Daily Diatribes

I have gotten out of the habit of writing and it hurts. Sometimes I feel the desire to write pulsing beneath my skin, my observations on humanity crying out for release, begging to be shared with the world at large. Mexi-Mullets!! Bad Drivers!! Mary Kay salesmen!! They are all there in my head, dying to be poured into a blog. Why DIDN’T I write about the woman at church who approached the altar dressed in an outfit that would have made Julie from “The Love Boat” jealous?? Or what about me breaking the IPhone and the blender within twenty four hours?? I should have made the time. Well, dear readers, it’s not just a question of time management. I have allowed my obsession with Bejeweled Blitz to distract me from my writing. Well, that and my full-time class load and the mountains of laundry my family produces on a daily basis. Sometimes, it’s all too much!!

So, in an effort to re-connect, with myself and with my readers, I am going to share the trials I have endured this week. You’ll laugh! You’ll cry!! You’ll THANK GOD that you are not nearly as stupid as I am! And maybe…just maybe….you’ll come away with a new appreciation for those people who have a sense of direction and can manage NOT to get lost in a square block.

Tuesday was the first day of summer semester. Mind you, I took a class during the mini semester, so I never had a break. The mini class was “Introduction to Theatre” (and make sure you spell that THEATRE!!!) and although it wasn’t a difficult class, it met every single day for two and a half hours. By the end of the three weeks, I was barely capable of coherent thought; it nearly broke my spirit. I had a whopping FOUR DAYS OFF and then started classes again yesterday, albeit in slightly better spirits because I am taking graduate classes again. The theatre thing was very humbling because I was by far the oldest student in the room. The professor kept inviting us to “PLAY”, because that’s what theatre is about, but it’s kind of hard to “PLAY” with people who could have watched “Blue’s Clues” with my own children. I felt a lot ridiculous. Although I did write one hell of a ten minute play about one student’s quest for the last gallon of milk. I heard Steven Spielberg is trying to option the production rights…

So while I enjoyed the class, it was a relief to get back into upper level classes with people who were closer to my age, 24 and 25 year olds. You see, I have developed a coping mechanism to ease my fears about going back to school. I am 41 years old, but I FEEL ten years younger, which makes me 31; therefore I am really only seven years older than most of my new college friends. That’s the great thing about being an English major: you can spin anything!! Actually, in the Master’s program, I am in the middle as far as age goes. There are twenty somethings and there are fifty somethings. As a forty something, I am neither the oldest nor the youngest, which suits me just fine.

Ok, back to the first day of class. Before going to class, I had to take Napoleon to the doctor for a recheck. He tore his ACL a few months ago (did I tell y’all that???) and he is still under the orthopedist’s care. This is a major pain in the rear for me because the doctor practices out of a hospital downtown and Napoleon does not like to drive downtown alone. I guess it’s because he’s my oldest, so he’s very cautious, or maybe it’s just his father’s genetic material, but the boy will NOT drive downtown alone. Stalin shares that aversion for the metro area, having taken a solemn oath to never cross the Shelby county line; after all, everything we need is in Shelby County! Why go anywhere else? Unfortunately, the hospitals disagree and they are all located downtown, in Jefferson county. Since Stalin has the paying job, it fell to me to take the boy to the hospital.

I got up early, made myself super-cute for my first day of class, and then Napoleon and I struck out for points North. Actually, that part was pretty uneventful. I did get the orthopedist to lecture the idiot child, telling him why playing soccer when you’re two months post-op from ACL surgery was a bad idea. On our way home, I called and made him a doctor’s appointment for that afternoon, because he needed a physical, and I reminded him he had ACT tutoring at 4:00; these were places he could drive himself to. I dropped him off in the driveway at home, then turned around and headed downtown for school, mentally congratulating myself for my efficiency. I arrived to class in plenty of time, and greeted old friends. The class was fine, but the professor kept us for the full two hours, and just as class ended, the skies opened up and it began to pour.

I’m not just talking about a summer drizzle. No, this was akin to the monsoons that sweep across China, or wherever it is monsoons sweep through. Rain was coming down in sheets and blankets and down-filled comforters, and naturally, I had no umbrella. Looked super-cute though!! With dread, I approached the door leading outside, stood for a moment staring at the downpour, then placing my backpack over my head, I rushed out into the deluge. Stoically, I trudged toward my car; no point in running while wearing flip-flops because that’s a recipe for a broken leg and traction. One of the many great things about UAB is that it floods immediately. In places, the water was already ankle deep. By the time I got to the car, I was drenched. Well, my head was dry, thanks to the backpack, but the super-cute outfit was soggy and dripping.

I sat in the car for a moment to compose myself, then roared away. The rain was still coming down very hard and driving was white-knuckle, since visibility was almost non-existent. It was while I was attempting to navigagte in these treacherous conditions that my phone rang. I saw that it was a call from home, so I answered it.

“Mom, my truck won’t start,” Napoleon told me.

“What do you mean it won’t start?” I asked, trying to see the taillights in front of me through the driving rain.

“It won’t start,” he repeated.

“Did you get gas?” I asked.

“No, I told you I don’t have any MONEY!” he said.

“WHAT??” I screeched. “Your father has been telling you for three days to put ten dollars worth in; you have that much in your account!! Why didn’t you do it when you went to the doctor’s office?”

He muttered something incoherent. “I’ll be home in a few minutes,” I snapped. “Tell MA to get ready for soccer and you better be ready to go when I pull up.”

I hung up and tried to concentrate on driving, but I was seething. It was already after 3, so we would be scrambling to get there on time. This was not how my afternoon was supposed to play out. Idiot child. I roared up the driveway, everyone got in the car and we roared away again. I immediately launched into a screaming session about the truck.

