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| Wednesday, November 04, 2009 |
| Gaaaaaaaaaarumph! Sigh. |
Gasping and twisting, tearing off her too warm covers.. she dumps herself with a thud off the side of the bed. She finds her knees, peaking up over the side, he still snores. She illuminates her cell phone. "Good Grady, six o'clock." There is a strange loud siren issuing from the kitchen. She half crawls to the door, pulling herself up by the handle. Halfway down the hall she knocks at her son's door.. he pops his head out from under the covers, blinded and swollen eyed."Is that your alarm?" He shuffles out the door to the kitchen. Its his cell phone. She scratches her head, turns and waddles down the hall, pausing to wake up the other two. She crawls back to bed, drifting, drifting, drifting... slipping off to sleep, her words following after. There is a shout outside her door, bringing her upright, and breaking her dreamy thought. She clambers once again (because clambering is what people do when they are in that state of half sleep) through the door and into the hallway. Her younger two boys are engaged in a wrestling match, interrupted, bulging eyes at the beast towering over them. "Sorry, mom," "Sorry." They both jump to resume readying for school. STOMP STOMP STOMP her feet carry her down the hall once again. She prepares coffee with one eye open, then frumpily slumps on the corner of the couch to wait. The boys are ready, they come and hug her about the neck on their merry way to school.
She pours the cream, noting its almost empty, adds a tibbit of sugar.. not much as she isn't big on the sweet, and dumps coffee into her mug. It splashes her robe a bit, but she doesn't take much notice.. a housecoat is a housecoat.. when else will it become dirty if not in the house where it is worn? She settles herself at the computer, checking email, catching up on the news of the weird, wild and furry. Then posts a bit. Information for clientele. Interesting information at that.
She enjoys her coffee while listening to soft bits of violin and piano issue from the speakers. She finds her spirits lifted and emboldened and lifted, thinking to herself how much she love love loves coffee. She pours another cup, contemplating her carpet. No one has vaccuumed in a bit. Apparently the vaccuum is broken. She would see about that vaccuum today. Looking around, its as if she is looking into the world of another being. She sees the big bruise on the lateral dorsal portion of her right foot and wonders.. what happened there... She sees beheaded action figures lying splayed on the couch cushions, the jenga pieces built castle high, the overflowing trash can, the crumbs idle on her countertops. It is all too embarrassing when someone arrives in a strange place to find it filthy and no longer wish to dine or have coffee, but to wake up in that place, realizing it is your own.. strange dose of reality.
She is on her feet, in her bedroom, pulling on brazier, pants, shirt and socks, she is pulling the vaccuum out of the water cupboard. She is unscrewing, unleashing, de-dusting, and emptying the dirtbunnies from its winding tubes, its wheels and cogs. She replaces the belt and washes the collector cup. She replaces its filter, once yellow, now dingy scary gray. She walks to the store picking multi purpose cleaner, coffee creamer, squishy body sponges, body wash and carpet freshener daintily off shelves, humming a bit as she goes. The air is crisp, clean, citrus, fresh cut watermelon. She is bouncing in her shoes. Inspiration upon her. She wants to hand flowers to people at random.. gerber daisies, roses, baby's breath. She wants to smile at the crotchety, the angry, maligned and miserable. It is decidedly beautiful, decidedly wonderful.. and the very air smells of it.
Home she arrives, and he is awake. She makes him coffee, carefully percolates it on the stove. He is in the shower when she delivers the first hot steaming cup. She draws her eyebrows, lines her eyes, moistens her lips and shakes out her hair. She selects an outfit, a little haphazard.. black shirt, blue jeans, hoodie, sneakers.. mismatched socks. One is the color of melon.. the other hot pink. They both say 'no boundaries' in gray across the toe, she assumes this is enough. Taking her wallet, loading her phone with music for the walk, she meets him at the door. They speedwalk to the bus stop. Speed walk for her, slow jaunt for him. They smoke and joke a bit. She is being contradictory, overly bubbly, and he is annoyed but doesnt let it show. They board the bus.
There is a man, so excited about the details of a game. Someone slam dunked over the top of someone else and it was really something when you think of the size of that guy. She sighs and looks out the window. There is a heater vent near her leg blowing hot relentless devils breath into her face. She likes the adventure, but the bus makes her anxious. Along they ride, quiet. Not really conversing so much. She points out some houses that have been up for rent for months. Houses she thinks they could find happiness in. Perhaps. If they dig.
They are at the bus stop. He tells her of the times he has to walk along the dirtpath when it is full of water. She feels upset about this, because she just really wants him to buy some good shoes, but he won't. He never will.
She walks with him all the way to his workplace. They chat. He has to clock in, they hug and kiss, then he is gone. She puts her giant head phones on. She listens to the happy strum of guitar, the sweet words of love, the tapping of the drum and smiles softly. She passes a woman wearing a tie died shirt, saturating the world with patchouli, cough. She sees a bent geriatric woman being gently extracted from a car by a bent geriatric fellow. They are both smiling and giggling. She sees a huge sea bird. A gull? It eats french fries from the parking lot next to Sonic. She shops and walks and walks and shops. There is an unexpected marsh. She has driven through here so many many times.. never having seen it. So she sits in the grass, watches the water sparkle along through the brambles, the weeds, the cat tails, her back to the wall of traffic the wall of humanity.
Her feet take her from shop to shop. There is a nice woman, wanting so badly for her to buy something. The woman suggests little jackets and courderoy pants, the woman suggests large print flower skirts, and shirts that flap funny about the armpit.
She smiles, turns, she wishes she were younger, fairer, richer, something.. something.. something else. Then she goes. She leaves it there, behind her. She doesn't need to compete.
Eventually her feet bring her home. She scrubs, she cleans, alongside her little men. She cooks them pear cinnamon pancakes, eggs and bacon for dinner. She tells them she is going back to work. She tells them she needs to find a job, that they are going to need to be more responsible. They listen seriously, then one begins to cry. He thinks she is going away. That she is not coming home ever again, she feels terrible, not really knowing how he came to such a deduction. She cradles his little bird-like body, cooing and shushing. Its okay little monkey its okay. She explains that her job will be for a certain number of hours a day, that it will mean she will not be home for those hours, but she will be home, she will be home, she will be home... every every day.
They load the dishwasher. They play Jenga. They shower and rest their heads.
She realizes suddenly she forgot about the flowers. She forgot the random people. She blew it off.
Gaaaaaaarumph! Sigh. |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 5:08 PM  |
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