Shoelaces for Josie

Did I just call a baby killing an “incident”? I didn’t mean to. That sounded harsh and uncaring; not true. But maybe the kid has a better future ahead of him some place other than the ash tray of a wasteland he existed in for his short time here.

I haven’t seen Chip in awhile…shorty shorts/beer gut/serial killer look-a-like neighbor. It wasn’t his baby. It wasn’t Tattoo Guy’s either. He has a dog named Joker, but I’d guess that’s just a ruse to approach women. Why does it seem a dude out and about with a dog is safer than a dude just wandering around? A dog gives him a reason to be there, making our female logical brain conclude that there’s no other ulterior motive thereby letting guards slip.

And my other neighbors are old with like 80 grown children living with them. They all smoke a lot of pot, and in my experiences with the druggies of this world, where there’s dope smoke, there’s cocaine fire. Or heroin. Or ice. Or khat. (Eating the leaves of a khat shrub produce similar effects as ecstasy – it’s primarily an African-sourced drug so it often crops up in areas with an influx of African immigrants. If you care. Which you probably don’t. But now you know and maybe someday you’ll win Jeopardy! because of me.)

But my point is that my neighbors killed a baby, and that’s serious. And it’s not cool. Pick on someone your own size, man. At least pick on someone who can fight back. So I think I’m going to buy some nun-chucks and a bo-staff. And maybe a sword and a suit of 14th-century armor. Then I’m going to sit in my campfire chair in my dog pen, quote Shakespeare with Eminem rapping on my boombox and tell those baby killers to come bring it to L’il Red.

Last night, I was doing my best to build a pen for Doc. I was wrestling with wire and posts and pliers. It was like World War III had begun, let me tell ya. I should also probably mention that this fence-building extravaganza is occurring in a trailer park.

As I was mumbling and muttering like a half-crazed woman over my fencing project, a man came up. He had on the short-shorts special with a muscle tank showcasing his beer belly. He introduced himself. *Of course.* So I said hi, and he said he’d just moved here and it looked like I was too and, man, wouldn’t we be the best of friends? I have a terrible time with names. Zero luck with remembering them. I think he might have said “Chip”. Actually it was probably Jim or Donnie, but it’s too late – he’s Chip in my brain.

So I got the niceties out of the way and sent him on his doddering little way, and I went back to my work. Not 10 minutes later, a yellow lab lumbered up to me. I glanced up and there, in all his glorious tattoo-ness was…whatever he said his name was. I don’t have the slightest clue though his dog’s name is Joker. Fact. He had on those really cool mirrored sunglasses that wrap around the head. I could have flossed my teeth in their reflection. But I didn’t. I shook hands and said some crap about how if my dog ever caused problems to just let me know. I totally didn’t mean it, but I thought it sounded good.

We stood there a bit, shooting the bull, the whole while I’m trying to remember his name and then giving up. Finally I get him sent on his merry way, too, and I go BACK to what I had originally hoped to be done with.

Hour later

The wire kicked my butt. It’s just true. I was getting almighty cranky when Chip came wandering back over. He must have been watching me struggle from his window, because he asked if he might be able to help me or at least hold something. By the way, he had donned a different pair of short shorts and a different “I’ve-got-a-big-beer-belly” tank. Whoa, killer wardrobe. I thanked him, and maybe if he hadn’t had an eerie resemblance to what I’ve always assumed serial killers look like, I may have even said he could get the big job of holding the wire in place. But instead, I politely yet firmly sent him on his way AGAIN.

I can see Chip is going to be ongoing saga. So is Tattoo Man, I think. Not to mention, the folks on the other side are hitting on the top side of the pot scale if my snozzle isn’t playing tricks on me.

But as I was phasing into the blissfully numbing state known as relaxation brought on by exhaustion, I came quickly to attention on the heels of this thought: what if I had a seizure and my foot that was hovering over the gas pedal smashed to the floor during the seizure and then the car filled with fumes and I died from carbon monoxide poisoning?

I’m not joking. Not even a little bit. I wish I was. I wish I was exaggerating or outright lying, but that is exactly the stream of consciousness I experienced. That’s not normal. I don’t think that’s normal. Pretty sure that’s far from normal. Although it does give me some hope, because apparently the idea of seizures does not scare me. It was the whole carbon monoxide thing that sparked me out of my numb relax-austion phase. Someone. Please. Unhook my brain.

However, I am polite. So I responded to his greeting and asked him what he’d been up to for the past however long it’s been. “Just dateing a girl and workin.” I cocked an eyebrow at the air around me. Did he seriously open up communications again just to tell me he was “dateing” someone?

I’m happy for him. Truly. He’s one of those types who is desperate for a relationship, and he’d been looking for one ever since before I’d known him. I’m glad he’s found one, and I hope it’s everything he ever dreamed it would be. But there’s a niggle of irritation that rises in me when a person elevates a relationship to such a high pedestal status that it becomes the only thing worth talking about and living for.

Unfortunately that niggle of irritation fueled my inner snarkiness which resulted in this text in response. “Wal, that’s good you’re dating a girl and not a guy. That’d be awkward.”

Yep, the conversation died shortly thereafter. I don’t think that’s what he was really expecting, but what else was I supposed to say? Congratulations? Buy condoms? Let’s grab a drink and celebrate this momentous occasion?