“I just don’t understand WHY you didn’t fill it up when you went for your physical!!!” I screeched.

“I didn’t GO for the physical today,” Napoleon said. “It’s tomorrow!”

Reader, my eyes rolled back into my head. His life flashed before my eyes as I contemplated ending it right there. I’m not proud of the way I handled it, but some moments defy self-control.

“WHAT THE *^*&%&^( DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T GO TO THE (^()#&)$*#)$*%*(^&(*& DOCTOR????????” Really, mere written words cannot adequately capture the depths of my rage.

“You told me it was tomorrow,” he said.

“NO…I….DIDN’T,” I panted, using heroic strength not to throttle the life from his body right then and there. “You HEARD me make the appointment and I TOLD you what time it was at!!!”

“Well, I thought it was tomorrow!”

Here I was, super-cute outfit drenched, make-up running, tense from having been in the car driving all day, and now THIS???? I could actually feel my blood pressure escalating into the danger zone. It was like a little cartoon playing in my head; I could see my heart pumping harder and harder and the needle edging up into DANGER: HEART ATTACK IMMINENT!!! Muttering, I called the doctor’s office back, apologized profusely to the receptionist, Jessica, (who loves me!! and I love her!!) and made him a new appointment. Then I concentrated on making it to the library in Mountain Brook, where the ACT tutor was waiting.

Fortunately I have a GPS, so I just entered the coordinates and followed the directions. But let me tell you something about the city of Birmingham: all the rich people huddle together in one little suburb together and defend it with their lives. Sorry my Mountain Brook friends, but you do! Imagine a fortress of old, complete with moat and turrets; that’s not really what Mountain Brook is like!! Instead, it has tiny, narrow streets and NO street signs, a feature which functions like a modern moat. Because if you don’t live there, they don’t want you to know where you’re going. You might get comfortable and decide to overstay your welcome. The city is designed to repel intruders; all streets lead AWAY from it. The fact that I drive a Ford was a further indictment of my character; I pointed out to my children that all the Fords we passed were coming OUT of the city. It was clear that we did NOT belong.

Anyway, the GPS got us within range of the library and that’s where the trouble started. Because I didn’t SEE a library. I turned where the GPS told us to turn and it took us down a narrow, residential street. Frantically I turned around before someone called the cops to report the strange Ford driven by the wet, stringy-haired, white lady with wild eyes. We drove back up toward the Main Street and tried to follow the GPS but there was NO library. I drove around the block two or three times, searching in vain for any building that looked like it might house books, but they all looked the same to me. And there were NO SIGNS!! Because frankly if you don’t know which one is the library, you clearly don’t have any business being there!!

As we passed the political polling area for the third time, I started to roll down my window. “NO MOM,” my kids shrieked. “Don’t you DARE ask for directions!!!!”

“What?” I asked innocently. “I was jest gonna axe ‘em ‘Hey!! Where y’all keep that ol’ LIBERRY??” We all started giggling because I was too pissed off to scream anymore. Finally, in great desperation, I called my dear friend Larry. He lives in the fair city of Mountain Brook and had agreed to pick up MA for soccer practice….if we ever FOUND the damn library.

“Larry,” I said when he answered, “WHERE IN THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE KEEP YOUR DAMN LIBRARY??????”

“Where are you?” he asked.

I described my location and he started giving me directions. I finally pulled into a lot and he said “Now you should see a brown, Tudor-style building to your right.”

“Larry,” I said with great patience, “I don’t KNOW what Tudor-style means. What I KNOW is that to my right is a brown building with yellow, pokey-outy, sides. Is THAT what you mean???” In Shelby County, we don’t say crap like “Tudor-style”; we say things like ‘it’s that building right there next to the restaurant that serves the all-you-can-eat catfish buffet with those hushpuppies that would make your Maw-Maw cry!!!!’

Larry thought about it for a minute and then said “Yeah…yeah….I see what you mean. Yep, it’s the one with the ‘yellow, pokey-outy sides’. That’s the library!!”

I thanked him profusely, nearly sobbing with relief, and we leapt out of the car and rushed toward the building. Only we couldn’t find the door. That was when I dropped the F-bomb. “Where in the F**K do these people keep the F***ING door???” My kids started howling, and I looked around nervously because I am willing to bet there was some sort of city ordinance against using the F word in public. We finally found the door and got Napoleon up to his tutor. MA and I went back out, because we had an hour to kill. As we walked around who should we bump into but LARRY, my knight in shining armor!! The one who helped me find the “TUDOR STYLE BUILDING” that housed the library. I started to throw myself into his arms, but I restrained myself since there is probably also a city ordinance about PDA’s. He took MA with him, since they were going to soccer practice, and I grabbed my Kindle and went into the library to read.

It was when Napoleon was done and we were walking toward the car that I noticed the big sign at the entrance of the lot in which I had parked: MUNICIPAL LOT; CITY VEHICLES ONLY; ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED. Napoleon guffawed: “oh man, mom, it would be SO FUNNY if your car got towed!!!” I stared at him; was he really so stupid he didn’t realize he was flirting with certain decapitation???? However, it was the one small break I caught that day. Apparently all the cops were busy keeping the voters in line and couldn’t be bothered to tow my Ford. We got in and drove away really quickly before they noticed their oversight.

And so the day ended without me having a heart attack, being arrested, or killing my children. I know you’re all jealous, but let me tell you, that’s just a day in the life!! Every day with me is a new adventure in incompetence and sheer ridiculousness. Luckily I will always have my sense of humor because, without that, I probably WOULD be dead!!