I have a wonderful imagination. I can look at a couple sitting on a park bench and come up with their entire life story. I can wake up from an unfinished dream and come up with two or three alternate endings. Husband can be late coming home and I can and will come up with several ways he might have been killed, who I’ll call for help, what I’ll need to do to fix up the house and what I’ll do after I sell his pretty cars.
Most people would call that morbid. I call that being prepared. Because I might have a wonderful imagination but I am an excellent worrier. I can take a little thing, like a mole on my arm and turn it into stage four cancer. Even after the mole turns out to be a speck of chocolate, I’m obviously eating chocolate because I have cancer. I worry about money. I worry about friends being unhappy or ill. I worry about money. I worry about family members dying and never getting the chance to say goodbye. I worry about me dying in horrible and awkward situations. I worry about money. I worry about going to the gas station and forgetting to take the hose out of the gas tank and driving off and ending up on the evening news. Which is stupid because I always hold the hose and the release catch thing while I’m filling up the car because I’ve always owned cars with weird tanks that need a specific angle to not seem full but driving off with the hose in the tank is still one of my worries. I am exceptional at worrying. Husband is brilliant at not worrying. He can change the subject in his mind to something random like “How will I build a deck.” Which takes him off the topic of whatever he should be worrying about. “How do you do that?” I’ll ask. And he’ll come back with a one-liner that is so random I’ll have to write it down. A one-liner that, for a minute or two, will take me off whatever mess I’ve made in my mind as I try to puzzle out how to accomplish Husband’s suggestion. Once, I told him I got distracted on stage worrying about something and Husband told me to, “Just imagine you’re in a hallway with lots and lots of doors. Just walk down that hallway and don’t open any of the doors.” Yeah, right. Like I’m not going to wonder what’s behind the doors and try the knobs to see if they’ll open and if they do, have a peak inside… Or like the time he told me to imagine I was at the top of a parking garage. I was just to just drive around the top and never go down any of the ramps. Ever. I get dizzy even thinking about doing that. The other day, I was worrying about the fact that I’m spending more money than I’m making, and he said, ”You always picture the swimming pool empty. Picture it filling up. You just have to trust that the swimming pool will be full when you’re ready to jump off the diving board.” WHAT??? Because my brain won’t instantly come up with the million body parts I could and would break when I jump into a pool that’s not full? And am I supposed to picture the swimming pool filling as I’m in mid air? How is that possible? Swimming pools take forever to fill! And what am I wearing? I’m too jiggly for a bathing suit right now, especially around my belly, which probably means I’m going get cancer of some kind and die. Also, knowing me, the suit would come off in mid jump and I’d be naked and dead at the bottom of a half filled pool. And all this is from a guy who can’t swim AND hates heights so pardon me if I laugh at that one. Yesterday, when I was worrying about always worrying Husband said to me, “Say you have a three-legged dog that can only turn left. You just have to make sure that all your turns are left. You have to plan your life so you never have to make a right turn.” Now I’m confused. I never know my left from my right. AND I want a three-legged dog. And, of course, now I’m worrying about how my three-legged dog is going to navigate the stairs in the house and whether Tigger the Dog will like her and where we’ll put another dog crate in the bedroom… So, I guess that one worked…
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My Friend from New York came into Nashville for an Arts conference. Last night we met downtown at her very elegant hotel and wandered a few blocks over to Nash Vegas to the one restaurant I know that isn’t touristy. After standing at the crowded bar for our drinks – her drink was totally alcohol free. A point I only mention should her husband read this because they are both having an alcohol free month and I’d hate to have her lose the bet on a misunderstanding. Anyway, finally we were brought to our table, a booth at the window with a lovely view of... a man surrounded by five policemen. My Friend from New York, the Hostess and I watched as the man was pushed up against the window. I joked about the awesome entertainment they restaurant had provided. The Hostess left, still watching the window. My Friend from New York and I laughed as we sat down and when we looked up again, a mere minute later, he was naked! Well, the parts we could see were naked. Not entirely sure what was happening below the window area but we’re going to have to assume his bottom half was clothed. I’m pretty sure there would have been more of a crowd watching had he been fully naked. Then an officer, who had apparently been digging through his stuff next to out naked friend, put three bigger than 40oz. bottles of booze on the windowsill and some wrapping papers. We tried; the table next to us tried, the wait staff tried but taking a picture while someone is getting arrested is not a comfortable thing. Although, the table beside us did get a campy shot with the police posing through the window for them, ours were duds. Our ‘awkwardly hold the phone so it doesn’t look like we’re taking a picture and take a picture’ pictures didn’t come out at all. Well, except for this lovely one of the bigger than 40oz.’s. And taking a picture of the situation didn't feel right in the first place. We did it, but it didn't feel right. This was not Naked Man's shining moment of awesome. It was not one he'd want documented for all eternity on social media. We put our phones away but I wondered, What Would Robin Roberts Do were she faced with this dilemma? Well, I'm betting she wouldn't take the picture. She'd likely go out and find out what Naked Man's story was. How he came to be arrested carrying large amounts of booze in Nash Vegas. She's awesome and caring like that. We just ate our dinner. Robin Roberts is speaking at the public library tonight. Since Sunday, I’ve gotten six “you look like Robin Roberts” sightings. I still don’t look like her and I’m still getting them. I was going to go down and meet with her. Have my picture taken next to her so that I could finally prove that I don’t look like her at all. Tell her my story and thank her for being not being a numpty. But then I decided not to. I’m going to leave the mystery alone. I’m sure my little story about being mistaken for her isn’t going to be more than a blip in her day. And I would be disappointed to take this thing that’s made my life a little bit of magic here and have it diminished by someone whose magic is made of brighter lights. And, at no point in my life do I want to be the person on the other end of a person ‘awkwardly holding the phone so it doesn’t look like they’re taking a picture’ picture. It didn’t feel right for us and it couldn’t have felt right for Naked Man. Also, I’m pretty sure Robin Roberts and I can’t be in the same space at the same time or the world will end. I wouldn't want to be the cause of that drama so I'm staying away. You're welcome. I've seen the same Dentist for most of my life but yesterday; I went to New Dentist here in Nashville. I felt like I was cheating but not the guilty eating a cupcake when I should be eating asparagus kind of cheating. More like the turning left without signaling in front of a car with just paint to spare kind of cheating. Dangerous might die scary not exciting story to tell my friends one day scary.
Old Dentist was awesome. Is still awesome. If I could get my butt back on a plane to California, he'd fit me in regardless of the day or time. But $700+ for a ticket is too much to pay to get a cleaning even from the most awesome dentist ever. So, because I’m cheap, I sat in a waiting room listening to the desk staff as they chattered away in insurance lingo like it’s a language I never learned. Listening as the phone rings and they young and bouncy one tells the person calling to cancel to "Bless your heart and feel better." In the background, behind the noise of the radio, come the sound of drills and that unmistakable sound-sucking machine that I don't know the name of. I don't thing it has a name other than awful sucking machine that makes everything sound like a dying swamp monster. They were running twenty-three minutes late. I was considering running. I should have listened to my instincts. The longer I sat there, the more aware I am of the imperfections in the space; the paint anomalies and scuff marks that line the baseboards, the cracks in the floor. And the more I heard about random patient’s personal dental history. Everyone had ‘treatment plans.’ My Old Dentist never had a ‘treatment plan.’ He just did what needed doing himself. I actively considered getting up, what it would take for me to walk out of the office – both physically and financially. It was then that the bouncy one came out to get me and brought me to Sad Faced but Cheery Dental Hygienist. She apologized for the delay, as I assumed the position on the chair. The position where my body is supposed to be relaxed and comfortably supported within the curves of the chair but my muscles have actually tightened themselves to the point where I’m actually floating on a river of tension above the chair. Sad Faced but Cheery Dental Hygienist told me they usually take x-rays at the first appointment and asked if I want x-rays. Unsure, I agree because I’m not a dentist and they should know better. X-rays are taken; teeth are cleaned and polished, albeit with icky cinnamon paste. I’m told my teeth look great, my care is great and to keep doing what I’m doing. And then New Dentist came in. She hemmed. She hawed. She murmured random letters at Sad Faced but Cheery Dental Hygienist as she poked at my shiny cinnamon buffed teeth. And then she looked at me in pity, pointed at invisible shadows on my x-rays and told me I have eleven cavities and that I needed a root canal. ELEVEN??? AND A FLIPPING ROOT CANAL??? What the hell? How did I go from “Your teeth look great!” to “ You have eleven cavities and need a root canal so go ahead and sell your car because dental insurance is a joke and won’t cover but one of these procedures!” HOW?!? I laughed in her face. I laughed when she told me and I laughed when she asked if I had any questions. I laughed when she showed me the ‘treatment plan’ that included columns and columns of numbers that added up to way more than a $700+ plane ticket home. I laughed when she showed me a short video on root canals that resembled those videos they showed us in school about the birds and the bees. And I laughed when they asked me if I’d like them to go ahead and set up the appointments now. Because obviously the answer to that would be “NO, THANK YOU! I don’t want to set up anything right now. Because my new current ‘treatment plan’ is to let all my teeth fall out of my face, thank you very much.” I then laughed my way out of the office and home to Husband where I laugh ranted at the indignities of life and he told me it was an obvious scam. Then I laugh ranted to Mom through a shoddy connection on my cell, who also told me it was an obvious scam. And I laugh ranted through dinner with my friend who seriously could care less about my teeth but also thought it was a scam. Then I came home and spent the evening looking at tickets to fly back to see Old Dentist because the expensive ticket price home to see him for a teeth cleaning is now totally reasonable when faced with a small mortgage on the house and cinnamon paste. I brush my teeth every night before bed. But last night, under protest, I did not. Either my teeth have let me down or it’s a scam. Either way, I didn’t speak to them. I’m spiteful like that. I didn’t exactly meet him as have myself thrust into his bluster. He chose his audience based on the number of eyeballs on him and as mine drifted in his direction, I became the focus of his bluff. He opened with an inflammatory statement; “I’ve seen that show once.” He said, referring to The Big Bang Theory as the few of Husband’s friends picked out the theme song on their guitars. “It doesn’t have nearly enough killing in it for me.” And as that statement settled in the dust of the dying music, he followed up with “I’m huge Game of Thrones fan.”
