Awaiting Judgment

The last 24 hours went something like this:

Yesterday, 10 a.m.:

My father and I are walking back from the scene of my car accident.  No, no, not another accident – I’m referring to the fender-bender I got into on November 30^th (also, coincidentally, my father’s birthday).  He is giving me advice about how to handle my court hearing.  “Now, I’m a chronological guy,” he says, “and the judge may or may not be chronologically inclined, but I think you ought to just give him the facts as they happened: ‘Your honor, I was traveling northbound, when I saw – or heard –‘ did you say you heard the sirens first, or saw them? ‘—an emergency vehicle traveling southbound, at which time I began to signal to change from the left-hand lane to the right-hand lane. There were two cars stopped in front of me, and I could not maneuver around them to complete the lane change. I came to a complete stop and then, two to three seconds later, this lady pranged me…”   

I’m  kind of pleased by the word “pranged,” but I don’t comment.  My father continues on, obviously relishing his role as legal counsel (he’s a retired attorney).  “Now, how fast does your turn signal blink?  How many times per second?  I think you ought to know that before you go in tomorrow.”

Yesterday, 11 a.m.:

My father, in a truculent snit, has just trucked the suitcases out to my car.  I’m giving my parents a ride to the airport.  My mother is explaining to me privately: “It just turns me right off to see him being emotionally manipulative like that.  Sienna is only three.  It should be about her needs, not his needs.  He doesn’t realize what he’s doing. But I’m probably just making things worse by telling him what not to do, ordering him around.  It doesn’t change his behavior, it just makes him feel like he’s being criticized.”

Yesterday, noon:

I’m on the freeway, driving back from the airport, when a marble-sized rock comes flying at me, hitting my windshield with a sickening “crack,” and leaving a series of tiny gouges in the glass.

Yesterday, 1 p.m.:

Having considered eating leftover pizza (Denali would be mad if he came home to find it gone) or leftover pot roast (I had that the previous day for lunch) or making myself some salmon salad with celery and green onions (Jesus, meat, meat, meat!), I finally settle on a hot dog (microwaved for thirty seconds, then dipped in ketchup).  Then I have some honey yogurt and two slices of toast, and think about how there’s probably not enough fiber in the bread to make up for the lack of vegetable matter in my meal, and make a mental note to change my diet drastically in the near future.

Yesterday, 2 p.m.:

Sienna and I return the guest room keys to Georgia.  “Your parents are gone!  You survived the visit!”

Yesterday, 3 p.m.:

I’m revising the Chairman’s Letter for a fiscally conservative foundation.  Every time they send me something to edit, I feel a little bad.  What am I doing, sprucing up rhetoric about the importance of taming government spending?  My own children don’t have health insurance, because the governor of our fair state instituted spending cuts that directly affect my family.  I’m a liberal and an eco-freak.  I think all this stuff about the protecting the ideals of the free-market system and empowering people to develop “personal initiative” is an just an excuse to justify corporate greed.  In short, I’m this foundation’s worst nightmare.  But here I am, taking their dirty money, simply because I’m personally acquainted with the vice president, which means he’s a person to me, not a faceless corporate entity. I once edited an entertaining and slightly racy novel he’d written in his spare time.  He’s a decent guy, and it would feel shitty to tell him No, I can't support your freakin’ foundation: please get someone else to fix your "lack of flow."

Yesterday, 4 p.m.:

It’s become clear to me that the entire day is going to be a disaster: first the green bananas for the banana-chocolate mousse – I went to THREE different stores, and no one had ripe bananas! – then the rock chip in the windshield, not to mention the “Maint Req’d” light blinking on the dashboard, then there’s the house, it’s a mess, and that court hearing hanging over my head, ugh, I’m a basket case, an absolute stress fest, and the best thing I can do is get myself, my physical person, fixed up a bit, so here I am, in the shower, attempting to shave my legs, something I do maybe once a week if people are lucky, and having to steer clear of the 3-inch scab over the tendon of my right ankle, which happened last time I shaved my legs, obviously in too much of a hurry….

Yesterday, 5 p.m.:

Denali gets home, stashes his bass and backpack in the corner of the living room, and begins rummaging through the fridge. 

“Who ate my pizza?” he wants to know. 

“Don’t look at me,” I tell him.  “Parker ate it.” 

“What?!? I’m starving! I didn’t have any lunch!” 

“Why not?  Why didn’t you eat lunch?”

“Because it was absolutely inedible. Because there are two things they serve that are inedible, and today was one of them – I would have thrown up, literally, if I’d tried to eat it.”

“It’s five o’clock.  We’ll be having dinner in an hour and a half.”

“I’m going to DIE of hunger before then.  Besides, I don’t like what we’re having for dinner.”

“There are a couple of hot dogs left.”

“AAArgh!  I can’t believe someone ate my pizza.”

Yesterday, 6 p.m.:

It’s hard to maneuver around the kitchen.  A new neighbor of ours decided to come over – why now? – and Parker’s let him in – can’t he see that this is not a good time? – and this very likable but oblivious neighbor has got a folder of his photographs and art cards on the island, right in the middle of my mess of open recipe books and squash skins.  He’s prattling about all his artistic remodeling projects while I’m trying to mix up the custard-topped spoon bread around him.  He seems not to notice that he’s standing in the way of every single kitchen implement I need access to: “’Scuse me while I just reach around your hip here to get at my beaters…”  I should have had this thing in the oven half an hour ago.  Fuck, where’s the 13x9 pan?  I’m going to have to use the bigger one.  Fuck, this batter is really runny, it isn’t usually this runny, is it?  It’s never going to cook if I pour two cups of cream over it.  And there’s still the salad to make, and the soup to puree….

