I Feel Pretty

I was rolling toward Boston today- feeling all pretty. I know you know what I mean, gals. It’s something twixt reality and mental illness-but you know it when it happens. Hell-it’s all in your mind- this feeling beautiful thing. And so I play hard with it when it comes along.

Today-I’ve got to say-I was channeling Charlize Theron- even though I am closer to say, Dame Judi Dench- if truth be told. When I feel this Charlize way, I keep checking myself out in the rear view. I smile at how my hair falls, I run my fingers through it slowly, with my head tilted back, ever so slightly for effect. I marvel at the way my wrinkles seem to be responding so well to the cream that I bought at the T J Maxx clearance aisle. My teeth seem impossibly white- and I apply another coat of plummy color- as I sail along- Pandora bleeding lovely love songs.

And oh yeah. I'll admit this for all of us. I flirt with men at stop lights. Anyone that looks over thirty is fair game.

Come on. You know how it’s done…if you don’t, crawl back into your habit. There’s that sidewise glance while you tap the steering wheel to the beat of the love. And then you make the move- that absent –minded sidewise glance.

Oh? Were you looking at me? Smile.

They usually aren’t- and I must interrupt my reverie-as the guy behind me blasts his horn to move it as the light goes green.

If you are heavily into your reverie, every song appeals in some way so personal-like it is your life out loud. You blast the radio louder. And sometimes you hit a spot of highway where the road undulates slightly-between macadam sections-and the car bounces in its springs, in rhythm with your heart. Like the road wants in on this happy mood. Sometimes it just feels so damn good to drive- when the music and the mood are right.

As my peaceful, happy state lights me up, I can almost see myself in a film noire, the camera in close- catching every nuance of my pretty face- as I approach the Boston skyline.

Go on…go there the next time you feel it. Feel pretty.

Here's the link to my Gather posts....haven't posted in quite a while. Some of this is ancient. All unpolished....but some worth your while...I hope!

http://www.gather.com/viewPostsByMember.action?memberId=54629&currentPage=1&start=0

Here I am . It is December One. A full 3 1/2 months since I sat in the desert with a full out throng of brilliant women writers. Way back in August....there were all those pink and purple nights in a row. And each night, as the sun set over the canyons- my eyes would be pulled from the nothing short of majesty of the rocks- as my ears were bedazzled by the words of my fellow writers.

I admit it-I counted myself among them- when the wine made me heady with the delight of hearing their words piercing the thin air- and then hanging there forever. Words that were so important...they fell all around me in the darkness and made me cry. But with each writer's reading, I felt more diminished and insecure.

I would -each night-be stunned aware. Shaken out of this reverie where I belonged with these amazing souls- so full of this incredible creative force. Instead of getting in my little kayak, and paddling along in that energy, I was swallowed alive by it. They all deserved the joy that lit up every face. But I? I was just an observer. Each night- instead of feeling renewed and energized-I felt ashamed of myself. I watched their faces as they read their work. So full of conviction and pride. So sure. And I wanted to die.

Oh my...over a week has passed.

I am floating a few feet above the ground encased in this fragile bubble with it's swirling eddies of color. I am inside- high on the way that I feel- but afraid that this irridescent film may pop. I didn't expect this to happen to me, really, when I decided to travel halfway across the face of our continent to find out if I had the stuff-to find out if indeed I was a writer.

I arrive in New Mexico to a landscape that laughs at my insecurities, with its vast stretches of dry foreboding desert. The desert is speckled with clumps of sage brush and juniper, no spreading expanses of green, just tiny fistfuls of defiance that have somehow punched their way up through the mean and arid earth. The broad desert is encircled-but way off in the distance- by layers of rugged purple mountains that bound the flat dryness. It is a landscape where you can see forever and the lobelia sky caps it all like a dome.The air is so thin and clean and clear, with clouds that dwarf the mountains, clouds grander and puffier than ones I have ever seen here at home. It is a landscape that makes you look up and around, no trees or tall buildings to cramp your vista. And it begs you- in all its vastness- to look in. You must. You must- or you may float away.

As I drive along, I find that the radio annoys me- it interferes with my ability to process my amazement at the space I have entered. I find that I am not even talking aloud to myself, as I typically do, as words cannot be found. I want to register fully-with my eyes and ears.

