The Mysterious Case of the Dead Animal in the Manifold

February 17th, 2010 by Chris Nelson

It took me over an hour to realize that the smell was coming from my car.

The first time I caught a whiff of what I assumed was the runoff from a slaughterhouse, I was parked outside Community Health. Naturally, I assumed the rotting-flesh-scent was emanating from the clinic’s parking lot. (Only insured people get to park in the meat-free spaces.) But then I took a quick trip to the store. And the same odor followed me. Worse, it was still there when I got to my office.

Being a child of the Sopranos, I knew right away what had happened. I’d been framed for a murder! I raised the lid of my trunk in terror. The Mafia–in northeastern Wyoming–had certainly slipped a dead body there. A very lightweight one, mind you, since I couldn’t feel any difference in the way the car handled. But there was nothing in my trunk…Except for the cardboard boxes I always mean to recycle. And the blanket I carry because I’m supposed to carry emergency supplies in Wyoming in the winter. As the blanket wasn’t bloodsoaked, I decided I was in the clear.

But the air emanating from the front of my car certainly wasn’t.

My husband, ever loyal, wanted to know what I hit. Because it must be something I did. Karma or otherwise, I’d earned the dead flesh freshener. Well, if I did hit an animal, I didn’t see it. Or feel it. Or skid across the highway on its slippery little bloody body. “Maybe a mouse,” he says. Right. A mouse that flips up and lodges itself into my manifold? A little bunny that doesn’t have the common sense to get smushed flat and instead goes spinning up into the inner workings of my Toyota?

I decided it’s a little woodland creature that crawled up inside the engine to take a nap. Cats do that. But my husband couldn’t find anything (and I wasn’t going to look) so this morning I brought the car to my favorite car place in the world, Jack’s Autobody. They looked for over an hour and couldn’t find anything. No results, no charge. That’s why they’re my favorite car place in the world.

I still don’t know the source of the dead animal smell. Or why it mysteriously disappered. But I sure hope that the little guy who crawled up in there is in cat heaven.

Category : At Large, Smelled Around Town
1 Comment »

Cubicle Pollution

January 21st, 2010 by Chris Nelson

It took me over half an hour this afternoon to realize that the nasty stench I couldn’t get away from was coming from my own clothing. I didn’t recognize it right away, because I’d only smelled it once before: in my office coat closet. It was the same disgusting b.o. I’d almost passed out from at 8:am. By 1 pm, the nausea-inducing odor had contaminated my favorite winter jacket.

Don’t ask why I hadn’t predicted the outcome of shutting my clothing into a dark, airless space with a smell far worse than feet. It’s the same non-logic I use with a molding box of strawberries: “it’ll never spread.” Personally, I shower twice a day. So the fact that I could possibly smell like someone who’s taken the winter off from hygiene for water conservation seems as unreal to me as the far-out chance of losing Ted Kennedy’s senate seat.

Ahem.

I find it hard to believe that I can’t say the word “cramps” without fearing a sexual harrassment suit, but people can light scented candles and eat tuna fish sandwiches and microwave eggwhites in an office environment and that’s perfectly acceptable. Granted, I expect to be forgiven for my “colorful” language. But c’mon, people: no one’s going to lose their lunch over an F-bomb.

Tomorrow, after I hang my coat from a tree and let the wind pelt it for a few hours, I’m going to crumple my outerwear into my bottom desk drawer. Wrinkles be damned. Then I’m going to eat dates, raisins, tofu and kidney beans all day long. 

Your move, candle-lighting-shower-eschewing coworkers.

Category : At Work
1 Comment »

Apple Envy

January 5th, 2010 by Chris Nelson

It’s finally happening. I’ve got irrefutable proof that I’m getting old and boring.

Yesterday I was reaching for the Red Delicious I’d brought to work and spied a tasty Braeburn in the fridge fruit drawer. Three things went through my head in rapid succession:

1. I wish I had that Braeburn instead of my mealy Red Delicious.

2. Wait a minute–that’s my Braeburn! I brought it in last week!

3. Oh. Wow. A Braeburn!

It’s the last part that really scared me. I was really excited.

