I was reaching over the washing machine when I saw a very agitated cricket trying to make his way to safety. He was bedraggled but very much alive. He had already grappled,  floated and banged his way upward in the now nearly full tub.

It was one of the moments when the choices are clear, thumbs up or thumbs down. I reached in with the cup I use to add soap and scooped him up. It took a couple of trys as he was reluctant to trade a bad situation for maybe a much worst one. 

I got him on the third swoop. And when I turned the cup over the sink; he flipped out and somersaulted onto the rim.

He sat there motionless with what seemed like a great sense of relief.  After I thought he had enough time gather his thoughts and count his blessings, I helped him outside to find his friends and family.

The very next day I got a letter declaring itself a Legal Notice from Volkswagen.  An official looking letter informed me that a clogged drain in the sunroof might be causing “water to enter the passenger compartment.” They would be happy to pay for any and all repairs.

Just that week, my front floor mats had been soaked after a really heavy rain. I had not left the windows open, or had my sun roof cracked and I hadn’t seen anywhere where water could have come in. I just thought someone had spilled a water bottle on the floor mat and didn’t notice when it happened. 

Who says a grateful cricket doesn’t have a huge sense of humor?

I learned from the spring issue of the museum mag that the KC Nelson-Akins Museum of Art is rolling out a major new acquisition as they say in museum-speak. It is the funerary assemblage of  Meret-it-es, a woman who lived in middle Egypt 2,300 years ago.

If the promotion is any indication, the museum people are really, really excited about this. For three years, one of the curators has been hot on the trail of authentic egyptian coffins and evidently hit the mother lode with this one.

The display includes an outer coffin, 8 egyptian feet long, a glorious inner coffin, a gilded cartonnage (mummy mask ) a couple of deity statuettes — and 305 (yup, count ’em) statuettes known as Ushebtis. They look kinda like the Oscars but are green instead of gold and have their heads covered.  

Ushebti  (yoo-sheb-tee) were worker bees, the name means responder in egyptian; their job was to come to life and perform any labor that might be requested of the deceased in the hereafter.

Yeah, that Meretites, oops I mean Meret-it-es, must have been one lazy girl.

 But what a waste. I mean — who needs Ushebti in the sweet bye and bye? So, she’s lying there in the midst of a deep sleep and someone yells, “Hey Mere, come over here and help haul up this harp.”

Wouldn’t you think she would rouse herself a little and retort, ” No! I’m done with schlepping.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s part of the gig, get over here!”

More than a little piqued, I could see our girl raising herself on her forearms and narrowing her eyes. ” Did you not hear what I said! I’m not doing anything and what’s more, you can’t make me. Go ahead, whatta gonna do, Killllll me!?”

That’s probably when a flock of Ushebti rushes over. And then it stops raining somewhere on earth.

An old friend used to send us wildly incoherent postcards from exotic places he visited.  He usually signed off, “Mayday – Mayday – Mayday” which more often than not signaled distress at reaching the bottom of a bottle of vodka.

After a trip, he often arrived at our house well after midnight and would fall fully clothed onto the couch. The next morning, over a breakfast of eggs, toast and orange juice,  he would pull out paper wrapped objects from deep within the pockets of his parka. 

He had exquisite taste in souvenirs.  They were always well crafted and had the mark of a market rather than a stamp of a duty-free shop. 

He would unwrap his packages without hurrying.  One time it was a long lineage of nesting dolls, another time lacquered boxes with elaborate illustrations of folk tales, and still another time tasselled scarfs with intricate designs in chalky grey and mustard yellow. 

He would arrange his things in front of him with precision, giving them space to breathe and be admired.

Though he avoided museums, churches, and monuments unless standing in the way to his hotel, he would talk about people he had met. He’d talk about drinks he had shared or he’d tell funny stories of being mis-understood or lost.  He’d describe in detail long train rides and the sausages and breads he bought from street vendors. Sometimes he would  mention the unexpected beauty of an evening sky or a view of a cityscape.

