Three Alarm Nonsense

I just enjoyed some time away, launched like a rocket traveling at 80mph up the east coast in my daughter’s Civic, aimed at North Carolina, plugged in to iTunes while the humming vibration of hot asphalt beneath our speeding wheels lulled me into a state of blessed detachment. It was twelve hours of straight driving, which we shared, quickly stopping at random restaurants and rest areas for fast food and bathroom breaks. It’s funny how I view people when I’m on the road. Every face is that of a stranger’s, familiar in a “we live on this planet together” kind of way, yet somehow foreign, weird, or potentially dangerous.


When the world is a stranger I tend to relax more, dragging my rumpled ass into McDonalds with wind blown hair, wrinkled pants, dirty sunglasses, and a coffee stained T-shirt. Who cares what everyone thinks…I’ll never see them again.

It’s a good time to practice my assertiveness training skills, “These fries are cold!” or wear that blonde wig that I’ve been too shy to wear around the people that know me. My dominant Mediterranean genes have gifted me with a bushy unibrow, spiky black leg hairs (capable of scraping the paint off a wrought iron fence) and a healthy crop of arm fuzz long enough for braiding. Who can blame me for wanting to join the likes of Goldilocks, and Goldie Hawn, after all it’s been widely reported that blondes have more fun. I like fun. But no, I’m dark and moody; I could never sport a blonde wig and get away with it. I’d look like a buffalo in drag.



So, I’m writing about random nonsense today when I should be writing about the true meaning of Christmas or how to save Spotted Owls. It’s sort of like being at a three-alarm house fire and reporting on the parking problems caused by the fire-trucks lining the road. This type of writing has it’s place, and I can do it as well as the next guy, yet after a while there’s a certain droning sound that takes over, much like a chatty neighbor reporting on her recent gallbladder surgery…I stare and drool, pretending to listen, but my mind has traveled to a distant galaxy where I’m bungee jumping from the tail of a fiery comet, or dancing a tango across the Big Dipper with God.



I’ve never really fit in with the main stream of things, although I’ve certainly tried. I’ve edited my mouth, attire, and interests, in hopes of fitting in, but I’ve never been able to tame my thoughts. They’re as wild as the Serengeti and always seem to be getting me into trouble. Yet the older I get the less I care about fitting in and I actually enjoy being a bit different.



Where am I going with this post? I don’t know. My muse stayed behind in Savannah for a dancing convention and you’re stuck with me. Consider this my stretching exercise before my inspired performance of The Nutcracker.
Gee, it’s good to be back. I’ve missed you guys.