How to See a Whale Part 1

I’d like to see a whale. But not just any whale—a North Atlantic right whale. There are fewer than 500 left in the world according to the New England Aquarium, fewer than 430 by other accounts, and I’d like to see one.

My heart hurts for the North Atlantic right whale. The whales were called the right whale, because they were the right whale to kill during commercial whaling's heyday--they're slow-moving, float when killed rather than sink and have lots of fat. Right off the bat, this breaks my heart and makes me feel ineffable poignant heartbreak and love. They’re the underdog. And they’re not doing well right now.

According to National Geographic, no new calves have been seen out of this past breeding season. It's possible there are calves that have just not been accounted for, but so far none have been seen.

I don’t know why I want to see one so badly, but the moment I started putting this out into the Universe, the Universe replied. My uncle sent me a message that he’d take us out to search for whales this summer and my dad told me he has 4 Whale Watch tickets and 2 to Codzilla. I’m going to see a right whale this summer. I just have to figure out how. In the meantime, I’m going to learn about the whale.

What I learned today from my book, Disappearing Giants: The North Atlantic Right Whale by Scott Kraus and Kenneth Mallory:

The North Atlantic Right Whale is a baleen whale. There are two types of whale—baleen and toothed and the right while is baleen, as I said.

The North Atlantic Right Whales eat copepods.

The North Atlantic Right Whales hang out near me in Massachusetts in the Cape Cod waters. Their migrations take them from Canada's Bay of Fundy, through Cape Cod waters, all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico sometimes.

Version Control of Life

I create so much detritus. I gather and create quotes, to-do lists, receipts, coupons, recipes. Nothing has a home so it's just swirling about and landing on surface area everywhere, surface area that we don't have at home. I have diaries from kindergarten through today taking up three shelves in the bedroom, a milk crate in the office, pockets of all my bags and my bedroom at my dad's house. I have three email accounts and a total of 14,045 unread emails among them. My name is all sorts of strange combinations everywhere now that I'm married. Introducing myself, I'm never sure which one is going to come out of my mouth.

I often feel like the walls are closing in on me. Which Sara am I? And where is that recipe for fried chicken that Dan's uncle gave me?

I have no answers other than this: Giving in to the techno-panic is how the demons win. The winner isn't going to be the one who replies to all 14,045 emails the fastest. The winner is going to be the person who figures out how to use technology in the best way possible. To use it to create peace and ease of life, rather than hysteria and detritus.

Never Trust a Convenience Store Umbrella

I have few steadfast beliefs but I'll share one with you: Convenience store umbrellas are a farce. You know the ones I'm talking about. It's raining, and you find yourself without an umbrella, so you dash into CVS, Tedeschis, 7-Eleven, and there they are--a bunch of brightly colored umbrellas perched innocently by the door, handles out, ready to be taken. They're always in the price range of $5.99-11.99, but pay no mind to the price--no matter which one you buy, it won't work.

Time and time again, I've purchased one of these umbrellas during a rainstorm. I take the thing out of its plastic case that it will never fit into again, and I walk outside, open it up and prepare for salvation. Approximately ten seconds later, with the first phoosh of air, the thing is flipped inside out, one of the Edward Scissorhands metal bits is poking through the fabric and my self is soaked.

I don't know if, for the last decade, we've gotten the wrong shipment or what. These convenience store umbrellas seem fit only for a pattering of rain on a completely calm day, where not even one leaf is dancing in the wind. A rainy day in New England is completely uncivilized. It rains sideways. In fact, sometimes it feels like the raindrops are boomeranging back up from the ground. On a rainy day here in New England, there is wind and it is strong. When it's raining, people walking down the street holding an umbrella look like a mess of Harry Potters fighting with fiesty wands. When you walk by a public trash barrel on a rainy day, it's stuffed with broken umbrellas, the air of rage from its previous owner still floating around it.

I had an umbrella that worked once, and for one rainy season in Boston, it was glorious. I bought it for $15 from H&M and it was worth every penny. It was transparent, and the shape was more of a U so it was not given to being flipped inside out. Then I left it in a cab one day when I was apartment hunting. I didn't even go with the apartment--it was horribly sketchy. I still long for that umbrella. I realize it would take ten minutes of Googling to find myself an umbrella just like it but it's more fun complaining about this one than finding a solution. 

For now, I'm just going to walk down the street, let the rain fall on me and fancy myself a thirsty flower.