Then he would carefully re-wrap his gifts, tuck them into his coat pockets and go home where he lived with his mother.   

In the fifth grade, I was accidently chosen to be a player in the traditional crowning of the virgin Mary on May Day. It involved a scraggly procession and the placing of a crown of flowers on a pretty near life-size version of the BVM (that’s Blessed) herself.  It was heady stuff.

Nowadays, whenever May Day rolls around, I get a kick out of thinking that the BVM is saying, “Wow, May already — and here I am out of vodka.”

Miss Manners is a syndicated column on how to be polite in the 2000’s. Today someone wrote in to ask advice on how to decline an invitation to a party.  Formal party invitations were soon to be sent for a birthing room party to herald the coming of a first child. The reader wrote, “She (the party-giver) and I are on cordial terms but we’re not close, and quite frankly, even if we were, I would not want to be in the birthing room.”

Point taken. 

She continued, “How do we (husband included in invite) decline gracefully without offending her or her parents, who are wild about the idea?

I like Miss Manners. Judith Martin’s choice to write in the third person gives her advice a queenly authority that I think is funny.  Her opening response, “Of all the bright ideas about how to entertain, this is Miss Manners’ least favorite. As she keeps pointing out, a lady never entertains guests with her legs in the air.”  After a rant or two, she goes on to offer the reader the excuse she needs, to paraphrase, “Jeez, love to — but parties like this make us both sick.”  

I think I’ll forward the column to editors at M.S. Living.

“Hey — team, here’s a challenge. Let’s put our heads together to kick up the fun factor for birthing parties. Ok,  a little old-fashioned brainstorming is in order. Throw it out.

Name games, right. Japanese globe lanterns. Yeah, colors silver, white and then let’s not do the obvious with that, people. Let’s think of something other than red. Yeah, bingo, I like that!  Our new moss-green is so New! Beautiful.

Butlered appetizers — makes sense, most people will be standing and we can use those fab antique silver trays.  Music — some thoughts? Yeah, you’re right a mix –with just about anything with “baby” in it. Whatta think? What? Ok — I got it. Mon Petite Chou Chou. Thaats’s nice. Way to go with thinking outside the old conference room, Harry.  Hey and then, let’s do a CD as a guest Give-away for that extra punch.  We can sneak M + dogs on the cover. How about monograms somewhere?…  “

I have to admit I am just a little bit attached to American Idol. Though kind of like the world series, I don’t get interested until the play-offs. I don’t watch the silly auditions edited for maximum small screen appeal, or the long drawn out process of getting to a manageable group of ten.

But by the time the group of oh-so-hopefuls are winnowed down, I begin to watch for the next installment. Tonight was one of the elimination nights. Since no one really performs on these nights and I am not a fan of Ryan, the goofy host, I don’t usually pay attention til close to the very end of the show. 

Big Mike and Anthony are on the chopping block. Only one can survive. Mike turns out to be the one with the least amount of viewer’s votes, so he steels himself for his last performance and nails it. Tight camera shots on his wife and a friend who are pretty much a sobbing mess. 

Ryan re-caps: reminding every one of  Mike’s long journey here, his new-born daughter and all the folks back home rooting for him.  

And what do you know, in a flurry of whispers, shrugs and grimaces, the 4 judges decide unanimously to Save him. With only one “save” a season, this is a Big deal;  it over-rides the votes of the populace and means Mike gets to come back next week!

More tight shots of wife and friend who are now jumping up and down and sobbing. But Mike is the best.

A big teddy bear of a man, he’s trying so hard not to cry, repeatedly body bumping goofy Ryan and thumping his heart with each fist.  Finally the other Idols are released and rush over and swarm.  

