For the fifth time this hour, perhaps the twentieth time today, my mother tells me that she should’ve been a dancer. She tells only three stories now, to anyone who will listen, which these days, of course, is only me.

She doesn’t alternate between the stories equally. Or with any sort of pattern at all. I used to keep track of what story came when because I was secretly hoping I could find that she was using the pattern of a sonnet, or a really short villanelle. It was a futile exercise, however. Instead of students of poetry, she could be studied by students of physics, as the perfect perpetual motion machine, an example of ever-increasing entropy that never burns itself out.

The first story entered her repertoire before we had a proper diagnosis. It made me uncomfortable from the beginning, listening to her reminisce about a lover who was not my father. I didn’t even fully tune in the first couple of tellings – I caught that she regretted caring about the difference between dish soap and dishwasher soap, but I couldn’t imagine a more boring distinction, so I simply nodded my head and murmured that I understood.

It was during a trip to the grocery store that I finally did understand. As I stood in the kitchen cleaner aisle, trying to decide between Lemon Fresh and Green Apple scents (the former was on sale, but the latter smells so good), my mother started telling the story once again. But after only a few seconds, she started sobbing. The kind of sobbing that leads to hyperventilation, to hiccups, to other people staring. I put my arm protectively around her shoulders, with one eye on the strangers who wouldn’t stop staring, and told her it would be okay.

“It won’t be okay,” she cried. “Danny was the best thing to ever happen to me, and it was my fault he left.”

Danny. I knew that name. Danny was the man my mother dated throughout her high school years and into college. I actually met him once, when I was a child. That meeting had also been in a grocery store. He was big and burly to my five-year-old eyes. He could’ve been a lumberjack, in his plaid flannel shirt and full beard. The complete antithesis to my perpetually clean-shaven and suit-clad father.

And now, here I was, in a second grocery store, and again I had Danny on my mind, and how he compared to my father.

I asked my mom to tell her story again, and this time, I listened.

She told me of the time they stole away to the Ozark Mountains during junior year spring break. They rented a cabin with two other friends and spent the days hiking and swimming. They planned oatmeal for breakfast and peanut butter pita sandwiches for lunch and four bean chili for dinner. And they realized after only one day that they had no way of cleaning their dishes. So my mother asked Danny to drive down the mountain, into town, to buy dishwasher soap.

Danny was a good boyfriend, who followed directions. She asked for dishwasher soap, and he returned with dishwasher soap. This upset my mother, however, for the cabin they rented did not have a dishwasher, and he should have known that she meant dish soap, the kind you use in the sink with your hands. Frustrated, and perhaps embarrassed that she had mistakenly said dishwasher soap herself, she embarrassed him in front of their friends, until he went back outside, drove back into town, and returned with dish soap.

But when he left the cabin for the second time that day, not all of him returned. My mother points to that day as the day he started pulling away. She didn’t see it at the time, but by the time their break-up came seven months later, she could trace all of their problems back to that day at the cabin. When she had taken something beautiful for granted and so lost it forever.

As she wrapped up her story of her fight with Danny, she reiterated how silly and young she had been, with eyes full of the future, and she said she’d return to that day and take it all back if she could, and I said, “I’m glad you can’t or I wouldn’t exist,” and I was only joking at that point because I didn’t know what she’d say next, which was, “Well, no you wouldn’t, but that shouldn’t bother you because you wouldn’t know you wouldn’t exist.” And I said, “Mom, are you telling me that it wouldn’t bother you that I wouldn’t exist, because if so, then that does bother me.” And she said, “Of course I love you,” and I said, “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

The second story my mom tells is of the time she lost her child. When she relives that day, one would think she lost her only child. And I suppose, because it was her first, if she really is back in that moment, then it was her only child at the time, so I try not to let it get to me.

I didn’t even know about this baby until recently. My mom had never felt the need to share with me a miscarriage she suffered in the first trimester of her first pregnancy. But now, as if to make up for lost time, she tells me again and again.

The baby had a name, Christian, which they would have used whether it was a boy or a girl, though my mother knew it was a boy because they say you don’t get as sick with boys, and she never once threw up or felt tired or had any thought at all other than utter joy at the life growing inside her.

