Friday, August 18, 2006

it's not my car.

Reading over Heather's hilarious post about my botched blog design efforts, I realized I haven't written anything funny in a while.

I think, if the press about me is to be believed, that once upon a time I used to be funny, too. The mirth and the irrepressible wit once flowed like a new mother's milk from the teats of my long-curing sorrow.

Because the personally depressing things usually end up being funny, eventually (and yes, for me a picture of someone's perfectly tiny little hiney is depressing) there is hope for me yet.

But I'm being facetious. I'm not depressed! I'm not even sad. I'm not!

I'm harassed, is what I am! My kids are turning feral on me over here in the outbacks of summer. School looms two weeks away in the offing and the children are growing fangs. And people wonder why it is I'm walking faster. You would too.

It's not just the kids. Is everyone grumpy now? I'm sitting in a packed doctor's office this afternoon and a frantic-looking woman storms in and announces (looking only me directly in the eyes; I don't know why): "I'M BLOCKED!"

Me too, I almost volunteered, it's been really hard to write anything down lately. Then I remember not everything is about the blog and shut my mouth again.

"Do you," she continues, again with the steel-eyed gaze of a prosecuting attorney, "Drive a black four-wheel drive pickup truck?" She waits, expectantly, as if she's just produced a royal flush.

I shake my head. Nope. I got a sort of sand-colored sedan with a ding in the left side that's so generic I keep losing it after I park. I lose my car more than I lose the keys to it, and that's truly sad.

"I'm blocked," she says again, in a smaller voice, kind of pleadingly, as if, despite lack of ownership, I can still raise my hand and make the vehicle move asunder for said damsel.

I shrug, because I'm heartless, but it's not my car.

Then I send Heather an email from my cell phone, because I just figured out how to text people and now I can't get enough:

I hate the public.

She seems to understand this in her lightning-empathy way and then answers with a total change-of-subject:

Why does Leighton put nipples in all of his paintings?

I text back:

Two words: oral fixation.

Then I think about it and text again:

I'm still waiting for the doctor.

She replies:

You should have packed a lunch.
Yell: "Fire!"

I laugh and laugh. Maniacally, really. Because it's so funny to me, the very thought of it. In fact, the other people in the lobby look very alarmed. But they do take me back to the exam room a lot sooner, I notice. The doctor is very kind and proceeds to beat me about the head two or three more times for getting on an amusement park ride.

"You're not an amusement park kind of girl," she chides.
"I never was," I say meekly. (My mother told me if I rode roller coasters my arms would fall off. Where's the fairness in life?)
"You're a water park girl now," she goes on.
"Water park," she repeats, with extra emphasis. "Because one ride alone could put you into a-fib, and we don't want that!"
I nod. (Yes, yes, I know all this.)

"And even with those big signs that say NO HEART PROBLEMS! You still went on!"
Whack, whack, whack. I know, I know. I'm astonishingly ignorant. It's been documented.

She wishes me luck in Cleveland, next week. (I'm going to Cleveland Clinic for tests, next week. What, I didn't mention that? Because I am.)

I listen to "Dare" by Gorillaz on the way home. It's a nice drive. For that twenty minutes between here and there, I'm listening to what I want to and nothing is my fault. I'm not thinking about how clamorous the kids will be when I get home, or how the dog will jump up on me because no one remembered to give it food or water while I was gone, or how I'll have to throw dinner together quick because I waited so long in the office.

The music is fun and I'm perfectly calm. I even do that kind of head-nodding dance thing that I do when I'm driving and listening to music I like. As if I'm disco dancing, instead of going sixty miles an hour through a cornfield. As if I'm me; but someone else, someone people don't look to for blame when their own car gets blocked in a parking lot.