Not so many years ago, I couldn’t imagine spending 50 cents at the fruit cart when you could get a jelly donut drenched in powdered sugar for the same price. I’ve come a long way. Now I find myself practically hyperventilating in a public space because I have a little bit of tartness in my fiber. Even sadder? That Braeburn was just as delicious as I’d hoped it would be.

Somewhere along the line, I’ve managed to exchange forbidden fruit for the forgotten kind. Sigh. I’m old. And boring. But if I keep eating this well, I’m going to live a very long, boring time.

Category : One Day I'll Be Friends With My Food
1 Comment »

The Broads are Back in Town

December 30th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

File this under the who-asked-for-it category: Lilith Fair is back. You read that right. Eleven years after Sarah McLachlan folded her tent, she’s reopening it with another femme lesbian circus playing for peanuts.

Yes, of course the Indigo Girls will be performing.

I am secure enough in my ovaries to skip the whole tour, thank you very much. Although I am (a) a woman (b) something of a feminist, I also have (c) taste. Nothing against the fine female singers on the docket: Mary J. Blige and Emmylou Harris, you’re good people. But Sheryl Crow? What have you done for me lately besides adopt a baby you couldn’t have with Lance Armstrong?

Granted, I am not the audience for most music festivals. Ozzfest is clearly not my thing (though I went to one on a first date. That should’ve been a good indicator that the second wouldn’t work out too well). And even the ole, beloved Lollapalooza was a bit windy for my taste. Realistically, I’ve got about a 2 hour concert-going limit. After that, my bladder or my back sing louder than whoever’s on stage.

But of all the festivals to bring back…Lilith Fair? She’s not even on Cheers anymore! If I wanted to watch outdated femme-centric performers, I would rent old Family Ties episodes on DVD. Or Top Gun, with lovely crossover Kelly McGillis. The mere thought of suffering through an entire day of such “diverse” female artists (since when is a group composed of a single gender diverse?) makes me wish instead for whatever torture the White House is currently dreaming up for a certain Nigerian who just tried to blow up a certain flight to Detroit.

Seriously, folks. I would do almost anything to avoid the Indigo Girls.

Category : At Large, Entertainment
0 Comments »

Thanks, but I’ll stick to the gym

December 29th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

Hot on the heels of holiday overindulgence–the new secret to slimming down quickly: luzing-inches_cropped

I always knew that I was wasting my time actually exercising. Finally, a diet for couch potatoes! Plus, all the healthy tanning you can stand for a mere $45/month.

Note that they don’t promise you’ll “lose” inches. You’ll “luze” them, instead. Also, the vacustep “gently modles the figure.” To my count, there are 8 grammatical errors and/or typos in the last paragraph alone. Good thing I can spell..and utilize, the YMCA!

Category : Seen Around Town
2 Comments »

“Oh. There’s a Snake in the House.”

December 11th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

First, I have to blow my own horn. Before I moved out to Wyoming, the very thought of snakes terrified me. My only experience with them was at the “World of Darkness” exhibit at the Bronx Zoo. Then I came west for a one-month writer’s residency program. I immediately resolved not to hike up in the 80+ acre wilds behind the grounds when I found out that snakes lived there. But I’ve toughened up in the past five years. Snakes don’t scare me anymore.

What scares me is having a casual conversation with my husband, who interrupted our musings about what to do on Friday night with: “Oh. There’s a snake in the house.”

Oh.

Aaaaaaa!!

First of all. It’s been -10 degrees or colder almost all week. Shouldn’t the little guy (or gal) be dead by now? Second: where on earth do we have a hole in our house BIG ENOUGH FOR A SNAKE TO FIT THROUGH? “It’s just a baby,” my husband reassured me. And then he followed up with: “I wonder if there’s a nest.”

I repeat: Aaaaaaa!!

He’s got a good point, actually. It’s very possible that the little venom machine just crawled out of his egg. (BTW, some snakes are born live–but they still come from eggs. The eggs hatch inside the mother’s body.) (Gag.)