As I near Abiquiu, the landscape changes dramatically. Red rock canyons hug in so very close to the road that I literally gasp- like they had been told that I need to be bounded at the edges somehow-or I might just fly off my tether. The road snakes up the side of the rising landscape and I enter a land of pink and purple and sand and orange cliffs and canyons and feel even smaller than I had before; this is a real Dorothy moment if ever there was one.

I begin to see green, but no expanses of green-it runs like a broad ribbon across the valleys fed by the Chama River. I begin to see evidence of people-small adobe farms with rusty dusty pick up trucks- each proudly announcing its existence with a wide board propped up on two tall posts. The boards are hand carved and burned into the fibrous wood with names like 'Cielo Y Sol', 'Crossed Arrow Ranch' and 'Broken Saddle Ranch'. Each pink and sun baked clay structure seems to be fitted out with what you might expect- wire fences and wide swinging corral gates. The horses look perfectly content to stay in the shade-to munch and huddle under the cottonwood trees. If they could, they might tell their ranchers...really, guys...fences aren't needed. I too have fallen in love with cottonwood trees and the way they whisper and shush when the canyons breathe-and I am soon to discover how they offer such glorious shade to my pinking skin...

To Be Continued....

Days At The Ranch

I never really wrote about my first ever horseback ride in the canyons of Cerillos. I very impulsively made the decision to book a sunset ride as it just seemed the thing to do. It is amazing how all my yee haw has been ignited like a brush fire. I have even bought a pair of boots. More on that later. Yee haw big time...

I arrived at the Broken Saddle Ranch in Cerillos. The sun was still pretty high as I had gotten there early, as the cowboy rather sternly informed me that I needed to get there on time. Turns out my good doobee-ness wasn't all that necessary as the cowboy waited for a young couple from Baltimore which put us about 20 minutes closer to sunset. I parked and headed for the sign in area, a tiny building which appeared to be roofed with steer skulls. The bones were pure white, bleached from the burn of sun. There were two small corrals and several pretty horses that looked at me as if they begged me to let them stay out of the sun in the shade. Lots of snorting and tail swishing. Clearly pissed. Naw...

Met a nice couple from Oklahoma City. The guy looked like that cute doctor (who was on The Bachelor)who now has his own show. Cute. The girl matched his movie star looks with a perfect make up job. perky boobs and a tight little ass in her tight jeans. I wanted to hate her, but she was charming. The other couple was from Baltimore...yes...the tardy ones.

Our trail cowboy was named John Wayne-really-and he was the archetypal cowboy with a floppy felt hat with greasy spots on it. His jeans were faded and baggy in the seat, held up by a well loved leather belt with a silver buckle the size of a box turtle. An old faded plaid shirt and a red kerchief around his neck completed the look. And he was dusty as all hell. I was soon to find out why.

As we were all total neophytes, he gathered us in the corral and a cute blonde wrangler gal brought the horses forward one by one. Baltimore Emily was the first to mount and she was freaking out every time the horse moved. Old John was very reassuring and told us how these horses were gentle "beginners" horses. He gave us a ten minute crash course in horse handlin' to include the crucial foot in stirrup position: stirrup across ball of foot, heels down. He also told us to keep our legs turned out with our knees bent and how to clamp onto the horse using our thighs. A too quick review of steering with the reins- and we were off.

My horse was named Danvers and was reasonably responsive. We spent about ten minutes just ambling along and then Johnny Boy informed us we were going to pick up the pace. He kicked his horse into action and told us all to keep up. Well...I kicked the horse and it took off like Secretariat. I clamped my thighs and tried to look like I wasn't scared to death as my boobs bounced up and down with considerable force. I should have worn two bras, I think, in retrospect. It was terrifying-but oddly thrilling- all at the same time with all that snorting clippity clopping muscle clamped between my thighs. I had feared the worst but here I was-still astride my trusty steed. I began to relax and enjoy (except for the clenched thigh component) and delighted as the cowboy weaved our posse up through the canyons, stopping now and again to look at the vistas of the Jemez and Sangre De Christo mountain ranges that surrounded us on all sides. The mountains purpled as the blue skies golded. Astonishingly beautiful. At about this time, 30 minutes in to the ride, the sweat of my brow mixed with my sunscreen with a healthy dose of dust. My eyes burned and watered and I squeezed them hard shut on and off and sopped at them with my shirt. When we reached the vista point where John had perfectely timed the sunset for pictures of each of us on our horses back lit by the firey sky...I was informed (by perfect Whitney from Oke City) that I had black streaks running down my cheeks from under my sunglasses. She, on the other hand, looked like she was ready for a photo shoot. She did confess to me later that she regretted wearing a tiny thong because it rode up her ass (and perhaps other crevices) and was burning badly. Oddly...I felt no sympathy.

