Mom says I can do anything I set my mind to.

Well, right now my mind is one-hundred-percent set on decomposing. That’s correct: I am on the floor willing every organ to just stop existing.

Allow me to say that it’s not going so well.

But I’m not blaming Mom—mostly due to the fact that I don’t ever recall her saying that I can do anything I set my mind to or anything of that nature. But then again, I was always the elementary kid who forged notes from my mom in my Sesame Street lunchbox so that I would have something to shove in the faces of the spawn of Martha Stewart and Betty Crocker and their relentless, crooning eyeballs.

I actually remember asking my mom if she’d write one of those notes for me. She did. Once. And she didn’t include an “I love you.” I explained to my lunch table companions that she was not feeling well, and the next day they discovered that she, indeed, loved me lots. Yes, the faked notes were always better than that one real one.

Sigh.

Decompose.

de-com-pose v. –posed, -posing, -poses. –tr. 1. To separate into component parts or basic elements. 2. To cause to rot. –intr. 1. To break down into component parts; disintegrate. 2. To decay; putrefy. –See Synonyms at decay.

C’mon brain, go au naturel.

I wonder how ridiculous I must look right now, sprawled parallel to a dishwasher with a hum that’s breaking my concentration.

I should tattoo that word across my forehead, only backwards so that I could be reminded of my mission each time I caught my reflection. People would call me “Esopmoced.” I like the taste of that name on my tongue, but only with an accent that I can’t really describe. It sounds as though it’s got a touch of the Arab to it.

The blonde hair might throw them off.

Actually, with my luck they’d probably call me nothing at all. Not even a sexist, “Woman!”

My best friend would get it. She used to read things backwards until one day she woke up and spoke only Mandarin Chinese. She doesn’t read English words anymore. Not even backwards. I sometimes leave paper cranes and Tupperware full of curry on her front step, even though I think those are both Japanese. On Monday afternoons we sit and watch Sagwa, The Chinese Siamese Cat, but I’m not sure it helps. She has recently developed a sort of feline style: I hope she doesn’t turn into a cat again.

Decomposition. The most simplistic of substances.

Recipe for Me:

Ingredients:
-one basic rubber duck
-two apple-cinnamon scones
-eleven postage stamps
-four-hundred-and-thirty-nine ballpoint pens, both Papermate and Bic, in varying colors
-the Mute button of the nearest remote control
-one brand new yellow Crayola crayon
-three empty film canisters
-one green Chuck Taylor [Note: Must be the left shoe! Dire consequences!]
-four kernels of popcorn
-one box regular Cap’n Crunch
-three cups awkward silences
-one drop of the inability to keep still

Directions:
1. Mix well.
2. Enjoy!

Did I mention yet that I’m not related to either Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart? I have? Yes?

This decomposing thing is serious business. Maybe I should start a cult. A Gandhi-inspired cult. Gandhi wanted things to be simple and natural, didn’t he? At least my interpretations of his writings have caused me to believe that…you know, I don’t think I’ve ever read much about Gandhi. He was into peace, though, that Mahatma. And with peace comes solitude. Solitude pretty much sums up my situation right now, because the dishwasher definitely doesn’t constitute a human being.
Gandhi = Peace = Solitude = Me = Decomposition.
It would work: we could put his face on the t-shirts. We could have a cool name like “The Decomposition Reaction.” Yeah, that had the desired Science Team Feel that our cult would embrace. It was all going to work out wonderfully until I discovered that it would be sacrilegious to reach out to a Mass Group about solitude.

Damn. That cult idea was genius. Stupid Gandhi.

The dishwasher is done humming, and the kitchen seems kind of quiet. Then the doorbell rings.

I get up slowly so that I don’t fall over and casually stroll to the door. There’s no one there. I crack it open and see my Tupperware filled with a nice curry. Only there are claw marks riddled throughout the cheap plastic. I guess next time I should get my countries straight.

I’m hungry, but when I open the pantry, all I see is a gigantic bag of Miracle Grow.

Mir.

a.

cle.

Grow.

I forget my hunger and drive myself to the local library, where I check out books about Gandhi and Mandarin Chinese. And one about plants.

I learn that there are trees that grow apples. I’m going to grow one in my backyard and make apple pie for my best friend in fall. It will be a way to bridge the gap—maybe Gandhi’s peace idea was a good thing after all. I shall compose apple pie for her.

com-pose v. –posed, -posing, -poses. –tr. 1. To make up the constituent parts of; constitute or form. See Usage note at comprise. 2. To make or create by putting together parts or elements.

Betty Crocker would be proud. Maybe I’ll send her granddaughter my curry recipe.