|
By Misti Date: 2002 Jun 07 Comment on this Work [[2002.06.07.17.27.18722]] |
|
I. The women I've known who collect angels boast immaculate households and live their lives along the traditional Western lines safely ensconced in their twittering nests are not exactly angelic. If angelic means long-suffering, without ego, overfilled with love & goodness, they ain't it. Sure, they wear angelic masks and have read all the Chicken Soup for the Soul books but they are harsh- abrasive, even- no one you would want to tangle (or tango) with. They invite me to church and Mary Kay parties sometimes but I always politely decline. I don't collect angels. I collect PEZ dispensers and refrigerator magnets. The only time I can boast an immaculate household is whenever I'm expecting company. Even then, the closets are stuffed with books and magazines and clothes that are usually piled up on the floor/furniture. There is nothing traditional or safe about my life. I am married but I am not smug, bloated with self-satisfaction. I cannot conjur up fantasies that involve owning at least one SUV and a cell phone that plays "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and being Mommy to any amount of kids. I don't go to church. I don't go anywhere. I drive around in sloppy circles. Sometimes I shop for used books and new magazines and junk that only costs a dollar. I don't feel superior to women who collect angels. I love at least a couple of women who collect angels. What comforts/dazzles them bores/repulses me and vice versa. I have no social skills to speak of and I can't stop crying. I don't know much at all. II. Today I got paid to sit in the blazing high desert sun and supervise three and four-year olds splashing around in a public kiddie pool. The smell of sunscreen/chlorine, the women with a wide variety of bodies (none of them miserable or self-conscious, even in their bargain bin bathing suits), the laughing white cloud blue sky, the blaring radio, the glistening life-guards, the guy with the tattoo on each bicep and the sexy goatee, made me wish I had worn a bikini instead of black capri pants and my favorite black with bright tropical flowers rayon shirt. I wanted to splash around and pretend like I was a mermaid. I wanted to feel five again. I wanted to float. Andrew Minelli, my favorite four year-old, sat down beside me on the bench and said,"Well, Wendy, I took care of it." "Why am I Wendy, all of a sudden? Are you Peter Pan? And what did you take care of?" I asked. "I'm a life-guard, actually. And you're Wendy. I just saved another swimmer." When we got back to Angelito's, the childcare center, the owner was pissed because one of the little boys couldn't find his yellow rocket t-shirt. I didn't know where it was. "This isn't brain surgery," she snapped. Gina (pronounced JENNA) collects angels. Angelito's is lousy with angels and cliched Southwest pastel hell decor. III. Another Friday night to spend alone. Oh, the possibilities are endless. I could drive to 7-Eleven and buy a Cherry Slurpee. Or I could go to Wal-Mart and browse the toy and electronics aisles. I could buy three or four miniature bottles of Jack Daniels and throw them back in the dark listening to my Otis Redding and Billie Holiday cds. Or I could do something gutsy and life-affirming like go see a movie alone. Or I could do something brazen and celebratory like go to a pub alone. One ice-cold Tecate with salt to lick and a lime to suck should do the trick. And of course I'd play three songs on the jukebox...I love how they let you choose three songs for a buck. That's so benevolent. Like Buy One Get One Free. Benevolence abounds. I don't think any men would bother me. I have this trusty, rusty psychic shield emblazoned with Fuck Off! Whatever is Wrong With Me Certainly Can't Be Fixed By the Likes of You! The silver claddagh on my ring finger isn't enough. But paired with the psychic shield...I'm all set. IV. My heart is breaking. Splintering. There is nothing clean or quick about it. There is a minor volcano rumbling inside. Something ravenous that is begging to be fed. Domesticity can't juice the electricity I need to feel coursing through/shocking the blue melancholy away with Hey! Everyday! A new play with three acts. Drama...mystery...adventure. Passion with the attendant pain. As it turns out, love&marriage/a steady supply of legal, sanctioned sex/new lipstick every weekend/Las Vegas plans are not enough to sate the natural disaster that is me. V. Like any rock star, I need constant adoration and validation. I need escape. Like the Pina Colada song. I need an ocean. I need a raft. I need temporary solitude then a bestselling book about the experience. I need to feed starving mouths because starving mouths never snap at you and make you feel like you are hopelessly retarded. I need one sweet dream to come true just one more time. I need to find a way to freeze time and travel through it like a spastic voyager/ voyeur. I need to take a hammer to this computer but it is not mine to smash. |