MITES

• This morning Ben disposed of a lame mouse for me. I walked into the kitchen around 8AM and there was a tiny mouse in the middle of the floor, disabled and so not moving. Therefore, in a blast of allegiance to my gender, I became hysterical. “Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can take care of this. I can handle this. This isn’t a big deal. It’s just a mouse and I can handle it. I’m in charge . . .” and so on as I zipped in circles around the kitchen hoping furiously that a solution would stop me. I came up with a ziplock bag and a paper towel tube. So then I’m standing over the thing trying to figure out how to use the tube to get the vermin in the bag. I can’t, like, bend over such that I’m closer to it! Ben, who is eight, leaves his video game, walks to me, coos about how cute the mouse is, says that he'll do it, scoops up the mouse and puts it in the bag.

• A better name for the pantry is carbs.

• I made ice cream from Werther’s candies. Nailed that smooth toffee goodness. Nailed it hard.

• I went to a lunchtime yoga class and then to the adjacent raw foods cafe for sustenance before heading to my next doctors’ office. I chose the falafel. I have no idea what those hippy dippy frutarian-types put in there, but that falafel wasn’t anything approaching normal or even good. I couldn’t swallow a bite. I trashed the $8 falafel—eight bucks for three falafel!? Did the prophet Muhammad make them?—and went to Qdoba for rice and beans instead.

• I like where I live. Decent weather, not too much snow in the winter, a yoga community beyond compare, people who are kind to each other, friendly doctors’ offices. The qualm I’ve got with Reno is its drivers. Be aggressive! Take initiative! Merge already!

• I’m registered for a vinyasa yoga teacher training that starts next month. Non-refundable deposit paid. In it now. Evidently, I up and do stuff like that.

• When Ben says a prayer and I’m in the room he prays “that Megan will do good in yoga.”

• A fellow drug rep recently changed companies. He left because his manager was an arse. In what way? The guy perpetually belted my friend with his Mormon dogma, criticizing him for living with his girlfriend, always asking when he was going to “pop the question,” etc. Makes me nutsy. Believe what you want, team, but don’t use your beliefs to tyrannize people. For pity’s sake, ya douche, be respectful.

• Is there anything finer than perspiring buckets in a Bikram yoga class. I say nay. But it means we’ve got sweat to deal with afterward. One of my yoga pals’ teenaged son said that her car smells like sweaty balls. She told him that she was impressed that he was flexible enough to know what that smells like and he should therefore join her in class.

• If you haven’t read Ruth Reichl you haven’t read writing about food the way it’s meant to be written.

• This house beeps. The dishwasher goes ape shit when it’s done—beep! beep! beep! beep!beep!beep!beep!BEEP! I finished! I’m the best in the class! Teacher’s pet! Dean’s list! Astronaut! beep! beep! beep! beep!beep!beep!beep!BEEP! When the garage fridge doesn’t get shut tight, it squeals at surprising intervals until somebody soothes it. The washing machine congratulates itself as soon as it’s scrubbed duds clean and the dryer follows up its work up with a succession of beeps designed—effectively—to annoy us into folding submission. And while all these things are first-world obnoxious, it’s the robot vacuums that induce stroke symptoms. They whine at full volume when they get stuck, when they want their dust bins emptied, when they get confused, when they need a battery recharge, when they’re lonely and just yearn for a listening ear. While we appreciate the excellent work these codependent devices do, it comes at a cost.

• When my youngest sister Lo was wee thing she called breasts “beeps.”