Pickles & Dimes

Last fall I took a self-defense class through the martial arts studio my brother-in-law co-owns. It was full of friends and family, which made it even more fun, although my favorite part was bashing the dummy’s nose as hard as I could into its rubber brain with the palm of my hand. When I got home, I instructed Jason to try and grab me so I could show off my newfound knowledge. He promptly put me in a headlock and said, “Try to escape.” Instead of defaulting to my usual thought process when Jason tries wrestling moves on me (which is to aim for the crotch), I stood immobile and helpless as I tried to remember everything I had just learned. “Give me a second,” I croaked, as Jason laughed. It was a harsh reminder that an attacker wouldn’t give me any time to respond or escape, much less to bash his nose or tomahawk his neck. It also made me wish that I lived closer to that studio so I could take repeat lessons and have those clumsy moves become second nature.

Besides some very basic moves, one thing did stick with me, though. The instructor said some women are timid and afraid to do some of the moves because they don’t want to hurt their attacker. When he said that, I thought, Oh, f— that. Maybe you don’t think like this, but if someone was attacking me or attempting to drag me off for the sole purpose of ending my life, you better believe that not only would I fight back, but I wouldn’t get all hippie-liberal and concern myself one bit about their personal safety. If I was lucky enough to get my fingers into their eye socket, I’d pull that sucker out. If I had to break a finger or repeatedly kick the crap out of a crotch, well, you do what you have to do to survive, right?

How about you? If you were attacked, do you think you could fight back?

Sunday, 3:00 a.m.:

Jason, sleep-talking: AAHHHHH! No!

Me: Wake up, Jason!

Jason: AAARRRGH!

Me: Jason, you’re dreaming. Wake up!

Jason: Get off me!

Me: You’re having a nightmare – it’s OK!

Jason: Squirrels are biting my neck!

Me: Um, OK. But it’s just a dream!

Jason, flailing: AAAAAH! Here comes another one!

The next morning:

Me: You talked in your sleep again.

Jason: I did?

Me: Yeah. You were pretty agitated.

Jason: Oh yeah! Baby alligators were biting my feet!

Me: Yea…wait, no. Squirrels were biting your neck.

Jason: Huh? I don’t remember that. I remember trying to climb up a steep, muddy hill and baby alligators were trying to bite my feet.

Me: Wow, that…is actually pretty horrifying.

Jason: Every time I’d climb up the hill, I’d slide back down.

Me: How come you dream about relatively harmless animals trying to attack you? Like the time a skunk ran backwards on your chest to spray you?

Jason: I don’t know, but that dream was scary.

Me: And now squirrels and baby alligators.

Jason, defensively: Well, adult alligators were in my dream, too. They were just hanging back and watching.

Seeing how the fallen red leaves on our backyard bench look like carefully strewn rose petals.

Finally using my telescope to view a magnificent, nearly-full moon (after declaring the giant fuzzy blob in the viewfinder “our outdoor house light” until I realized the lens was out of focus).

Discovering the band Birds of Tokyo (and it taking Jason and I three tries to correctly spell “Tokyo” in iTunes).

Realizing the house centipedes are seeking out Jason instead of me.

Having crazy (yet realistic) color-saturated dreams about our house falling apart in front of my eyes, being a machine-gun sniper, and having Mickey Rourke seduce me.

Reading “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

Pulling apart our completely defective, grinding-noise-making cat water fountain (including the motor), getting it to (quietly) work again, setting it down and then witnessing both cats and the dog all take nice, long drinks from it.

Finally feeling inspired and creative again now that work has ceased to be The Thing That Is Killing My Soul.

Watching Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Going to a giant pumpkin patch/candy emporium/place of heaven to find they sell 57 different types of root beer, 87 different flavors of licorice, homemade fudge and candy cigarettes.

Having both cats be super snuggly in the mornings so that I am required to give Sunny a nice, long hug so she can burrow her head under my arm, and Abby can use my pants leg as a scratching post for her phantom claws while I rub under her chin as she purr-meows at me.

Three-paycheck months.

Knowing there’s a pair of marinated steaks and a chilled bottle of wine waiting for us tonight.

How about you?

Jason and I were able to escape our jail cells, I mean, our workplaces (by shanking coworkers IN THE FACE) to escape for a long weekend of camping. But a few hours before we were scheduled to leave, we realized Sunny most likely had a UTI, so I coerced our vet to dispense medicine without seeing us, which meant they gave me the usual antibiotic, plus a pain reliever and a sedative – just to be safe, which was not at all safe, because although we wisely refrained from giving Sunny the sedative until we were back home, her reaction to it was not so good because her pupils immediately blew up to creepy proportions, she started staggering around like a drunk, um, cat, and her balance was so off she did all of the following: bump into walls, trip down the stairs, miss jumping up on a table, and fall over in the litterbox.

Where was I? Oh yes, camping. So we headed to St. Croix Falls, where upon entering the campground we discovered they had just turned off the water for the season. No biggie. We just didn’t shower…for three days.

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