Well, I finally got out there today.
Lucky I didn’t start too early. My sister called and wanted to meet up, tell me stories she has heard about the goddam bosses where she works.
A salon for a hip new theatre company, 6:30 to 9:00. Then the hot mature bar is having disco night at 9:00, with an hour of open bar for those in costume.
I took my time and got things ready. Enormous hair — when I bought it in Atlanta, the gal told me how natural it looked; Ha! — and a tangerine and rasberry satin jacket with huge self scarf, right out of Designing Women. Platform boots, new lashes, and 1980s Borgese makeup that glows in the dark. Yallow Disco! (but lots of pressing and such)
I presumed people in the theatre company would assume I was going somewhere after, but heck, even if they didn’t, they needed to affirm Theatre, right? And what if I wore something small and blendable; would I be anything other than the big, old tranny in the back of the room, even then?
I got ready. One glass of Merlot, listen to my new theme music, the amazing Sutton Foster singing “No More” from The Drowsy Chaperone.
I walked out just as the neighbors were leaving, the lovely next door neigbors with two kids. Shit.
When I got to the main road, someone was parked in the shoulder, headlights shining into my eyes, blocking the view of traffic coming down the road. Shit.
I went a mile and there was a huge police presence at the Aquarium store, all lights and sirens in the road. Shit.
I drove through the snow and past another cop, then parked. That’s when I got a spasm in my side, all cramping pain and short breath. Pain. Shit.
I made it across the road and in. Nobody spoke to me, at all. I thought of speaking to people, but no one was open. Finally, after they read, there was something I could say to the young women, but they were so young, so desperately young, that I knew when it was time to learn those lessons, I would.
They want to build community, even the “the crazy old lady with dogs,” but me, well treated me like Albany. Shit.
I leave, and it’s 7:30. 7:30. An hour and a half to kill. Shit.
Oh, well, punt and go back to parent’s house. Maybe I can come out again, even though the empty gas light is on.
I see they don’t have internet in the room — aren’t on Skype, haven’t picked up mail — so I call the place. The phone rings, they are out.
I’m finishing my drink and thinking about leaving. It’s 8:30, and there’s a call from my mother’s cell phone.
I get the extension, and call back, twice. Both times it rings right to voicemail. Shit.
I call again and get the operator. She gets though, but my mother hasn’t hung up the phone, so she can’t connect me.
I call on the cell phone and tell them to hang up the phone.
I call once, on one phone, and the automated system “can’t hear my entry” when I punch the extension.
I try again on another phone, same result.
I try again on another phone, same result. Shit, shit, shit.
Finally I call and go though the operator. I have a chat with my mother, who tells me there were problems with her falling in the toilet, brusing herself, because she couldn’t wait for my father to help, and then they had to go out late, so it got dark, which is a problem for my father’s driving. Ooo, that hurts, out of my control.
I listen to her and put together the note for my brother and sister.
I tell my father an abbreviated version of the story I got from my sister, the same story I have just told my mother. Whith his touch of autism, he doesn’t understand the relationships in the story, and I have to go over it a few times, trying to make them clear, a frustrating task.
My father wants to tell me he didn’t get to the Whole Foods in Winter Park because it’s too close to the International Airport. My recollection of the maps is that it is nowhere near the airport, so I try to pulll up the maps on a 400Mhz Celeron.
This takes time, all the while, my father telling me about the Airport. I implore him to wait until I have the maps up, please, wait.
No. He thinks I’m yelling so he hangs up on me. Blip.
I know they are tired. But, well, I’m not doing all that well either, and I mean that as a life statement and a report of status.
Now it’s 9:30, no way to get to a party in any mood other than too tense.
And this is my goddamn day.
Now do you see why I just want to die?