Occasionally, though less and less often these days, her eyes refocus on me, and she sees her child who actually made it to term, and she says, “That’s how I knew you’d be a girl. Never have I gone through such misery as I did during my first three months of pregnancy with you.” And I prompt, “But I was worth it, right?” And she says, “Of course, dear.” Then she’s lost again, wondering what Christian would have been like, looked like, where Christian would be today. Her son, Christian. When her daughter is right here, has been here every step of the way, and just wants her mother to be here, too.

Everyone recognizes this disease as one of loss. One that descends quickly but with precision, stealing parts of your memory, parts of you. But what I find so cruel about what it has done to my mother is the ironic manner in which it chose the parts of her to leave behind.

Three stories. That now seem to be the whole of what comprises my mother.

Although the third isn’t much of a story. Just a sentence really. The thought she returns to most often. That she had always wanted to be a dancer, that she should’ve been a dancer, how different her life would have been if only she had been a dancer.

And so all three stories are stories of squandered opportunities, of missed chances, of regret.

My mother who was no longer exists. All that remains behind is the woman who could’ve been, but never was.

So I have to wonder, is anyone left at all?

II.

Our neighbors have called the cops on us three times so far.

Well, to be precise, the neighbors have called twice and the alarm company once.

The first time was when I was weeding in the back garden about a year ago. Weeding has become my mindless escape, an activity I can turn to that keeps me home so that I’m not far from my mother, that allows me to release a bit of pent-up rage as I pull and effectively kill any plant that I determine not fit to be present in my world, and that results in the most aesthetically pleasing creation I’ve ever had a hand in producing.

But my mother does what she can to interfere. That day, I was gardening, and I heard a neighbor, Mr. Allen, calling from the front yard. As I walked around the side of the house, I looked up and was surprised to see he had my mother by the elbow. He had found her at the entrance to the neighborhood, barefoot but with a winter coat pulled tightly around her dressing gown, despite the summer heat.

I was in the midst of apologizing and offering him a glass of lemonade or water when we saw the cop car pull into my driveway. Mr. Allen declined the drink offer, taking the police presence as his cue to leave.

The cops were pleasant, kinder than I would’ve expected, stating that they simply had to check on the report they’d received of an elderly person in distress. One of the policemen told me his uncle had had Alzheimer’s. “Seems like a tough spot. And I wish you the best of luck.” And with that, my first brush with cops was behind me.

The following Sunday evening, there was a knock on my door. Two men from down the street asked if they could speak to me about their “concerns” for my mother. They stressed the danger she had been in and what might have happened had Mr. Allen not reached her when he did, and they told me they wanted my mother placed in a home or they’d report me to the HOA. They flinched as I laughed. I have no money to place my mother in a home. I cannot afford professional help. I receive a couple hundred a week from Medicaid to take care of her myself, and a whopping 70% of that money goes to keeping the house, and if the HOA had any suggestions, I’d gladly lend them an ear.

Yes, I have thought of selling this house. Not a single offer.

Yes, I’m worried about her, too. She is my mother, and I am trying my hardest.

Now if you’d be so kind as to leave, so that I can get back to taking care of my mother.

The men hesitated, clearly unsatisfied with how little progress they had made in this discussion. One of them finally made the first move to leave, and the second took just a beat longer, looking me in the eye and stating, “This is not over.”

I shut the door behind them and looked at my mother. “No, it’s not over.”

After I had finally put my mother to bed, I called Mr. Allen to ask if he might talk to these men and explain that my mother hadn’t been in danger. Or to simply ask if he had any advice. He told me that he hadn’t minded helping my mother, but that he wasn’t interested in getting involved in any neighborhood disputes. He mentioned that a co-worker’s mother had Alzheimer’s, and that it seemed tough, and he wished me the best of luck.

Three days later, I got a call from Social Services. A woman with a kind voice, even considering the circumstances, explained that she was responding to an anonymous tip concerning possible elderly abuse. She wanted to come by the next day to follow up.

I had trouble sleeping that night, more so than usual I mean, my mind racing with possible scenarios of what was to come. The meeting, however, turned out to be the most positive interaction I had had with anyone in months. The Social Services woman seemed to know immediately that there was no abuse occurring, that this was simply a sad case of two people doing their best with the hand that they were given, and that there was nothing Social Services could do to improve the situation. As she got up to leave, she told me that her grandfather had had Alzheimer’s, that she knew it was tough, and that she wished me the best of luck.

