I Am At A Loss

Something strange happened to me yesterday and I haven’t been able to wrap my arms around it.

Last year, my little Brain Tail friend and I met in Pennsylvania to watch the new X-Files movie together. We don’t get to see each other very often, since eight hours separates us, and Brain Tail suggested we meet in the middle this past Sunday to catch up. We found a picnic table, and set to have a very enjoyable 2.5 hours chatting. It was a gorgeous day in PA ~ the sun was bright but not overwarm, the birds were trilling, the scenery spectacular, and the company was as enjoyable as ever without a hitch in the conversation. We had a lovely time. We’ve decided to try to make this an annual event.

At 2:30 pm, we cleaned up our picnic and parted ways; Lacie to attempt to mow her lawn, and I to have dinner with family. I plunged back into the gaping maw of perpetual construction that IS I-81.

A moment: one of these days, I need to write solely on I-81 and the construction it has undergone in the state of Pennsylvania for the last 235 years. Seriously, I remember my Aunt bemoaning Pennsylvania road construction 40 years ago. I’ve been driving I-81 to visit family for 25 years, and there has always been construction in this state. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. I’m convinced that Organized Crime must be lining their pockets SOMEHOW and I’m bitter. One lane back ups for no apparent reason other than to give the United Orange Cone Makers of America extra coin to put bling on the necks of their trophy wives.

Thank you for the indulgence. I continue.

A mere half hour into my trip home, I noted a green van on the side of the road under a shade of trees. As I sped by at 65 mph, I saw the hood was open and a white man, slightly balding, wearing a blue short sleeved shirt and brown pants, standing in front of the vehicle with his hands gripping the open hood. His body language conveyed gloom, like “How am I going to get home now?”

My heart went out to him; I’ve had my share of breakdowns on the road. Not being a manly man with a tool kit in my trunk, but a single woman with few automotive resources, I did not stop. I wondered if he had a cell phone, and then spent some time pondering on the plight of today’s drivers versus vehicular predicaments in days past. What did we do before cell phones? I continued on that line of thinking for a bit before I RAN INTO STUPID ONE LANE TRAFFIC FOR AN HOUR.

As I said, I’m still bitter.

After breaking free from the bondage of that particular corridor of construction, I drove on listening to Christmas in July on Radio Classics. Jack Benny’s “A Christmas Tree Cactus” was great fun. Traffic had picked up to a normal pace. The trip was going well and I had no need to stop to use any of the rest area facilities or to get gasoline.

Two and a half hours into my trip home, I noted another green van on the side of the road under another shade of trees. As I sped by, I saw the hood was open and standing in front of the car was THE SAME WHITE MAN, SLIGHTLY BALDING, WEARING A BLUE SHORT SLEEVED SHIRT AND BROWN PANTS, WITH HIS HANDS GRIPPING THE OPEN HOOD. HIS BODY AGAIN CONVEYED GLOOM, LIKE “HOW AM I GOING TO GET HOME NOW?”.

Now, please understand. I am not given to visual hysterics of this nature. I’ve never seen a Cheetoh shaped like the Blessed Virgin, I’ve never seen a ghost and I have never met a psychic I considered really worth her $75 an hour fee. I love to hear the stories and I’m completely open to paranormal oddities, but I do not receive them. My kids do, a couple of my sisters do, some cousins, and even tiny little Brain Tail gets them. Not me. Though I get the occasional tingle when I need to pray for someone, I am mostly bereft of psychic ability. I’ve accepted this with equanimity.

For a second I was messed up. Had I somehow gotten turned around and was back in the same location? That couldn’t be right. I bounced back into character and said a “Hail Mary”, quickly and with fervor. I called Lacie. Surely, the brain tail would tingle if there was a psychic disturbance. There was apparently no hint of anything pawing at the cosmic continuum. I called Guest Blogger Who Hasn’t Blogged since 2007. Other than asking me if I was compelled to help him (which I was not), and considering a variety of urban legends, nothing solid was postulated.