As the sky lost its fire with the setting sun, my eyes were still afire. But the twinkling stars and the whitening half moon were beyond beautiful, even through the burn and the tears. I let the horse rock me with her rhythmic clip clopping and softly sang James Taylor's song, Sweet Baby James, very quietly to myself. For those few moments, I felt happily alone. But another look up at the moon over the mountains, made me think of Chris. On this-our thirtieth anniversary-I hoped he could feel my love.

At trails end when I had to remove my glasses lest I look like Stevie Wonder at the ranch, I looked horrid. But frankly didn't give a damn.

Happy Anniversary!

August 8, 2011

Thirty years ago today, I married my high school sweetheart. I am not so pie-eyed to say that it has all been smooth sailing-what marriage is?

You start out as a couple unable to think that you'll ever want to be away from one another. I remember how he used to smell my hair and tell me he loved the smell of me-disdained any perfumes or lotions -because my very essence , it seems, was just right for him.

I remember his mahogany colored eyes and his kisses that told me he would love me forever.

But life happens. And reality sets in. The roller coaster of life is set in motion as the your years together continue. There are such happy times-but there are crappy times as well.

And yet, as I look back over the thirty years that I have been with him, the times that have maybe been -less than perfect -are somehow blurred. What comes through-true and clear- are the times that he has really been there for me-when he has really been my partner.

Some stand out more than others and I can remember these with a crystal clarity.

Our long arduous journey with infertility really tested the metal of our union. But it was his hand in mine that saved me during a scary ultrasound where we were told our baby (after two miscarriages) might be seriously deformed-anencephalic was the brutal term. I remember how he attempted to smile at me reassuringly- but his hand was sweaty and he was white as a ghost. We simultaneously heaved a sigh that blew the black cloud away as, when after an excruciatingly long four minute ultrasound, Dr. Benaceraff said, "There's nothing wrong with this baby!" And damn...she was right.

And there was the terrifying moment when we received the call that my sister , Maggie, had had a stroke and that she was "probably not going to make it." I was 36 weeks pregnant. My body began to shake uncontrollably from the shock. And it was his presence there with me, in the bed, that tethered me to the world that had so suddenly flew off its orbit. He held me together-kept me from exploding. He and Alex-the son I had not yet met. Upon awakening from anesthesia after 32 hours of labor and an emergency C section- there he was again. My husband. The terrible weight of losing Maggie was cleared- for a holy moment- as I delighted to see him holding our tiny bundle so tenderly.

When my Mom had the first of multiple strokes- in 2003- and her protracted three years of dying so slowly-falling away from us all in layers-I found no other solace than to huddle like a baby on his soft beer belly-my head tucked under his chin- with his arms all around me. Only there-only there- was I safe.

I know that this love letter may seem to be a real downer. But it seems that the extremes of life-such as these few that I have recounted- define true love.

And I truly love you, Chris.

Last evening-when I was out on my first ever horseback ride in the lovely canyons of Cerillos, New Mexico-at sunset-with the light fading and a half moon growing whiter against the night sky-half a country away from my husband-all I could think of was him.

Broken Saddle....

August 7, 2011

I was really crazy this AM waxing on about orange spiked water. I maintain that it's just those little things that are refreshingly different from your own every day existence that wake up your senses and tell you to pay attention to the smallest things. Or maybe it's the altitude!

I think that is what writing does for me. It helps me to catalog all of the stuff that I am noticing. It's all in the noticing , really. Isn't it? Look around-wake up to all the nuances of place-and the people that people those places...

I have had a glorious day. I spent at least 5 hours just meandering through hundreds of artisan tents with every manifestation of the Southwest that one could imagine. I bought a hat...an expensive hat. I could have bought a cheap one that would fray and crack in no time....but I wanted to somehow acquire a hat that I might wear for a decade or more. And I will.

