Archive for Life As I Know It

The Merits of Meltdowns

August 26, 2010 at 11:35 pm · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Life As I Know It, iHurt

(And how the Psych Spectacular maintains her right to the title.)

Dude.

Duuuuuuuuuuude.

I keep wanting to recap London, but life keeps effing getting in my way.

Dating is a complex monster, and currently uncovering every ugly, irrational little insecurity I never knew I had. And the poor gent, he just goes with the flow.

Like last night. While texting, we got on the topic of the three letter S word. While it’s a topic we’ve visited time and time again (with our crude senses of humor, how could we not?), this time there was nothing funny. It was balls-out honesty.

He had put the moves on me once before. I stopped him at the zipper of my jeans. I said no.

And he … listened? What the hell kind of insanity is this? I can say no and be respected? It was confusing and terrifying and, in a way I can’t explain, painful. This is what it felt like to be honored? What?

So when I turned down his invitation to intimacy Wednesday night (honestly, blame Aunt Flow), it was amidst tears. Tears that a text message wouldn’t show. Noting my distress (because some things even a text message can’t disguise), he asked if I wanted to talk about it. I gave him the most honest, humiliating truth I could offer … and if someone could hug you through a text, he hugged me. He spent the next thirty minutes reassuring me, and I spent the thirty minutes following that curled in fetal position sobbing uncontrollably on the floor, with Napoleon as a stand-in Kleenex. I asked him why it hurt to be cared for, why respect had to be so novel and painful, why I couldn’t distinguish between positive attention and negative attention, and instead reverted back to the feral dog in me who was terrified of any attention at all. Why I wanted to sabotage the only thing I had ever wanted. Napoleon offered no answers outside of a wagging tail and a troubled face that licked the tears off of my own. He laid down beside me and let me cling to him until the kindness of the Gent didn’t hurt quite as much.

Still.

How dare he care about me? How dare he respect me? How dare he want to be with me, and listen to me when I say no? How dare he promise never to force THAT ONE THING on me?

I asked the questions out loud, to the dogs, because the echo of asking them in my own head had gotten too much to bear.

I stopped saying “no” a long time ago. Because it was never heeded, so why bother? I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care if I was just a sex object, someone to screw after a milkshake at the local Steak & Shake. Except that failing to voice my objection brought with it its own set of troubles—namely, a feeling of complicity. After all, it’s not rape if you don’t say no, right?

And curled up in fetal position on the PS’ couch this morning, still sleepy from the sedative I took the night before, I didn’t want to tell her the humiliating truths I had confessed to the Gent the night before. She, as she is so skilled at doing, wheedled it out of me in the safety of a soft voice and frighteningly accurate guess as to why I was hiding, turning the tables on me and lightening the moment with a bit of humor as I so often tend to do.

She echoed everything the Gent had told me – this is normal, you are not a freak, you deserve to be honored for your boundaries … and, she added, you are making incredibly healthy choices in the way you deal with what you’re feeling. Granted, that’s not verbatim, but I think it does catch the general feeling behind her words. “Why do you even see me?” she kidded. “You don’t need me. Look at you working through this on your own.”

Curled in a ball on the couch (still wearing heels, despite my personal “no shoes on the furniture” rule), giggling at her teasing, the truth came out and I was met with nothing but assurance that I was doing this right, that my tangled mess of emotion was normal for someone with my past and that this room, the room I had only just returned to this very morning due to scheduling conflicts, was always going to be a safe place for me to unleash the emotions that I couldn’t unleash with the Gent. That it was okay. That yes, the fact that my body was being respected was novel and the fact that it was novel was sad … but it was still okay. She approved of what the Gent had said to me the night before, and reinforced that yes, he should be willing to wait, he should be respecting my comfort level—and not to give him too much credit just for doing the right thing. Ha. As if I, the queen of all things skittish and sarcastic, could give anyone too much credit.

She closed the session with a gigantically warm, safe hug and a kiss to the neck. And I walked out of there, tottering down the stairs in heels that hadn’t seen the light of day since last fall (and ankles that weren’t entirely so sure of said heels, given the drugs then in my system), but feeling wide awake and giggly and generally able to conquer the world. And my day only got better from there.

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Weaknesses, risks, and rather happyish things

May 3, 2010 at 12:12 am · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Life As I Know It, Travels & Other Adventures, iHurt

I don’t talk about the psych stuff much anymore, aside from a mention of the PS here and there, as for the most part, the madness is cleaning up well. I haven’t cut, I haven’t been entertaining food demons, and I haven’t thought (seriously) of checking out in several months. I am holding on, and holding on well … and yes, I’m proud of myself for it. My scars have remained scars. After eight years of holding onto a blade as a coping skill, having so many months without the stainless steel painkiller is huge. I refuse to count the weeks or the months for various reasons, but I’m holding on, and I’m glad to be doing it.

I was recently going through bookmarks and came across a post I’d saved a year ago (go read it, I’ll wait). And I questioned why I’d saved it, when I was drinking more responsibly then at twenty (and nineteen, before that) than I have in the last six now-legal months. Did I know then that I’d lose my grip? Who’s to say? But back in the fall, I knew exactly when things turned the corner, and I knew why. I also knew it was going to get a whole lot uglier before it got better. And it did. I coped, but I coped with a bottle in hand. Some people may be comfortable drowning their malaise in half of a bottle of wine on a regular basis, but I have never been one of them.

I didn’t miss the stuff when I didn’t have it. It was habit. If I was sitting on that couch, or reading that book, it was a natural part of the equation. Get lost in the drink to get away from reality. But where to go when I wanted to get away from it? I was slipping, but mired in humiliation and determined to claw my own way out.

It’s been an interesting re-training process, and one replete with “Hey, dare me not to drink ’til we meet next week?” texts to the PS. As with everything else I’ve ever used to torment myself, it was only a matter of finding a decent alternative. I still drink amongst friends, and I don’t ever see myself being a teetotaler, but I indulge more as the semi-sane nineteen-year-old did—with a healthy moderation. I don’t go at it to get away from anything these days, and yeah, I’m happy about that, too.

And Thursday, I took the 20-odd bucks I’d ordinarily put into a bottle of vodka and put them instead into a tank of gas, a cup of coffee, and a $5 parking permit at a state park in the mountains, in the company of someone I had only just begun getting to know. I left the leashes at home, took my camera—and also took a leap of faith. It was not unrewarded.

It was an hour-and-a-half trip there, three hours to hike, and the same ninety minutes back. If we didn’t know each other that well when we started, we’d certainly made a dent in the gap by the time we returned. (And before anyone goes all “mother hen” on my ass, my younger sister and I had pre-arranged times to check in, and she had a code phrase to watch for if I ever felt iffy about Mr. Dude).

We chatted and exchanged cameras with passers-by, ventured off the beaten path a few times in the name of curiosity, and talked of our summer travel plans; two different countries, two different objectives, but for the same length of time, and both trips discussed with the same nervous laughter skirting the edges of the conversation.

I let myself feel everything, nothing muted or tamped down by the latest preferred method of self-abuse, and everything seemed ridiculously vibrant and alive. We hunted skinks, counted pennies in the calmer waters near the waterfall, and commented aloud at the sun’s backlighting of the leaves. We hiked in the sunlight, lunched with the breeze making its lazy way through the shade, and sang along to the radio on the way back.

We weren’t anything at all, other than two people navigating each other’s car space and enjoying the random company.

We weren’t anything … and that in and of itself was everything.

(Pictures to follow—as usual).

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On determination, and more of my school’s ineptitude

April 13, 2010 at 4:33 pm · Filed under Gripes & Grumpings, Life As I Know It

In working dogs, we call it drive. In pit bulls specifically, gameness. It’s determination, the will and ability to stick with something regardless of adversity, to want something so badly you never.let.go.

If there is one thing I have come to recognize and appreciate about myself lately, it’s that I don’t let go. I’m not easily shaken off of something, and tend only to run away long enough to gain perspective and another running start before I jump in again. Sure, I cuss and cry and freak the eff out for a few, usually while bemoaning how much easier it would be to give up, how much I want to give up. I may take a breather, regroup, hunt down someone who can help me help myself. But in the end, I always seem to manage to get up and go another round, one way or another. I am only just recently realizing how much I like this trait, and how little tolerance I have for those lacking similar gumption.

I’ve been quiet lately because I’ve been fighting for something that has been in the works for the last seven months. Initially planned as a defiant middle finger to the world after the Epic Floods of ’09, it has over time become something to work toward, to hope for. It has also been one, long struggle from the very beginning. I haven’t talked about it here for pessimistic fear of jinxing it, because recently, for all of the stress and headache, it was finally happening.

I can remember sitting on the PS’s couch in shamed silence after my parents’ agreement to financially assist me fell flat … on the night of my 21st birthday, no less. I remember, just as clearly, the satisfaction of hopping onto the same spot across from her and opening the acceptance letter a few months later, after I found a way to pay for the program anyway. Still, it’s been one step forward and two (or four) steps back.

The registration was long and unnecessarily complicated for no apparent reason. Then there was a four week wait to even order my passport, let alone have it delivered. Then my passport photos had to be redone. Then my passport was delivered to the wrong address. After all of that had been resolved, it finally seemed like I was in the clear.

And then the school called. Because they screwed up again. The school that took a year to notice I had extra classes to be taken, the one where one teacher administered a test to her students last week while talking on her cell phone (a test for which each student was given the answer key to memorize as a study guide the week before, no less). The one where I needed a security escort to get to my car after finals last semester because jealous classmates had staked it out.

The school screwed up again, failing to notice in all their excitement of collecting my tuition to study abroad, that those same extra classes needing to be taken made me ineligible to join the very program for which they had registered me seven months before and for which they have been happily swallowing my money since. And somehow, they failed to notice this until after the deadline for refunds passed.

Beautiful, no? So now it is a mess of strings being pulled, professors digging in and going to bat for me, exceptions being pleaded, majors being changed, and a handful of weak but possible workarounds that might offer a solution. Now it’s fighting time, with the help of my younger sister who has rallied her troops at the school, and a handful of faculty going above and beyond on my behalf.

So I’m quiet because I’m tired. I am tired of trying to find the workaround that will make this work, of tapping out my brain, of daring to hope again and again only to meet another wall head-on, and then turning around and starting all over. I am exhausted.

But if I have to drag myself to the next possible solution by my ragged, bloody little fingernails, then so effing be it. Whatever happens, London can’t ever say I didn’t try.

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Numbered nothingness

February 26, 2010 at 5:54 pm · Filed under Life As I Know It

Because I haven’t gone the route of the bulleted, cop-out post in a while. Or maybe because I am not feeling the mojo that would otherwise allow me to effortlessly weave all of these items into a cohesive post. That, too.

1) I went on a work-related little jaunt to Tennessee yesterday, along with my manager and the visiting manager of another region. This meant ten hours in the car, and about all I accomplished for the day (besides tormenting my boss incessantly … because dude, you gotta entertain yourself somehow) was catching a loose hamster* and discovering that the visiting manager—a tiny, 100 lb Southern belle, complete with the accent and the big hair—will totally bust out a Nelly line with me when it fits the moment. Win.

2) You know you’re tired when you order a “sesame street” bagel from the coffee shop. I blame a sleepy brain and this video, long about 1:45. Because announcing in your best Elmo-voice that “Sesame Street is going to the shitter” is just good times.

3) Speaking (sort of) of annoying celebrities (or not), apparently Kathy Griffith is going to be poisoning SVU with her teeth-grating charm next week. This displeases me greatly. More so even than publicly admitting that I still follow the show. Ahem. Moving on.

4) And question. Should I feel bad for sleepy-raging all over the person dumb enough to stalker-call THE WRONG NUMER (aka mine) at o’dark thirty this morning? Because when I finally answered the sixth call, wondering what kind of hell had broken loose that the call was SO URGENT, her obnoxious little “Aw shit, Imma callin’ the wrong number” was juuuuuuuuuust enough to send me into the Land of Angry Eyes. And sarcasm.

*Somewhere, out there in Chattanooga, there is a black bear hamster named after me. And I’m not sure whether to laugh or be creeped out by this … or just freakin’ adopt the thing already. I have apparently graduated from stray dog- and cat-catcher to stray hamster-catcher … a landmark achievement, I’m sure.

