My Wonder Worker

My morning began in a haze. Depression and vertigo worked together to twist me into a tailspin. Round and round, down and down. And in that first waking moment, I heard a mysterious voice say, "Drink me."

You surely remember the voices I wrote about in a previous post. If not, don't sweat it--it's enough to know that I sometimes hear absurd, nonsensical things when I first open my eyes. 

I didn't have time to muse on the mystery of the voice because of an early appointment in Wilmawood. But my mind churned with memories of the siren call of "drink me." It made me think of Alice's Wonderland potion and you know how that turned out for her. It also reminded me of my old habits and bad behavior--they were caused by brews far less magical than Alice's.

As I finished dressing, Ms. Wonder appeared. Her presence is always a peculiar mix of calm and chaos. "You’re in a state," she observed with the air of someone diagnosing a clock that refused to tick.

"Why does life have to be so difficult, Wonder?" I asked. "Why does everything need to be...what's the word? Physicists have a word for it--means being broken down or taken apart to be  understood?"

"Deconstructed," she replied, already halfway back to the kitchen. "But you’re overthinking again," she called. "Just use what works and forget the rest."

"Ah," I said, already feeling a little more hopeful. "The old one-day-at-a-time approach," I said, more to myself than to her.

"Why not?" she called once more.

Why not, indeed I wondered.

As she rattled around in the kitchen, I considered the association of magic with drinks—the kind that promises solace or courage in a bottle. In my younger days, I’d followed those promises like Dorothy down the yellow brick road, only to find fool’s gold at the end. 

It wasn’t the drink itself but the illusion it held—the idea that it could fix things. Now, here I was, waiting for Ms. Wonder’s own elixir. Would it be the real "drink me" potion--the one that replaced magic with meaning?

I heard the faint hum of a familiar tune—but one I couldn't identify—coming my way from the kitchen. A brief flicker at the doorway told me Wonder was back with me. When she materialized, she carried a tray with a glass of liquid glowing with a warm, golden hue.

"Drink this," she said, her tone equal parts bedside manner and royal decree. "It’s my own invention. The ginger gives it color. The turmeric makes it anti-inflammatory. The cayenne pepper gives it a bite. I’ve been told it’s invigorating after a late evening."

"But I haven’t had a late evening," I protested.

"No, and I’ve never treated circumstances like yours, so I have no reviews to share." She shrugged and said, "Now, drink."

I would have chugged anything that promised relief from the mood I was in. I gulped it down and suddenly felt as if someone had set off a cherry bomb inside my head. But as the warmth spread, the room stopped spinning, and the fog began to lift. The sun grew brighter, birds chirped louder, and hope returned once again.

Ms. Wonder leaned against the highboy, watching me with a knowing smile. "Feeling better?"

"I’ll say. What is this stuff?"

She waved a hand. "Just a mix of things that work. Take it, leave it, or deconstruct it if you prefer."

I laughed for the first time since rolling out of bed. "You are a wonder, Poopsie. There's none like you. You know that, right?"

She gave me a wink, shimmered like a heat wave, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. I sat there, savoring the afterglow. It wasn’t magic, not in the fairy-tale sense. It was something better--a reminder that sometimes, all we need is a little push—or a fiery drink—to see things in a new light.

As I gathered my things and prepared to face the day, I couldn’t help but think: perhaps the true "drink me" potion is what Wonder suggested--finding what works and letting go of everything else. Why not, indeed.

Artificially Intelligent

If you regularly visit The Circular Journey, you know I'm pursuing a career as a science writer on SubStack. Science writing will not replace this blog--I will continue to do both. I will never abandon you, and I will not stop writing about my daily life--it's too amazing for that.

While reviewing research articles in preparation for the science writing project, I came across a fascinating fact of reptile biology that has eluded me for fifteen years. 

I was surprised to learn that chameleons have weatherproof tongues, a discovery made by researchers at the University of South Florida nearly fifteen years ago. I'm embarrassed to be so far behind in my knowledge of reptile biology!

If you're wondering, and why wouldn't you be, what it means to have a weatherproof tongue, I'll tell you. According to the researchers, the chameleon tongue does not move slowly in cold weather.