I swear...a wide brimmed southwestern hat makes your inner cowboy come out...and how can that be bad? When you place a wide brimmed hat atop your head-you feel a little more free-maybe even rebellious. Like that spirit of the Old West has been ignited anew and the smoke of this place-the melange of Native American and Spaniard influences-permeates you. Makes you roll your rrrrr's the way you learned to do way back in high school.

I bought large moon shaped turquoise earrings from an old Santo Domingo Indian. And I bought a lovely gourd with a tiny little kiva in it-an ancient Native American sacred structure- to be hung on my new Hampshire tree in December. On that wintry day in December, I will be reminded of this perfect day in Santa Fe.

But the most amazing part of my day was a horseback trip into the canyons of an ancient little town called Cerillos. Our guide, John Wayne (I thought he was kidding) was gentle with us- a group of 5 gringos with no horse experience beyond watching old John Wayne movies....

To be continued....

Orange Spiked Water

August 7, 2011

What a difference a day makes. I was feeling an odd sense of sadness and emptiness at last night's post. It is an odd feeling to be away from home without someone to chat with as you brush your teeth, someone to giggle with while you window shop, someone to oooo and ahhh over the yummy guacamole. And so I was feeling that way last night. But not now. I awoke with a new resolve. I remembered the deep need that I have been feeling to get away from my everyday life, to tune into my inner frequencies which have become so jangled of late. As I washed my face, I savored the quiet and readied for an adventure into Santa Fe Plaza.

But first, I went to breakfast and there was this huge water container with a spigot with lots of ice and wheels of oranges floating around. The water tasted ever so slightly of orange. Why the hell that made me feel renewed and ready -I do not know. But I made a mental note to get me one of those water "tanks" for home!

The breakfast was sumptuous and I ordered a latte, not really sure of how a latte is different from a cappuccino or an espresso. What the hell. I am living on the edge now. The man with a brown face and a lovely Spanish accent brought me the hot steamy cup of strong coffee topped with a snowy cap of foam. Delightful.

I occupied myself reading the turista magazine overviewing the sights to see in Santa Fe. History and art and natural beauty abounds here. I will need to come back. But for today, I plan a walk to the Plaza, an old section of Santa Fe chock full of shops and galleries. I need a wide brimmed hat and even found a place that sells used cowboy boots. I may need a kerchief around my neck if I keep this up!

And on a lark, I have signed up for a sunset horseback ride in the canyons of an old town a bit south of here called Cerillos. Yee fuckin' haw!

It may be true about this transformational business. Being alone and quiet and open to new experiences. I am off to shop and wander through the ancient streets of Santa Fe. And in the morning, off to Ghost Ranch where I am told the true magic awaits....

Ghost Ranch Trip

August 6, 2011:

The desert will lead you to your heart where I will speak.-HOSEA 2:14

I have arrived in New Mexico-en route to a writers' retreat at the Ghost Ranch. I have come with a deep sense of emptiness. I can't seem to shake it. And so here I am-almost unbelievably so. I have traveled thousands of miles to put my writing hand to the fire. I need to clear this numbness that I feel inside. I need to pull myself out of this self loathing-this lack of trust in my own heart.

It has been said that the sheer beauty of the Ghost Ranch will transform you. Transform you. Quietly and astoundingly it will seduce you. I am childishly hoping that this glorious piece of Earth, with its wide open blue sky, its pink canyons and fossil- loaded cliffs, its Cerro Pedernal-will somehow sit me down, realign my thinking, pump me up with its clean thin air-and set me on course again. It lies in wait for me in the northwest corner of New Mexico. I am almost afraid to go. I mean, what does that say about me if I am not transformable?

And so I imagine the best scenario. Imagine the pink enveloping me in a little cloud that follows me around until I breathe it in and fill my chest so deeply my belly bloats. I will hold that breath in. I will not breathe out until I have forced every molecule into my arteries, until my whole being courses with a redder blood.

Gone Away

“Roger?”

Bea calls up the stairs, peering through her thick lenses at the light in the upstairs hall. “Where is that man? Our show’s about to start.” She tisks, and shuffles across the kitchen floor to the window that looks out over the garden. As she parts the lace curtains, she sees her own hand.

“Is that my hand? Where did those age spots come from?”

She peers into the sunlit yard, but can’t make out anything much. “Maybe he went to the woodpile to get some kindling.” She puts her hands on her hips and pouts. “Oh, that man!” The music blares, announcing the first contestants. “Oh, now listen! There’s my show coming on. Roger?” she asks the walls.

