Brain Hickey

A brain hickey, like a real hickey, is something that leaves its mark. The opposite of a brain fart (when you have a mental disconnect and can’t think of the simplest thing), a brain hickey is a thought so profound, so deep, so mentally tantalizing that it sticks with you. Maybe you’ll change your life because of the enlightenment you experience. Or maybe you’ll just think about what I said for the next few days and then it’ll gradually fade, like a real hickey.

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Location: Cleveland Heights, Ohio, United States

I have three sons, a dog, and a very supportive husband. I get to write whatever I like as long as I don't ask him to read it.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Oh, that I were a goat

If you had to prune a medium-sized branch of a tree, what tool would you use? Pruning shears or loppers? Depending on the size of the job, you would choose the appropriate sized tool. For pruning roses, trimming off small branches, and the like, hand-held pruning shears would be perfect. But if you had to cut off a large branch, sure, the pruning shears would work, but it would take a lot more effort and wear down the shears. They’re clearly not meant for that large a job, and should not be used for it. Sure, if you only had to do it once, I suppose it would be all right, but you wouldn’t repetitively rely on small shears to do such a big job. No, in that case, loppers would be better.

I started wondering whether I’m really cut out for this job. The job I'm speaking of, currently, is that of child-bearing. Perhaps I should have been a goat. The goat has a gestational period of anywhere from 136 – 160 days (or, 4-6 months). I even could have been a sheep (144-152 days, or 4-5 months), a pig (101-130 days, 3-4 months), or even a lion (105-113 days, 3.5-4 months). Maybe that’s all I can handle. If natural selection were still in effect, I’d have been weeded out. Seriously, two pregnancies with two months on bed rest – that does not exactly represent me as qualified for the job. I mean, sure the kid comes out fine, and I seem to do fine once they are out, but the actual pregnancy part I’m obviously not so good at.

So now that I’ve figured out my weakness, my limitations, I’ve decided I should stop. So, three’s the limit. Okay, mind you, three was already the limit (though some time in the future, you may assess my sanity level and determine that my limit was actually much lower, or you may believe that I’m just as insane as ever and the kids haven’t really affected me), but that’s beside the point.

So, in summary, I have the gestational capabilities of a goat, and I am nature’s equivalent of pruning shears trying to do a lopper’s job. I suppose it’s time to start realistically evaluating my writing ability (especially given those metaphors).

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