Being pooped on twice in less than 24 hours

If there is one thing that makes me lose my sense of humor it is being dragged into a court of law. That is why since I decided to contest a mean traffic citation I received on memorial day weekend, I have been searching for my poor, mutilated sense of humor. It is gone. Disappeared. Left me to my own unqualified devices, forcing me to look for a miracle that will bring it back from its hiding place.

I was hoping that this sense of humor of mine, which I became so attached to, would at least come to my rescue when I was found guilty by the traffic court judge who completely ignored my very astute statement, which I tried to read in a steady voice in spite of the terrible shaking of my knees and my severe heart palpitations. But no, it dug itself even deeper into the black hole it was sucked into since I saw the writing on the citation: "Failed to stop at a red light."

I had to find a healthy way to cope with the $480.00 fine which I had already paid before I was even found guilty, because that's how justice works here (they call it "bail" to make the robbery look more legal...) But I drew a blank. Because the torment was not yet over. On top of the astronomical amount I had already paid, I still had to pay for traffic school.

I guess I should have been thankful that I was not tarred and feathered and let loose on Highway 1 to scare other delinquent drivers like myself.

But, wait. I almost did get tarred and feathered.

I should have seen it coming when I saw the message from an untarred feathered creature. But as most human brains work, my brain preferred to disregard the evil omen.

As it was, the night before I had to go to court I left my car, the one that brought the citation calamity onto my life, at the parking lot of the local holistic pharmacy and went to purchase some voodoo remedies that would help me cope with the apprehension that threatened to completely paralyze me at the hearing. When I got back to my car, I witnessed something utterly incomprehensible: the car was splashed from roof to tires, front to back, windows, mirrors, and door handles with white watery grayish bird poop. It was as if a gigantic pterosaurs purged itself right on top of it. I knew there was a message in that poop, but I was too mortified to analyze it. I drove my dripping bird toilet back home and hosed it until all signs of bird poop disappeared. But the sense of doom remained. I was pooped on, a day before my appearance at the court.

Some people say that being pooped on by a bird is a sign of good luck. I never believed it. And now I believe it even less.

It was an awfully humiliating experience to contest my traffic ticket. But I did it anyway because I don't like being pooped on by bird, police officers, or traffic court judges.

I am now preparing my appeal.

Let's see what the birds are going to do about it.

socks

I have a mental disorder related to socks.

When I lose a sock, a part of my mind gets lost with it. I just can't wrap my mind around this phenomenon. What black hole in my universe sucks it in? I don't feel any special energy lurking between my bedroom and my washing machine, yet, once in a while, an invisible evil spirit manages to coerce a sock of mine into total oblivion. Until then, everything in my life seems to go perfectly well; no major crisis looms in the air, no unresolved issue nags me during sleepless nights, everyone important to me is alive and healthy, the stock market is moving in the right direction, and then, out of the blue, I lose a sock.

My daughter has heard about my disorder from her father, who had seen me more times than I care to admit, frantically looking for a missing baby sock he had failed to bring back from the Laundromat. No matter how small and insignificant that sock might have been, my reaction to its disappearance can only be described as psychotic.

Eliya thinks I'm crazy.

I pretend not to care. Until I lose a sock I really care about. Like a tabi sock – one of those Japanese socks that can be worn with flip-flops (pic above). I wear tabi socks when I perform with my Taiko drumming group. It's a part of my "uniform."

I have only one pair of tabi socks so I feel very attached to it. This pair is unlike any other pair of socks I wear. It is used only on very special occasions. So when I discovered that one of my black tabi socks disappeared into the black hole of all lost socks, my world came tumbling down. I lacked the proper psychological tools to cope with the loss; neither did I have the familial support system to help me overcome the trauma.

I asked Eliya to help me look for my lost black tabi sock. She immediately announced that I could not blame her for the loss because she did not do the laundry. I took full responsibility and turned the house upside down in a desperate search. But to no avail. The sock seemed to have resettled in a different dimension; one of those elusive dimensions only string theory physicists can locate or at least imagine.

In my desperation, I told Eliya I would give her a lot of money if she would find the sock. (I will not disclose the amount because this can provide legal grounds for immediate hospitalization). Eliya's eyes lit up at the thought. But it didn't help her find the sock. (She was also beginning to consider to "disappear" other socks and make a fortune, but I preempted the thought and said I would only pay for that specific sock).

After several days, I called off the search and adopted a primitive, unchecked blind faith. I became a firm believer that one day the lost tabi sock would come back to me. I knew it was not destined to remain in purgatorial limbo of all lost socks. It was coming back to me, if only for my firm belief and strong faith that it would come back. I will will it back and it will manifest itself. To me!

And so one morning it did. At the most anti-climatic mundane life instant. I opened the socks drawer, pulled a black pair out, and there it was, rolled up next to another unprivileged, ordinary black sock. Just like that.

I guess my faith convinced that tabi sock that not all socks were doomed. Some socks were destined for greatness. Some socks were destined to return. To me!

Now I know, it is all in the attitude.

The attitude of the sock, I mean. Not mine...