The faded blooms on the wallpaper offer no help; they just look back at her, benign pink blobs. As she heads to the den, she brushes the sleeve of Roger’s barn coat, hanging on the peg by the door to the garden. With that comes the sweet smell of pipe smoke. And then she hears a noise upstairs.

“Roger! Come down, now. It’s time for our show.” She thumps her hand on the newel post and then swats the air in frustration like she’s brushing away a fly.

“Mom?”

She makes out a form at the top of the stairs. “Dennis? Is that you?”

“No, Mom. It’s Madeline.”

“Madeline? Madeline who?”

“Your daughter in law, Madeline!”

“Oh.”

“Are Dennis and Kenny up there with you or are they still at school?”

“No, Mom. They’re at work. No more school for them. Uh…why don’t you go settle in with your show and I’ll bring you some tea.”

She heads for the den. “I don’t know where Roger’s gone,” she hollers over her shoulder. “Maybe he has to work late tonight, huh?” There’s no response. “Maybe another beer delivery added to his route? Do ya think that’s where he…”

Madeline appears with a tray balancing steaming hot tea and marmalade toast. Suddenly Bea’s chest tightens. She has a flash of memory so fast and so bone awful that it makes her gasp. It’s Roger. He looks so thin and he’s lying down on a white- sheeted bed and his face looks frozen and his eyes are closed. His jaw is slack and she can see his gold tooth with him gaping that way.

“Roger?” Her voice feels thin and lost in the room. It flies away and leaves her alone. There’s a silence. Madeline studies her own hands, lifts her cup of tea and nudges the other cup toward Bea.

“Have your tea now, Mom.”

There’s that flash again. She hears the words again in her head, the room spins. Someone is saying, ‘He’s gone, Mom. Say goodbye….’ She remembers leaning down to kiss him, she remembers the way his cheek felt. All bristled. And it was cold, like kissing a stone.

“Bea? Would ya like to have a little tea? I put lemon and three sugars in. Just like you like it.”

“But…where’s Roger?” Her arms and legs feel all tingly; her head feels like it might fly away like a lost kite.

“Remember? Dad died on Sunday, Mom. He’s gone to heaven, Mom.” Bea looks at this stranger telling her lies.

“We’ll be okay, Mom,” the stranger says. “Please… have some tea.”

The images fade away. The contestant squeals, her breasts bouncing as she spins the big wheel.

“Do ya think she’ll win the grand prize today, Mom?”

Bea’s gnarled hands get quiet; lay there in her lap like nesting birds.

Boots

Matt is six. I'm babysitting him tonight, trying to give you some time to yourself. A little time alone, so maybe you can just sit, get quiet, close your eyes, take in some really deep breaths.

I can hear it in your voice when you're getting sick again; it gets sort of gravelly and low, like a wounded animal. You seem quick to lose your temper, you lose that go with the flow easy way of yours. Your smile is weak, seems a struggle to summon one to your face. And then it's gone before I see your teeth. Your illness is usually held in check by the medication. But there are times when it claws its way to the surface, gets in there behind your eyes and tries to suck your soul down to your feet.

I see you there in the window.

Collect yourself, Mag. Please. Hold on.

Matt comes bounding out of the apartment. You just wave to me from the window, your hand swiping the glass in a slow arc.

His coat is unzipped in this fierce cold. No hat. No gloves. More fallout from the monster inside you, your mom skills drop away. He climbs into the warm car and I try to buckle him in. But he's turning to you. He presses his nose and both hands against the window, and softly says, "Bye Mom..." You wave again and then the curtain drops. As we pull away, I can see you through the gauze, just sitting there... so still. As you disintegrate, he follows in your wake.

He turns to me and I can almost see a shade pull down and then another one go up. For awhile, he can pretend that life is only about this outing with me. About that big cheeseburger with extra fries and lots of catsup. And his favorite-a hot fudge sundae-with extra cherries.

He looks so tired tonight.

As we pull out of the parking lot of the burger joint, the street light paints a swath of light across his legs. He's wearing knee high rubber boots and his legs are tucked underneath him. I shoot looks over at him, study his profile against the misted window. He's lost there in his own head. Somewhere happy, I hope.

Just then, I spy a glint of green, a cat's eye, peering back at me. I look again. There's a hunk of glass, submerged in the rubber sole of his right boot.

