Mind-Bending Puzzles

Dear Diabolical Engineering Geniuses,

I would like to thank you for creating another brain-teaser puzzle/toy to keep me both occupied/entertained/frustrated while questioning my intelligence and adequacy. Back in the day, I got to feel this way when playing with a Rubics Cube. While my husband now insists there's a formula to solving it, one anyone can master, this toy remains a measure of superior intelligence in my eyes with only three people on earth able to assemble all the sides without popping the pieces out and reassembling. Which, I might note, IS a solution and a practical one.

Yesterday, I found myself in a similar situation: confronted with a maddening three-dimensional game in which I need to reconstruct the components in order to reveal the object trapped inside. I studied it. I analyzed the pieces, running different scenarios through my head. And then I started to  "play." I pulled and twisted and turned and bent. I reassessed the situation. I looked for clues I had missed. I reminded myself about the Rubics Cube -- could there be a simple formula to this as well?

I became annoyed with myself. Appalled I was unable to solve the puzzle. Just like the Rubics Cube. Just like those little picture-rearranging games. Just like Sudoku. Just like assembling furniture from Ikea. "I am a smart person!" I shouted to no one.

"I have a master's degree!"

"I read!"

"Real books!"

"I watch documentaries!"

"I am well-respected by my professional peers who do not read my blog!"

"WHY MUST YOU VEX ME, STUPID PUZZLE?"

Yes, I was getting out of control at this point.  And so, I decided that the game was over and I started tearing at the puzzle, madly destroying the shell and releasing the object inside.

I will admit that half way through this, I did start to see what the solution could have been.

By the time Jamie got back into the car (all right, yes, this all happened in about six minutes), he spied the destruction on my lap. "What the hell happened there?"

And so I had to explain my ass had been beaten again by puzzle designed by mad geniuses.

"Just so I"m clear, you are talking about the packaging for the cell phone charger I just bought, right?"

"Packaging. Evil Puzzled devised by demonic package engineers to make me feel stupid. Same difference."

"You do realize you could just have waited until we got home and cut it open with a pair of scissors. Like a normal person."

"That is not how they intended it to be opened. There was a system. There was a way to do it without using scissors."

"Clearly, there wasn't."

So thank you, Duracell Cell Phone AC Charger Model DU5203 Package Engineers for creating another experience test my brain, humble me, and start a fight with my husband who has still more ammo to prove the occasional ridiculousness of my problem solving skills. And who, by the way, didn't think this blog was funny at all.

Mildred's Revenge

When the swarm of flying ants was discovered, I calmly zipped into the kitchen, grabbed the ant killer, and with the press of a calm finger, reigned death upon them.

When my friend raced screeching from her house upon the discovery of a dead squirrel on the porch, I simply picked it up by its tail, walked back to the woods, and flung it.

And when Mookie puked worms, I calmly gathered the angel-hair pile of parasites and bagged them for the vet to examine while my husband was gagging in the bathroom.

I have buried (or flung) more dead bunnies, chipmunks, moles, squirrels, birds, and snakes than I care to remember, all of who were often in various, er, pieces. This is the result of living with cats who have been free to roam outside and embrace their predatory nature and return their prizes to our house with love, if partially consumed.

I'm not squeamish.

Except for spiders. There is only one kind of spider that is allowed to live in my house: little yellow ones that stay far away and seem to move with reasonable speed. We have many. We live in peace.

Wolfgang, a ferocious, enormous, hairy black serial killer, lives above my side door. On the other side of the glass. We had a conversation one day, through the glass. We agreed that he could live there, indulging his bloodlust. He could live there. Not in here. He accepted that he couldn't eat my face and I accepted that I was living with a psychopath attached to my house. But one who surely kept promises.

But then there were Mildred.

I'm not sure if Mildred and Wolfgang were dating, married, or just "friends." Maybe they didn't even know each other. Regardless, he had one side of the house and she the other. Outside.

After last year's ... incident ... Mildred and I had kept our distance. I felt we had come to an understanding. I didn't realize she was spending her time making "babies."

Yesterday, Mildred got her revenge. As I happily vacuumed up the front room, breathing in the first warm air of spring and basking in the rarely-seen Rochester sunshine, I felt life was just pretty darn good. And then it happened.

Awakened by the sound of my Dyson, an army of pissed off Mildreds came racing out of the wall, racing toward me like a platoon of psychotics, screeching in their high-pitched spider voices, intent on ... well, eating my face. That comes after they terrorize and torture me by crawling up my arms and legs and over my eyes and into my hair and ears. Forget water-boarding. Spider torture.

