18 March 2010

Party O'clock Has Come and Gone

Guess what? In the past two weeks I have strapped myself to a rocket and tapped into the most proactive phase of my life to date. How?

Two words: fuck it.

Case in point: The other night I decided that I might do some high kicks and try to touch the archway separating the living and dining room with my foot. In my socks. Standing on a hardwood floor. While holding my third Bloody Mary. I managed to call myself a dumb shit before I hit the floor. I also managed to forget the whole thing by the next day when I put the full weight of my left side on my bruised elbow. But my toes almost made it. And you can barely see the bruise.

Ok, that isn’t the most slellar example of what I’m getting at. There are other things, better things, secret things happening to me, but none of these involve me getting hurt, so the entertainment value just plummets. They do involve my acting foolishly, illogically, and honestly, after sending my cynicism and expectations on a Sandals vacation together. Who knew they’d get along so well…I haven’t received so much as a text. Poof. Gone. Like Magic.

My job had to get the boot, too. Like that one drunken friend who overstays his welcome at your house party, I had to call a cab and send him on his way. Ok, so I pawned him off on someone else, but I wasn’t about to drive him home. He’s a sloppy mess and I hate his laugh. And he left the bathroom a ruin.

So I guess my rocket-ride has arisen from a lesson in entertaining company and gracefully bowing out when the time comes. A true hostess knows when and how to end an engagement. She simply says, “Fuck it”. And then she finds some new company, some fresh faces. “Oh I just met this darling couple from New York”, or “Yes, there’s a man from Kentucky who’ll be calling soon”, or “Oh yes, I’m meeting someone just in from Michigan”. Those old party ghosts are replaced with real people, with verve for God’s sake.

I’m not going to worry about what doesn’t work right now, and I’m not going to keep turning around to make sure every step makes sense. I’m going to show everyone the door. Then I’m going to give away all of the bullshit I don’t need. Then I’m going to gather what I can carry and keep going. And my toes are going to hit that mother-fucking archway.

08 March 2010

We're Not Working in Kansas Anymore.

Today was my first day of semi-employment. I woke up with possibility laid at my feet. I was almost overwhelmed with joy by all of the loads of laundry I could do, the things to get at Target, the Paula Deen reruns!

This was at 8:00am. By 11:40am, most of this had receded deep into the horizon, perhaps never to be seen again.

I took the dog for a walk. I came home. I made breakfast. I started editing a few short video projects for work. I opened some mail. I could already feel the momentum waning.

During a brief break, I stepped out onto the front porch. Tula snuck out with me and immediately ran into the backyard (she likes to check in on our neighbor's dog and his gigantic, often full food bowl, which she can lie down in).

I sat on the ledge and looked across the street at a chain link fence separating two houses. There was a child gripping the fence on one side, almost hanging off of it.

Tula came running back into the front yard, stared at me, read my desire to get her back into the house, and disappeared again.

When I turned back to the fence, the kid on the fence was no longer a kid. It was a black hooded sweatshirt. Whether placed, flung, or blown, it was draped so that each sleeve was spread out in an eerily natural pose. I saw it for the flimsy stand-in it was because a bit of a breeze had begun to batter it back and forth.

I yelled out for the dog-a strong, clipped plea across another gust. She came around the bend towards the door and I shooed her in the rest of the way. I dove in and locked the door behind me. I'm sure that if I'd had a wide and floppy sun hat on, it would have been torn off of my head and clutched to my breast.

That was hours and hours ago. It's 9:20pm now. The wind has long since gone. Wherever that little boy by the fence went, he took the rest of my day with him. And all he left me was a raggedy old sweatshirt caught in a dust devil.