"Hey, what's that?" I say, poking at the smooth curve of glass.

His hot fudge smile melts, and he quickly straightens his legs, so that the boot soles face forward. "Nothing... I dunno. Can't we go to Walmart now... for my toy?"

"Sure.... but can I see the bottom of your boot? I swear I saw a piece of glass...we should check that out, Matt. If it's glass, you could get a bad cut."

"Can't we just go to Walmart...for my toy?" He deflects my question again, a professional at this, like a goalie in the net.

We head into the store. He trots across the parking lot, sort of skitters a bit, up on one toe like a crab.

"Matt! What is up?" I say, looking quizzically at his feet. He looks up at me from under an awning of brown bangs, but there's no reply.

I see the bubble gum machines just inside the sliding doors. My opportunity to pause the action.

"Hey, Matt! Let's get some bubble gum! I want a red one! What color do you want?" He looks up and away, like he's choosing what color to paint the sky.

"Blue!" he shouts.

"Alright! C'mon, BLUE!" I sound like I'm in Vegas at the roulette wheel.

He holds his palm outstretched and I give him three quarters. He fumbles with the big coins and then, one at a time, he lays the coin flat in the slot. He has to kneel to crank the handle. And just as he does, I spy the green eye again, winking at me from the bottom of his boot.

"It's BLUE! And I wanted BLUE!" he squeals, as the third ball drops.

As he kneels there, I grasp the heel of his boot between my thumb and forefinger. It's a marble! And it's stuck in a hole on the bottom of his boot.

"Matt! What's that? A marble in your boot? What's that all about?"

He drops the blue gumball and quickly stands up. "I just want to get my toy!"

"No, wait, buddy. What's with the marble?" As the words leave my foolish mouth twice, I see the shame pour over his face. It drags his eyebrows down. The corners of his mouth quickly follow.

"It's stupid! I wanna go home! It's just a marble. I put it in the hole in my boot...so the water won't come in!"

I wish I had a big white sheet... I'd throw it over our heads, over my stupid mouth. And I'd pull you in, Matt. We could just hide there awhile, under the soft billows.

If I could, I'd pull you under there too, Mags. We could hide from this pain of yours, this pain that's hanging all around us here, so dirty in the air. And we could all just wait, under that white, until the thunderheads clear and the sun comes out again.

At the Laundry

I was coming out of Papa Gino's the other night . The night was crystal clear and the stars shining impossibly well. I was astounded then at how the wintry air smelled. Like baby powder. I glanced around and realized that this sweet air was wafting out of the laundry. It made me smile but then I recalled a night at the laundry- at that very laundry- that was so dark and so void of light. I wrote about that night a long time ago. I am posting it here, unpolished....

Jack’s car is sitting out in the side yard under a few feet of snow. It’s been there since the third of July. It’s got a bum transmission, or so says he. He says he’ll fix it in the spring. Too much work to dig it out, now. Not like he knows his way around a toolbox, never mind a gearbox.

You and the boys tumble out the front door, Matt screaming dibs on the front seat. You’re trying to wrangle two big green garbage bags, filled with dirty clothes, down the steps. Adam is three so he is trying to jump on them, while you drag them.

Oh, shit. You haven’t been to the laundry. And you have that harried, pissed off look on your face.

I push the electric window button, the tinted glass slides away. The snowflakes are big and puffy and they swirl into my warm space, pelt at my face. I try not to look perturbed as I eye the bags, “I guess a little laundry trip’s in our future, huh, Mag?”

I’m a little more than ticked at this extra chore. I hadn’t planned on an afternoon at the local Soap n’ Suds. I’m thinking, geez, can’t you get your friggin’ act together? But I quickly determine that it would not be wise, nor kind, to dump on you right now. Your face looks like it might break in two if I load you up with my own petty crap.

I swing the car door open; the snow is soft and fluffy, almost deep enough to drift into the car. I grab the steering wheel and slide off the warm seat into the cold and blowy. I do a run and slide to where you are. Grab one of the bags. I’m trying to be playful, hoping that it’ll melt my annoyance and lighten your mood, all in one glide and slide.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, your mouth all quivery. “Jack was supposed to friggin’ help me get all the clothes together, so we could get the cab, and get to the laundry before you got here.”

