Juxtapose

Wherein "animal guardians" (is this the new word for pet owners?) confess their sins and try to move on. Also of note - there is a very high ratio of pet owners of hermit crabs nicknamed "Shelly" represented on the website.

"I had two hemit crabs named Sabrina and Havey. This year I've started college. I asked my mom to look afther tghem for me while I was gone. When I came home one weekened I found my poor Sabrina dead. The power had gone out the night before and no one had cheecked to see if they were alright. Sabrina died from the cold. I am so sorry Sabrina."

"I confess, that i have not been paying much attention to my rabbit. As of right now, i am promising myself, and the life of my bunny, Storm, that i will pay more attention to him. Take him out everyday, and check everything in his cage, everyday. iloveyouu, Storm. Im sorry."

"Two years back i was forced to dissect frogs and kill a butterfly as a part of my biology project. Even though i was advocating a cruelty-free life style, i begged my professor to give me an alternative, but she refused. Unfortunately i went ahead with the project, i felt really guilty and the project was no use for me or for the biology department."

"when i was in the seventh grade, we had to take care of an animal for a week, so our teacher bought some earthworms, and a few hermit crabs and put us in groups. we had to take care of the animal for a week, and then someone from the group would get to take it home. i got to take home a hermit crab, not knowing that hermit crabs shouldnt be caged and that they dont do well in cages. i treated it so poorly. i put sand in an empty fish tank and put a bowl of food and water in it. a few days later, i realized it wasnt moving and that it had died in the middle of the night. i was so sad because i hadnt wanted to hurt it. i'll always remember shelly."

"I had a hermit crab named Shelley and I really did love her. yes, I loved a hermit crab. she'd wander around my desk and room and it was great. one day I thought it'd be cool to paint her shell with nail polish to make her look pretty. the nail polish had the strongest fumes.. she died a day or two later. this might sound silly to some but I'll never know if that's what killed her or not. that was years ago and I still wonder."

See PETA for more soul-relieving confessions.

I have nothing against plumbers. Two of my little sister's best buddies (they're sisters) are daughters of a plumber who is nothing short of a hard-working, all-American, family-loving, smart Christian guy. The plumbing company chosen by my landlady, however, possesses none of these qualities, as far as I can tell.

They came today and took up residence in the basement to replace both water heaters after the ill fated night earlier this week where hurricane (tropical storm? depression? puffy cloud?) Hannah zipped through overnight and flooded the basement while we slept. That night we had water leaking through our bedroom window onto our toes and all over the floor, and to be honest, when I woke up at 3AM to Mark wondering aloud if the roof was what was leaking, I did not think to go down to our cobwebby crawlspace of a basement to check if the sump pump was running. That morning, however, while I was at work, Mark checked and the basement was nearly dry and the pump was running endlessly, sucking up nothing but air, its water level bulb hung up on some debris nearby. We thought all was well. I can only deduce at this point that either the pump was running all night in response to the rise in the water level and it was not running fast enough during the storm, or one of the other tenants isn't telling that they went downstairs that morning before Mark checked it in the early AM and started the pump up after 3 feet of water had already accumulated. The plumbers tell us the water was probably that high and had already ruined the water heaters, which I believe, being that I had to resort to showering at my parents' house this morning after not faring so well with the previous day's ice-cold shower.

Fast forward to today, where I come home to a pile of plumbers parked awkwardly in my driveway, all in separate cars (they're going green, I hear) and swearing up an Effitty-eff-eff-effing storm in the basement about the lack of good lighting. The existing bulbs down there were apparently burned out. I yelled down to the basement, "Do y'want some new lightbulbs down there so you can see?" No answer. I stumbled down the ill lit stairs to bring them anyway and politely asked if they needed anything else, water, food, blah blah blah. The scrawny college age apprentice plumber gives me a squeaky, "No, but thank you!!" but the two other crusty old plumbers start getting all on my case about the basement flooding, like it's this big inconvenience to them that our basement got flooded and how awful it is that they're getting paid money to replace water heaters. Like it's offensive that the landlady is paying them to DO THEIR JOB. Like I am morally responsible for the crappiness of a job where you have to go into dusty basements and deal with, you know, literal crap. I mean, listen, I understand this more than anyone I think, because, you know, everybody poops - there's a book written about it - and someone's gotta wipe the butts (me) and someone's gotta change the pipes (you). That's life, baby, so suck it up and stop giving me the third degree about my responsibilities as a rent-paying tenant.

Obviously not following my furious telepathic messages being beamed into his bald, cobweb encrusted head, Crusty Plumber #1 starts pointing a sausage-shaped index finger of blame at me, saying, "You know, you really should check down here EVERY ONCE AND A WHILE to see if the sump pump is working, lady, there was a lotta wattah down heah, lady."

And I get all on the defensive like, "We checked the morning after the storm and the pump was working and the floor was almost dry, so I don't know what else I was supposed to do." Then he tells me that I should have checked while it was raining (all night long) to see if the basement was getting full, which of course it was because our entire driveway and out into the main road had become the second Lake Michigan. As if I was going to be able to stem the tide of oncoming water filling our basement, as if I was going to start a bucket brigade, me and Mark in our jammies at three AM, bailing out our ill-kept basement. As if I have access to a magical extra sump pump in the middle of the night. As if I look like the middle-aged landlady who is not me and who he knows is the owner of the property and who is definitely. not. me.

