives the spirits away. Bad dream? Bite the pillow so the dream will not come true. Gifting shoes to someone? Ask to them pay you a penny in return or else they will end up walking all over you.

And what about Friday the thirteenth?

It means nothing to me.

What you really need to watch out for, my friends, is…Thursday the Fifth. 

I may not have justifiable reason for clinking glasses or biting pillows, but I certainly have reason to be weary of Thursday the Fifth.

This past Thursday the Fifth, I had an early start. There were only a few cars in the lot at work when I pulled in. I had countless parking space choices. I choose the one closest to the entrance. No car left or right of my desired choice. I smoothly turned into the space and somehow hit the curb. Little did I know at the time, my day of bad luck had just begun. 

Later that morning, as I was using the restroom, after a few ungraceful movements in an effort to touch the least amount bathroom surfaces as possible, a spare roll of toilet paper somehow fell into the toilet. Fished out the roll from toilet and tossed into waste bin. At the end of the day, returned to the restroom to wash hands. The hand towel dispenser was empty. Turned towards the toilet paper dispenser and drew a pause. The hardened, wrinkled areas of the roll gave me reason to believe that the toilet paper, now serving dual purpose as toilet paper and hand towel, was in fact the same roll from the morning. Which of my coworkers fished a wet roll of toilet paper from the waste bin and left it out to dry for communal use…I do not want to know.

After two paper cuts, a public scene of tripping-over-a –shoe-lace-at-Target, and colliding with a person on a skate board, I started to think of myself as clumsy. Then I realized, exactly one month prior, I had a frighteningly similar day. But instead of hitting the curb, I hit  by head on a window frame while bending over to pick something up, resulting in a plum sized bruise on the forehead. Instead of a paper cuts, I cut my lip. Instead of the skate border, a bicyclist. And instead of dropping toilet paper and a public scene at target…I “got dropped” or rather, slipped very badly on the sidewalk while walking my dog and it was very VERY public.

Day 3 of the Rain Storm

Yesterday:

A seemingly potty trained Shih-tzu pooped…

on my bed.

Shih-tzu was of course reprimanded.

Ok that may be a lie. Shih-tzu may have barked for a treat and I may have given it to her…and rubbed her belly.

Today:

Came home to no poop on my bed.

Took Shih-tzu outside to do her business. Carried her to the tree because she refused to step in a puddle. Shih-tzu only peed and raced back to the door.

Promptly carried her back to the tree.

"Poo, you little Shih-tzu!"

Shih-tzu ran back to the door as soon as I let her down. No poop. After a few more minutes, we were both soaking wet and still no poop.

Gave up.

"Come on, let’s eat peanut butter."

Shih-tzu ran up the stairs ahead of me. How rude. Shih-tzu usually waits.

Got to my floor, Shih-tzu was in front of my neighbor’s door.

On the door mat, poop.

Shih-tzu barked.

"Shhhh…they’re going to know it was us."

We are all dying anyway so what is the point? Is that too morbid a thought? But…it’s a true story. Right now, currently, at this very instant, taking place simultaneously with the tick of the clock…we are itching closer to the end of our lives, —when or wherever that may be. The tricky trick trick trick is: How to go about the in between, now and the end, without feeling any pain? Is it possible? No. But lessening pain might be. The answer, I presume, is simple: JUST DON’T LOOK. We instinctively close our eyes prior to impact with any disaster. Before head on collisions or other scenarios with the possibility of imminent danger/death/pain, survivors of the said events often describe seeing their lives flash before their eyes. Surly...their eyes were closed during the time. Closed eyes,--the first step to willing oneself out of an unfortunate situation. Has denial become an adaptive mechanism to deal with pain? In fact, the first stage of grief is to deny the reality of the situation. I may be drawn to this first stage longer than others. “Fake it until you it,” I often say.

With that said, as the clock ticks towards midnight, and I am officially a year older, with both eyes intently shut, I blow out a candle, and make a birthday wish: