The One with the Hand Truck

Several years ago, while driving on Second Avenue, J had to dodge a tire thrown from an overpass. It was a slightly surreal experience, watching the tire bouncing down the road, traffic at a standstill until it stopped moving, exchanging puzzled looks with our neighbor in the next lane over.

Tonight, while driving back from my dinner date with TA, I experienced my second encounter with an item that should-not-be-on-the-road in the form of a hand truck (illustration approximate. Your hand truck may vary in appearance). Unlike the tire, it rolled across the road from the left, hit the front end of my hastily stopped car with a crash and a bang, bounced off the vehicle and into traffic on my right.

To quote TA, happily sitting unaware in his seat, “Whoa. That was loud!”

And completely infuriating, as I had agreed this week to trade in the car that was just HIT BY THE HAND TRUCK.

Changing IV

I’m home with a migraine today, a malady that I am experiencing with increasing periodic (literally) frequency as my body shifts from post-pregnancy back into menopausal mode. The massive mood swings, increase in pre-period of migraines, erratic timing and cramps from hell make me long for the days when I would only wake up drenched in sweat and shivering.

The migraines have also changed, making it more difficult to detect when one is coming. This morning I discovered a new symptom – gag level sensitivity to phantom-like odors, which began at 5:40am when I J, freshly shampooed, leaned over to cuddle me for a moment. In my semi-coherent state I was unable to effectively communicate to him why I could not get away from him fast enough.

Only to pick up the odor again as I sat up in bed, as we use the same shampoo and the smell still lingered in my hair. I did not catch on when I stepped out of the shower and found myself wondering why things seemed to far away. It was only upon attempting to dress and realizing that I was becoming nauseated and incapable of choosing a shirt that I realized that I was about to be in a world of pain unless I took my medication immediately.

I took the medication. Comforted TA, who was angry about being forced to wear pants, then angry because he wanted to take a Dr. Seuss book in for show and tell (theme: seasons) instead of The Snowy Day. We settled on Ten Apples up On Top, which I thought could be stretched as a “fall” kind of book, because otherwise how would the characters have access to so many apples?

J and TA left, and I settled into a dark room and contemplated my life. The awfulness of the mood swings, which leave me feeling depressed and lonely. Last night I planned on going out and running some errands – except that I had no place to go and no one to meet. I ended up coming home and hiding in the bedroom while J and TA played downstairs. I find myself missing my former best friend and fighting the urge to reach out to her, even though I know it is for the best that we are not in contact any longer.

I hate this. I have limited options on how to alleviate the symptoms and none of them are really great. I can’t imagine going through 10+ years of this shit.

Fidget

I went to a second Friend’s Meeting today. The vibe in the room was much different today. A restless and impatient feeling in the air. A woman sitting across the aisle from me kept fidgeting – shifting her weight, moving her legs, changing positions in her chair. I’m not sure if she was the source or another victim, but listening to her move around made it difficult for me to concentrate and I found myself fidgeting as well.

Still, it was strange to hear people stand and talk about the things that I hear in my head but cannot speak with my tongue. One man talked about the Quaker belief that all are called to the priesthood, even those who feel unworthy or unsuitable. To be a Friend is to commit one’s self to it fully, 24/7. A second man spoke of dealing with the deep feelings of anger he had experienced over the past few weeks, anger at feeling manipulated by politicians trying to play on his and other’s fears, drowning out the still small voice inside.

The atmosphere in the room calmed considerably after the second speech, and brightened as the children returned from First Day School.

I did not stay for the meal. I lost my nerve and my courage and slipped out after drinking a glass of water. I felt foolish – there was lunch and an ice cream social to welcome new visitors and I knew I should stay and try to talk to people. But something in my head froze and my confidence left me.

Dear Maserati Man

J and I will never be beautiful people, but neither one of us needs to drive a $142,800 car with a custom brown paint job to compensate for our averageness.

You sir, on the other hand, will never be anything other that ugly inside and out. Years from now we will still be laughing in amazement over your choice to create a lane at the intersection of East Carson and Birmingham Bridge, flip us off and run the red light.

I hope that car of yours keeps you warm at night.

Ghost Home

The first feature I see as I walk into the kitchen is the old cabinets. The hardware is different – original latches painted white instead of the bronze-toned window latches J installed to keep ours closed. The cabinets are slightly askew and the shelves are dusty and dirty.

I turn to my left and see my old sink. A double instead of a single, but it is the same heavy, white metal sink with ridged drain boards on each side. The cabinetry is the same off white metal. I’m certain that if I opened a drawer, it would balk and give a rusty screech before opening, and close with a heavy, clanging thud.

The sound of my footsteps as I walk the wooden floors through the high ceilinged rooms is familiar.  The parlor has a large area of untreated wood in the center, where a rug would have lain. The mantel and tile in this room are the same as my former home, the dark wood and mirror glass contrasting with the mottled-bottle green tile of the fireplace. The mirror is oval instead of square.

One wall of the entrance is paneled floor to ceiling in dark wood. A loveseat is built underneath a window opposite. The banister is square, the pegs turned.

Upstairs, I see my old home continue in the wavy glass, the heavy wooden frames and doors. The ratty carpeting muffles my footsteps. I have no doubt that if the carpeting was stripped away, the sound of walking through the rooms of the second floor would echo too. A half dismantled kitchen stands in one room, the remnants of a time when the place was split into apartments.

This is not my house. The rooms are right angles instead of hexagon curves. The structure is brick instead of vinyl over wood frame. The basement is slab instead of dirt, with the same cement footprint from a long discarded oversized furnace in the middle of the room. The bathrooms are woefully out of date, the basement needs rebuilt, the windows need replaced.

On the way home, J talks about potential, how confident he is that he could bring the place back to life. He feels the same resonance as I, the same sense of familiarity that comes from walking back into a place that you truly loved and called home. We have the money and skills this time around to do it right, he argues.

I say no, that it is too much work, with a young child. J is working as a contractor and doesn’t have the illusion of a safety net that comes with full-time employment. I make enough to cover our bills if he should become unemployed, but just enough.

Still, even if it is just memory, this is my house. Standing large and high on top of a hill, with a view of the country below, wild and overgrown landscaping, a detached garage with poorly hung doors.