That's right. The tongue is a muscle, and muscles generally slow down at low temperatures. I didn't know that. I'm aware that I move more slowly when I'm cold, but I thought it happened because I simply don't want to move when cold. But, no! It's an evolutionary advantage, apparently.

being the maths nerd that I am, the article made me wonder just how cold is cold enough to slow a tongue. 

Being of scientific mind, I wonder how many other animals possess weatherproof tongues. Surely, there are many. The article should have included that information—I assume it didn't, but I only read the abstract, not the entire article.

Maybe I need to read the full paper because, now I think about it, why do chameleons need that special ability? Don't lizards live in warm climates? I may be more unaware of the lives of lizards than I imagined.

But let's focus on what I do know; my tongue is weatherproof, and I have a weatherproof mind. The old gray matter functions at its sharpest when the air is crisp enough to see your breath. I'm much like a rock troll in that regard.

You probably expect me, after reading about the researcher's discovery, to feel compelled to practice maths on it. You know me so well. I decided to write an equation (a simplified one) that could be used to determine how quickly a small animal might lose heat in freezing weather. My skills are rusty but here's what I came up with:

dT/dt = -k(T - T_a) - h(T - T_g)

After solving the formula for our recent freezing weather and uncharacteristic snowfall, I determined that in about twenty minutes, a squirrel sitting atop the fence in our backyard would be as cold as a penguin's belly button. I wonder if artificial intelligence would have done better?

Don't expect more posts like this one. I only wanted to provide a sample of what you'll find on my SubStack page. I'll announce when it goes live.

Until then, stay safe and warm. Winter is full of surprises this year. I wonder if artificial intelligence and large language models have anything to do with that?

Welcome to the brave new world of 2025. Thank you for being hee. Leave your questions or suggestions in the comments. 

How We Met

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, a blog as soothing as the popular bird songs of the 1980s, as satisfying as a peanut butter and apple-slice sandwich, and as pleasing overall as a shopping mall chair massage.

I was awakened last Sunday morning by one who's been with me for as long as I can remember. One in whom I can depend. One who will never leave or forsake me--tinnitus--that loud, unwavering ringing in my ear. It will be with me until the end of time.

The Wonder and I had come to Holden Beach, arriving at low tide. She wished to add to her collection of fossilized sea biscuits. If you're unfamiliar with those forty-million-year-old relics, never mind, not germane.

"How did you two meet?" asked the Cafe Ahora barista who had locked her keys in her jeep and with no one else in the coffee shop, had nothing else to do except talk to us. 

“Well, that’s a rather long story,” I replied, leaning back in my chair, as though preparing to launch into an epic.

“I’m sure it is,” she said, her wide-eyed gaze sparkling with interest.

And so, without hesitation, I took a deep breath, exhaled as theatrically as I could muster, and began.

“It was the year Bluebottle won the Lafayette championship,” I said, with a wistful air.

“Bluebottle?” she interrupted, tilting her head.

“A racehorse, " said the Wonder.

“That’s right,” I said. “It all happened in Lafayette, Louisiana, so it had to have been sometime in the 1980s.”

“Those were exciting times,” said Ms. Wonder knowingly, as though she had personally experienced every neon-drenched moment of the decade. It was an impressive thought for someone who was a mere whisp of a girl back then.

“Exciting times,” I agreed.

I paused as if carefully assembling the tale in my mind. I wasn't, of course. The pause gave me time to think of what came next--I was making it up as I went along. Suddenly, I remembered a line I'd heard in a sitcom.

"The sea was angry that day, my friend," I declared, feeling it was just the thing to grab attention. I wasn't thinking only of the barista but Wonder, too. After all, she'd heard it all before, and it seemed only right to mix in a few new details she's never heard.

“What does the sea have to do with it?” asked the barista, with a furrowed brow. I didn't like the change of expression.

“It’s just a line from Seinfeld that I've always liked. George Costanza said it. He was a marine biologist and it seemed to work for him.”

“I’m pretty sure George wasn’t a marine biologist,” said Ms. Wonder, with the confidence reserved for people who've spent too much time binging ’90s sitcoms.