I'm not going to say my scream was bloodcurdling, but it did set off both dogs who were asleep out back, the poodle across the street, a baby at the end of the block, and a hamster three houses over.

I raced to the garage, to Jamie, who was certain some horror had befallen me (it had). He was unimpressed to discover I was "freaking out over a bug."

He went in to face the terror, a Spartan up against the Persians.

He found one beast.

One.

Which presents us with two issues:
1. He thinks I'm ridiculous.
2. They are still there.

I have not and will not return to the room. Ever.

Additionally, I have scolded both cats who spend a preponderance of time in that room and should have been all OVER eating the bugs. Explain how they can take care of 98% of the chipmunk population outside and haven't touched the Army of Black Death that dwells a mere two feet from their favorite bed.

And I swear, somewhere Mildred is laughing at me. Rubbing her little feet together knowing how awesome revenge can be when served cold.

Running Into the Unknown

I used to dream about retreating to a mountain cabin and spending a month cut off from the rest of the world, alone, unpressured, undisturbed, free. I felt this would be the opportunity to let inspiration take hold and my great American novel would finally come pouring out of  my fingertips. I would come back a changed woman: more mature, wiser, independent, and self-possessed.

But people have to work for a living. Such forays mean losing at least all of your vacation if not taking unpaid leave and using up all of your vacation completely eliminates the Spur of the Moment Sunny Friday Afternoon Off (or the I Need to Screw Around at Home Today Day Off).

And so, to the mountains I have never gone.

After a few glasses of wine, feeling particularly lost in my professional life (a feeling which has plagued me since I got my first job at 15), I often decide I'm going to join the Peace Corps. I'm going to go to remote corners of the world and make a difference, focus on what really matters, and shed the petty obsessions that distract me from being a person of integrity and character. Obsessions such as knowing just how much my dog loves me and polling everyone around on this fact until they give me the answer I need: he loves you more than anything in the whole world, Gretchen.  But I have a job and a life and leaving that behind for two years (not to mention leaving said devoted dog) is too much of a break from my reality to be realized.

And so, to the Peace Corps I have never gone.

Life is littered with convenient excuses for not taking a risk. I'm not saying that you shouldn't dream about things that you know you've romanticized and will likely never do. You've gotta have those day dreams -- because they can lead to real steps toward what you want to do and who you want to be. However, embracing a barrier that you most certainly can remove means that only you stand in your way.

We are, I'm quite convinced, our own greatest adversaries.

There's no reason I can't go to a cabin. Though whether that will change my life is unlikely. And there are alternatives to the Peace Corpse which I don't bother to investigate.

I am risk averse. I follow the rules. I so dread getting into trouble that I freak out every time my husband walks in the Out doors at Home Depot and nearly had an hysterical melt-down when my father-in-law lied to a gate officer saying we were staying at a resort (which we were not) just so we could walk around. I was convinced we were going to be arrested and thrown in jail at any moment. This was a month ago. I'm still worked up about it.

My point, other than gently pointing out my own neurosis, is that I'm not the type to race into the unknown with reckless abandon. But I'm also getting older. And you start to see the world differently. And you start to have less tolerance for the bullshit, both other people's and your own. Mostly your own.

And so I called a time out.

Sick of wondering "What if" and trying to find enough space to figure out what I want to do with my life, tired of resting on those previously-mentioned stupid excuses, and itching to take control, I quit my job.

I do not have another job.

And yet, here I am: slightly afraid but no longer letting myself off the hook with lame excuses not to venture forth. I have no idea what comes next. I have no idea what tomorrow holds. I have no idea -- but I know I'm responsible for it, that I will make it happen, and that even if this turns out to be a disastrous mistake, at least I took the risk. Making the decision is somewhat easy ... but then reality sets in and the adreneline of the decision quickly gives way to fear and panic and that same practicality which keeps most of us on the smarter, more conservative path.

It started to hit home when I was driving away from my office yesterday. It was a warm afternoon, but I noticed that as soon as I closed my door and drove away for the last time that my body started to heat up. As each mile passed, the questions flooded forth like a raging river engorged with snow melt. What am I going to do? Did I make the right choice? How long will my savings last? Will I rise or fall? Will I really grow or is this just going to be a failure? Am I running to something or fleeing? Oh my God, how will I not buy shoes for awhile? 

