Five minutes earlier...

One glance out the window had me straying outdoors to take in the bold view of the western sky. The afternoon sun cast an ethereal glow across every surface, slipping over puddles and crawling up fences. The varying greens and yellows of trees and grass seemed enhanced and alive. Surreal.

I stepped back into the house just long enough to grab my camera for a quick snapshot of this unbelievably cartoon-like world, but by the time I returned the sky had deepened to a cold slate blue. The clouds upon clouds raced one another across the expanse. Gusts of chilled wind blew me backward, perhaps in warning, but I persevered to the end of my driveway.

The black silhouettes of three small birds above me caught my eye. Their little wings flapped with such intensity against the force of the wind, but they remained stationary. Eventually they gave in and swooped sideways and then back around to return to some safe, dry place nowhere near their intended destination.

The white cracks of lightning and simultaneous rumble of thunder reverberated just under my skin. Something omniscient hovered over me in the form of a darkened raincloud. I looked to the sky and thought of demons.

Whether or not they were there, whether or not they intended to have me for a light afternoon snack, I did not know, nor was I about to stick around to find out. I headed straight for the house, calmly, so as not to attract their attention. Strong, insistent gusts pushed me over the threshold. As soon as I slammed the door, they began knocking on the other side.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Or maybe it was just an ordinary, violent, summer storm.

Dream: Heavy

I guess something had happened between us, something had bonded us together. We were spending all our time doing the mundane things with each other, driving through traffic, grocery shopping, eating, reading-- your general passing of life, and dragging the kids along, which somehow made it seem like we were all united as a family.

You, me, and all the kids.

But not really all the kids. Just your kids and my kids crossing over and matching and switching ages. My two boys who have the same names as your two boys were my boys, but they were the same age as your boys, and they were your boys in the dream, not mine. And then my other two were babies again, instead of being grown kiddos like they really are. And for some reason, that made more sense than what goes on in our real lives, because I always feel like I'm just starting out, and I haven't had enough experience to know anything about parenting.

But, then again, do any of us have any experience parenting before we become parents? Of course not.

We're all just kind of "winging it."

So there we were, in the grocery store, moving down the aisle of the store together with the kids in tow. You were holding my hand, and I kept looking down at our joined hands in bewilderment.

Those other girls were flirting with you, the way they always do, and you were dismissing them, the way you always do. You're too cool, or too busy, or too bored for the flirts.

But they're so assertive, and I'm rolling my eyes, because I know these girls are knocking on a firmly bolted door. You smiled at me and whispered, "I'm going to tell them."

And I said, "Tell them what?"

You turned with your hands held up to get their attention and announced to the entire store that we had gotten married.

*@#$%$#$&*^#!!!

I didn't remember getting married, so I tried to deny these horrendous allegations. You looked into my eyes with your bewitching eyes and smiled that mesmerizing little smile, insisting that we were indeed wedded.

The ring on my finger was your proof, and suddenly, I couldn't even lift my hand from the massive weight of a wedding ring on the left finger, right where it really shouldn't have been.

When the hell did that happen? Who put that thing there, and why did I agree to it?

Assuming that I did, that is.

Even in my waking state, even in the clear light of day, I say you must have tricked me into it somehow...

Hip Stir

This was the plan:

I was going to grasp my new found (if only temporary) freedom, jump in the car and go see the fam bam up in Dumas. After a day of surprising folks who might not necessarily want to shift their Sunday plans just for me, I was going to head over to New Mexico and check out some of the scenery there. I've got a couple of friends over there who might've sat with me for a drink or two, and then I was going to go from there in no specific direction-just blow with the breeze, you know?

My school work is all caught up, and I don't have to go back to work for another week. I haven't had two minutes to breathe for a solid year, so I intended to enjoy this particular vacation as if it were the only one I'll ever have.

But of course, as Robbie Grey's always reminding me, if you'd like to make your deity laugh, just make plans.

This is what happened:

I got the call yesterday afternoon. Grandma (the one in Dumas, the one I was planning to visit today) broke her damn hip.
So the hospital there decided to send her here to Amarillo for hip replacement surgery.
So that's what we're doing now.
Waiting for the surgery.

I just live a couple of blocks from here, so I hopped in the car and came right over. Aunt Brenda's here, taking care of things as usual, because she's the one in that immediate family who does those things. She's a real trooper, but she's starting her Pre-K summer school class tomorrow, so somebody else is going to have to step in for the morning shift.

That would be me, because I'm so handy living here, and I'm the one in my immediate family who does those kinds of things. I don't really mind. It's not like I had any plans or anything.

I imagine my Great Aunt Sherry will make it over here some time tomorrow, and my cousin Christy will also make an appearance. She's cool like that. I saw my uncles yesterday in the ER for a few minutes, and my cousin James is the one who let me know which hospital to invade.

I guess I'm getting the family visits after all.

I just wish I had a margarita too.

Obliviate

I think I deleted one picture too many. My photo has disappeared from comments, and therefore, in the sadness of my lonely imagination, I must have disappeared as well. I waved some magic cyber wand, chanted a quiet invisibilty spell, and slipped away without a peep.

Or at least my picture did.

There's a certain anxiety that emerges when I see myself displayed as a blocky negative sign. What does that really mean, anyway? Do I take away instead of giving? Am I losing? I put one of the old photos back up, just in case you folks forgot what I don't actually look like.

Of course, it is me in the pic, but it's misleading. I'm usually make up free, sporting a frumpy mess of a bun and wearing jammies. Glamor Girl, all the way.

I didn't quit my job...yet.

Don't read this. I've ranted.

