Please Release Me, Let Me Go...

I'm a good driver, and an even better parker.  The state of Colorado recognizes Rheumatoid Arthritis as a permanent disability and as such affords me a blue placard.  This little sign that hangs off my rear view mirror allows me to park in a front row space in most places.  And I use it.  Judiciously.

If I am feeling really good, I don't use it.  If it is icy and the lot is full, I use it.  If it is super hot and my limited energy is waning I use it.  If there is only one premium spot left, and I am doing OK, I don't use it.  Like many of the choices life gives me, I use my best judgement, and that perspective is subject to change on any given day.

My youngest has moved into a new apartment complex that seems to have a lot of parking rules.  Every car must have a pass prominently displayed on the front window.  One pass per bedroom, so she has two, but cannot utilize it as a generic guest pass because each car has to be registered in the office.  I am unsure if the handicap spots need a pass and a placard; I suppose I'll have her inquire. Perhaps this is another unexpected fallout of our population growth.  Few can afford solo apartments so we are sharing space and squeezing in, hence a two bedroom place may have three or four occupants.  Each with a car.

I noticed while hauling stuff up her stairs - 34 to be precise - that one of the occupants of her building has a placard and takes that primo state sanctioned spot, right in front, by the stairwell.  Fair enough, he lives there.  He also has a PT Cruiser, but I'll refrain from comment on that today.  The other day we had a few items to carry up in the mid-afternoon heat wave.  I could have snagged that parking spot, but instead I backed into an empty space next to the biggest truck in the lot.  Backing in is my style.  It is an old girl scout leader habit of quick escape if need be.  It can also come in handy in case of fire.  And I know about that.

I was probably in my daughter's apartment for about an hour before I decided that my responsibilities as a dog-sitter were being sloughed.  Time to go.  I used the back stairwell and as I came into the front of the building my car was not in the spot where I left it.  The big truck was there.  The PT Cruiser had arrived.  But where was my car?  It is an odd sinking feeling.  Was it stolen?  Did I have a major brain lapse and had parked it elsewhere.  Then I saw the obscure but clearly visible sign.  I had parked in a no-parking spot!  Something about being reserved for a golf cart or cryptic number or some such thing. When I peered around the big truck that was still in it's spot, formerly adjacent to me, I saw the tow truck!

This was a surreal moment.  I was being towed, just when my sense of dog responsibilty had kicked in.  Had I left a few moments earlier, I would have avoided this turn of events.  If I had stayed even one moment longer, I would have been towed.  My car long gone, a big monetary penalty would ensue.  Lots of aggravation and hassle.  Now I pride myself on being a decent negotiator, but I also know that once you're hooked - you're hooked.

I approach the young(ish) driver and begin my plea bargaining.  I start off by telling him that I know he's never to unhook a car once he's in the process, but wow!!  I didn't see the sign.  True.  Not disobeying rules and looking for mercy.  I really did not see it and neither did my daughter.  Then I proceeded to tell him I have a handicap placard and should have just parked in that spot - PT Cruiser be damned!  But I was trying to be nice - and THAT won't happen again.  Then I told him my son was a cop in this town - again true - and that I am house sitting - again true - and that I really needed to get home and take care of the dog.  TRUE, true, true.

To review here was my closing argument:

1. I'm inattentive
2. I'm handicapped
3. I'm a Cop Mom
4. I love dogs

Much to my surprise and delight, he began the process of unhooking my car.  By this time my daughter was in the parking lot alongside me.  I had called her in between those moments of when I thought my car had been stolen and seeing the tow truck.  I hung up on her to fully concentrate on my begging and groveling.  She missed the stellar negotiation tactics of her mother.  No tears.  No yelling.  Just straight up heart-tugging.  As he was in the process of releasing my passenger side front wheel lock, I went in my purse a found a $20 bill as a thank you to this 'kid'.  So bribery was not my first tactic.  But I thought a wee bit of a tip was in order to let this man know how much I appreciated his change of heart.

As the tow-truck pulled away I reflected on this odd occurrence.  I had almost been towed.  I had almost been incredibly inconvenienced.  I had just saved a wad of money and a lot time.  I hugged my daughter who was convinced bribery was my MO, and hopped in to take care of the pup.  Not a phantom excuse.  A real dog waiting for me to feed her and play ball and muster up a belly rub.

I had about a half an hour to continue my contemplations about the afternoon series of events on the drive to my son's house.  How did I manage to convince this hard working guy to unhook me?   Which one of my arguments touched him enough to have compassion for me this day?  Was it that I was polite in my actions?  Even though I was upset and a bit kerfuffled in the moment, I never raised my voice.  Never cursed him out.  Didn't tell him bad things about his mother and her choice of footwear.  If I am nothing else I am a well-mannered diplomat.

Perhaps it was a wee bit of good karma coming my way.  A cosmic payback for all nice things I try to do for other people.  You know who you are, no boasting here.  I may never know the reason, but I am eternally grateful for the outcome.