Worse: now that baby slither has been captured, my husband is reluctant to release him out of doors. “He’ll die!” mourns the suddenly-animal-rights-activist. Hold on a minute: I’ve been eating strictly vegan meals since August. Can’t I trade in four-months-worth of mammals I never ate for the justified homicide of a reptile? In all seriousness: if the animal who wandered into our home was human, we could legally shoot it. But we can’t let a snake fend for itself because there’s snow on the ground?

It’s been an hour now since I spoke with my husband/zookeeper. He’s not picking up his phone. I fear that we will have a new pet by the time I get home.

Just wait ’til I get my hands on a mongoose.

Category : At Home, Big Sky Country
3 Comments »

Christian Cowboy Bling

December 6th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I’m all for the idea of governmental non-interference, but I seriously think that my student loan lendor (in this case the Federal Government) should’ve been legally required to advise me, as an English major, that I would have a greater chance in the future of being struck by lightning than I would of being able to pay my bills with creative writing.

This same law should have gone double for my decision to earn an MFA. Seriously, I think men in suits should have shown up at my door with actuarial tables. “See here: if you continue on your current career track, you will forgo vacations, new cars and the idea of ever being able to afford Christmas presents for anyone outside of your immediate family.” Short of that, I think the Fed should at least mail a letter. “Dear Sucka” might be an appropriate opening.

As far as my creative writing goes, I’ve earned more money writing t-shirts than I have with fiction, plays and screenplays combined. I can write a mean t-shirt. Literally. (See www.zencommandments.com.)  But it does rankle to realize that I simply don’t have the energy to write the shirts, burn the silkscreens, print them by hand and market them with any kind of effectivity. So right now my sole method of marketing is to set up shop at local holiday bazaars.

Allow me to be the first to warn future English majors that they might find themselves on the slippery slope of their thirties selling t-shirts at crafts fairs.

So there I was, yesterday in Buffalo, WY. The crowds were cool. I even met someone who understood what a “fatwa” was. And I also saw, in addition to some good wood carvings and jewelry, a stall featuring imported leather goods with awful fake jewels glued onto it. This look is actually common in this part of the country. My husband named it Christian Cowboy Bling.

It looks like this: A black or brown leather background with generic rhinestones and other fake diadems, often in the shape of a cross. I saw belts, bags, and jackets with this lovely combination on them. I also saw A LOT of money changing hands at those booths and nearly choked to death on my trail mix. Who, I wondered, would spend their hard-earned cash on gaudy Jesus bling when they could order a t-shirt from me with a slogan that combines global warming and fart jokes?

The more bazaars I attend, the more I realize that I don’t know my audience at all. Granted, I can safely guess that a woman with a shiny blue plastic cross on her purse is not going to be pulling her wallet out in my general direction. But I’ve sold to several people with crucifixes around their necks. It’s good, at least, to realize that Jesus has a sense of humor. He would have to, to appreciate that many of his followers are unironically sporting belts with horseheads and his name spelled out in worthless fake rubies and diamonds.

Category : Religion-O'Rama!, Seen Around Town
3 Comments »

Licorice Tea-hab

December 4th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I think I may have to go to Tea-hab. My effort to eliminate coffee was a smashing success, but now I’m hooked on tea. Not even caffeinated tea. Licorice, of all things, is my new herb of choice. In the general scheme of addictions, it’s a “good” one. But it still has its drawbacks.

According to the manufacturer of my favorite brand, Yogi Tea, licorice root consumed in high quantities raises blood pressure. How much is too much? More than 2 cups a day, supposedly. Now, that should be plenty. But I’m not someone who functions well with restrictions. Knowing I can only drink 2 cups makes me long for 3, 4. More.

Is nothing sacred? When herbal tea becomes the gateway drug, one of two elements are at work: (1) Murphy’s Law (2) Moderation insisting on itself.

I’ll do my best to moderate, oh licorice root. I’ll spread the love around and dabble in  Mayan cocoa spice again. If it doesn’t work, I’ll call Blue Cross Blue Shield and see if they can get me into a 28-Day program for herbal tea addicts.