Today, I decided to quit my job.

Actually, no. I just lied to you. Today, I decided that I can no longer go on in life having any respect for myself if I continue working in that noisy, testosterone-scented, caveman-filled, bad-attitude cesspool of a cutting room.

Not that I hate my job. I rather like my job. It keeps me mobile, and I like doing hard work, and the guys are pretty funny most of the time. Actually, most of the guys are pretty great almost all of the time. We got a couple of bad apples, but it's nothinng I haven't been able to handle up until now.

There's lots of reasons for me to stay: my sweet morning shift, my four weeks of vacation, my eighty hours of personal time, medical, dental, vision, 401k. Need I go on?

But sometimes the guys are also pushy, mean, and disrespectful, which makes me want to be pushy, mean and disrespectful right back. Well of course I have to be the best at everything that I do, on account of that competitive streak I have, so naturally, I become the pushiest, meanest, disrespectfullest bitch in all the land!

And that's not who I want to be.

I want to be pleasant,  and want to be liked by people, and I want to be able to leave my job with some sense of empathy for the rest of the human race. I want to be part of the world that celebrates things, anything at all, even if it's just that I made it through another day.

I can't do that these days. I leave work every day in the most furious rush to get home, slam the door and forget about everybody I came in contact with all day. BECAUSE THEY ALL SUCK ALL OF THE TIME!

(do you see how I get caught up in a continuous loop? "They're cool, we get along--->that guy was rude---->They're all horrible jackasses---->I hate everyone!---> nah, it's not that bad--->That one guy's okay. We get along.")

So when my boss came back from vacation today, I told him I think it's time to redefine my position with the company. There are many different positions I could handle, but I don't think he's taking me very seriously.

I might have to just quit my job.

Eye Contact

She had that look. I've seen it before-shoulders hunched, arms crossed over her chest with a plastic shopping basket hanging awkwardly off her elbow. She was scanning the pork counter for good deals, and I was stocking nearby. I tried not to pay attention, but some internal instinct drew me to her.

She reached a slender hand toward a thrifted package, and then the husband walked up behind her.

Another person might have believed he was loving and kind, but I could see the grip he had on the back of her neck- so casual, yet so firm. She cringed, not so much that it would be noticeable, but I noticed.

I've been there before. I've been the one under that icy grasp (not his, but someone like him). I know that feeling of helplessness and fear. I know that trick he's playing, making everything seem cozy and sweet.

I suppose I blend into the scenery at my meat counter. He didn't seem to notice me. Either I am invisible, or he is not threatened by the presence of a little girl like me. He was smiling, but his stinging words defied the expression on his face.

"You buy that fucking pork, and I will shove it down your throat whole, bone and all."

She gulped and withdrew her hand. He patted her back in that loving manner and stepped away, whistling.

I moved down the counter and locked eyes with her. A wordless exchange between us revealed a bond that neither of us wanted to claim, but couldn't deny. That kind of sisterhood is never welcome, but sometimes survival and sanity depend on it.  There are others like me. I am not alone.

She moved away from the counter with a silent nod, and I haven't seen her since.

One Table Over: Party at the Playground

            “Hey ya’ll!”  A skinny, blond woman waves cheerfully to the small party gathered at the covered picnic tables.  She makes her way across the grass from the parking lot. The folks in the group look up in unison but do not reply. They look back at one another and murmur amongst themselves. “I didn’t think I’d ever find ya’ll!” she hollers to them as she approaches. She’s walking determinedly, her flip-flops flapping, her jaw yapping. She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her frizzy, bleach blond head in a well-practiced move so they can get a better look at her, as if they have forgotten who she is.

            They are silent, immobile, and ashen.

            One brave soul breaks away from the group and moves to block her. He is the patriarch of this small family, if that’s what they are. He alone will protect them if he has to. He holds his hands up, signaling her to stop where she is.

            “You can’t be here, Rhonda,” he states boldly.

            Her jaw drops, almost comically. She stops walking and clutches a bony hand to her freckled chest. “What?” she gasps. “Why not?” She shifts the bag over her shoulder to a more comfortable position. The strap of her hot pink tank top falls casually off her shoulder.

            “One hundred yards, Rhonda,” he says pointedly.

            “But it’s her birthday!” she squeals. “You won’t keep me away!”

            “One hundred yards,” he reiterates. She stomps her foot like a child and stands her ground. Another member of the group, a young woman with nothing but a camera approaches them. She holds the camera up, a poor shield, but a powerful weapon.

            “What the hell are you doing, Amanda?” the blonde demands to know. Receiving no answer, she tries to swipe the camera away, but the man steps in her path. She huffs and retreats a few feet. She adjusts herself as she thinks of her next move and then reaches into her bag. When she pulls something out, every person in the group gasps and sinks to the ground to avoid the imaginary spray of bullets.        

            “Aw, COME ON!” the woman howls, exaggerating her dismay. “Do you really think I’d bring a gun to a birthday party?” She throws a small wrapped package on the grass at the man’s feet. “THERE!” she screams. “I hope she likes it, ‘cause I spent all my money gettin’ it for her!”

            She turns and stomps away, but she does not leave the parking lot. She props herself up on the hood of her dented Cadillac and smokes a cigarette. As she watches them, they pack up their party and grumble. When they approach the parking lot, she hops off the hood and backs away, giving them their space. They try to ignore her, but she throws a lit cigarette toward them as they climb into their van. The woman named Amanda starts to say something, but the man pulls her by the elbow into the van. They drive away slowly, leaving the blonde alone with her fury.

            She never goes back for the package in the grass.