Something gross happened yesterday.
First I have to tell you that last week I wondered how big a pound of clay was, and I did the least useful thing and searched “a pound of clay” in Google Images. This is how big a pound of clay is:
In my defense (if I deserve to defend myself for this) I think I assumed the photos of a pound of clay would have something in them for reference - something, anything, that you could compare the clay to, and estimate its size.
A pound of clay could be too small to make a cup with, or it could be too large to fit in a three-car garage. Without something to compare it to, it’s anyone’s guess.
In the before times — before a story that starts with a Google Image search and a decision to not buy clay was considered a decent story — a thousand medium-sized things used to happen every day. Things like seeing a friend on the bus, listening to drunk strangers fight outside a bar, having a barista remember my name, being late to a meeting and then realizing I had the time wrong anyway, or taking a photo of whatever new gross type of flavor Oreo had come up with that week. There were big things and small things too, and I thought I could tell them all apart. But it turns out I needed those medium-sized things for reference.
Lately most of those medium-sized things are gone, and every day is a white background. Everything that happens is either a huge deal, or completely meaningless, and I have no idea which.
(Joe is our mail carrier)
A gross thing happened yesterday, and it might have been the worst thing in the world. I was sweeping under my dresser, and in the corner on the floor there was a tiny ball of dust. Instead of trying to thread the broom in there I just reached for it with my hand, it was just dust.
BUT IT WASN’T JUST DUST.
When I pulled it out into the light it was a ball of two dead beetles, and the gray papery fossilized wings of a moth, and I was touching them all with my bare hands.
Maybe you’re thinking “This person likes animals, and knows a lot about hagfish, and has an album on their phone titled Good Millipedes. They probably don’t mind touching a few dead bugs.” I minded it a lot.
I held a handful of dead bugs, and I questioned every life choice I ever made. The bedroom, the dust, the broom, all of it. I vowed never to touch anything again, ever. Any sensation in my fingers would just bring back the memory of a handful dead bugs.
But then I threw the dead bugs in the garbage and realized everything was fine. So I touched a few dead bugs with my bare hands. It didn’t hurt me You could say it hurt the bugs, but most studies I’ve read come to the conclusion that bugs don’t feel pain the way humans do, so according to those studies no one was hurt at all. Touching dead bugs with my bare hands was a timesaver. I’d do it again.
I’m just glad I had my hand to compare the bugs to, so I could estimate their relative size.
Other news, big and small:
If you’re reading this shirtless I have great news, there are a few screen-printed Sad Animal Facts t-shirts left, made by my friends at Commonwealth Press in Pittsburgh. You can choose giraffe or turtle, kid-sized or adult-sized.
Before this summer, I thought birdwatching was something you had to take a class to learn how to do. It’s not, you might even be birdwatching right now. On Thursday I’m going to walk in the cemetery in our neighborhood (inspired by Danielle Belleny) and try to birdwatch some wild turkeys , and if I don’t see any I’m going to look at some of Juita Martinez’s bird photos instead. Even if you don’t see birds I think it counts as birdwatching.
“If you are reading this shirtless...” made snork. (Because I am)
I really enjoyed this new theory of relativity. Thank you!