Good talk, good talk, guys. I excuse myself to leave and relax on my couch in my apartment, greatly enjoying a puff piece on UK Daily Mail Online about giant panda cubs being raised by humans after the Sichuan earthquake in China (So cute! Furry Baby panda lumps in a little white human baby bassinet! Who can resist?!).

It's at this juncture that the two child-plumber apprentices come knocking at my door, ask if they can come in to "purge the lines," which is a very fancy way of saying "turn on the faucets and the shower full blast for a minute or so," and they come stomping through my house without even so much as wiping off their muddy boots. I'm still not sure how I am not qualified to do this task myself, exactly, but in any case, I ask them how they're doing and how things are coming along. They say they're about done, so I say thank you as they leave, and then they go out the door and Child-Plumber Apprentice #2 (not the thankful one from earlier), turns to Child-Plumber Apprentice #1 and totally shakes his head all like he's exasperated at me or something, like I am the most ridiculous thing he has set eyes on all day. Only he does it in front of my window so I can see it. That was the great part.

This has been a true life story. My life. Believe it.

Fin.

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost."

The heavy heat that's hanging over Massachusetts right now is wonderful - a little extension of summer - but I know it won't last long. I have already felt the five AM chill that makes me tentatively turn on the heat in my car as I make my way to work. I can feel the fall coming, and I'm finding myself slowly becoming happy about that, strangely. Last night we heard some geese squawking their way over our house and Mark exclaimed, "They're going south for the winter!" with such glee that I scowled internally. Fall is his favorite season ("Because it's my birthday!") and he has the love of driving the scenic route to view the foliage turning that is often considered old hat for a native New Englander. I have nothing against candy corn, roasted turkeys, warm sweaters, cranberry candles, and warm apple cider. I love them all, really, and I even enjoy the occasional vivid yellow leaf, but it usually takes me until the beginning of winter to get over my bitterness that summer has ended. By then, the first snow has fallen and Mark has giddily pranced around in it saying, "Vern! The first snow! Look!" I dance around for a minute too, enjoying the novelty through the eyes of my husband, and days later move into the Winter Depresses Me phase, with its endless days of late sunrise and early sunset and the still gloom of darkness against storm after storm.

I'm turning over a new leaf this year (ha. ha ha.) and waiting for the fall to come. I think I'm accepting that not only is the fall coming once again with its simultaneous chill and warmth, but that my life has changed seasons as well. Summer no longer means endless vacations, full-time hours at a summery job and time off from school. It has this new meaning and that is this: Life happens year-round. And that's okay. Actually, what I mean to say is that it's wonderful and busy and sometimes very complicated and through it all God is just here. Present.

I'm sorry to say that I am the least patient person there is. I want everything now, I hate to wait - ever. If I am driving behind someone who is going a mile below the speed limit I have to mentally challenge myself to back off and relax a little. When I beseech God for my needs, I hope for them to be fulfilled quickly, swiftly, right then and there. I want all the world's sadnesses fixed right away. Something will touch my heart with grief and suddenly I'm ready to fly off to Zaire to run an orphanage tomorrow. I speculate and think and plan things days, weeks, months in advance, running them through my head and by the time they occur, I have forgotten it all and replaced it with something else to worry about. I worry, Am I Doing Life? Am I Making Use of This Existence? Am I Enjoying Summer Yet? By the time the summer has ended, with all its lofty joyous ideals, I'm already impatient for the next summer to be here now, so I can have ideas of what perfection it will be once again.

I know that I'm living. I'm a lot less articulate about this sort of thing than I used to be. These days I fill up my time with people, people, always people and I find myself craving the quiet times, just me and Mark or at "home" with my family. I don't have a lot of interesting things to write about because all my interesting things that happen have to deal with people somewhere along the continuum between life and death (as we all are) who are all dealing with this as a sort of newfound knowledge to them and who are dealing with it in different ways. I get a little depressed sometimes by the lack of God in these dealings, and so by the time I talk to people about the personal hurts I have, especially in terms of the sad and unknown things in my family that we have no control over, I start to feel a little bit numb. I want to freeze time where nobody has unknown medical ailments or sadnesses in their hearts and, in hyper-warp speed, zipping through time and space as it stands still, I can be everywhere and anywhere all at once to fix everybody.

I went into nursing because I loved people. I lie and tell people a lot of stories about why I chose this stupid profession, but the thing is that Jesus touched people and that's it - He just TOUCHED them - and they were healed, sometimes from the inside out, and sometimes from the outside in. I want to heal everybody, but I have to keep reminding myself that I am not Jesus, I'm not even anything, not even a speck on the radar. Only Jesus is Jesus and He is Messiah for a good reason, and one of those reasons is: He is not me.

This is me clearing my head of detritus, confessing my sin in paragraph form. I am only human.