Then she stopped. And she asked me if I had heard of the Alzheimer’s Association. She wrote down their website on the back of her card and implored that I check it out.

I did, later that night, after my mother had gone to bed. It was heartening at first to see that there were other people out there in my exact position, but then I realized that I was still stuck in my same position, and I decided I didn’t really foresee any relief coming from this association at all. Before closing the site, however, I took note of a single piece of advice that I would follow the next morning.

And so upon waking, I called an alarm company and requested that they install the most basic system available. I submitted the expense to Medicaid in hopes that they’d see this cost was related to caring for my mother, but they denied the claim.

The day the alarm was installed, I had to pick my four digit code. I looked over my shoulder at my mother and asked, “What’s my birth year?”

“I’m sorry, dear, I don’t believe you ever told me. I’m sure I would remember if you had.”

I faced the punchpad and typed in 1956. And a second time, to confirm.

It took her about seven weeks to get out again. I don’t know how lucid she must have been to not only realize that she needed to disarm the alarm system to exit undetected, but to remember my birth year, and to think to attempt my birth year as the code in the first place. Part of me wishes I had been there to witness it.

Instead, I was taking advantage of her naptime to run to the grocery store. I normally had my groceries delivered, but Safeway had just upped their delivery charge to a minimum of $3.50, and in one small act of defiance, I decided to skip the delivery that week.

I returned home to find Mr. Allen pacing nervously in my driveway, next to the two men from the impromptu neighborhood meeting, two new policemen, and in the middle of all of the commotion, my mother. It took a little more effort to get rid of the policemen this time, though they did escort the two angry neighbors off my property as soon as I asked they do so. They also waited while I called Ms. Stewart from Social Services, and after they confirmed with her that she’d swing by to check up on us again, they finally left.

Mr. Allen brought in my groceries, though all of my refrigerated food was spoiled by that point. And the next day, I paid Safeway $21.97 to bring me $18.47 worth of replacement perishables.

I changed the code to the alarm. I used a random number generator online to come up with the new four digit code, an idea I was quite proud of.

Like my plan to save delivery money, however, it didn’t quite work out the way I had hoped it might. And it only took four days to unfold.

It was about two thirty in the morning, and my mother decided once again to leave. And I don’t know if she typed in my birth year or if she just punched at the pad until she grew bored of it, if she attempted to disarm the system at all, but disregarding the warning that the alarm would sound, she opened the front door and marched outside to greet the night air.

I didn’t wake up until the alarm went off, and then it took me at least a minute to fully process what I needed to do to shut it off. My house phone started ringing as I made my way to the punchpad, and for some reason, I answered the phone before turning off the alarm. The alarm company employee spoke loudly into my ear, asking for the code phrase, but instead of providing the correct answer of “strawberry shortcake,” I shouted, “Mother!” and dropped the phone, racing out the door.

So the alarm company called the police. And as I answered their questions for the third time, I held my mother’s arm in a way that I am ashamed to say created bruises that popped up the next morning. She, in turn, gripped her own hands, wringing them as she fidgeted from one foot to the other and repeatedly asked that we let her go because she was already late. One of the officers finally looked at her and asked, “Late for what?”

My mother stopped, stunned, suddenly uncertain of where she needed to go and perhaps even how she had ended up here.

And as I watched her facial expression change from impatience to confusion to fear, I wondered the same thing.

How did I end up here?

III.

A week after my father died, my mother disappeared for two months.

I was fourteen years old.

I waited until 10 p.m. before calling my grandparents. Who then spent an entire night, a mere four days after putting their son in the ground, calling hospitals in the area to see if his wife would soon be joining him.

I found out years later that she had been in a hospital, just not one of the sort we had called that night. She had checked herself into a psychiatric ward a few hours upstate. Didn’t think to warn anybody. Just drove herself up there one Saturday and drove herself back down eight weeks later.

My grandparents threatened to sue for custody, but once she offered to sign me over right then and there, they backed down, muttering something about a mother, even a sick one, being best for a child.

Perhaps any mother but my own.

But she was the only one I had. Except for those two months, of course, when I
had none at all. And now, when I have only a stranger in a living room.