I started to feel the heat running down my back, sweat breaking out on my forehead. I wouldn't be putting on a suit tomorrow. I wouldn't be looking at resource allocation reports. I wouldn't be negotiating to get someone more time on a project. I wouldn't be commuting. What the hell would I be doing? Panic dug its talons into my gut. My temperature continued to rise. Doubt filled me. I noticed I was speeding. Is there a cop around? I noticed the gas tank was half full. How much was gas these days? Maybe I would need to stop driving places. And then I decided the smartest thing was to turn up the radio and try to get my mind off of these nagging and presently unanswerable questions. I looked down to turn on the radio, now in a full-blown panic attack, sweating, overheating, and quite convinced my body was going to melt -- its way of telling me that I had made a huge mistake. When I looked down, I noticed a little light on the center console.

Seat warmer.

Level 5.

I turned it off, opened the window, and let the breeze wipe the sweat off of my brow as the seat cooled down. And I know I'm going to be fine.

AT LAST: A BLOG FROM TESSA

My gym is called Will's. As in You Don't Have the WILLSpower to go to the gym.
Will mocks me. In the taxi, I look the opposite direction. But Will is always there. Taunting.
I see you there. In the taxi. Looking the other way. Pretending you don't know I'm here. Pretending you've forgotten our whispered promises to one another. You can look the other way. But I'm here. Remembering you. Remembering how it was when we were together. And now we are each alone. Neither forgotten nor forgiven. So go, then. Go to your fancy grocery store. Eat at Burger King. See if I care. There. I see you looking in the rear view mirror. Smirking. Pretending all our time together meant nothing. But I know better. Those two 20-minute sessions were the most precious moments of my life. And you shouldn't pretend they meant nothing to you. Cruel, cruel woman.

Mookie the Cootie Cat

Let me set the scene:
Two adults go out on a date. They have a great dinner, see a movie, and stop for a drink. Or three. By the time they come home at 11:30, they are very tired and, as our story will reveal, perhaps a bit drunker than they think. They just want to get some sleep. Said adults get ready to go to bed and she sees something on the sheet of the unmade bed.
"I think your cat threw up some string," she said. "ON MY SIDE." She finished.
"Why is he my cat only when he's bad?"
"Those are the rules," she says.
He comes into the room and leans in to see the puked-up string. "I don't think that's string," he said. "I think that's worms or something."