BCBS, however, is no fan of of preventative healthcare. I’d probably have to have an “episode” before they paid for my treatment. I suppose shooting up the organic market would qualify. But purchasing a handgun, not to mention the bullets, would waste vital financial resources I could otherwise spend on Yogi Tea.

I suppose I’ll just have to live with yet another restriction. And have to admit that The Libertarian diet just doesn’t work for me. I’m not sure, yet, what does work, but I’ll contemplate it over a nice, steaming cup of….

Category : Me! Me! Me!, One Day I'll Be Friends With My Food
0 Comments »

The Box– Darko Lite

November 9th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

No question about it: I am an avowed fan of Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko. I could probably watch it monthly and still find new stuff in it to cherish. I appreciated Southland Tales in all its deep, dark messiness. But The Box? I found it too dumbed down to love.

At first, I wanted to believe that Cameron Diaz, never the thinking woman’s heroine, was responsible for The Box being painted in gigantic Mark Rothko strokes. (When in doubt, blame it on the former model!) In truth, it’s the screenplay that hits you over the head with its obviousness.

At one point, the antagonist actually lays out his evil mission in a direct exchange. There’s absolutely no hiding the exposition in this scene. And there’s no hinting, bait-and-switch, or outright confusion in the movie as a whole. Sure, Kelly leaves some loose threads, but they’re basically at the hem of his garment. So we don’t really care that they’re dragging on the ground. The characters pretty much spin around 360 for you, and they’re wearing your typical screechy 70’s patterns and (for Cameron) the most unflattering makeup on earth. No alien bunny suits in sight.

Kelly ups the bleak quotient with The Box, but not in an awesome-soundtrack, sad-sack Gyllenhaal kind of way. This time he’s messing with the fate of the universe–ostensibly bad news, folks–but it doesn’t play. Maybe my gripe is that I don’t particularly share the morals I’m “supposed” to. But c’mon: I would’ve hit that button so hard and so often my entire line of progeny would be wiped out for millennia. And you know what? It would be worth it. Try walking the same uncreative path for 8 hours a day, five years running and see what kind of alien demonology YOU wouldn’t be willing to embrace.

I’m not writing Richard Kelly off, yet. I hope he makes a fortune with this one, and I hope he uses the money to fund another completely-tripped-out story of an individual–rather than a poor makeup artist’s representative of the human race.

‘Til then, keep your boxes with your buttons to yourself–lest I unwittingly wipe out our planet in a misguided effort to bankroll my early retirement.

Category : Entertainment
1 Comment »

Spooky Square Dance

November 2nd, 2009 by Chris Nelson

My ambitious plan to stay out past midnight on Halloween was dashed almost as soon as it was hatched. I swore that I could do it more than once a calendar year–I’d have two whole months to recover for New Year’s Eve–but my brain shut down at 9 after a full day of writing and screenprinting T-shirts by hand.

Now, a shut-down brain wouldn’t be a problem in a city. I could zombie-stumble anywhere in New York. But driving 25 miles each way during deer season–no dice. So I offered a contingency plan to my friends: I would meet them at a local place before they took off for the “real” entertainment.

The rented hall was alive with music when I arrived. A five piece band played swinging dance numbers. The guests ranged in age from elementary school kids to retirees. Everyone was in costume. And they all looked like they were having the best time of their lives.

It was spooky how much fun these people looked like they were having, square dancing to a caller in pajamas, strumming a washboard, in a rented hall at 9:30 on a Saturday night. I looked around for Rod Serling–seriously, I did. And I almost wished that I could have that kind of fun, too: innocent, wide-eyed fun. The kind I stopped having at, say, 12 years old.

A piece of me sure wishes that I could go to a local event–ever–and stop thinking about how small town it is. Another part–the larger part–is grateful that I have higher standards for entertainment. I’m sure my idea of fun is somebody else’s idea of rinky-dink. I won’t pretend otherwise. But at least I’m not swinging my partner round and round with a big hayseed grin on my face.

At 9:30 I was already too tired to muster up more than a smirk.

Category : Seen Around Town
0 Comments »