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[skycommasatdusk]

8-10-17

I gave myself permission to stay in bed today.  When morning came and the phone started ringing and the texts started pinging, I pulled the comforter up to meet the pillows and remained there for a very long time. Then I had to pee.

And, there was the bathroom scale.  What the hell.  A shriek escaped my throat and I shuffled on.

8 a.m. and I’m filling my vitamin supplement days-of-the-week tray and coffee is dripping over chocolate milk and sugar.  I’m not going to do this day.  But, as long as I’m up, I’m going to have my coffee. And, I’m going to have whipped cream on top of it.  

The whipped cream dispenser went ‘hiss’ instead of ‘splort’, but it hadn’t beaten me.  I’d bought a 3-pack at Costco. Hah! Take that Another-Day-That-Wants-To-Knock-Me-Down. I’m still here, though not fit for social consumption.

The coffee is delicious, and I am emboldened to check email.  See if there’s anything uplifting on Bored Panda.  There is.  Another whale rescued by a scuba diver from miles of line attached to an anchor.  Once set free, whale comes at rescuer like a speeding bus, but doesn’t knock him down. Just asks to be petted, like the family dog.  Good. Good. There is still good.

Scan through emails with trepidation and dare to review information on meeting right here in my neighborhood that I’d planned to sponsor and network for much needed new business.  It’s been moved. Of course. 45 minutes away. In a different county. Groan.

This day is not going to knock me down.

It’s not.  I will keep my head down. I will avoid the many piles of things that need doing.  Paper piles here for work.  Paper piles there, time sensitive for other work.  Files on my desktop, time-sensitive, waving hysterically to get my attention. Text from landlord to correct a slight breach of parking garage rules. It’s okay, I’d been expecting that.

I recall a dream from last night.  Mother had purchased a second home nearby, and had not used me as her realtor.  I was pathetically okay with that, I figured she’d gotten a better deal by writing with the listing agent.  But, she hadn’t even consulted with me, and then I came to learn that she didn’t even get an inspection of the property before closing the deal.  Was it closed?  Was it too late?  The property was clinging just above a canyon, and on the other side was a homeowner who overwaters his gardens.  How could she not listen to my urging that she needs to get an inspection done before she closed escrow?  And, why were there two washers, and three dryers in this house?  Spread out from kitchen to sitting room?  And, why was there a neighborhood party going on?  And a parking lot, and my son was attending to the parking kiosk? Why couldn’t I maneuver the grassy yard to get back to my car?  Why was there an open-air crawl-through bridge to get to the other side?

But, it’s morning.  On this day during which I’m backing away from the mania.  What to do?

A hike in this uncharacteristically steamy hot southern California day?  Sounds gross. Food?  Not hungry.  Make my bed and straighten up?  Well, duh.  I don’t want to die of a sudden heart attack and be found here with my home a mess. Best to put on clean underwear too.

Blinds open? Blinds closed? Music on? No. It only drags me to whatever mindset any particular song touches inside me.  News, God no.  Enough of that. Quiet. I can hear the plane flying across the sky taking people to vacations they eagerly anticipate, or dragging them on a heinous, nerve-wracking business trip in coach with their knees up to their shoulders trying to get comfortable, eschewing the flight attendant’s offer of coffee because they read that article about the water used for making coffee and tea on planes, and, of course, they would risk walking away with a large coffee stain on their white pants when they reach their destination.

Sounds. Cars. No horns yet today. No sirens yet.

Typing this. Chastising myself because I’m still learning to not put two spaces between the period and the next capitalized word since Lynda, the editor, taught me it should only be one space.

9:30 a.m.  Where does the time go?  

I’m still above ground. Not even lying flat on the faux wood laminate floor, my cheek pressed to the coolness. Not there. Sitting, on a stool. Resting my arms straight in front of me across the desktop to ease the aching of my arthritic arm and shoulder. Quick text to ask if my granddaughter was wrestled into day two of the school year.  No response. Many possibilities.

Europe is calling.  I signed on for it, and there’s no turning back. Heaven knows I need the break, to get away, to experience new. But, finances are worrisome. An understatement.  And, the task of making the plans so that, once there, I can relax, feel so very difficult.  Train schedules and hotels and currencies and tipping rules. Packing; 16 days + 1 tiny, manageable suitcase. Another immense chore. But, the clock is ticking down to departure date.  

Tick tock.

Calendar pages turning.  

But not in that annoying way shown on the Rachel Maddow Show or in the Target online ads. That annoying computer-generated swishing sound.

Traveling alone. Good? Bad? Will I make friends?  Do I have room for new acquaintances in my head? Safe?

Lovely twittering sounds from the lone dove that nests in the palm tree outside my door. Where is his mate for whom he’s built a nest of palm strands and lint and bits of paper? Perhaps she is nearby and he’s alone only because he’s bravely standing sentry.  Bold enough to stand his ground as I pass by within 30 inches of his beady glare.

Shoes on, sunscreen sprayed, hat chosen and adjusted. Keys secured in pouch carrying overpriced Epipen, tissues and loose change. Sunglasses ensuring a superficial wall between me and whatever, whoever, I may encounter. 10:04 a.m., facing the day outside of my cocoon because sitting still never sits well with me. Earphones on, attached to phone, but no station or podcast selected. The plugged-in visual is just a deterrent.

