Nowhere Fast, Part 1

This afternoon I was in the Honda hauling ass, as is my wont, across town on my way from the dog park to school pickup. While any any GPS would probably assess this particular trip at about 10 minutes, due to the mind-boggling time-warp obstacles of suburban driving, it can frequently take 20. So I leave the dog run with a 12-minute window and then ride my fellow motorists like a bat out of hell to make my deadline–I like to think of it as a tough-love invitation to share my reality, one in which people actually drive the speed limit or slightly above it; do not slow down when approaching a green light as if longing for it to turn red again; realize that here on Planet Earth you can make a right turn on a red light unless explicitly notified otherwise; and do not need to wait until there is absolutely no sign of a motor vehicle coming from any direction on the horizon before attempting to make a left turn.

Needless to say, this journey is much like life itself: your intentions are true, your understanding of the world and your place in it seem copacetic and you are on your way to a straightforward destination, and yet the road is strewn with those whose sole purpose in life is to fuck up your program. To wit, they are:

1. The School Crossing Guard: Yes, s/he keeps our kids safe and for that we’re grateful. On the other hand, s/he’s a sadist who clearly relishes the miraculous opportunity to wield the type of power previously experienced only in the world of online gaming. Watch as a line of cars–all on their way to pick up their own children, mind you–piles up and stretches on for blocks as s/he holds them up waiting for every last child to meander out of the school, along the sidewalk, wait for their friends, and finally cross the street.

2. The Church Lady/Guy: The general rule of thumb here is the more religious bumper stickers on the car, the less hope you have of actually reaching your destination. Today’s journey featured a careworn-looking station wagon abruptly pulling out of a parallel parking spot to interrupt my trajectory . “Jesus!” I swore, slamming on the brakes. It was then I noticed that the bumper of the car–which  immediately decelerated to approximately 10 m.p.h.–was responding in kind. JESUS! it proclaimed, not once but at least 6 times in overlapping bumperstickers. No gesture towards the variety of religious-nut copy I’ve grown familiar with (such as the one advising me to tell my problems how big god is, or “Maranatha!,” my personal favorite because it’s so obtuse and nonsensical and sounds like a old-school candy bar): just 6 or 7 overlapping Jesuses. I knew I was doomed and immediately reached for my phone to ask the BFF to hold on to my kids, as I would be arriving late for pickup.

3. The Lawn-Service Truck: So high, you can’t get over it…so wide, you can’t get around it…when these badboys lumber on out in front of you hauling their massive trailer of landscaping equipment you can just throw in the towel. They are not in a hurry to get to their next gig; you wouldn’t be either if you made what they’re making. Even if they were, they’re hauling an Olympic village worth of equipment and the small army of crack professionals to run it in a truck that looks like 1960s Soviet aircraft.

Oh I know: this is suburbia, not the Autobahn, and I need to adjust my expectations accordingly. Believe me, I’ve tried the whole swim-with-the-current thing but the speed demon who dwells in my heart refuses to be so easily exorcised. Which is why I prefer running, the one area of my life where I can just go as hardcore as I want, as fast as I possibly can, and nobody can stop me. Only problem is, “wherever you go, there you are.” Stay tuned for Nowhere Fast, Part 2…

“lapis of luxury”

Yes, I know, I have unlovely nails that rarely ever grow past my fingertips. I also know that, seeing as I work from home and have only my dogs to impress for most of the day, spending time on any grooming that goes beyond basic hygiene is pretty senseless. Yet I can’t resist indulging in my nail polish obsession; it’s a little visual thrill to see pretty colors on my fingers that tappity-tap-tap-tap on the keyboard all day long. An old boyfriend once compared me to a magpie: I like the shiny, the flashy, the bright. Unless I’m feeling uninspired you’ll never catch me with a french manicure or a subtle, grownup pink. I rock the hot fuck-me red, the vampiric black-maroon, the peacock turquoise, the chartreuse and neon orange marketed to the tween set. I can even justify the undue attention I pay to my nails with as part of the way I express my creativity  through my body: I can only run so far so fast, and tattoos are quite expensive (at any rate I’m running out of places to add any additional work).

This color is my new favorite. I’ve been eyeballing it for a while and finally picked up a bottle in the drugstore today. It’s the perfect color for the moody Spring we’ve been having: pastel blue with a lilac tint that is deep-hued enough to have a little gravitas (if such a word can be applied to blue nail polish). I imagine if we ever get to see the sun again that it will look light and spring-y. In the meantime, it compliments the hue of the overcast skies while seeming to hint at brighter days ahead.

Wheeled Chaos

Welcome to my world, where little girls with angelic faces and flowing curls keep the cauldron of chaos ever bubbling. In my home, you will not find fine furniture, gleaming surfaces, and aesthetically pleasing decor (when I walk into a house like that I always feel like I’m in a museum, as if the owners are not my contemporaries and acquaintances but some superior alien life-force with mysteriously well-paying, full-time jobs and an incomprehensible order fetish). What you will find are toys and books everywhere; clothes that never seem to get picked up off the floor despite my Charlie-Brown-teacher bellowing; large dogs lounging about, alternately sleeping or trying to share your food; a magical sink that refills itself with dishes as soon as it’s empty; kids’ artwork all over the walls; stacks of unopened mail, possibly containing bills that stand a very good chance of not getting paid on time; and kids everywhere. So I suppose it was inevitable that the scooters, which of course I bought for use outside, made their way into the house almost immediately after purchase. Scootering laps around the living room-dining room-kitchen track is a favorite hobby, and on this particular day FreeSpirit and Diva (daughters #2 and 3) decided to stage a rolling parody of “typical adult conversation,” i.e., boring stuff that doesn’t involve Justin Bieber. Hanging in for the whole dada-esque ride will earn you a glimpse of  The Giant Pitbull being his usual terrifying self from the comfort of his favorite chair.