A summer of collywobbles

By Mary Kay Roth

I’ve been thinking lately about extra virgin olive oil.  I mean, is it really better than plain virgin olive oil?  Is there such a thing as an … extra virgin? 

And, as long as I’m wondering … 

Why does Lincoln suddenly need so many carwashes – are all our vehicles suddenly dirtier?  Is there someone with a notion of how algorithms really work?  Why doesn’t anyone under 30 ever listen to voicemail messages?  And is the sun truly the culprit in erasing Neptune’s ghostly clouds – something astronomers recently determined – when the main suspect is 2.8 billion miles away? 

Although these may sound like crazy ramblings, I believe the squirrels and bees would understand.  Every year, sometime around late August, or early September, they become completely unglued and amped up. Apparently, I do as well, my soul wigged out in a sudsy brew of unease and muddle.

Of course, as summers go, this has been stranger than most: Presidential indictments, Ukraine’s battles sadly raging on, wildfires lighting up the certainty of climate change. 

In the past few months, flesh-eating bacteria have killed people at the beach. Amateur detectives planned to convene in Scotland in serious search of the Loch Ness monster. People who testified at an official Congressional hearing on little green men – talked of recovered alien bodies and crashed extraterrestrial spaceships. And true scientists discovered a cosmic symphony of gravitational waves, reverberating through the universe, as millions of supermassive blackholes – collide. 

This kind of thing keeps me up at night.  Can I hear those gravitational waves?  And, if not in Lincoln, where can I go to hear them?

Perhaps the heat has baked my brain, but recently I am indeed sweating the small stuff.  The world simply confounds. 

I mean, come on, how does anyone get Wordle on the first try? 

How come they call those wacky shoes, crocs, and not gators?

Anybody understand all the settings on your dishwasher, your remote control?

Who decided to change the recipe for Girl Scout cookies?

Oppenheimer or Barbie?

How does anyone keep track of where you can only use cash – and where you are limited to plastic?

And, good grief, after I’ve traveled south Lincoln for more than six decades, why did they decide to blend Highway 2 with some hellacious thing called Nebraska Parkway (where I now get hopelessly lost)?

I was watching a favorite detective show last week and one episode featured a hapless fellow who suffered from something called the collywobbles.

The minute I heard that bewitching word, I knew.  Bingo.  That’s what I have. “A feeling of fear, apprehension, nervousness.”

The collywobbles are all around us.

Why, just why.

Why bitcoins?

Why cotton candy grapes?

Hot yoga? 

Leaf blowers?

Fake pockets?

SpongeBob SquarePants? 

Justin Bieber?

Why, just why … 

Do my forks disappear faster than my spoons and knives?  Why have all my wine stoppers vanished? (Ok, the plumber did discover one, plugging up my sink). 

Why are there pharmaceutical ads for medications that don’t name what they cure? 

Why are people afraid of sweet honeybees, and not terrified of melting polar ice caps? 

And why do we really need coffins?  (Think about it…)

In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Of late, I’ve wondered if some wicked wizard lurks behind a curtain, making random decisions that govern our lives. 

After all, who decides that those sweet, lovely violets – are weeds?

That liquid laundry detergent is superior to powder – that manual cars need to be discontinued – that ridiculously oversized boxes are chosen for Amazon deliveries – that painting over brick is a good thing?

And who decides we must declare bankruptcy to buy printer ink these days? 

Really, does anyone ever get fitted sheets – to fit? 

Why is a small cup of coffee no longer called “small?” And what is the purpose of super-sized beverages, especially when they won’t fit in your car’s beverage holder?

Historical fiction, why? Gotta be history or fiction, choose one.

How come the street I live on – Woods Avenue – is located between L and M streets?

In fact, I know there are actual answers to many of these questions.  But frankly you don’t need to share. I think I prefer to … let the mystery be.

For instance, is all gasoline secretly contained in the same tank underneath the ground (because when I see supply trucks at the service station, I swear I only see one hose)? 

Who conducted research that found people are taller in the morning than at night? 

Why do they make it impossible to pry open cottage cheese, juice boxes and every child’s toy? (There’s actually a term, called “wrap rage” for those desperate souls who turn to razor blades, boxcutters, egads, ice picks.)

And … aren’t the eyes on Black-eyed Susans – closer to brown?

Is there anyone left un-murdered in the tiny villages where TV murder mysteries take place (St. Mary Mead, Grantchester, Midsomer County, Brokenwood)?

And why on earth do 70 percent of my fellow citizens prefer toilet paper “over,” when clearly it is meant to go “under?”

Now, in truth, I’m a glass-is-half-full kind of gal.  So, it’s a fair question to ask: “Mary, is there anything in the world that doesn’t confound you?”  

Well, a daisy doesn’t confound me, a daisy is pretty darn perfect.

A rocking chair is perfect.

Fresh corn on the cob.

A baseball cap. 

Birdsong. Moonlight.

Redwoods as the snow falls.  The first blush of crocus in the spring.

Live music – outdoors – at night under the stars.

A book. A dog. A spider web. A grandchild.

Twilight.  Sunrise.

And autumn is perfect, a much more reasonable season.  

Autumn waits for us, patiently, gently tendering an uncomplicated time of year, a time of golden leaves, sweatshirts and heading for apples in Nebraska City … on Highway 2 … where I inevitably will get lost.