Shhhhh... Resting

9:24 p.m.

The Girl was very tired. Her eyelids heavy with the pull of sleep.

A usual sleepless night.

The normal 8:30 a.m. start time at work.

A reduced four hours of labor.

Roughly 7 hours behind the wheel. Facing rain and hoping the lane was unfolding before her. Faith.

At this hour, the Girl could not give into sleep. Despite the fact that it was an hour that would have been bragged about later in life. Tonight she had to wait. She had to wait for Sister to get home to celebrate the Girl's overdue birthday.

What self control. The Girl held her birthday celebration, presents, cake and wishes in for almost a week. Now she was face to face with a mountian of presents and already sneaked a peak at the baked good that would later satisfy her sweet tooth.

This self-deprivation was exhausting.

The Girl's posture out on the couch started erect. The warmth of the blanket on her lap pulled her legs up into her chest. It wasn't long before her recline became a stretched out sleeping position.

Mother told her to rest her eyes for Sister's return. Mother could resist the constant conversation and said she would finish tidying up for the nearing Holiday.

The Girl's eyelids fluttered and conciousness faded in and out.

Mother's tidying started with turning on everylight in the living room. Including the one inches from the Girl's resting head. Mother was not going to make this easy for the Girl.

The vacuum roared into life. Mother vaccumed the way we all do. Slamming the machine into the sofa's edge, thinking it would pick up what's underneith. Shuffling the remaining furniture and covering each area twice.

The vacuum was turned on and off several more times before the Girl was woken by her Sister. Sister sat perched on the Girl's hips.

Resting was no longer an option.

There it goes...

The city circles the basin and washes down this drain. Laid in porcelain. It leads to a place that I’ve never really seen but is all too familiar. I have scrubbed the surrounding tiles too often… or perhaps not enough. Still, I know it well. This drain is home. The spinning water is routine. Simple physics. But this time, it’s taking away the memories my body still wore. The bits I brought with me. The pieces that survived the cab, the plane, the train, the bus and entered my every day, my here, my now.

The subway has been dug from my fingernails. Grit from handrails and metro cards all gone. I’m saddened by the thought that the Magnolia cupcake frosting has made its way out too.

My eyelids have been rubbed free of last night’s mascara. The ‘on the town’ lashes faded to ‘on the face’ smudging overnight. The dark remnants now replaced by an irritated red. A color that’s impossible to avoid with the heat of this water and the vigorous touch of erasure.

The scent from the spa shampoo washed back into my standard Rosemary Mint.

Down the drain my yesterday goes.

I watch it go. I wonder how long my back will carry the results of that massage therapist.

Around it goes. I realize the Broadway tunes are morphing in my ears’ memory. The catchy songs are unsticking or simply can’t be sung.

There it goes. I know tomorrow morning I will wake to the sound of my alarm again. I will open my garage to be reminded of how that new car got there. I will take that drive that I could do with my eyes closed … to work again. And on with life.

I twist the handles to stop the falling water. The last drops cling to each other and head to that place I’ve never seen. There is a silence that I haven’t heard in almost a week’s time. In the quiet I smile and think how happy I am to be able to lose these things. Glad to have had them at all.

I love New York.

Guts

I stopped writing because I was beginning to feel like an egomaniac. I needed a break from talking about myself. And the idea of subjecting other people to my blathering was making me sick.

I wasn’t sure when I’d write again. Maybe when something funny or exciting happened.

But today I write for me. Sitting at these keys always makes me structure my thoughts. I’m not talking intros and leads in and proper grammar. Some of my bad days and uninspiring days have ended up with the funniest writing. My own self-reflection often leads to the humor in life. Cause writing out my internal grumblings makes me realize how trivial it all is. Negatives are backspaced into positives. To have my problems staring back at me in type forces a change in perspective.

So here’s hoping….

The costume was perfect. All details were materialized. The essence was captured. I aimed for hilarity. I chose Peggy Bundy for the humor. For the nostalgia. My red wig became 2/3 of my silhouette. One word ... ridiculous. As the costume came together I realized I had an added bonus I wasn’t expecting… hotness. Somehow peach leopard print still has sex appeal. I embraced every ounce and set out for my night.

