My brain. I think I'll keep it.

Sometimes I'm really impressed with my brain. Counter to expectation as the years go by my noggin seems to be performing better and better. All sorts of improvements, like remembering names and doing calculations more effectively. Nothing huge, mind you, but noticeable performance upgrades upstairs.

The other day I'm motorbiking around town and I'm caught in a sudden drenching downpour with ambulances screaming around me. I finally reach my destination, go inside, strip off my dripping protective gear, and sit to make a call. I'm chatting away on my cell to a business acquaintance and as we're talking I'm looking through my bag to make sure I have all my things with me because frankly it's been a little hectic today and a lot wet and I realize with a shock that I don't see my phone anywhere.

So I dig through my bag again, but, no, it's not there.

I'm holding back panic. Where could I have left it? On the phone my acquaintance is still talking but I know she's got to leave so I don't feel bad saying, "listen, I've got to go. I can't find my phone."

"Oh, okay," she says, but she wants to finish up a few things, so she's still talking.

I've reached full panic mode now and so I desperately search my bag one more time.

And then, of course, it hits me.

"Oh," I say. "Phone. In my hand." My brain, I realize, needs a break. "Okay, now I really have to go."

I hang up. The other fellow in the office politely refrains from comment but I see him smile. I'm less than perfectly impressed with my brain at this moment, though it's not like I can just threaten it with replacement if it doesn't shape up. I laugh and take a long, grateful look at my phone.

At least now I know where it is. The phone. My brain? Not so sure.

Rocks and Soap

I have a confession to make. Well, technically, two. And not so much a confession as a discovery.

I collect rocks.

I discovered this while unpacking my things. Things, with a capital "T". Among my various things I found I was unpacking rocks. Small rocks, big rocks. White and black. Pretty and plain. All, apparently, with some fair significance.

I know they have significance because I distinctly remember, two moves ago, giving away a whole bunch of them to friends -- black and white, pretty and plain -- and resolving to keep only those few lovelies had lots of special significance. That were important. That were especially -- well, special.

Despite this, somehow, I have in my possession a bunch of rocks. A nice, healthy collection.

For a moment I consider getting rid of some of them, these special (and perhaps not so special) rocks. A certain reluctance wells up inside me. One might even go so far as to say a "hell, no! These are mine."

I confess: I am helpless in the face of these lovelies. My rocks. My collection.

I don't think I really need to explain about the soap.