I said a few more prayers but continued to feel a sort of unreality settle on me. An hour and a half later I picked up my daughter, went to Guest Blogger’s house, enjoyed a wonderful meal and put forth the mystery to my friends gathered around the table. All agreed the incident was creepy, and their responses were indicative of their personal character:

Guest Blogger – (curious, open to phenomena but not a medium to same, highly analytical with a psychological bent) - “I have no idea, but I immediately googled blue shirted, brown panted men on I-81. I found nothing. It’s strange.”

Starbuck - (a child of the universe, willing to believe the fantastic) - “You need to be more open to possibilities.”

Pamplona - (a devout Catholic Naval Officer) - “Did you pray? I’d have prayed.”

My Daughter - (scarred by years of my rigorous attempts to keep her from being victimized by teaching self sufficient situational awareness) - “Obviously, he wasn’t able to net any victims at his first location so he got back in his vehicle, sped ahead of you, pulled over to the side again hoping to lure someone into his green van of death and dismemberment.”

Guest Blogger’s Husband - (a solid thinking, no nonsense guy) - “Everyone in Pennsylvania looks the same.”

Additional theories:

It was the ghost of a soul trapped in purgatory who needed my prayers.

I was abducted by aliens, probed and didn’t notice I had a period of lost time.

It was a man driven insane by the never ending construction of Pennsylvania roadways who ended his misery by self-decapitating via his van hood. I was witnessing the paranormal re-enactment of the bloody event.

Now, in all seriousness, the only plausible explanation is that Creepy McBlueshirt got his van running after I first spied him, sped ahead of me and his engine broke down again. I simply happened upon him a second time as he peered curiously under his hood. It was all coincidence.

I’m not buying it. I don’t get it, I may never get it. I’ve looked on line for creepy stories, but none of these descriptions sound like my story.

You know what I’d love - I’d love to hear from someone who has seen “The Man in the Breakdown Lane”. And if you told me that I-81 is actually hell and Satan is the Head of the Pennsylvania DOT – I’d believe you.

More People to Hate

The glucosamine chondroitin is still working. In case you were wondering.

So, after the Cappie Awards (no more bitterness on that event shall be posted…whore), #2 son – the one who totaled his car – stopped by my house on his way back to his naval base. He purchased a BMW – yeah, I don’t know what number 355i4507q690f – I don’t know. It was silver and it was nice and it drove like a dream.

I am now praying he doesn’t smash this one up.

Went to dinner at Guest-Blogger-Who-Hasn’t-Blogged-Since-2007’s house and had a marvelous time. We were regaled with tales of South Carolina red-necks smashing Infinity #1, as well as the horrific tale of a representative slice of South Carolina law enforcement.

You see, my son witnessed an altercation between one of his friends and some other young men. My son was the shortest in his crowd (and he is well over 6 feet tall). During the shouting match, someone (whom I will call Ass Hat) bloodied my son’s eye and then punched him in the mouth. My son did not retaliate. The gendarmes were called and these pathetic excuses for police arrested my son (who LET ME REPEAT didn’t hit anyone – he was the only one bleeding), did NOT record his statement, did NOT tell him what he was being arrested for (“We can’t tell you that. Now just sit down and shut up.”), did NOT read him his rights, DID incarcerate him, DID take his bail money, and did NOT release him from jail for four hours after he posted his bond.

Don’t go to South Carolina and expect the police to know the definition of the phrase “due process”.

At the hearing two days later, my son and his friends appeared in dress whites, and the same slimy police officer that did NOT take my son’s statement approached and asked him to to drop the charges against Ass Hat. I guess Ass Hat was scared. See, Ass Hat was going to the Citadel and later realized he had punched an officer.

My son demanded that the charges against him be dismissed and he wanted to talk to the young man. Everything was straightened out in front of the judge, and charges were eventually dismissed in the civil court. However, I’m told that the military will continue to pursue action against the young Ass Hat. Good.