“No, you’re right—he wasn’t,” I said, with a forced chuckle, hoping to keep it light. “But he said he was, to impress a girl."

Then, addressing the barista again, I said, "It’s a thing men do sometimes. You know--lie.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “To impress a girl?”

“Exactly. A noble tradition as old as time,” I assured her, though it was difficult to stifle the grin.

“I’m confused,” admitted the barista, tilting her head like a bird considering a shiny object.

A storyteller’s greatest fear isn’t being questioned about the details—it’s losing their audience. And while one person doesn’t make a crowd, the principle is the same.

“What I’m trying to say,” I clarified, “is that the story of how we met doesn’t paint me in the most flattering light. I was simply trying to dress it up a little, make it more interesting.”

“I have no doubt I’ll be impressed,” she said. “So, how about you tell it without the embellishments?”

Well, after that, how could I hold back?

“It was a dark and stormy night,” I began before her exasperated look stopped me mid-sentence.

“Fine, fine,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Here’s the unvarnished truth...”

When I finished, the barista had a wistful look in her eye. She was probably wondering if she'd ever be part of a love story like that of Ms. Wonder and me. And she wasn't the only one impressed.

"Thank you, for all those sweet words," Ms. Wonder said. I’m happy we work together so well on our creative visions. You’re not just my life partner, you're my best..."

"Hold it right there, Wonder," I said, like a traffic cop holding up a hand to stop runaway traffic. "You're about to say 'best friend,' and nothing good ever comes of that. Too much pressure. The stakes are absurdly high."

"I was going to say, collaborator," she replied. "I treasure our time together and look forward to many more years."

"You're the treasure," I said, striking a tone suitable for a romantic epic.

"No, you are," said the Wonder, quickly picking up on my intention.

"No, Wonder, you are," I insisted leaning in to add topspin to the effect, "and I'll always be here for you." 

"Well, alright," she said. "If you insist, I'm the treasure."

"That's m'baby!" I said. It was a nice finish, I thought. How about you? Do you approve? Not too overdone, I hope?

Why I Write

As a proud member of the elite group awarded a mood disorder (not that it’s invitation-only), I often find life to be a bit challenging. 

On smooth days, I navigate with all the grace of a kitten riding atop a Roomba. But when life throws a curveball? Well, you can usually find me in a heap on the floor, wondering how I got there and whether it’s socially acceptable to stay there.

If a touch of madness sounds intriguing, I'm sorry, the prerequisites are shrouded in mystery. I suspect it’s managed by one of those shadowy secret societies we hear so much about—likely the same group who spread the rumor that eating kale is a thing.

Mood disorder or not, life has a way of keeping us all on edge. One minute, you’re on top of the world, and the next, you’ve been express-elevatored to the bargain basement of emotions with no time to hit the brakes. It’s an emotional rollercoaster, and let’s be honest, nobody asked for the fast pass.

But fear not, dear reader! Over time, I’ve discovered the key to surviving this chaotic mess we call existence: humor. A good laugh is like a beacon in the fog—guiding you through the chaos and reminding you that, despite it all, life can still be ridiculous and wonderful.

That’s why I started this blog: to share the absurdities and laughter I stumble upon in my daily life. Whether it’s a truly baffling conversation overheard on public transit or a customer service interaction so hilariously bad it deserves its own sitcom, I’m here to document it. 

My hope is that by sharing these moments, I can brighten your day—even if just a little—and remind you that you’re not alone in this bizarre world of ours.

Now, I won’t sugarcoat it: finding humor when you’re up to your neck in the soup of life isn’t always easy. Some days, the best you can do is manage a weak chuckle while clutching your coffee like it’s a life preserver. But trust me, with practice, it gets easier. 

And when you find a way to smile, even in the chaos, you’ll realize it’s like an emotional superpower—a small but mighty victory.

So here’s the deal: I write about my life, but I aim to highlight the lighter side. My hope is that you’ll find something here to make you smile, laugh, or at least nod in sympathetic exasperation. 

Together, you and I will wade through the world’s collective nonsense and emerge just a little more Zen—or at the very least, a little more caffeinated.

