In which Lorin returns and spikes the napkin

by Lorin Michel Monday, May 7, 2018 10:06 PM

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. It’s rumored that Mark Twain said that to a London audience in 1897 after one rumor said he was seriously ill and another one soon reported that he was dead. An American newspaper supposedly even printed his obituary. According the journalist Frank Marshall White, who contacted Twain via cable at the time, Twain’s actual quote is this: I can understand perfectly how the report of my illness got about, I have even heard on good authority that I was dead. [A cousin] was ill in London two or three weeks ago, but is well now. The report of my illness grew out of his illness. The report of my death was an exaggeration. 

The rumors were greatly exaggerated because Twain did not die in London in 1987. He died in Connecticut in 1910. 

Now I have not died or demised. I have simply been playing possum, hiding out, nose to the grindstone and all that jazz. January happened and I managed to pen a whopping one post. In February, it was two. And that was the last anyone had heard from me in quite some time. I even got an email from a faithful reader to make sure that everything was OK. It is. I’ve just lost hope. 

Kidding, of course. I haven’t lost hope; I’ve just misplaced it. I still try to err on the side of positive rather than negative. I tend to be more optimistic than pessimistic, or as my mother would call it “realistic.” I like being happy. I like laughing and finding joy in the every day. I love to discover things to celebrate, and find ways to live it out loud. Lately, though, it’s been difficult. And truth be told, writing about eggplant parmesan or lizards; flowers or a new pair of jeans … none of it has seemed logical. The world is going to hell and I’m celebrating a glass of wine? 

For years, I posted every day. I have hundreds if not thousands of posts on this blog going back to 2011 when I started. 

And then it came back to me. Celebrating the simple is cathartic. It always was before, and it can be again, even with the toddling orange blowhard in the White House. 

So I’ve been jotting down ideas for blog posts. I’ve been looking for fun facts online, and eventually I might get to some of them, like one about white sealcoat for asphalt, and another about dogs under the bridge. I have a post about reaching that age where you start to lose people. It’s a rite of passage, I suppose, and reason to celebrate those we’ve lost. In other words, I have ideas. I’m trying to get back in the swing of blogging, even in the face of political catastrophe, especially with the knowledge that I don’t understand my country anymore and have absolutely no faith in government of, by, and for the people because I have no faith in the people. 

Which brings me to the napkin. A couple of nights ago and maybe it was yesterday, Kevin and I had finished dinner. We’re a couple of old people now and we eat on trays in front of the television, though these trays are definitely not TV trays because they don’t have legs. Rather they’re more like modified servers and we put them on our laps when we sit on the couch and watch whatever we happen to be watching. Naturally, dinner on the tray comes complete with flatware and a napkin (unless we’re doing chicken wings and then it comes with several napkins). Kevin took his tray back to the kitchen, placed it on the counter and came back to retrieve my tray. This is part of our deal. I cook and create a nice presentation; he cleans. When he returned again, he still had a napkin in his hand. 

Now my husband is known to squeeze the life out of a napkin. When we go to an action or political thriller film, he sits with his popcorn and a napkin. Long after the popcorn is gone, the napkin has been reduced to a small ball that he holds tightly in his hand. It’s the movie theatre equivalent of a stress ball. Every time the lights come up and the credits roll, he looks at me sheepishly and opens his clenched hand to reveal what’s left of the napkin. He then ceremoniously dumps it into the trash on the way out. 

The other night after the discovery of the napkin, he proceeded to ball it up, and stand there with a big grin on his face as he spiked it onto the floor. It was symbolic of nothing except maybe the idea that spiking a napkin is kooky, and fun. And fun can be severely missing in our lives, with work (and in my case, school) and news and stress. 

So I have returned and I am spiking the napkin. Let’s celebrate something!

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live out loud

Comments (2) -

5/8/2018 4:47:51 AM #


Larissa Tepper United States

5/8/2018 7:12:28 AM #

All is well again with the literary world in Arizona. And I'll never look at a napkin quite the same again.

Perhaps you could wipe the Toddler in Chief's foul mouth with one?

Fred Marcin United States

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