I just wish someone could do something about that backwards police department.

*Sigh. More people to hate.

Buck Toothed Hag

Ashamed of myself really for not having posted anything in forever. It’s another one of those times I figured I’d just jump on and see what plopped out.

Meggie did NOT win the Cappie for Best Featured Actress in a Play. If you will allow me a mom moment, some scag in a red dress with big teeth won. And I hate her.

Not hate. Not anymore. Not really. Disappointment there has almost faded. Mostly. Funny how as a parent you will hold a grudge against anyone who has hurt your child no matter how minutely. There are young men and women who have broken the hearts of my children. The offense is long forgotten in the minds of those same children. I still hate them. Hate them with the heat of a thousand burning suns.

Maybe not every parent holds that kind of bitterness. Maybe it’s just me. In 20 years Meg will mention the Cappie Awards and what a marvelous night it was, the fete at the Kennedy Center, a spectacular gala, a fabulous experience. And I’ll just mention the red-bedecked buck toothed whore who snatched the prize from Meg’s deserving fingers.

I’ll be 65 and I’ll still say whore.

My sweet daughter will roll her eyes and tell me to stop saying whore around the grandchildren. Then I will secretly teach them the phrase buck-toothed scag. It will amuse me.

The cast on stage at the Kennedy Center. Meggie is the one standing on the chair.

What a Weekend!

Oh my oh my oh my oh my.  A weekend of emotional highs and lows.

Dunkin’ Donuts opened up an outlet 2.8 miles from my house!  What joy!  Heretofore forced to travel 17 miles round trip to secure my sweet sweet DD fix, I very often choked down Starbucks coffee. 

I am NOT a fan.

But I AM a fan of Dunkin Donuts and am thrilled someone FINALLY opened one up nearby!  HIGH!

I started my weekend at 3am Saturday morning.  I was scheduled to spend an hour in front of the Blessed Sacrament.  Last month, not enough people signed up and Father was called and sat with the Blessed Sacrament between 1am and 4am.  So this month, as we got closer to First Friday and All Night Adoration, the President of my Legion of Mary presidium asked us all to sign up for an hour.  I picked 3am.  I always enjoy it when I go, I get so much out of it.  So much peace.  Hard to explain to anyone who isn’t Catholic; sometimes just as difficult to explain to Catholics.

So I’ll just say go.  Catholic or not.  Go.  Sit.  You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.  Just sit. 

Anyway, though I woke up and got there late, I arrived and I spent an hour.  I said some Divine Mercy prayers; appropriate to the 3:00 o’clock hour and came away feeling really peaceful and good.  I enjoy it so much I always come away saying I’m going to go next time - then I rarely do.  But when I got home, it was so quiet, no cars yet on the road in the Land of Traffic, and all I could hear were the early birds starting to sing. 

I went back to bed.  HIGH!

At 7:30 am, I called my son; on his way to upstate New York his vacation.  He was driving up from South Carolina and I figured he’d be close to his destination. 

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

“I totaled my car.”

Pause.

“When?”

“6:30am”  It’s the kind of low a parent doesn’t ever want to have; it’s always in the back of our mind, we always pray we don’t get that phone call or that knock on the door.  Low. 

Apparently, a deer ran out in front of him, and he swerved to avoid hitting it.  When he turned to come back, he overcorrected and went off the road into something of a ravine, but at that point he was airborne, hit a tree about 5 feet off the ground and totaled his car. 

That detached account does not relay the panic and anxiety that I felt while he was telling me this, and I kept hoping he was just going to tell me he was joking and that he was nearly there.  He was not joking.  But he was on the phone.  He was alive.  Complaints about totaling his car were like music to me; the alternative was unthinkable.  High and low all jumbled up.

