Yesterday I found myself standing in line behind a tall white woman in her fifties and I couldn’t help but wonder what her story was.  She seemed sad while I watched her place a cream sweater with orange flecks on the counter as the cashier folded the lacy blouse that had already been emptied from her cart.  The woman unloaded a few more items and put them in front of the cashier, but I don’t remember what they were.

As I stood there holding my soon to be new exercise apparatus, I thought about my own story and journey.  Embarking upon life is no small venture.  Every day billions of lives are swirling around us, bumping - pushing - jabbing into us - creating a sort of wild dance as we waltz towards our destination - wherever that is.  Someone somewhere once said that the journey is the destination, and though I realize the wisdom in this, I still can’t help but ask “Are we there yet?” Because damn it, I want to arrive - sporting bells - and a pointy bra with tassels.

If it is possible for someone’s head to explode, mine will.  I’ve reached critical mass.  The world better be ready for bits of tissue to fly out of my skull and thwack it somewhere between a right elbow and a left eyebrow.  I know there are a certain things that must be accomplished with my life and lucky me - I’m so far behind I’ll never die.

Even with an exploded head.

Most people had to grow into their ears.  I, on the other hand, had to grow into my teeth.  I grew up thinking my name was “fpptt fpttt” because everyone who was anyone always tucked their lower lip snugly under their two front teeth while making silly rabbit sounds whenever they addressed me.  Bugs Bunny was my hero, so I didn’t mind that much.  Well, O.K. after about 12 years it started to get a little old, so I learned how to hold my jaw just right so that my teeth didn’t bump into everything in front of me.

They say childhood is bliss.  I say childhood is the reason psychiatrists drive shiny new BMW’s.  It is really too bad children aren’t born with an owner’s manual including specific oil changing directions.  Somehow anti-freeze was mistakenly poured into my carburetor and I’ve been misfiring ever since.  Have I dealt with it all?  Of course - and I must admit, sometimes I even like my little quirks.  After all, wasn’t your favorite car the one you had to kick the left rear tire three times and touch the steering wheel with your right pinky toe while saying three “hail AMC Hornets painted green” before she would fire up in the morning?

I was tagged by this bitch, and damn if I wasn’t avoiding posting in here.  I was procrastobating so well, too.

The rules: The tagged victim lists 8 different points of their perfect lover/partner, mentioning the gender of said partner.

Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on a post letting them know they’ve been tagged. If tagged before, no need to contribute.

My perfect lover:

1. He believes in me.

2. He is my bestest cheerleader.

3. He inspires me.

4. He is brilliant!

5. His world view is simply amazing.

6. He is sexy.

7. He loves critters, especially horses.

8. He loves me with every cell in his body.

Tagged:  If you read this and need another meme for your blog, consider yourself tagged.

(Originally written 12/12/04)

Smug with himself, the creature I call my boy emerged from the toxic waste area he considers to be his bedroom. Apparently he felt the urge to gloat about the new calluses he formed on his fingers from practicing the guitar.

"Mom! Check it out.” The Child shoved his fingers in my face. “Feel my fingers. It doesn’t hurt to play.”

I stared at his fingers and then felt the tips. Sure enough they were rough and tough.

“That is fantastic. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, I’ve been playing a lot. My fingers feel really weird… like when I pick my nose...”

And to think I gave birth to such genius.