Friday, June 26, 2015
Sunday, June 14, 2015
I swear to Hip Hop Jesus that coming back to live with my parents is going to "kilt me dead!"
I've been up since before 7am, something I don't even do for work. Although I hear their morning noises, water running, shuffling of dishes, vegetables being chopped, it's been silent all morning, not like The Silver Fox's normal marching band routine. They even leave for an hour, while I'm studying.
However, as I am preparing to get on the phone for this interview, a homework assignment, the marching band begins.
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhooooooooooohhhhhhhhahw!" The Silver Fox howls at my Dad outside who is weed whacking.
She turns on the Motown/Doo-Wop music channel loud enough so that she can hear it throughout the house as she dusts. "It's in his kiss..." She sings outside my bedroom door.
The clock is counting down closer to 10 when I have scheduled this call.
She's quiet. Just like a child, that's usually a bad thing.
Then I hear it. The wheels are squeaking as they rotate on the hardwood floors. The joints of the machine creak. The cords, still wound in a circle, but unraveled from the machine lands on the floor with a thank-type noise. It's not a thud.
The plug is inserted in the wall, the engine revs and she is howling with the vacuum.
It's 10 o'clock. The vacuum is running, like a drunk driver she is banging into furniture and walls, and she's singing with the music.
I gather my belongings together to sneak out to my office, aka my car. It's the only silent place I can go to conduct business. But with the eyes in the back of her head she sees me, "Where do you think you're going?"
"I have to conduct an interview for school."
It's the only acceptable answer I can give her to get me out if the house. And just like that I'm 17 again asking for permission to leave.
Last weekend I attended the Memphis Punk Fest. On Friday I was making my rounds and saying hello to all of the familiar faces. One of the musicians I know introduced me to his new bandmate, "This is The Press, be nice to her."
No name, just "The Press, "which would be a fantastic nickname if I were a wrestler. But there I was standing in disbelief. I thought y'all were nice to me because I follow the Golden Rule and of course my charming personality and not to mention good looks.
Look y'all, I've been real distracted this week and I've neglected to do my laundry. But if this last pair of granny panties (before I have to only wear the sexy ones) slides off my hips and halfway down my thighs one more damn time I'm going to step straight out of them and keep walking.
Earlier this week I had a hunk of skin removed from my body leaving raw meat in its place. I guess it's true what Bridget Jones says about single women over 30, "underneath my clothes, my entire body is covered in scales"
This morning I came out of the shower and I asked The Silver Fox if she would please apply the bandage to that spot. I can see it in the mirror, I just can't shift my body parts and reach it with my T-Rex arms all at the same time.
I hand her the prepared Band-Aid. She cannot see the hole on my body that reveals the raw meat. When she finally sees it she wastes no time in applying the Band-Aid. She's not gentle as you might expect from her experience and years of mothering. I imagined we would have a tv commercial moment, she'd gently smooth on the Band-Aid and probably say something like, "You should probably get this one looked at too." Nope. She slaps the Band-Aid on like it's a price tag. But it won't lay smoothly across my body so she keeps slapping it. Then she wants to rip it off to start over! I don't quite think she grabs the concept of needing a Band-Aid as a protection for an open wound.
This morning as I was getting dressed I put my fingernail straight through the fabric of my panties. I wore 'em anyway in the thoughts that I can throw them away after wearing them.#disposablelaundry
As I'm making my hour long commute to work, this is exactly how my thought process played out as I remembered, "Shit! I've got a dermatology appointment today that will have me in a paper gown. He'll see my tattered panties. Oh well, fuck it.! Last week I had a nip slip in front of him. I'm sure he can handle some Sunday panties."