And at some point soon, she’ll abandon me for the third and final time. I look ahead to that day the way I envision parents look ahead to the day their teenage children will leave home for college. With a sense of excitement for the hours of freedom that will finally be granted, and with a sense of utter dread at the thought of having to fill those hours. Unlike the empty-nesters-to-be, though, I don’t have future holiday gatherings to look forward to, when my house will be filled once again with the people I love. Nor will I have a spouse to lean on when my nights grow long and lonely. The thought of my life after my mother’s death terrifies me as much as the idea of having to face each day that she continues to live.

My mom stops stirring her coffee and asks me if she ever told me the story of how she lost Christian.

In a way, I suppose I lost Christian, too. What a great help he would be right now. He could be the one who gave up his career to care for our mother. Or I could take days but actually have someone to pass Mother off to when evening came and Christian returned home from work. Or, and my heart actually quickens at the thought, as if this were a real possibility, both Christian and I could work, and our combined income would be enough to afford around-the-clock hospice care. An actual professional to take care of Mother. What a life that would be.

Although the thought suddenly strikes me that if my mother hadn’t lost Christian, perhaps she wouldn’t have felt the need to have me. She might have stopped at one child, the way she ultimately did after me.

“I should’ve been a dancer,” my mother says.

Regardless, if she hadn’t lost Christian, everything would’ve been different. Even if she had had a second child, the chances that I would’ve been created are, in all practicality, as close to zero as I could possibly fathom. If anything about my mother’s life had played out differently, I wouldn’t exist.

If she hadn’t lost Christian, I wouldn’t be here.

If she had married Danny, I wouldn’t be here.

If she had been a dancer, I wouldn’t be here.

I wouldn’t be this frustrated.

“I always wanted to be a dancer.”

I wouldn’t be this tired.

“I had the body for it. Everyone said so.”

I wouldn’t be this alone.

“I should’ve been a dancer.”

I wouldn’t be here.

Yes, Mother. You should’ve been a dancer.

We were boarding a city jumper to Berlin, and onto the plane walked an older man (70?) in a very nice navy blue suit and with hair standing straight up. I wouldn’t know how much gel would be necessary to get hair of that length (8 inches?) to stay up that perfectly.

Michael asked me if I saw the hair and as I turned to him to answer in the affirmative, the elderly man’s companion caught my eye. She brought her hand up and started smoothing his hair down.

He wasn’t so punk rock after all. Just a man with a comb-over on a windy day.

Granted, I was forty-five minutes late as Google Maps totally led me astray! The whole drive over there was a disaster. I was driving down one lane roads and over one lane bridges and the directions were telling me to turn down a gravel road that didn’t exist, and there was so much turning around that I actually got carsick. Which I don’t believe has ever happened to me while I was the actual driver of the car. And all I could think about was my co-worker Amy’s story of how she drove off a cliff at Horsetooth and how I didn’t want to do the same. And I saw a woman in an Outback on the side of the road on her cellphone while I was on the phone with Michael asking him for help, and I’m convinced that she was on her way to the brunch as well, but she must have given up before finding the way. I, however, persevered! Though I did almost cry at one point. Pathetic, but true.

Back to talk of a pleasant nature! I took pictures of what I made to take along. First pictures of food that I’ve taken in quite some time. Although the quiche didn’t get to attend, as I left it out on the counter all night and was scared that I’d poison the other guests if I brought it. Michael voted that I bring it anyway, as no one would be able to tell which of the dishes got people sick. I admit I considered it!

Not that talk of potential food poisoning is pleasant. But pictures of food before it goes bad is pleasant.

Vegan Quiche:

Recipe here. And we did eat one of those last night, just to make sure it was good before I served the second one to strangers. It was quite good, too. The recipe had me at roasted vegetables.

Next up. Carrot Spice Muffins – on an LSU plate:

I did bring more. Those are just the two that I have left over! I made those at 7 o’clock this morning, right after I sat up in bed and said, “I left the quiche out all night!” I was worried about how they’d turn out because it wasn’t really a recipe for high altitude baking. And I didn’t have soy yogurt, so I subbed soy buttermilk (i.e. that DIY recipe of soymilk plus apple cider vinegar).

But the first guy to take a muffin immediately tapped his wife’s shoulder and said, “You have to try one!” So they worked out in the end.

Got the muffin recipe from fatfreevegan. Which means I shouldn’t have doubted a thing, as that site never lets me down.

We were supposed to actually hike Devil’s Backbone after eating, but the weather was really kind of iffy, so we bailed on the idea. This guy didn’t let a bit of drizzle stop him though.