Time to Write,

Jane

Book 'em Jano

Like other writers I know and commiserate with, I have more writings in notebooks than I can possibly transcribe into this computer and enshrine for perpetuity.  I keep a notebook in my purse, in my car, on my nightstand.  There are several strewn about on the ottoman at all times.  I'd like to tell you that I am organized and keep different notebooks for different genres or classes.  It wouldn't so much be a lie as an inaccuracy.  I try to stay orderly but my creativity overrides and I just pick up the nearest lined collection of blank pages and a writing implement and scribble.

Truthfully I love these random notebooks.  They have provided me nostalgia and humor over the last few years.  I wrote that?  (please take the time to say this three times - stressing a different word with each iteration - they all hold weight!)  If I do manage to tap a full notebook into my keyboard I gleefully write done! and the date on the cover and put it up in my closet.  I kvell* with a small sense of pride for a short while before remembering that a few less notebooks in my personal space is not much of an accomplishment.

Some ramblings will probably never be entered into my hard drive.  They were for me and me alone.  Many times I have advised friends who wanted to say something to someone (like an ex...) to just write it down and burn the paper.  I've done plenty of writing to my former significant other, but unlike Terry Barton** I know better than to go in the forest and strike a match to my penciled down pain.

My struggle du jour is much of what I've written about my wusband is good.  Readable, relatable, funny and true.  Well, mostly true.  OK - I've stretched the truth in some of it for comedic effect, but it is good.  I haven't posted much of this and that is my dilemma.  Would it be hurtful to blog about the father of my three children?  Either from my perspective or through the stories of anguish and pain my children still experience in their relationships with him.  (I admit, I snuck that in)  Would I be opening myself up to some kind of lawsuit if he could prove that he really did pay the child support?  Would his family with whom I still have good relationships be upset because appearances are everything and I could dispel that with a few keystrokes?  Decisions, decisions.

Mainly, would I just be proving to myself and others that even though I am divorced for ten years, I am still obsessed with this man?  That is the last perception I want to portray or ponder.  Would it just prove the theory of the elephant in the room?  I have unresolved 'issues' with my ex and use the closest weapon I have to protect myself.  Pen and paper.  Can I say I have let go if I actually go on and on and on... ?

Or is it just verification that I am able to live my life quite fully, actively involved with my three children and grandson in a way that I feel good about.  That I enjoy eating what I want, when I want. That the arguing, voice raising, the having to be right, are distant but still in my DNA.  That is certainly a theme in my musings.  Under the surface, but not boiling in any way.  They just are.  I'm OK with that.

I see my wusband less and less as years go by.  In the beginning of the end, it was hard to talk to him about anything and not be emotional.  Now I am quite neutral.  I don't have any pangs of want or regret.  I also don't want to kill him.  I'd call that a good spot.

Here are two short poems I wrote in the last year concerning the aforementioned subject.  Enjoy!

 

No Vacancy

Sorry, there is no vacancy in my heart

No subletting space to you, even briefly

No room to see if opening leads to heartache

I am not willing to take the chance

When we were together, married

I always had space for you, availability

I’d let you stay in my mind, and you would sting me

Now the chamber of my heart that was once

Exclusively reserved for you is

Permanently occupied by indifference

Tap-Tap

I detest the tap-tapping of the razor

Against the sink, tub wall

Each thundering shower I take

Reminds me of this repetitive intrusion

I was taking a trip to a warmer clime

So, a shave was in order for

Bathing suits and social norms

I stood in the cramped stall

Of the YMCA, tap-tapping my razor

For the next clean stroke

How effortlessly my mind drifted to my wusband

That tap-tapping of his razor

Each morning tap-tapping on his

Side of the double vanity

Tap-tap   tap-tap   tap-tap

And then I knew

It isn’t shaving I dislike

It is my ex husband

Time to Write,

Jane


*M-W definition of Kvell
**Hayman Fire - Wikipedia

Lying in Poetry

I have treated myself to a few Craft Workshops this week and last.  LitFest in Denver is a big deal, though it is my first time participating.  Maybe this is further proof (to myself) that I am considering myself a writer.  A writer.  When I think of all the jobs and positions I have held in my 40 or so years of working A Writer is the title that sound true.  Perhaps my life experiences were necessary to give me perspective and fodder.  I occasionally struggle to sit and commit.  When that happens I will often turn to my friend Heloise Jones' book The Writer's Block Myth.  I'll read a chapter at random or complete an exercise and voila!  I am refreshed and ready to write. 

Last week's workshops were "The Art of Confession" and "Lying in Poetry".  Do you see a pattern here?  Ha!  I am a confessional writer.  I write true life events from my purview and use my literary license to drive in a few embellishments and humor.  This little ditty came from the latter workshop.  I'd love to sit here and write more, but I am off to another workshop this afternoon.  Enjoy!

Sorry

The truth is I struggle to hear your work

I am only interested in my own stuff

All that sitting under tents, intense

Not for me, you jerk

I prefer to enjoy my own poetry

Read it aloud, alone to myself

Do I really care what you are trying to say

What you meant by a metaphor or the phrase of the day

Alas

The truth is I love to sit outside, under the blazing sun

Straining to hear your every rhyme

Blocking out the sirens, the horns

You are so damn interesting. Every time

I would prefer you to take me to your den

Whisper sweet sonnets into my ear

Tell me I am beautiful and that your poetry

Is only meant for me to hear