The boys are looking at you, kind of holding their breath, curbing their desire to frolic. Waiting for you to crack a smile, waiting for this storm to pass. I shoo Matt into the back seat. He and Adam unnaturally comply and settle in, sitting too erect, too quiet.

“I could kill that bastard right about now.” Your words are so hot and mad that I have to laugh. You don’t. “I could. I could really friggin’ kill him.”

Jack finally appears in the doorway with jeans and a white tee shirt, no socks, no shoes, no coat…clearly not ready to help, clearly not ready to go.

“I’ll get a taxi, Mags.” You give him no response. “O.K. Punkin’?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I cringe at the ‘Punkin’. Don’t know why, but it makes my eyes want to roll. I suppress the urge. He’s trying to be endearing when you obviously just want to punch him.

“What’s up, Mag? The Punkin’ card ain’t gonna play today?” I’m still trying to cut through the angry red air. But you’re too mad to quit.

"That’ll be ten bucks more than we got for the friggin’ cab fare, Jack.” You practically spit out his name, your nose scrunches, and the “k” sound stabs the air like an ice pick. "Where you gonna pull that? Outta your ass?”

You’re mashing the bags onto the boys’ laps in the backseat. You’re breathing hard, so pissed. “If he’d just gotten his ass outta’ bed in time,” you say to me, not caring if he overhears. Matt has slumped down, has tunneled into his coat, so that only his hair and eyes show above the coat collar. Adam’s had enough of this tension he doesn’t understand, arches his back and mimics you,

“Yer ass inna bed”. This doesn’t even cut it. I get back in the car and adjust the rear view mirror. All I can see are the two boys’ heads peeking up over the green bags.

We haul the bags into the laundry and you start to load up the machines. I am amused to find that the damn machines have names. I announce in a game show voice, “Today, we’ll be engaging the sudsy services of ‘Ned’ and ‘James.’” But still, the thundercloud over your head. You yank at the clothes in the bags and stuff them into the machines with a vengeance.

I pull a twenty out of my wallet and get some fives from the girl at the counter. The boys are at my elbow. They stare at her talon- like black fingernails. I’m a little lost in this country, so I ask where the change machine is. She clacks her bubble gum and points a black tip over to the far wall. Matt and Adam break into a run, this apparently a favored activity. They take turns feeding the fives into the change machine slot. When it grabs, it kind of yanks the bill from your hand, and then gobbles it, sucks it in. There’s a churning sound and then it belches heavy silver quarters into the steel cup below with a satisfying swish. I can see why they like this.

You are still fuming so I let the kids pick treats from the vending machine. They get Cokes and Cheetos, and I bribe them with the promise of more quarters for the bubble gum machine if they can sit and be quiet for a few minutes.

You are staring at the glass bellies of Ned and James, transfixed by the sluice and slosh of the sudsy water, the hum and the rhythm of the agitating steel tubs.

“I just can’t stand the way I’m livin’,” you say. There’s such a dead flatness in your voice. Nothing I can say can make a dent in your mood. Your anger has suddenly blackened into defeat.

“I think Tootie’s the only one who can trump my life.”

“Tootie?”

“Yah. Tootie. The taxi lady.”

I laugh. “C’mon, Maggie. That’s impossibly funny. You gotta know it. Tootie the Taxi Lady? Hysterical!”

You’re not laughing. Your face is flat, almost motionless. Your eyes look sort of dead in their sockets. “Well, you wouldn’t think so if you only knew.”

I prod, hoping that Tootie’s tale might have a funny edge that’ll make you smile. So you tell me Tootie’s story. She’s the only day driver, so you see her a lot. You say she’s about fifty going on seventy. Seems her hard life is wearing her out, too. She chain smokes unfiltered Camels. She tells you how she has to drink a few “coolies” every night, just so she can sleep. She has a creep for a husband, and a pimpled son who sits around all day playing Atari.

When you think your life is bad, you say you always try to think of Tootie. Her daughter, Julie, drowned at Beaver Lake, when she was only three. Tootie was lying right there on the beach when it happened. She tells you that more than half the time she just wants to swim out to the middle of the lake and drop like a stone. She tells you-every time you pay the fare-to kiss your boys at least a hundred times a day.

Ned and James chug along.

“Sometimes I think Tootie’s got a good plan,” you say. All I can do is reach across your back, cup your shoulder and squeeze.