I get it, okay. I do. Relationships can be fun and rewarding. And when you find the right one, relationships are nothing short of amazing – at least 60% of the time. The other 40% of the time you’re angry they won’t throw their dirty socks in the laundry and can’t bother to notice the fact that you spit-shined the kitchen floor. But when you need someone to hold your hand, lift heavy appliances and pretend to listen to all your problems, someone is there. It’s nice.

My problem is when finding a relationship becomes the driving source of a person’s daily routine. And when a relationship does materialize, my problem persists when it becomes the central focus of a person’s life. They stop talking to all the friends they had before they started a relationship. They don’t make any decisions without first discussing it into the ground with the significant other. They rearrange their entire life, let go of their dreams, wait hand and foot on the one they’re currently connected to…these are extremes. I know that. Except that I’ve seen these extremes unfold in reality, making them seem far less extreme and much more…well…reality.

I’m happy for my friend though he’s probably more of an acquaintance now. I suspect the reason he stopped talking to me six months ago was because of the new development in his love life which is fine. Really. I could only handle so many dead car battery conversations anyway. But a part of me wonders if he was just looking so hard for a relationship that he took the first one that came along regardless of how it fit.

And a part of me wonders if eventually, some day, I’ll do the same thing. I’m a strong, independent person, and I don’t wander around looking for a relationship like some of the people I’ve known. But, the older I get, the more tired I get of having washing machines fall on my head, talking all of my own problems out and holding my own hand to get through the unpleasant things in life.

Why do you need a pin-up calendar on the dash of your vehicle? Wait…I don’t want to know. I’m going to stop now, because this is teetering dangerously close to the edge of AWKWARD.

I glanced back up at the road and had one of those “Holy Santa of the Equator moments, what am I DOING!?” moments. White Flash was driving itself. I had both hands occupied with my coffee cup, and White Flash was taking itself down the road at 60 miles an hour. While it felt like entire minutes had elapsed during my attempt to figure out the slushy level of my coffee, it was likely a mere second or two. But at 60 miles an hours, that can be quite a substantial period of time.

I jammed the coffee cup back in the console and grabbed the wheel, of course, although White Flash was rolling just pert near center of my lane anyway. And then, because I’m me, I started thinking about the little series of events that had just taken place. It’s not the first time White Flash has driven itself. It’s really quite decent at staying where it’s supposed to. Probably because it’s a big fatty-mcfatterson. And because I like to keep equal pressure in all fire tours – excuse me, four tires.* Ahem, but after thinking about it, I’ve drawn one conclusion and one startling realization.

Conclusion: I can only educationally guess that the reason I took my hands off the wheel in such a casual manner is because I drive this particular road quite often. Like, EVERY DAY. I could drive this road while I was asleep. Heck, I bet I could drive it while asleep AND while wearing those beer goggle things!

Startling realization: It’s not the fact that I took my hands off the wheel that bothered me. It was the fact that I didn’t realize I’d done it. It was a “Look Ma, no hands!” type of situation minus one key ingredient: in order to tell your Ma to look, you’ve got to be aware that you’re going hands-free. Oh…oh my…oh dear…am I at that point in my life where I’m going to have to write a sign in bright orange Sharpie on my dash telling me to keep my hands on the wheel while the vehicle is in motion?

I purchased a bicycle. Way back in early May and it just arrived this week, but who’s counting? (Me! Oh, me! Wait, pick ME!) It’s a cheap bicycle. I did that on purpose, because the likelihood of me wrecking it is quite high. Oh, I can ride a bike. I can even walk and chew gum at the same time on most days. But I got the apparatus so I can take the kid running – real running, not slow-poke Erica running. That dang bundle of black and white fur is wearing me down to a skeleton, and I’m tired of it…so short story very long, I got a bicycle.

Two mornings ago was beautiful. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, the air was lightly crisp and perfectly paced. Doc and I went a couple miles with no malfunctions. As in, the bike stayed upright, and the pot-holders I’d strapped to my elbows weren’t necessary.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to rain. Not torrential downpours, just a steady rain. Psh. A little rain never hurt, I thought. I got the bike to put fast-paced miles on my dog and that wasn’t going to be accomplished if it just sat in the shed.

Ten minutes later, there I was peddling down the road…my cowboy hat jammed down around my ears, my wranglers warding off the rain and my calf-high mud boots taking up all the pedal-space and then some.

Doc would sniff something and take off. I’d wobble around on my bike, hollering “whoa!!”. I’d look down to the ground and a stream of water would spill of the brim of my hat into my lap. If it’d been cold, I would have had a Carhartt on too.

Mama B just laughed. And laughed. And then she asked if anyone drove by while I was out riding my bicycle in such a get-up. I mumbled something about how someone might have driven by a time or two, and that it wasn’t polite to poke fun at two-wheeled cowgirls before 10 a.m.

But the thing is, I really hate water dripping down my neck. It’s like taking a shower with your clothes on. And the previous day’s success in not crashing didn’t mean yesterday was going to play the same tune. If I’m going to crash a bicycle, I want to be wearing something a little more substantial than my gym shorts. And, jeepers, it was raining. Therefore it was muddy. Hence the mud boots – although I will admit mud boots are not very conducive to bicycling. Nor is it an outstanding fashion statement.