He had already dealt with the police, filed the report, called his insurance company – they were immediately supportive.  Miraculously, he sustained no injuries at all and his brother was already on the way to pick him up.  I learned later that the tow truck driver told my son he should think about going to church on Sunday.  He was lucky he walked away. 

Highs and lows.  Highs and lows.

Bearing Down

I had a dream last Saturday night that begged for interpretation.

I was driving in upstate New York, likely the NYS Thruway between Utica and Herkimer.  There was an unidentified little girl in the front passenger seat and my seventeen year old daughter was in the back seat, with her head up near the front so she could talk to me.  I was traveling east on the Thruway and it was dusk.  The sky had a sort of clear purple color that was darkening.  I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a tremendous black tornado bearing down on the car (looked exactly like the above picture – it’s like someone was in my brain and snapped a photo.).

For one second, I pressed on the gas and thought I could outrun it.  My daughter saw it behind us and shouted at me to go faster.  Wasn’t going to work though.  I looked on both sides of the car for a place to hide.  There was a small shallow ditch on the driver side and a deeper wider expanse on the passenger side.  It was doubtful that we would be able to get out of the car and get to a place low enough before the tornado consumed us.

At this point, I was conscious enough to begin to manipulate the dream, getting us into the big ditch to safety.  I do not consider this part of the actual dream since I woke myself up. 

I dream a lot, but it’s only the dreams that stick that are the ones that cry out to our conscious to be clarified.  This one demanded to be understood.

Was I running from something?  Was something bearing down on me?  Was it prophetic – were there storms on the way of which I was blissfully unaware? 

I rarely have luck interpreting my own dreams – my daughter is good at it, Starbuck is good at it, but it is Guest Blogger-who-hasn’t-blogged-for-me-in-years who has a remarkable sense of what my dreams mean.  And she should – I do the same for her; we’ve been translating each other’s dreams for years.  We have a good sense of personal symbolism and the sort of things that tic our subconscious. 

So my daughter considered that I had been viewing my past – one full of turmoil and upheaval, the future was ahead and clear and I was driving right into it.  Not bad.  Starbuck wondered the what the tornado could symbolize.  Guest Blogger-who-hasn’t-blogged-for-me-in-years just smiled and said, “The tornado is time.”

You could have punched me in the gut.  That’s when I know an interpretation is on the mark.  It feels right.  The ah-ha moment.

Step aside for a moment to consider – oldest son is married and doing well in his work, pursuing a degree in human services.  Middle boy has just graduated the most difficult educational program the Navy has to offer – Nuclear Engineering – and will be headed out into the murky depths within a year.  But now - the baby that I nursed those years ago is graduating high school in less than a month, and soon to embark on higher education, a major life change on her horizon.

The tornado is Time.  It’s bearing down on me.  The little girl in the front seat is my daughter as a toddler and she’s also in the back seat, a woman.  Me?  Arthritis.  Progressive Lenses.  Middle age.  Wrinkles.  Surprised at the changes when they crop up.  Identifying them.  Combating them.  Coming to terms with them.  Then enjoying it when I see others as they find themselves on the same track.

The tornado is Time.  I can’t outrun it, and though I didn’t realize it, I still try.  I realized though, that as my daughter is headed toward a new and entirely unchartered course in her life, so am I. 

Time.  I was a daughter for 19.5 years.  A wife for 15 years.  Caretaker of the same dog for 16 years.  But I’ve been a mother of dependent children for coming up on 25 years. 

Time.  This is going to be new and unchartered for me too.  It’s pretty exciting.  No bailing out of the car on this one.  It’s time.

I Gotta Tell Ya

I received several suggestions from dear friends and readers on how to self-treat my self-diagnosed arthritis.  I even had a gifted Doctor of Linguistics urge me to eschew the castor oil and go to an MD.  

Having outright self-rejected the lukewarm water enemas, I decided last week to break down and buy Glucosamine Chondroitin.  CVS had a buy one get one sale on some brand that had 50 extra pills in it, so I figured, deal deal!  $21 for one bottle though, so you know the markup has to be stupid.  Bitter when I read that it would take 4-6 weeks to kick in.  Tomorrow will mark one week of near-religious dosage.