It’s strange to walk to your minivan dressed as a white trash character from the 80’s and somehow feel a little sass in your step. The hotness was paused as I climbed into the driver seat and my wig slammed into the door frame, dislodging the hair piece from its strategic position. Only a minor confidence hiccup. That was the first and last time I used the mirror in my sun visor.

Small bumps in the road pressed my towering hair into the roof of my car. Stop lights hung uneasily in the air. They were all looking. I know it. But there was one person that night that surely did not see Peg Bundy coming … the driver in the car that hit me. I started that night out thinking about the potentials of who may notice me. There were people that I was hoping to be seen by. Now, the only person that I wish would have seen Peggy Bundy is this dude. The dude that told me he was too busy looking for trick or treaters that he stopped watching the road. The guy that blindly turned left into oncoming traffic – that oncoming traffic being me.

When I saw that his car was no longer waiting at the stop sign and was on route into the side of my vehicle, the only thing I could think was …. Oh Shit, I’m wearing Peggy Bundy wig!

The humiliation of climbing out of my ruined vehicle dressed as Peggy Bundy didn’t seem tolerable. I decided that this was real life – not pretend Peggy Bundy life – and quickly pulled the red locks from atop my head. This was a serious moment and needed a serious face. Instead I exited my car looking… maybe like a hussy. That seemed easier to talk to a cop in.

The accident was left on the side of the road and my night went onto Halloween activities. I wasn’t shaken by the event. I said that’s life like I always do. I wasn’t mad. I didn’t cry. Instead, I went out and had a great time. Serious life can wait curbside.

I laid awake that night wondering how to deal with all of this before my 11 am shift on Sunday. I got to a workable point. The next two days I was figuring it all out. Talking to all the people that I needed to be talking to. Asking all the right questions. Getting myself all over town by bus. There was a plan; it was in motion and working like clockwork.

Somewhere in the last two days I have lost my ability to say ‘that’s life’ and let this roll off my back. Somewhere in the last two days I can’t find the humor in any of this. My ego can’t admit to being lost. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do and I hate asking for help. This whole process has made me grateful for the people that have given me advice and rides, but ultimately this whole thing has made me feel completely alone. There isn’t a single person in the Twin Cities that I feel guilt-free asking something of them. No one close enough to utilize “that’s what friends are for”. And frankly I can’t do this one alone. A sentence that is strange from the hands of a girl that does EVERYTHING alone.

I am ashamed at how bothered I am by the total loss of my car. I am embarrassed by the fact that I told my mom to fuck herself. Last night was the first time that I’ve gotten angry in a long, long time. I can honestly say that the last time I yelled at someone was in 2003. Those kind of emotions and reactions are a waste of time in this short life I have.

I write to rethink my situation.

Here’s what I’ve got…

I am a dangerous woman. I am bringing you all down with me.

It seemed this thing started with my own bad luck, but it may have started earlier and not ended there.

I will single handedly destroy every vehicle I come in contact with. I am dictating vehicular fate and the results aren’t pretty.

An hour in that wig led to my own bad luck. On Tuesday I get a call from the owner of the other vehicle that Peggy Bundy road in that night. My rescue ride called me saying that on her drive to work a ladder fell off a truck in front of her on the highway. The ladder politely stayed on the road, instead of through her windshield, and scrapped her undercarriage and flattened her tire.

I was convinced the red hair brought this fate upon us.

Last night, a friend took me to dinner. I did not even sit in her vehicle. Didn’t even see it. But this morning I get a text that she got a flat tire on the way into rehearsal.

Ok, it’s not the hair, it’s me.

Channeling back… I guess this could have started with my friend’s car that didn’t start as they left my house last week.

I wonder what other vehicles will be left in my wake.

Somehow I managed to get the rental car back without damage.

Seriously, dangerous, dangerous woman.


I will also say that I am surprisingly saddened by the passing away of my minivan. I actually liked driving that car. This summer it was filled to the top with all my favorite things. The seats were rarely inside. I needed the room for adventure instead.

Mostly, what I will miss was the humor of driving it. I loved people’s reactions to my driving that car. I loved people’s confusion and people’s laughter. I loved owning up to the fact that I actually liked it and all its soccer-mom glory. I wore t-shirts that declared my love for it. A normal car won’t carry those moments of laughter. I mean, what will it be like to have a blind date walk me to the door of a Honda Civic? I won’t be able to count on that laugh at the end of the night.