Monday, April 29, 2013

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 22


The next day, fully restored to sanity, I march straight to my desk, open the journal, and stare at the drawing. The page begins to darken, as if I’m rapidly approaching a tunnel.  I blink several times and the tunnel disappears. But as I continue to stare at the drawing, the distance between the two of us seems to lengthen. I lower my head to focus better. Hmm . . . the drawing now appears to be disappearing down a rabbit hole; sort of like swirling water flowing toward a shrinking drain.
I float my bum into the chair, bend my head over the drawing to the point my nose is practically pasted to the page, and fill out the incompleted circle. Not one scintilla of emotion do I feel. Afterward, I dress, get the kids off to school, and run my errands for the day.
In the past week or so, I’ve been able to get out and drive to wherever I needed to go without any problems. But today’s driving doesn’t go as well. For the first time, I notice I’m slow to react to things like light changes, and stop signs. As in, I don’t move. Horns honk at me. In the parking lot of the grocery store, I drive around in circles trying to decide where to park. I pull in one spot, change my mind and pull out of it. I do this for about ten minutes. In the store, I randomly put items in the basket until I fill it up. When I go to check out, I get in line, stare at the items in the basket, and realize half of it's junk. Seriously annoyed with me, I abruptly abandon the cart, leave the store and head for home. To an empty refrigerator. Just great, Liz.
At home, I tackle the mundane task of washing the dishes. I giggle as I remember a commercial that used to fascinate me as a little girl. It featured the dishwashing detergent, “Joy.” A Katie Couric lookalike without the brains, is elbow deep in yellow gloves and soapy water. With one swipe of the sponge, her butt ugly pots and pans rise out of soapy water looking brand spanking new. You can even see the makeup lines of Miss PerkyPie’s face reflect off the silvery bottom of the fry pan. Then she flashes a dazzling smile to beat the strength of ten suns.
Maybe I can be a Miss PerkyPie, too. Let's try it. But alas, when I swipe the blackened-bottoms of my pots and pans, they stay that way. Even worse, my dazzling smile to beat the strength of ten suns? Would cause a baby to howl worse than a werewolf caught in a lunar eclipse. I cackle at my silliness. Ok, Liz, remove head from ass, and stay in the present. A few seconds later, “You hear me girl?”   Fear slices through my heart decapitating everything in its path, the life-blood of my being! I drop a piece of glass. It shatters into a few thousand shards of crystal shower, spraying matter helter skelter, and hither and yonder. Dropping to one knee, I stare numbly at the reflections of glass winking up at me from my tennis shoes.
“Like your damn life now, huh, Lizzie? He, he, he . . .”
I reach down and pick up the larger pieces of broken glass, paying no heed to the sharp edges as I toss them into the trash. Teardrops of blood follow my every movement. Drip, drip, drip.  And the more I wipe, the more I drip. I can't keep up! Panicked, I dip crimson fingers into soapy pan water, and begin to scrub. It isn't long before I don my Mother Goose hat.
Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub, and who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Turn them out, knaves all three.