I gotta tell you, I’m feeling some alleviation of my symptoms!  I didn’t expect to, so I don’t think it’s a placebo effect.  Make no mistake; there’s still some pain but it isn’t as sharp as it was last week.  I’m not perpetually rubbing my thumb and elbow and I’m not downing Excedrin at all.  I am now enthusiastic about my self-prognosis. 

It was a busy weekend otherwise; my daughter’s prom went nearly without a hitch - - $75 up-do fail caused some drama for a half hour, but that was quickly fixed.  Otherwise, last minute boutonnieres, makeup and toe nail polish were executed with perfection and a good time was had by all. 

Monday started splendidly, the weather was fine and my colleague and I were feeling adventurous.  We investigated a highly touted food court and I was pleased with the salad bar.  For about an hour.   Until it started shooting right through me.  When it threatened to shoot out multiple orifices, I decided it was time to go home.  Chicken broth is a lot better for dinner than I thought.  I was better by evening.

Today, Wednesday, I was feeling bright and perky.  One of my bosses suggested we take advantage of another local establishment’s Wednesday special of Singapore Noodles.  A favorite of mine since my days in Alexandria.  I took him up on it and enjoyed every bite.  For about an hour.  I’m back in the bathroom. 

I’ve ruled out cholera, typhoid fever, parasites and salmonella and have dramatically self-diagnosed amoebic dysentery.  Not really, but it’s certainly taking my mind off of the arthritis. 

Eager Arthritis Homeopathy

I have not been stricken with a headache since earlier in the week, but I am still suffering with the joint pain, which I have decided is arthritis.  I attribute this pleasure to both parents and their damnable arthritis-laden dna strands.  Yet another hurdle placed on the track of my life. 

I’m game enough to see if I can find an alternative remedy for my self-diagnosis.  What you should take away from this is:

1. I’m young enough to I think I can tough out the pain
2. I’m too cheap to buy Glucosamine Chondroitin
3. I’m too cheap to pay the $20 copay to get a real diagnosis
4. I’m still in denial of my aging process.

When I got home Wednesday evening, I was in enough discomfort to give the “warm olive oil rub” a try.  I had some in the cupboard, so it wasn’t like I had to go out and buy it (cheeeeeep cheeeeep cheeeeep).  At the same time, and just to play it safe, I took 200 mgs of ibuprofen as well.  The olive oil was nicely soothing, I wrapped my thumb in an old sock (NOT the alien master race vehicle that IS red flannel!) and I sensed an alleviation in my symptoms.  Well that was easy!  I felt the smugness of the effortlessly triumphant as I fell easily into sleep.

The next day, I remembered I had taken ibuprofen so I wasn’t sure if the that took away the pain or the olive oil did.  Craaaaaap.

Last night, in an effort to test the truth of the olive oil cure, I decided to go anti-inflammatory-free and just put the lovely warm oil on my thumb and elbow.  I wrapped my happy sock around the thumb, and waited for the magic to happen.  It didn’t.  Awwwwwww,craaaaap.

I want to avoid using aspirin and ibuprofen to excess, since I can envisage my stomach lining disintegrating, it’s molecules wafting up then bursting into nothingness.  I’d like to exhaust all my “already have the stuff at home” methods.  The olive oil tanked and I have vinegar, so I’ll try the “warm vinegar rub” tonight…see if that works. 

If that proves a disappointment, my next grocery list will include ginger (for ginger tea), some cayenne pepper, and castor oil (where do you buy castor oil?). 

You know I will keep you posted, and I welcome suggestions.  As long as it doesn’t blister me, corrode my skin, is made of blechy eggs or gets me arrested, I might give it a try.  However, there’s still no way I’m going to squirt lukewarm water up my backside. 

Craaaaaaaaap, indeed.