Big Mike probably won’t be crowned this year’s American Idol and that’s ok. I suspect he’ll have a pretty good life anyway.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010 was the 21 week sonogram reveal; the information was written on a piece of paper, folded and passed to them. They took the slip of paper to a bakery; and, passed it, still folded, to the baker.

Hours later, one of them went back to the bakery and picked up a white cake box with the lid taped shut. The cake box was escorted home and placed on the buffet.

It was a normal Tuesday evening in all other respects. Taco Tuesday is already a tradition for the couple, a boost on the way to hump day and beyond for whomever is around.  Everyone helps themselves to plates of food and serves as their own bartenders. 

A  flip cam picked up the action around 8:00 when the mood changed from casual taco dinner to Big Deal Event.  Someone had cleared the table. Someone had filled the glasses and someone had put the cake box in the middle of the table. Then someone asked the parents for predictions. One thought a girl, the other held out for the possibility of a boy.  

“On three .”

“One, two, Three!”

As they all leaned in to read the message on the cake a spontaneous chorus broke out,  “It’s a boy.”  The camera caught a lot of the surprise, delight and joy that all of a sudden crowded right up to the table.  Not long after, the news made its way through cyber-space and was met with cheers and good will throughout the land.

“And that, Liam — is why we have tacos every Tuesday.”

I really like Wendy’s chili. The small version is cheap, filling and tastes good. Add a couple of packets of good old-fashioned saltines and you have meal that nurtures your soul. With that peak experience in mind, I headed to Wendy”s yesterday after spending several hours at the  DIY Bubble Up car wash. 

The car wash was nearly an excuse to spend the warm and sunny day outside.  But a clean car, inside and out, is also a tonic.  Looking its best, my car seems happy and content and its mood usually rubs off on me. 

After I vacuumed, shook out the car mats and cleaned the glove box, I drove it into the bay. It stood quietly as it was soaped, scrubbed and rinsed with a final spray of no-spot water.  I moved it down stream into the parking lot to join 3  or 4 others in the rhythm of dry, buff and polish.  All was right with the world as I drove off with an open sun roof.

It only took  a few minutes to get my order of chili and crackers at the drive-through; I parked the car facing the sidewalk to watch the pedestrian parade.  I took the lid off of the chili. It was really hot so I reached over the steering wheel to put it on the flat part of the dash.

The cup hit the edge of steering wheel and tipped out in a whoosh. In seconds the chili was a lava spill pooling on the floor mat. In its wake, left over beans, tomatoes and hamburger slipped in the recesses of the dashboard, steering wheel and ignition. My right pant leg was covered with chili, the radio was splashed with chili, and the quirky flower vase (standard on this model) was filled.

I ordered a frosty to salvage the day.

It got pretty late pretty early the other day. It’s that daylight savings time. Without the telltale streaks of a setting sun saying, “Go home,” I can end up having dinner seriously fashionably late.

Seeing the time, I decided that it was a good night for a-pick-something-up-on-the-way-meal. I called Sig for a quick consult. He didn’t answer. 

Freed from cooking, I went into the bookstore since I was so close and ended up spending another 30 minutes looking at books and checking out what was on sale.  I called Sig as I left the store but he still didn’t answer. 

I decided on KFC for dinner. (Ever since the Colonel started selling grilled chicken in addition to their original deep-fried, I am a born again fan. With green beans and coleslaw, it’s not a bad little meal.) By this time, it was close to 8:00. I called Sig one last time as I waited in line. When he didn’t answer, I decided that he had surely eaten something by now and only put in one order. 

He was sitting on the porch finishing up a chicken taco and a burrito.  

“There are a couple of tacos in the house for you.” 

“Thanks, I stopped and got some chicken. I called you a few times but you never answered.” I said. 

It reminded me of the O Henry story about the wife who cuts her hair and sells it to buy a watch chain for her husband, only to find out that her husband had sold his watch to buy a hair comb for her. Well, correction, Sig reminded me of the husband in the story. After I finished eating my chicken, I made chocolate pudding for him.