You do see him, right? In the keyhole? I took that pic from the hostess’ backyard! That’s what she gets to look at while drinking coffee on her back deck. (Not the guy. Just the view in general.) Assuming she drinks coffee on her back deck. Which she probably does because wouldn’t anyone?

Now I wasn’t really listening when she was explaining what this shed was on the property adjacent to hers, but I’m almost positive she said some college kid stays in that shed on the weekends. Which is wicked cool and all, but I couldn’t do it! Even though it’s about the size of our flat in the Netherlands. So maybe I could.

I’m kind of sad I didn’t think to take a picture of the rest of the spread there. It’s always nice to be surrounded by food from which you could choose to eat anything that catches your eye!

And speaking of, I’m off to find the recipe to a breakfast casserole one of the girls made. It was definitely the best item there. I went back for seconds. Or thirds. I’m choosing not to remember how much I actually ate.

Since we didn’t even hike to burn off all of our brunch calories!

(Melissa and Michael sit in the living room of their apartment. Music plays.)

MICHAEL: Who is this?
MELISSA: Hot Chip.
MICHAEL: Covering a Dandy Warhols song?
MELISSA: Um, I don’t think so. I doubt it.
MICHAEL: What’s the name of the song?
MELISSA: I don’t know. It’s a single mp3 of a live concert so it doesn’t say.

(Several minutes pass. Melissa looks at Michael, who has fallen asleep with his head on a dog bed. She gets up and checks on dinner, then returns to the living room. A few more minutes pass.)

MICHAEL: I guess it’s their own song then.
MELISSA: I guess so.

(Michael turns onto his side. Blackout.)

I’ve been told that only old people and tourists go to Keukenhof. And while I do live in the Netherlands now, I’m still pretty much a tourist. And my mom, who visited me last week, was definitely a tourist.

So we went!

And I thought it was beautiful. We spent about 3 hours there, looking at flowers and sculptures and other people and that’s about it.

Oh, and we ate. But when do I go anywhere and not eat? I mean, really.

The basic set-up of the park was just…lots of different areas of flowers, with sculptures throughout, and then a few separate buildings that were more about what you can do with flowers after you pick them. Various arrangements. Or potted plants.

My mom and I both got excited pretty much anytime we saw purple and gold flowers paired together.

You can take the Tiger fan out of southern Louisiana and all that.

Wait. That doesn’t work. Because the sentence would end, “…but you can’t take the southern Louisiana out of the Tiger fan.” And that’s not what I meant. So you can take the girl out of Tiger Stadium? Out of Death Valley?

I’m just trying to say we like purple and gold no matter where we are in the world!

Moving on. I don’t have any great pictures of purple and gold pairings. So have some straight up purple instead.

These are almost purple and gold. I could’ve photoshopped the orange flowers to be a little more gold, but that takes photoshop skills I don’t have!

On to the sculptures! Let’s start with a dog.

And a turtle.

There were so many sculptures over the entire grounds, and for some reason, I only seemed to take pictures of the ones of animals.

Well, I did take a picture of this sculpture, too, but I’m not happy with it. I’m really only sharing this picture to let you know there were sculptures of non-animals.

And then this one is another sculpture picture I’m not happy with. Why oh why didn’t I focus on the face and then let the flowers in the foreground be slightly out of focus? THAT would have been a much better picture!

Maybe next time.

Enough pictures for a moment. Time for a story.

So we were wandering around, and a couple asked me to take a picture of them. I held on to their camera while they hemmed and hawed about which background would be the best for their photo op (I think that’s what they were doing; they weren’t speaking English). They finally settled on a direction and were giving each other a congratulatory kiss for deciding when another couple walked in between the camera and the couple.

So I waited a few moments for the people to pass, and when they did, I realized that the couple waiting to be photographed were kissing again. So I waited once more.

After about 15 seconds, I realized that this couple wanted to be kissing in their picture. That they had been waiting for me to snap the pic the entire time they had been kissing. I felt foolish for not having realized it. So I quickly took the picture then ran away giggling.

I realize that’s not the most exciting story. But we were spending the day walking through flower fields. Not a lot of stories present themselves in such a setting!

On to the pavilions. Where they showed off pretty arrangements. Like these hydrangeas:

And these day lilies. Are they even day lilies?

