ROW 80 DAY 39 – SUNDAY AUGUST 19, CHECK IN ROAD TRIP PSYCHOSES

I mentioned a few posts back that I am an awesome driver. I am also an awesome traveler, except for planes. The whole flying thing just sucks, in my book. This going up, then down thing, does not one whit for me. The fact that I have done so much of it does not familiarize me with the process and soothe me. No, I am certain we are going straight into the ground like a lawn dart on the next take off. I leave that shit alone. The fact that my parents were both pilots just speaks to their particular derangements when it came to any type of travel at all. I’ve already mentioned my mother’s spectacular driving abilities. Well, my father was no slouch either. Between the two of them, they produced a driver of epic proportions; a true Cossack, a veritable Taras Bulba. All I lacked were Mongol Hordes. Alack, and alas.

Such epicness is not solely born; it is inculcated over years. One of my earliest memories is a strange and deranged car trip from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to visit my Mad Scientist Uncle, who worked at Area 51. The trip was supposed to take 4 hours. It may have taken 4 minutes, or 40 hours. Time had no meaning on this trip. I was about 9 years old and it was late fall, or early winter, as I remember. The tumbleweeds had dried up and were racing along the road, pretty much keeping pace with my father as he drove. He was driving about 55 miles per hour. Actually, knowing him, it was probably more like 85 miles per hour, so the tumble weeds were a tumblin’ along. Keeping pace with the car. One of those Santa Anas, in reverse, I guess.

My mother starts to make up one of her “stories.” My mother was a huge Harlan Ellison fan. She pretty much mainlined him. “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,” was one of her favorites. The fact that I had read that book at the age of 8 doesn’t really say much for my folks’ sense of what was considered “age-appropriate.” I also read Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” and Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” before I was 11 and had regularly read James Thurber, so I was pretty prepared for all the shenanigans that my parents conceived and performed.

Ma doesn’t disappoint. “Okay, so, there’s this little innocent tumbleweed tumbling down the road. It’s a cute little tumbleweed. All the cars are driving by. The kids are pointing and laughing and enjoying this sweet tumbleweed.” My father joins in, “Pretty soon, some teenage tumbleweeds join in. They’re a little bigger and they’re like D.J. tumbleweeds; they have duckbill haircuts and camel cigarettes and stuff. The kids in the cars don’t think this is so funny.” Well, we’ve been down this road before, literally and metaphorically. It doesn’t take Nostradamus to figure out that by the end of this story, there is one giant tumbleweed that has eaten all the cars at the terminus of this freeway and the kids are all bloody and broken. But the thing that to this day just cracks me up. My parents. The glee. The hellish, screechy laughter. You would think you had Lilith and Beelzebub in the front seat. Beyond hilarious. Broaden your horizons with reading.

Well, so some of my most amusing times were had in cars and while driving. I had my mom in the passenger seat once on the way from Tampa to Detroit. I was bringing her up for a visit. I had a concert, and I had driven down to get her, so she could visit me in my environs. The afore mentioned flying thing wasn’t happening and I had some extra time. I also loved, loved, loved to drive. Serious road trips. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people that gets behind the wheel and drives from point A to point B, non-stop. We were somewhere in Georgia and just kind of cruising along. The weather was overcast, kind of misting and mysterious, but pleasant. A sign said “Unadilla, blah-blah miles.” Ma launches into this story, “Once, there was this Armadillo. Now you know armadillos always have 4 babies, but this one only had 1 baby, so, they named the town Unadilla.” I said, “Okay, that was sweet.” She continues, “But, did you know that there is this other town, farther on, they named it Quadradilla, for all the other unsung armadillos that had 4 babies?” I said, “What the fuck, Ma?”

She was getting dozy. She wasn’t in the greatest of health at the time. I asked her if she wanted to take a rest. She said, “No, let’s ride a ways.” She dozed off. I drove on for about an hour, lulled by the road. It was peaceful. No distractions. No music. It’s calm and quiet. The sun has set. It’s still misting and the mountains are pretty. All of a sudden, she lurches up out of her sleep and barks at me “Pink socks!” I almost drove off the damned mountain.

She was so embarrassed, for all of about 2 seconds and then just thought that was hilarious. It was. Of course, that went right into the family annals.

