The Neighbor Got Me High

And gave Drew the munchies.

The smell of something special wafts in through our open living room window regularly enough to assume our downstairs neighbor could be the culprit.  (The fact that I can look out my window and see a hand holding the aforementioned “something special” may provide a further clue, but I digress.)  When I collapsed in a fit of laughter and related hysterics only moments ago while attempting to get a photo for this blog entry, the thought crossed Drew’s mind that I might be on “something special” myself, thanks to our neighbors – and he promptly went to the kitchen for more Oreos while pondering that thought.  So, uh, what are the kids calling it these days?  Is it still cool to use the word “chronic”?  Where are my fellow 311 fans out there?  I mean, who’s got the herb?

Believe it or not, we’ve never smoked pot.  Ooohhhh, that’s catchy.  That could be our extremely geeky catch phrase…  Anywho, back on topic; what was I saying again?  Oh yes, the photo…

After spending a portion of this weekend throwing a fit about my mother’s passing and researching a beautiful man named Harry Patch, I had hoped to write a lovely little bit about coping.  Jennifer Huddleston is an organizer.  I like it clean and in its place (whatever it is), but I am severely and adversely affected by too much stimulus (i.e. too much stuff to organize).  That being said, I would like to promote the healing properties of the shoe organizer.  Organize your spices with it (no matter what Drew says), separate your socks, make sense of your small office supplies, group your scrunchies into meaningful piles, and whatnot.  Your “whatnot” may or may not be as provocative as mine, but to each her own, I say.

Whatever you do with your shoe organizer, get a photo of it for your blog – even if it means stealthy-as-can-be-with-one-foot-asleep-in-flipflop maneuvers around the bed, over your sorted piles of dirty laundry for washing in the floor, and squeezing by the fan in the corner. (Can you get an image of me getting up to pee at three in the morning?  Why, oh why, don’t I sleep on the side nearest to the bathroom?!) Crouch, if you must, on the bed in a pile of bed linens like you are secretly photographing some exotic animal in its natural habitat – still with one foot asleep and your butt in the air for just the right angle and lighting. If you get your shoe caught between the foot board and the mattress and catapult the iPhone into the floor when your husband sees you in the crouching tiger pose, just collapse in hysterics and thank God for carpet.

shoe organizer

[By the way, do you know what is growing in your washing machine? Ick. You are going to want to investigate that. You might also need some elbow grease, oxi clean, and vinegar. My friend Trisha told me today that washing machines have a filter. What?! Gloves, mask, goggles – on the list.]

Better than organization can ever be for what ails me, I love giving things away. I have a bag of goodies for our friends at The Marksman and a nice pile of recycling.


Best of all, I have laughter. It is certainly true that when your body or mind is exhausted, the act of laughing is the best relief. I am thankful that when I could not find reason to laugh myself, my body (and/or my neighbor) took over.

Harry Patch

Harry Patch

I knew nothing of Harry Patch until his name was everywhere I looked this week. He was a beautiful little old man who had fought in the trenches of the first world war. At the ripe age of 111, he passed away. Harry was the last surviving British soldier of that war and yet did not speak of his experience until age 100. After that he became somewhat of an advocate for peaceful resolution of conflict. His story moves me.

It is so easy to forget how real, and how close, war is to us all.  We all know someone affected by it, whether or not they are happy to speak of it.  No matter how any of us feel about war itself, isn’t it important that we remember the humanity of those fighting?