But let me offer a friendly warning: once you’ve dipped your toe into my world, there’s no going back. This blog is the literary equivalent of the Hotel California: 

You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Welcome to the ride. I hope you brought snacks.

Sleeping With the Morrigan

"Why is your bed a wreck every morning?" asked Ms. Wonder when I finally stumbled into the kitchen.

It was tough to come up with a sensible answer, but not because of the question. All questions are hard to answer within the first hour of waking up. I did my best under the circumstances.

"My life is a struggle, Poopsie. And not just during my waking hours. I struggle all night too."

"I know," she said in that sweet, understanding way she has that makes me feel like that puppy we saw yesterday in Port City Java. "I have an idea," she said. "How about seeing Dr. Coast weekly, whether you need it or not?"

It was a fair suggestion. Dr. Coast is my therapist, and I admit that it sounded appealing, but I realized she had gotten the wrong impression.

"It's not anxiety and depression that I wrestle with all night," I said. "It's the Morrigan sisters."

"The Morgan sisters?" she mused.

"No, Poopsie. You're thinking of the Morgan sisters who were very popular in American high society in the first half of the twentieth century."

"There was high society in the United States?" she asked.

"It was a brief period," I said. "But the Morrigan is a terrible Celtic triple goddess from the Iron Age."

"That's why you don't sleep well!" she exclaimed with a little more heat than I was prepared for. It was sweet heat but a surprise nonetheless. Do people still say 'nonetheless'? 

"I know who Morrigan is," she said. "You're staying up late playing Darkstalker, aren't you?"

"No, Poopsie," I said. "You're thinking of Morrigan Aensland, the adopted daughter of the demon king. I'm talking about the Celtic triple goddess popular in the Iron Age."

"How do you know about Morrigan Aensland if you don't play the video game?"

"I didn't say I never play. I said the games don't keep me up late."

"I'm not convinced," she said, "but let's set that aside for now. How does the triple goddess fit into your dreams? Be careful how you answer because I'm going to Google 'triple goddess.'"

"Before we get into it, Wonder, I want to tell you about the Magnificent Morgan Sisters—that's what they were called in the 1940s."

"Stop avoiding the question," she said with more noticeable heat. It was touching, I admit, but my mind was on a different track.  

"The photographer Cecil Beaton," I began, "described the twin sisters as 'alike as two magnolias,' with marble complexions, raven tresses, and flowing dresses. He said they diffuse an atmosphere of hothouse elegance and lacy femininity."

Wonder raised a hand, and she did it with authority. "Stop," she said. "Forget the Magnificent Morgans. Get to the Morrigan, please, or I'm zooming out of here."

"Sure," I said, "but I'm going to use that line about hothouse elegance in a blog post soon."

She shot out of her chair and was three steps up the staircase before I could stop her.  

"Wonder, the Morrigan are three sisters, Mabd, Macha, and Nemain, who rule disharmony, war, and death. Bad is what they are."

"Just to be clear," she said, "we're talking about ancient Irish mythology, right?"

"We're talking about my darkest dreams. Each night for the past week, I've dreamed of being trapped in an escape room. No matter how many clues I find and doors I open, there's another obstacle waiting for me on the other side, and the obstacles are the work of the Morrigan."

"I hear them, whispering and laughing--taunting me. I struggle to escape, but my efforts only get me wrapped up in bedclothes. I can appreciate what it was like for Jacob to wrestle the angel until daybreak. He wrestled one, but I wrestle three."

"What angels?"

"Wonder! You know about Jacob and the angel wrestling until daybreak."

"She raised a questioning eyebrow and said, "Are you making this up?"

"Documented fact," I said. "Jacob received a blessing for his ordeal, but all I get is a rumpled bed."

"And you expect me to accept all that drivel as an answer to my question? Do you want to know what I think? I think you're struggling with Princess Amy all night. That's what I think."

"It's a reasonable explanation," I said. "But I hear the Morrigan whispering, laughing, taunting. If it happens again tonight, I'll challenge Amy just in case she has something to do with it."

"But no matter how it turns out, I will use Cecil Beaton's gag in my next blog post. Hothouse elegance and lacy femininity! Can you imagine? I've got to Google hothouse elegance right now."