Ma liked to “navigate.” It was preferable to her driving, but was still not the best of options. Once, back in August, 1987, shortly after my father died, she came to take a “tour” of Michigan, as she called it. She was living in California at the time. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years, and I think she just wanted to make sure I was doing well. Our “tour” ended up being the “Iliad”, or the “Odyssey,” I’m not sure which. It seemed we were gone that long and we went to some strange places. It was during my summer break. At one point, we decided to visit some old friends who might, or might not have still lived or didn’t live in the Upper Peninsula. I wouldn’t let her drive. At the time, I was driving an old Datsun B-210 that had a suspect manual tranny. 4 gears, 2 of which were really iffy, those being 2^nd and 3^rd, which meant, neither of them worked. As a matter of fact, I think the whole electrical system died in it during this trip, and she and I had to sleep on a train trestle at some point, but that’s not the story I’m going to tell.

No, the story I’m going to tell is the one where she had the map. We had crossed the Mackinac Bridge and were looking for US2 to go west. I’m driving and she keeps telling me I haven’t gone far enough. She keeps staring at that map. I finally look over. The mitten is pointing downward. “Gimme that goddamned map! No more navigating for you!” I yell, and snatch it from her and throw it out the window. I make a U-turn in the median on I-75 and hot-foot it south to US2. She starts to laugh.

ROW 80 DAY 38 – HOUSE HINTS FROM HELL

Never fear that I am domestic. I am as domestic as a bobcat. I have that on good authority from my mother, who told that to my 3^rd husband when he whined to her about what a lousy housekeeper I was. “What are you bitching about?” she asked. “You knew she didn’t do anything like that when you married her.” “Well, I thought she would change.” Why, oh why do they think you will change? Number two thought I was magically going to become a flautist or a bass-player; anything but a violist. Number three thought I was going to become Heloise and leave IBM and free-lancing, for his splendiferous self. Assholes.

Anyway, I digress. As anyone who has listened to me for two nano-seconds this week has learned, I have the flu. It has turned out to be the nuclear-bomb type flu, where every molecule in your body melts, leaving dried husks or something. I haven’t been this sick or this entertained in years. Lest anyone think I am a hypochondriac, rest assured, I am not. I wait until I’m at death’s door before being scraped off the pavement and hauled off to an ER somewhere. The fact that this has provided endless blogging fun hasn’t hurt a bit. It has also provides enormous amusement for my so-called friends. One “close” friend asked once when she called me at the shelter, all concerned, “Gee, Mary. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lying in Nebraska Avenue, somewhere.” Thanks. You know who you are.

I think the last time I had this much fun was when I contracted salmonella and typhoid on honeymoon number 2. No shit. That should have been a dead give-away right there, that the marriage was doomed. This flu has also had the added surprises of not acting like any flu I’ve experienced, being the experienced flu-haver that I am, in that I now have Parkinson’s Disease, so there’s an extra level of weird. My eyes are odder than normal. I’m not shaking as much, as when I’m non-flu ridden, so that’s kind of a plus. In the spirit of making hay while the sun shines, and while I’m not hacking so much, I decided I would wash my floors. It was either that, or plow them. Yes, they were really that bad.

I can’t see really well to sweep, so I just kind of sweep in the general direction of the dirt. Then I sort of scrape it up with the pan-thing that came with that really swell dollar-store broom that I bought. The fact that the dollar-store broom bent about a year ago and has been duct-taped several times and is rather flabby hinders me not one bit. I sweep furiously. Or rather, lackadaisically, as it turns out. The next step is the mopping part. I love this part. I have to get down on the floor to see all the dirt I missed when I was trying to sweep, because I can’t see the dirt when I’m standing up. I know. I could just mop, but then I would have all this hair and goo, so I at least give myself a head start on getting some of the hair and bug legs and spider bellies and what-not swept up before getting to the nitty-gritty, as it were.

So, I grab my bottle of Formula 409 and a couple of rolls of paper towels and some really cheesy dish clothes from the dollar store and set to work, back of the house to the front. The house is 3 rooms, plus bathroom, tile throughout. Normally, it takes about 45 minutes to scoot around on my ass and do the double-armed sweep alá Zamboni ice machine. Today, it takes me about an hour and a half. My back hurts and holy crap! Look at all the hair and bug legs and spider bellies and Egad! I did a horrible job sweeping. So, I had to re-sweep the bastard before I could get down and “mop.” I was highly put out.

