Chapter Afterstand up, dust off, and get moving

B__ and I got back together, or were never broken-up, depending on your preferred accounting method. We talked on the phone a good bit and got together to talk a couple times last week. She’d had a heart-to-heart with her sister, who recently married a divorcé, and it would seem that much perspective was gained. B__’s convinced she doesn’t need me to be able to love her back right away, doesn’t need me to be willing to remarry or have more kids. Her ability to make good on such big promises is questionable, but it does seem fair to let her try.

I know I had more going on than just my readiness to love again — namely an itch to scratch with the playing field, my wild oats, and the possibilities of being single. Not (I’ll say it again) that I need (or even much want) to sleep with a bunch of people, but c’mon, let’s not kid ourselves. If you’re lucky, you marry your one-and-only-true-love the first time around and it works. But if it doesn’t, the next time the narrative will probably read a lot more like a business plan than a fairy tale. That, or something from Letters to Penthouse.

May 8th was the two month mark, a milestone of moderate significance. __ is my birthday; I’m __. Also a milestone of moderate significance.

…

This morning I awoke from a dream:

K__ and I were in a car. She was driving. I think we may have been in San Francisco, but I didn’t know exactly. There is a city I recognize from my dreams. Perhaps, it is only my dream city.

She pulled to a stop at an intersection. She said something that in dream language translated to mean she wanted to get back together. Then she was in my arms, despite the physical complexities of such a transition in the front seat of a car. Not to mention the emotional complexities of such a transition in real life.

No sooner had it begun than we fell into arguing, yelling probably. The impossible ease of moving between extremes lent its own peculiar mood to the dream. I think the patrons of the cafe across the street may have heard us. I got out of the car, said something as nasty as I could think of, and sent her on her way. I didn’t have any idea where I was, but in a dream that’s ok because I didn’t have any idea where I was going or where I was supposed to be. I went to the cafe where I was (politely) asked what drove me to say such despicable things. I told my story and we drank and laughed, and a sidewalk full of strangers took my side.

…

My todo list grows (and grows after having already grown). If I am to become the badass I envision of myself, I need to be checking things off. Exercise has been non-existent for weeks except for the occasional trip to the park with I__ for soccer. The freelance projects I don’t have time for will soon be lost in the quickly rising weeds. My job is going pretty well, but only because I’m giving it a much higher proportion of time than it deserves. My apartment is (relatively) clean, but only with the threat of visitors — not insignificantly that imaginary Child Protective Services worker. There is grocery shopping to do, bills to be paid. And there are so many more things I have promised myself beyond what I have promised others.

I don’t make much secret of my contempt for the ridiculous ways in which modern humans are expected to conform in American culture. It’d be a wonder that I manage to stay out of prison except that I do, in fact, keep my nose clean and do what I’m told the vast majority of the time. We are all conditioned so thoroughly in what is and isn’t acceptable, it seems impossible to set that aside and treat it with any independent examination. And what good would it do? The rest of society labels you a deviant and marches on.

Today’s drama began after work today when I decided the responsible thing to do would be grocery shopping and cooking dinner rather than feeding my boy fast food. I had him all day today, and the moment we left the studio he fell asleep in the car. I stopped by the house to figure out what we’d need, and he didn’t wake up. I let him sleep in the drive. I poked my head in the fridge to see what we needed, came back and sat on the porch to let him catch a few more winks. He barely stirred. Off to the grocery store then, and when I pulled into my parking space and woke him up, he was nearly delirious and told me he wanted to stay in the car.

I don’t make a habit of this, but I’ve done it occasionally when I know I only need a few items. I’ve also woken him up and dragged his floppy, unwilling carcass through the store. I think I’m a pretty good judge of which choice leads to the most trouble in a given circumstance.

It was overcast, between 70 and 75 degrees, and the windows were down. No chance of heat stroke — there wasn’t even any solar gain coming off the asphalt.

I came back to my car to find a woman hovering there and I knew it was no coincidence. I reached for the door handle and she asked if this was my car. “Yes,” I sighed, “are you going to give me a hard time about leaving my child in the car?” I think she assumed someone so thoughtless was … thoughtless. She made me repeat myself. She told me she’d never seen anything like it and that she thought about calling Child Protective Services.

Two things immediately came to mind: 1) She looked to be about fifty years old and she seriously needed to get out more if she’d never seen anything like it. And 2) If she had any familiarity with child abduction statistics she’d be more concerned with lightning strikes or my family winning the lottery.

Unfortunately I chose to express those points in the same order they occured to me. I got the first out. “I just don’t know what to think. Well. I think you’re a dirty hippy.”

Touche, bitch. Them, as we say, is fightin’ words.

Never did I raise my voice, nor did I threaten to return her nose to her asshole from wence it so clearly had momentarily escaped. I moved on to point two, but I only got the first two words out before she was walking around my car, reading off the license plate, and repeating it to herself like some horrific mantra. I kept starting over, each time with a “Ma’am” and each time she’d say the plate number again, convinced I was just trying to throw her off remembering it.

I smiled and asked if she’d like my driver’s license as she dove for cover into her car.

I called K__ and got her take, and while she wasn’t thrilled, it wasn’t grounds for a child custody battle.

I really, really try to be civil with people, but I think there’s something about my demeanor that says, “you have fucked with the wrong person, and now I am going to rip your skull open and eat your brains raw, with my bare hands, right here for everyone to see. Perhaps it will serve as a warning to others.”

I’m not sure why, because I’ve never done this, eaten someone’s brains in public, but perhaps since I’m going to be treated that way regardless, I’ll start. (Mmm, brains).

As usual, I thought of my best retorts several minutes later. The more I thought on it, the more offensive the whole thing was: You think I’m such a horrible parent? Where the fuck were you when there were dirty diapers or a wet bed or a nightmare or fever or vomit or skinned knees or dinner to be made or laundry to be done or pre-school to pay for or ABCs to be taught? Where’s your sense of urgency about my parenting when there’s anything to be done besides have an uninvited opinion? Shouldn’t you be contributing to his college fund? When your kid (if you even have any) is still in therapy and living at home because he/she never learned to wipe their own ass, mine will be a rock-star millionaire because I taught him to be self-reliant and think for himself and take a tiny bit of responsibility.

I got into the car, and I__ said, “Daddy, I didn’t like that lady. She was mean.”