oh little grasshopper, it's not so bad

My mother used to say to us, "Oh little grasshopper, it's not so bad" and she'd say it in this voice -- think Old World peasant comes to the New World, making fun of a freshly-arrived-off-the-boat neighbor's accent.

Being adult is not what was advertised, but it's not so bad (little grasshopper). Keep calm and carry on.

Miles and I used to tease Hannah and L when they played "teenagers" when we were all around 8 or 10 years old and raggedy like kids used to be back then in the good old days, the golden years, angel.

"What are you going to do when you ARE teenagers?" we'd demand, swinging above them in the front yard tree. "Play 'adult'?"

We were quick and witty then.

We were never going to grow up and we barely knew what death was, not even in theory.

That changed and was in fact always changing even though I didn't know it until later. It comes to us in pieces, an inkling that someone lied to us except probably nobody did. It might have started when my uncle tipped me over the edge of the coffin to look at my lemon-tinted dead great grandfather. Or it might have been earlier, when I saw how a dead spider curls into the shape of a miniature birdcage, all the breath knocked out of it. And there is always sleep.

In an old movie, the villain stands on a wasteland beach, looking out to the sea, and is asked by a hero why he is not sleeping. They will need strength for the days ahead. To which the villain replies, "I don't sleep. I hate those little slices of death."

I'm more aware of how food dies now that I'm an adult. But that's a trick. It's already dead. So I guess I'm more aware of rot. How food rots and needs to be dealt with all the time, just like how the body must constantly be cleaned and the carpet vacuumed or else, uncleaned, the body will smell and, unvacuumed, the small corpses of misguided pill bugs will pile up along the molding and under the heater. Pill bugs enter my apartment to die. They trundle across the carpet, appearing out of nowhere, creepy and crustaceanous.

This must be dealt with. Adulthood looks like a series of "dealing with." For example, I must deal with my wisdom teeth, but first I must deal with a tooth improperly filled by a dentist then I can deal with sending x-rays to the surgeon and organizing time to be knocked out on drugs and drooling blood into my pillow. Then I can deal with all the stories I am behind on, but actually I should deal with those first in case I respond badly to the painkillers. Then there are the dishes. I'd hate to die in the night with dirty dishes everywhere. And the empty beer bottles from the night people came over for dinner. I will die in a clean house. Also I should deal with laundry and the clutter in my closet. And I should do something about the mismatched curtains in my bedroom, put up something to block the light out more. And I should look into a five year plan and open a savings account and stop relying on memory for so many things because every day memory pulls a tougher bargain: "I'll let you remember That, but I'm taking all of Monday." Oh memory, you jerk. Then there are other decisions: sign up for the 401 K? Stop eating bread? What is that lump on the back of my head (don't worry, mom)? Sleep now? Sleep later? Eat now? Eat later? Eat what? Call that person? Drop the ball? Keep on juggling. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Laura: Move to Hawaii. Do it.