Normally, I’d say the hell with it. But the truth is, this place was getting to me. The apartment is cute. It’s small, and it has tile throughout, but let’s face it. We were homeless before we came here and we have mostly castoff furniture. I have lots of nice things in storage, and I will get them some day soon, but not now. So, we make do. It’s depressing to live in a place with things that are used and not have a tidy, clean place and I have put it off because I haven’t felt well. JC is 65 and he hasn’t felt the best this week. He does very well and always takes care of all the errands and the heavy stuff. It was either clean, or set fire to the bitch. I’ve had a big, heaping helping of homeless. I’m not eager for another. Besides, I think there are laws or something to stop that shit. The fact that someone went out of here in handcuffs a few months back for burning down an unoccupied dwelling kind of made a lasting impression. So, it’s all cute and nice again. Now, we can go back to the important stuff; Jack Bauer and the will-he or won’t-he compromise his Presidential integrity David Palmer and company and how many Cheezits can I stuff in my mouth at once.

ROW 80 DAY 37 – THE HANDYMAN

I trip the light fantastic. I sail up to the stars. I journey to the moons of Saturn. I peek at the horizon of Mars. I visit the mountains of the Himalayas and journey to the Arctic snows. I watch the revelers in Time Square on New Year’s Eve and… Gah.

Thus began and ended one of the cheesier ideas I’ve attempted to put on metaphorical paper, as it were. I have no idea where I was going with it, but figured a swift killing was in order, before it got too overblown. And none too soon.

I’ve got the flu. Nothing major, but I always have a great time when I get sick. Since I spend most of my time out of my head, I’m used to this. This is just more of the same, only more so. Anyway, I picked it up at the Doctor’s office last week; irony of ironies and it’s a gem. Full-blown hack, ache, snork, cough. I’m sure the shits and barfing await. Oh, goody. Anyway, I had this dream that I ended up at a Justin Bieber Concert and had my purse stolen (again!) by that crack ho, lost what little I.D. I had managed to accumulate, all my money, and ended up in California, where it took me 3 days to steal a cell phone, call JC to let him know, that no, I had not been stolen by Gypsies, and that yes, I would be bringing the milk home with me when I returned.

The thing that pisses me off about all this is, that I woke up in fits and starts about every 15 minutes and would thrash around and when I went back to sleep, this same damned dream would start right up where it left off. It went on forever. It also wasn’t helped by the fact that we’ve been watching “24, Season 3,” for about 6 hours straight. Jack Bauer, Nina Myers and the Salazar Brothers, cavorting with the Beebster up on stage got a bit lurid. So, I was in a swell frame of mind when I woke up and started thinking on some of my father’s “handyman” projects around the house. I may have mentioned what a swell mechanic he was. He was equally good as a House Husband, my mother used to holler, only not that politely.

Like the time my mother went shopping or maybe it was drinking one afternoon, I can’t remember which. She charged my father and I with doing the laundry and gave us highly specific instructions on how to do the whites. We were living in Los Angeles at the time and had a built-in swimming pool, with all the attendant maintenance supplies, which were kept in the garage with all the other shit that never got used to maintain the house and grounds. Alas, when he and I went to add bleach to the whites, there was no bleach so we added about 2 gallons of pool chlorine. The whites were white all right. They also had holes the size of basket balls. My father responded to my mother’s carping, “What are you bitching about, Sheila? They’re clean.” The fact that you could have worn one of the bath towels as a poodle skirt was lost on her.

Once, when we were living in San Jose, my parents had these huge dogs that roamed around in the back yard; Great Pyrenees. They were really lovely dogs, but again, no one gave a shit about the state of the yard and the dogs were just in perpetual motion. The back yard looked like a moonscape. My parents would pick up the poop, or I would, I can’t remember. We just didn’t want the neighbors to bitch. Anyway, one of the big screens fell off the kitchen window and my mom was snarking at my father to pick it up and put it back on the window. When he picked it up, he noticed one of the dogs had eaten a giant hole in the screen. He slapped that sucker up on the window, looked at my mom and said, “There, that’ll keep out the big ones.” End of fixing screen.

He always had a comeback; once, he did fix a piece of linoleum that had been warped by water in front of the dishwasher. It was nearly perfect, but there was one tiny sliver at one corner that was short. You would have to look very carefully to see the imperfection. My mother, and God bless her, lest you think she was always trying to pick on my father’s failings, that was not the case, she loved him dearly. My mother, says, “Glenn, how come it’s short on that end.” My father says, “That’s to show that I’m not God.”