Yesterday, 7 p.m.:

I have just sat down with my dinner: butternut-pear soup (Parker: “I guess it’s as good as this kind of soup can be expected to be.”), custard-topped spoon bread (Neighbor: “It doesn’t look cooked through in the middle.” Me: “That’s the custard.  It’s supposed to be like that.”), green salad, and green, green enough to be astringent, banana-chocolate mousse.  There are thirteen other diners.  The lady across from me says, “Have you put out the water pitchers yet?”  “No,” I say, getting up, “I have not put out any water pitchers yet.”

Yesterday, 8 p.m.:

I’m doing up the dinner dishes at my house, because the dishwasher in the community kitchen is on the fritz again.  Parker is off helping water-pitcher lady get herself set up with a new Yahoo account, and Travis is helping – or attempting to help – me with the dishes.  As he puts it later, I am kind of like a steamroller run amok: the message I’m sending, loud and clear, is “Get the hell out of my way!” Sienna is underfoot, as usual, but she’s doing a fairly good job of dodging me.  I suggest to Denali that he might think about helping out, seeing as how everything is such a mess.  “Is there anything I can do that doesn’t involve cleaning or watching Sienna?”

Yesterday, 9 p.m.:

I’m at Travis’s house. (Denali: “Of course you’re going to Travis’s tonight. It’s Tuesday.  What I want to know is, why Tuesday?  Travis, do you have a “Tuesday” fetish or something?”)

Travis has put me on the couch, covered me with a blanket, and made me some tea. “Babe,” I say to him, “I feel bad for being another needy person in your life.”

Yesterday, 10 p.m.:

“Do you just want to go to sleep?” Travis asks me.  We’re in bed, with the lights out.

“Yes,” I say.  Pause.  “Do you just want to go to sleep?”

“Well,” he admits, “I could probably be convinced to do something else.”

I laugh.  “Seems to me that I’m the one who needs convincing.”

Yesterday, 11 p.m., through today, 6 p.m.:

I’m asleep, and thus completely unaware that Travis has been dealing with insomnia all night.  Right before waking, I have the following dream:  I’m doing laundry, and for some reason, I’m putting food in with the clothes.  I pull out a clean blanket, one of Sienna’s, and I spread it out on the lawn.  There are four girls at the playground, probably 13 or 14 years old, and one of them – the ringleader, who reminds me of a particularly snotty girl who called me names in junior high – comes over and steps on the blanket.  I try to get her to stop, but she’s not listening to me.  She and her friends are alternately picking on me and ignoring me.  I storm onto the playground and tell them I’m going to call their fucking parents.  I’m kind of shocked at myself for using profanity, since my own parents are there observing this scene.  Feeling frustrated and impotent, I leave the playground with this parting shot: “This is just retarded.”  My father mimics me, derisively.  My mother tries to tell him that my behavior is understandable, given the circumstances.  I walk back over to the blanket on the lawn, feeling like I’ve got to come up with some way of dealing with those girls.  I realize that my parents can’t do anything about them.  I wonder if I can get my cohousing community to sign an agreement stating that they have to leave me alone – it’s not as if I’m asking for them to like me and include me! I’m just asking them not to bother me! – and, if they can’t comply, to get off our property.

Today, 7 a.m.

Me: “For someone who didn’t get any sleep last night, you can certainly put out!”

Travis, mock-modestly: “Thank you.”

Today, 8 a.m.

Travis and I are eating our breakfast of oatmeal, blood oranges, and tea.

Today, 9 a.m.

I’m driving Travis to work, a bit late.  We’ve spent the drive talking about trust and how it relates to jealousy.  As is often the case when Travis is my passenger, I’m not paying enough attention to my driving.  I’ve apparently just run a stop sign (luckily, on a dinky little back street: no traffic of any kind).  “Um…try not to get a ticket today, okay?” 

Yeah, that would royally suck. Ironic, too. Because believe it or not, I am normally a very conscientious driver. I have gotten only two tickets in twenty years of driving. The first ticket was for speeding.  I got it for going 80 on I-80, trying to get home from Scott’s in time to take Denali to preschool.  I took a defensive driving course online, and the ticket was dismissed.  I’ve been hyper-vigilant about staying within the speed limit ever since. The second ticket was issued to me after I got in the only accident I’ve ever been in – yes, the aforementioned fender-bender.  After waiting for three hours in a vacant lot in the cold (see my post “Love and Other Accidents” for the longer story), I was cited for an unsafe lane change.  Talk about adding insult to injury. I don’t know in what universe pulling over for an emergency vehicle -- after checking my rear-view and signaling, then coasting to a stop, then sitting there at a dead stop for 2-3 seconds -- counts as an unsafe lane change, but it’s beyond sucky -- in fact, it's retarded, and I’m determined to do something about it.

Today, 10 a.m.

After making myself another pot of tea, I sit down at the computer.

And that’s the story, Your Honor -- in chronological order, just like my father told me to tell it.