• magneto-major

    magneto: noun; plural (1882): a magnetoelectric machine; one that takes too much space and too much time out of the day that I am losing.
    It reminds me of a boring job that no one wants, complete with a boss who thinks he is so magnific that no one can rise above him.
    Such people with such attitudes sicken me to the point where I want to shake myself because I must be dreaming. This world of magniloquent politicians and world leaders who lie for their own advantage while the people they command suffer cannot be real. Is this how my time is supposed to be spent? All I would rather do is to lie under my magnolia tree and listen to the magpies speak to one another.
    But no, I cannot because today is not a day for me to be lazy. One of the seven deadly sins hanging over my head like a dark cloud from a cartoon is not something I need. I had to learn that lesson the hard way at my mission school. The magus’ patience for me there was tested to the full degree and I have the scars to prove it. But I learned a lot and that is what is important. One time a maharishi came to visit at the school. He looked at all of us and said, “Ambition is good, but respect for the people who help you achieve those ambitions is crucial to being a good person in life.”
    That lesson has stuck with me my whole life; like a rank odor that you can’t get rid of even after trying to wash it out twelve times. I snap back to reality to hear my mahjong partner saying my name. “It’s your turn,” he says, a look of impatience on his face that I know will be gone 5 minutes into the game. “Oh sorry”, I say, remembering where I am.
    The plants around us are beautiful. They’re one of the reasons I love to play here. Especially the maidenhair trees. The way they sway in the breeze, almost like they are waving hello to me. I think that maybe I am dreaming a little too much and need to focus more on the game.
    Later that day, I am in my house, watching Casablanca. I begin to talk to myself in the maieutic way that I normally do; asking myself questions like: how do the actors become those characters that they play? Do they study for hours on end like I have? Or did they experience the same events that the characters did? A love lost and found, then unfortunately lost again. I wish I could do what they do. If I could only be given the main chance to do so. And if only I had the ability to recognize that chance and pounce on it like my Maine cat, Simon pounces on his toy mouse.
    Almost as though he knows I am thinking about him, my furry companion comes out from behind the sofa and stares up at me. I smile at him, which he takes as a signal to come to me. Next thing I know, there’s indescribable pain in my leg. Simon has attached himself to my leg, doing his best interpretation of a monkey climbing up a tree. He has now made his way up and onto my lap and proceeds to nuzzle my chin with his head. I look down at him and scratch him behind his ears, one old habit of mine that he never gets tired of mainlining. Now is one of those times when I realize again how much I love him and that I couldn’t have gotten through certain events in my life without him. Mainly because I never trusted anyone else to keep my secrets to themselves.
    I go back to watching the movie, and Simon curls up on my lap in his “I’m-comfortable-so-I’m-not-moving” position. The movie has progressed during my time of contemplating my life and I’ve missed quite a bit. I am a little perturbed by this, but not too much as I have seen this movie over a hundred times.
    Once it is over, I get up and go into the kitchen to feed Simon. I am not four steps into the kitchen, when I feel his fur up against my bare calf. I swear, my cat is psychic. As I open the cabinet to get the cat food, I look out of the kitchen window and down at the street. The main stem is still packed with cars, even at 8:00 in the evening. I begin to look for the can opener to open the food. Once I have found it, I open it and pour the gooey mess into Simon’s bowl. He purrs at me after I put it down on the floor for him. I look out the window again and see the little maisonettes in the distance. They remind me of my childhood; one that took three different therapists and a lot of anti-depressants to put behind me. “And that, quite frankly, is where it belongs,” I tell myself before I decide to have a drink. I have discovered over the years that I am very good at making drinks, alcoholic or otherwise. Or at least that’s what I have been told, anyway. I don’t drink alcohol myself, but I keep some around for when I play hostess at gatherings. So I get out the ingredients to make a virgin Mai tai, and set them on the counter. After I make myself one, I go back into the living room and start channel surfing. After flicking through and finding nothing that grabs my attention, I settle on a channel that never fails: the discovery channel. I know its lame but hey I’m a culture buff. The program that’s on is talking about how the Indians used maize to make their food. I watch it for a little while and then change the channel again. The next thing that I see is a lady trying to sell an entire set of majolica dishes. I have to admit the dishes are nice and the woman is doing a decent job of selling the product. But her appearance is all wrong. I’ve always wondered why women on television seem to look more like Avon models than real housewives. I think the major issue is that real housewives aren’t as pretty as the television people would like them to be. But wouldn’t we all like to be something we’re not? Then maybe we wouldn’t feel so bad every time we try to do just that. Because then we can say “Why not? Everyone else is doing it.” What a tangled web we weave.