Sleeping Arrangements

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Sleeping Arrangements 

What’s more fun than a new kitten?  (See ASPCA)

But they do require some serious training to show them who’s boss.   So the day we brought Jackie home from the ASPCA we read him the house rules –  don’t bite the hand that feeds you,  keep your paws off the house plants,  and sleep in your own little cat bed.

But came nightfall and the pitter-patter of four little feet on the quilt told me Jackie had his own ideas about the house rules.

For there I was stuck in the middle – my husband sleeping peacefully on one side,  and our new little pussycat settling himself in beside me on the other.

Sweet dreams,  sweet Jackie!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Favors: The Currency of Saints and Hypocrites

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Aristotle? Bible? “Ideal man”? Mit-what-zah? Sounds like a fancy way of saying “make your own bed” to me. But apparently, doing stuff for other people is supposed to be some grand declaration of inner beauty. Let’s be honest, though, favors are a minefield. A social tightrope where good intentions trip over awkward silences and unspoken expectations. Or as my Irish grandmother used to say: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Me? I’ve been asked to fetch everything from a stray sock in a still revolving tumble dryer to the last-minute request for a kidney from a distant cousin I met once at a baptism gone wrong. Favors Large? Favors Small? It’s all relative, isn’t it? Holding the door for a granny is a breeze, but explaining Bitcoin to your dad feels a lot like pushing a boulder uphill with a sprained ankle.

Spontaneous? Well, I wouldn’t call stopping to help a stranded motorist “spontaneous” exactly. It’s more like that primal fear of being stuck myself that starts kicking in. Besides, the hero worship from the grateful “stuckee” driver it usually comes with free coffee – post action bribery, basically.

Now for me begrudging favors is where the real theater starts. Like the time a friend asked me to be his “wingman” at a club. Me, the social chameleon who blends in with furniture. That night ended with me explaining existentialism to a drunk bouncer while my Casanova friend snuck off with a girl who could bench press me. You call that a favor? I call it a prolonged emotional mugging.

And me asking for favors? Don’t even get me started. I’d rather wrestle a badger for its comb than admit I need help (or directions). Unless, of course, the reward is free pizza. Then all bets are off. I would tap-dance on broken glass for a slice of pepperoni heaven.

But here’s the thing Aristotle and Bible guy: maybe, just maybe, doing things for others isn’t about some cosmic karma balance sheet. Maybe it’s about the fleeting dopamine rush of seeing someone smile. Maybe it’s about proving to myself that I am not a complete jerk. Or maybe it’s just about avoiding the awkwardness of saying no?

Who knows? The human psyche is a tangled knot of neuroses and half-eaten biscuits. All I know is, next time someone asks me for a favor, I’ll weigh the awkwardness against the potential pizza payoff. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, I’ll surprise myself and do it out of the sheer, inexplicable joy of being slightly less than a nitwit. But don’t hold your breath.

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