If they are day lilies, then I think these are, too.

And this is an inexplicable display of paper-mâché spheres:

There was also a section of seven different gardens that were set up to inspire you at home. To give you an idea of good combinations to try out. I got distracted by one backyard grouping though. Sure, I know in my head these are just canned vegetables, but I can’t help but feel like they would fit perfectly in a witch’s kitchen.

But Melissa, you must be asking, didn’t you take any pictures of you and your mom?

Well, I did take a couple of pictures of my mom. And she took a few of me. Let’s start with my mom.

Aww. Isn’t that nice.

Although she wasn’t smiling quite so big about an hour later when we realized we missed the last bus home. Which was at 5:33. What bus route ends at 5:33?! There’s so much of the day left to experience! We ended up catching a bus to Schiphol, then a train home from there, and wouldn’t you know it turned out to be even faster than the route we had taken to Keukenhof? Although I did something completely out of character for me, and I’m still not over it a full five days later, and that is: I LOST our train ticket! There’s a spring/summer special going on right now where two people can ride anywhere in the country all day long on a single 45 euro first class ticket, and I lost it. Ugh. I don’t lose tickets.

I don’t lose money or keys or tickets.

Except for this one time.

So there was a moment, when we were standing at the bus stop at ten after six, and we were reading a sign saying that our route home had been discontinued, and I was also just realizing that I couldn’t find our train ticket, that getting home seemed to be a slight impossibility.

But thanks to common sense and helpful strangers, we figured out the whole Schiphol idea and while it meant we got to get home in a timely fashion, we still had to purchase new train tickets once we got to Schiphol, and I was just so upset by it.

Oh, and you know how I love coffee mugs? And Nathan loves cows? Well, in the gift shop was a perfect combination of our two loves. A coffee mug with a cow on it. I didn’t buy it because I had my heart set on another mug to represent Holland plus I feel bad about buying a mug with a cow on it because it is celebrating the country’s dairy industry and I’m opposed to consuming dairy, so when we got home, we went straight to the store with the mug that I thought I wanted, and after having seen this cow mug, I realized that I didn’t like the first mug anymore. So I didn’t buy it. And I’m on a new mission to find a Holland mug. One kind of like this cow mug, but maybe without a cow. If that’s possible.

Let me share one more pretty flower picture to bring the mood back up after all that talk of lost train tickets and mug purchasing opportunities.

There. Much better.

Oh! And one more picture of my mom. Because she looks like she’s on a flag.

Don’t you think? There are stripes and colors. Just like a flag.

And if I can post two pictures of my mom, then I can post one of me.

Yes, I am wearing a winter coat in May. We had highs in the 60s the week before my mom’s trip, and today’s high is 70, but the week she was here was a bit less warm. Mostly sunny, but still a bit chilly.

Uh oh. I’ve moved on to reporting the weather. It is clearly time to end this post. More to come!

]]> http://melissaconrad.wordpress.com/2010/05/19/a-selection-of-notes-from-my-iphone-app-of-the-same-name/feed/ 1 melissaconrad http://melissaconrad.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/cannot-get-enought-of-either/ http://melissaconrad.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/cannot-get-enought-of-either/#comments Thu, 13 May 2010 03:13:54 +0000 melissaconrad http://melissaconrad.wordpress.com/?p=850 ]]> The Big Picture is for my eyes what This American Life is for my ears.

My mom will be visiting for the next several days, so I probably won’t be updating till after she heads back home. There should be enough in the two archives above to keep you busy while I’m gone.

The Dutch love colors, and the Dutch love geometry.

Simple arithmetic, however, seems to evade their grasp. When you go to the grocery store, they round to the nearest 5 cents at the till. My total will be €19.94, and I’ll only get five cents back from a twenty. It’s not just the cashier. The machine itself does bad math. Both ways. If my total is €19.96, I still get five cents back.

I try to tell myself that it’ll even out in the end, but I can’t help but notice that the store seems to come ahead more often. Is it even possible for them to guarantee a house advantage at this game?

Also, the Dutch really are awesomely tall.

What this means, of course, is that the Dutch are from the future. With their superhuman height, their love of analytic geometry, and their utter disdain for pennies. It’s the only explanation for pink and grey cylindrical bike racks. You didn’t know that was a bike rack, did you?

That’s because it’s a bike rack from the future.