It might have ended there. We might have not invited further comment had Husband’s friends kept silent. But Husband spoke and his accent became a topic that our New Friend latched onto and would not let go of. And when Husband’s friends fell in with him, butchering British accents without a worry or care, our New Friend got louder; completely oblivious to the insult they were perpetuating on accents around the world. “Oh man, do you all have accents?” He said. “I love the accents in Game of Thrones.” This went on for a few minutes, this epic accent BS, but soon Husband’s friends lost interest and slowly drifted away. Though not all physically left the space, soon I was the lone audience member watching the show that was our New Friend, alone in his spotlight. He was, he said, "a psychiatric tech in the forensic ward." A job I never knew existed. As he put it, “a bouncer for the worst of the worst from prison.” His patients, he said, “Were ones we’d read about on the news.” Fascinated, I drew closer. I wanted to hear more but the topic changed to one he felt showcased him better. He was, he told me, “the best singer you've never heard of yet,” he said. In fact, he had spent the afternoon playing for himself, a private concert on his porch, if you will, that rivaled - insert famous country singer whose name I don’t know. A concert that even he - famous country singer I don’t know - “would have paid a million dollars to see.” And, if I stuck around to listen to him tonight, I would know he was as good as, better than, the BEST country singer around. Impressed, I mentioned that I was in awe of his confidence. “Well,” he said, “if you don’t believe in you, how can you get anyone else to believe in you?” And then, while I was nodding my head in agreement, he started talking about his career in wrestling, demonstrating his signature move - the pulling of an imaginary truck horn as he entered the ring. Because, of course a country singing psychiatric tech in a forensic ward of a hospital has a side career as a wrestler, right? It was at this point I pulled out my phone and tried to find him on Google so that I could share his awesomeness with the world. And it was at this point that the bluster faltered, his self-applause got a bit quieter, and the shine came off his shill. “I’ve only had one match...” He said as I ask for confirmation of the spelling of his name. “You might not find me there.” He said as I scrolled the page. I put my phone away; this was not the time to be rude. This was the time to listen. And as my phone slipped into the depths of my purse, my New Friend ramped up again, his confidence growing brighter, his accomplishments more grandiose. As he talked, it became obvious that I was the only one listening. Husband’s friends had disappeared down the stairs; only I was still looking and listening to the performance that was my New Friend. Husband shot me the ‘time to go home’ look and I reluctantly pulled myself away from the dramatic/comic monologue, my world a now whole lot less interesting as we made our way home. But, I was impressed, for a moment, by the awesomeness that was my New Friend. And maybe one day, in the dark patio of that same bar, I’ll meet him again. Or manage to catch the concert of the century, one I would pay millions to see. Or be one in the crowd honking my horn as he enters the ring at a wrestling match. Maybe, just maybe, my life will be interesting again. I WAS going to write about the baby deer we saw wobbling across the neighbor's yard yesterday. The cute Bambi look-a-like deer quivering through the grass on wonky legs, his mother guarding his every step as he attempted to climb the hill as we watched, trying not to scare them off with our stalking.
I WAS going to write about the magic of the lightening bugs flitting here and there across the lawns last night, sparkling like a pretty girl in a sequined dress. Their sequence of lights forming some sort of pattern as they flirted as the sun slowly dipped below the tree line and the stars came out. My eyes straining to catch the next blink before it disappeared and still only catching a glimpse. BUT all I can think about is DAMN Husband and Jack Bauer for keeping me up too late to focus on anything but yawning. Damn DirecTV and it’s stupid ability to save a succession of episodes to watch at your leisure. Because, like a French fry or a cookie fresh out of the oven, I can never just eat one and suddenly I’m a half-dead body stuffed full of nonsense. Damn Husband and his persuasive way of putting on the next episode just as the last one finishes, getting me hooked into the over-stimulating drama of events when I was just getting ready for bed. Before I’m even aware of it, I’m deeply involved and invested in the whispering red headed one and the plot to end the world. And damn Jack Bauer for not ever, EVER just getting the job done and leaving the room. For not ever telling anyone what is going on and thinking he can do it all himself. For not being able to speak above a mutter and a threat. For looking so calm as he tortures someone for answers. For just being so dang angsty and wounded that I can’t help but watch and see if he cracks a smile. Ever. All I can do right now is prop my eyelids open with the fingers of one hand as I hunt and peck type with the other. All because of damn Husband and damn Jack Bauer and the temptation to watch him destroy the world and not go to sleep at a reasonable hour. Damn them. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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