A body in motion tends to stay in motion.

‘Beep beep’, goes the UPS man at my neighbor’s door.  ‘Growl’ goes the garbage truck. ‘Whiz’ goes another airplane.

59 years old.  59 years old.  

Retirement age is 62?  64?  How much longer? When can I slip off these tap dancing shoes? Papers somewhere detail the financials if I retire in one year versus another.  Another. Another decision to be made.

Heel, toe, heel, toe, (lather, rinse, repeat?), heel, toe…

Car races me to the curb end of the crosswalk. Car wins, expresses with arms and eyebrows that she's sorry she cut me off.

But she's not.  She did it will full knowledge that I was striding there. In the crosswalk.  

Audi Honda BMW Toyota Chevrolet Prius GS Se E 320 Is Crv Mc250 Accord Accord

Paris accord.

No, no, it’s Paris Agreement.  Paris Climate Agreement. Paris Climate Accord. Whatever. Still holding, thanks to other fully conscious countries.

Snatch of a song in my head:

…they alive dammit, ' females are strong as hell…

Leaf blower.

Power tool humming.  What's that tool called?  It used to be so easy to access words. Names.

White female, 30s, stands on sidewalk with two police officers. Another patrol car pulls up and dispenses two more police officers, one male, one female. First police officers depart.

Carpenter: rap, rap, rap, rapping. Sun beating down on him leaning into building from the ladder.

Dog barks and barks.

I miss the sound of my dog’s bark. 10.4 years of love and seizures. I loved that dog.

Tall floor to ceiling windows look into doggie daycare. Dogs running and playing with each other. Dogs angling for human attention.  One tiny fluffy white dog stands away from the others, very still, legs nearly trembling, eyes searching the distance. For what?

Tears in my eyes.

81 degrees.

Powerball 356 million. MegaMillion 393 million.  No winners.

I'm not a winner.

59.

59 years.

59 years, segmented into how many parts?  

Part 1: Infancy, who loves me?  Who do I belong to? Mother? Papa? Grandma and grandpa?

Part 2: Childhood. Mother hates me, I'm a burden to her. Sisters play with me, but I'm too bossy, trying to be special. Papa loves me, but I’d better not anger my mother. Grandma and Grandpa love me, can we go see them today?

Part 3: School years.  Friends. Frenemies. Seated in my little chair staring out the fire escape door at the house and fenced in yard 3 stories below, wondering about my future. Losing my new crystal blue glasses on the day after I got them.  Summer, waiting beside the highway with my sisters for the bus to take us to swim lessons at the municipal pool.  A little money in my pocket for a treat at the shop across the street before the bus takes us home.  Knowing I’ll later spend that money on cotton candy as I get off the bus.  Spending the money on ice cream after I get out of the pool and wait in line under the Midwestern sun.  

Part 4: California. Jr. High and High School.  Mother keeps reminding us that we are so cool because we now live in California instead of dusty old Iowa.

Part 5: College. Yay.  I’m me.  Just me.  No old family stories weighing me down. Education. Singing on stages. Boyfriend. First. Writing, writing, writing. 4 more years to be safe while I grow up.  Wondering when it is that someone is grown up.

Part 6: First jobs. Insecurity. Successes. Failures. Finding my legs. If not my wings.

Part 7: Marriage. Writing, writing, writing.

Part 8: Children. Love, love, love for my children.  PTA, carpool lines, producing special events and haunted houses and children’s game shows to benefit the schools.  Accolades.  Fears of public speaking falling away.  Writing, writing, writing.

Parts 9, 10, 11, 12: Separation, sex, divorce, love, heartbreak. Writing

Part 13: Realtor®.  Hustle, research, learn, work, work, work.  No rest. Too weary to work, too anxious to sleep. Wine.

Heel, toe, heel, toe.

Music from the open door of the furniture store: 'you are so wonderful, to me.’ Changed from ‘you are so beautiful’?

Why?  What was the thinking?

PC? Feminism? Are you necessarily objectifying someone if you love their looks?  And, if that’s so, does that mean you don’t really love them at all?

Lightbulb: Write a book.

Second Bulb: Finish a book. Proud of book.

More bulb flashes: Shout out on Craigslist with my offer to pay anyone with access to a publisher to put my finished manuscript on a publisher’s desk? Book flight to New York, walk manuscript in to publisher’s offices and beg successive people until the doors are all flung open for me and someone has promised to read.

Optimism.

Brief.

Slow down.

Just today.

Today, I will not strive and grasp and claw and re-think and redouble my efforts until I collapse with aching body, weary mind, red eyes.  

Today.  I will just be.

Tomorrow.  Tomorrow.

Tomorrow: Welcome!  Can you sign in please?  This home offers 3 bedrooms 2 baths in 2,023 square feet, beautifully updated. Built in 1939. The kitchen features industrial grade appliances and marble countertops.  Master suite is quite large with original hardwood floors leading off to the latticework tile bathroom floor which holds a claw foot tub offering the bather a view of the canyon, separate rainfall shower. The exterior maintains the original Spanish style well-suited to this quaint Beachwood Canyon neighborhood.  The schools are highly rated…

No, no one died in the house.

Yet.