And then the screaming began....
SHE: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN IT'S WORMS? DO YOU REALLY THINK MOOKIE PUKED WORMS? HOW DID HE GET WORMS? HOW LONG HAS HE HAD THEM? DO YOU THINK THIS IS WHY HE'S SO CRAZY? COULD IT ALL HAVE BEEN WORMS?
He: I have no idea how he got worms. And why do you assume it's Mookie?
She: It's always Mookie.
He: True. What should we do?
SHE: HELLO? WHAT SHOULD WE DO? YOU NEED TO PACKAGE THAT UP AND TAKE IT TO THE VET AND FIND OUT BECAUSE WE CAN'T HAVE WORMY ANIMALS AROUND HERE. IS IT CONTAGIOUS? DO YOU THINK WE HAVE WORMS? OH  MY FUCKING GOD, I THINK WE HAVE WORMS. WE DEFINITELY HAVE WORMS. NO, WAIT. IF YOU HAVE WORMS YOU LOSE WEIGHT BECAUSE THE WORM EATS THE FOOD, RIGHT? YEAH, I THINK THERE'S A WHOLE DIET BASED ON THAT, THE TAPEWORM DIET. BUT THOSE DON'T LOOK LIKE TAPEWORMS THOSE LOOK LIKE CURLY STRINGS. AND I DON' THINK THAT'S A VERY GOOD WAY TO DIET; I THINK IF YOU ARE FOLLOWING THAT DIET, YOU HAVE SOME SERIOUS ISSUES.
He: I think you are getting a little hysterical. Now, are you going to get something to put it in?
SHE: OF COURESE I'M HYSTERICAL! WORMS. ON THE BED. AND YES I'M GOING TO FIND SOMETHING TO PUT THAT IN.
She runs downstairs and he proceeds to do whatever the hell guys do in the bathroom. Note: don't go to that dark  place, readers. We're not that kind of family.
She arrives with a giant freezer bag. He emerges from the bathroom with a Q-Tip and begins gently probing the Mystery Organism with it. She waits about an hour (or three seconds) for him to be done playing with it and starts to scoop it up with the freezer bag.
HE: CAN YOU JUST WAIT A MINUTE FOR ME TO GET ANOTHER Q-TIP AND PUSH IT IN THE BAG?
SHE: NO I CAN'T. I HAVE TO GET THIS OFF OF OUR BED RIGHT THIS SECOND BEFORE IT LAYS EGGS AND WE END UP SLEEPING ON A MATTRESS INFESTED WITH WORMS.
He ignores her and goes back to the bathroom for another Q-Tip. She continues to scoop it up into the bag.
She: You better take this to the vet tomorrow.
He: I will.
She: You better not forget. You forget things, you know.
He: I will not forget.
She leaves and puts the bag on top of his car keys.
She returns and he's back in the bathroom. She takes the fitted sheet off.
He: What are you doing?
SHE: OH MY FRIGGIN GOD. WE CAN'T SLEEP ON THAT!
HE: DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD SLEEP IN THE EXTRA BEDROOM?
SHE: YES! YES! HOW COULD WE POSSIBLY SLEEP IN HERE?
He: OK
SHE: BUT WE CAN'T SLEEP IN THERE BECAUSE LEO'S BEEN CRATED ALL DAY AND NIGHT AND HE CAN'T GO BACK IN THERE BECAUSE IT'S MEAN AND HE CAN'T GO INTO THE EXTRA BEDROOM BECAUSE HE ALWAYS MARKS IN THERE AND I'M SICK OF IT SO WE HAVE TO SLEEP IN HERE. BUT I'M NOT SLEEPING ON THE CONTAMINATED SIDE. YOUR CAT, YOU SLEEP ON THE INFESTED SIDE.
HE: BUT I HATE THAT SIDE. I HAVE TO SLEEP ON MY SIDE.
SHE: TOO BAD. YOUR CAT THREW UP WORMS. YOU HAVE TO SLEEP ON THE WORMED SIDE.
HE: ARE YOU GOING TO WASH ALL OF THE BEDDING?
She: Well, let's not lose our heads; the puke only touched the fitted sheet.
She leaves and comes back with Lysol Disinfectant Wipes and wipes down the area on the mattress and then walks into his bathroom and throws them in the general direction of his garbage can.
HE: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
SHE: HE'S YOUR CAT, YOU SHOULD HAVE TO HAVE THE WIPES CONTAMINATED WITH HIS DISEASE IN YOUR BATHROOM UNTIL WE TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT?
HE: THAT'S FUCKED UP.
SHE: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS IN HERE?
HE: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
SHE: YOU ARE CONSTANTLY IN YOUR BATHROOM SCREWING AROUND.
HE: I AM NOT. AND STOP SCREAMING, YOU ARE SCARING LEO.
SHE: LEO POOPED IN MY BATHROOM LAST WEEK; HE SHOULD BE MUCH  MORE SCARED OF ME. AND YOU'RE SCREAMING TOO. YOU MIGHT BE MORE HYSTERICAL THAN ME.
HE: ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP STANDING IN THE DOORWAY BECAUSE I AM DONE WITH MY BATHROOM DUTIES NOW.
She runs from the bathroom doorway and jumps onto his side of the bed.
He walks around to his side of the bed, crawls in over her and proceeds to push her to the edge as he positions himself fully on his side of the bed. Leo sniffs the contamination zone. Meanwhile, Mookie the Cootie Cat is nowhere to be found.
SHE: STOP BREATHING ON ME.
HE: GET OUT OF MY SIDE OF THE BED.
SHE: WE MIGHT HAVE TO BUY A  NEW MATTRESS.
HE: WE ARE NOT BUYING A NEW MATTRESS.
SHE: WHAT IF WE HAVE WORMS?
He: Now you're just repeating yourself. We've already discussed that.
SHE: BUT YOU NEVER ANSWERED. DOES THAT MEAN YOU THINK WE DO? DOES IT?
He: I'm going to sleep.
SHE: YOU BETTER NOT PUSH ME OUT OF THE BED.
He: Are you going to stop screaming.
SHE: MAYBE. BUT BEFORE I DO, JUST REMEMBER THIS: HE'S YOUR CAT, HE LOVES YOU, HE LIKES TO SNUGGLE WITH YOU, ON YOUR FACE, AT NIGHT. AND HE'S PUKING WORMS. SLEEP WELL.
He: That's just mean.
She: I think I might be a little bit drunk.


He starts to snore.