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When the Clock Strikes Twelve

February 20, 2010 at 12:48 am · Filed under Life As I Know It ·Tagged ,

I think about her, because she isn’t home yet. I hope she’s safe; I worry she’ll be pushed into something she’s not ready for. I hope Hot Guy has standards as well as good looks; I suspect I know better.

But I still hope he doesn’t break her heart.

And I wonder why it’s her big sister waiting up for her tonight, and not her parents.

[Comments off. Too much think up around here right now.]

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And then it snowed

February 13, 2010 at 2:27 am · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Life As I Know It, The Brindle Brothers & Co. ·Tagged , ,

Given that I live in the South and thus very rarely ever see snow, it has always struck me as a deep breath, a reset button for the moment, when nature sees fit to grace us with the phenomenon. And after watching the recent news coverage with a truly unhealthy envy of practically everyone further north, I was thrilled when, long about 1pm today, Georgia’s share of the oh-so-inconvenient weather finally arrived. Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about snow, even as a child.

I guess it’s just that the silence of snow has yet to lose its power over me. And maybe that’s just because no one in Georgia knows how to deal with the stuff, so we all hole up and wait it out until the temperatures rise … but whatever the reason, snowstorms always invoke such an intense sense of quiet around here, and I love nothing more than to be standing right, smack-dab in the center of it. So with nowhere to go and nothing better to do this afternoon, I dressed the dogs in their coats and we all took a walk.

The neighborhood was utterly still, and as we went along, the only sound was that eerie, hushed whisper of the snow falling, coupled with my own slurred footfalls that blended so easily with the sound of eight paws padding their way through the slush. The distant shriek of delight from a child across the neighborhood broke the peace occasionally, but even that faded effortlessly into the background of “sounds meant to accompany a snowfall.” It was church-service quiet, and the silence stirred up in me the long-forgotten childhood urge to let out a solid, gleeful whoop, just to see what the congregation would do if I dared shatter the sense of reverence. But of course, just as I’ve always done, obedient in my place in the pew, I swallowed the sound begging to escape and simply grinned at the temptation, energized in equal parts by the inescapable sense of calm and the striking lack of noise.

On a whim, I turned and looked back when we had reached the top of the street, and I had to smile a little at the scene. Because all that marred the perfectly even covering of snow on the pavement was a single set of footprints, trailing alongside two sets of perfectly formed paw prints. And for those few moments, it was just the three of us and all the power of winter, completely alone and uninhibited.

It was perfection. It was just the way it should be. And it was beautiful, in its own awkward little way.

Aaaaand the reaction, once they figured out that the snow was NOT punishment...

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On Two Years

February 1, 2010 at 10:06 pm · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Life As I Know It ·Tagged , ,

It’s been two years since I first walked into her office, with the smiling, professional side of me fully engaged and (so I hoped) masking the severity of the problems. I waited agreeably in the waiting room, making good eye contact with the receptionist, smiling, holding myself with proper posture, and radiating sweetness—if only as a defense mechanism. I was nineteen, and scared half out of my mind.

The door was borderline-flung open, and my new therapist entered the waiting room with about as much speed. She leaned back on the door slightly, looking somewhat breathless as she smiled and called my name. And so it began.

No other mental health professional had been able to keep me in their office beyond a few months. Nobody else had fit. Nobody else had been able to elicit a knee-jerk reaction to the question of past sexual abuse from the very first meeting … and certainly, nobody else had respected and cared about me enough to say, “You know what, let’s back up. We don’t need to talk about this right now. Not until you’re ready. And if you’re ready with someone other than me, that’s okay too. I’m just going to follow your lead on this one.”

No one else dared “joke” about my food issues with me during the evaluation, taking note of and ultimately engaging in my sense of self-deprecating humor. Frankly, I was thrilled that she did. Thrilled.

And seriously, two years into this stuff, the Psych Spectacular deserves a medal. Not just for standing beside me while I grappled with every demon I could possibly summon from my past, every darkest detail from childhood that I could throw at her. (And trust me, I found the oddest ways to reach her—when words wouldn’t come, I snail-mailed letters … and then relied on the safety of emails … and then cited lyrics. And she accepted them all, without fail). But no, not just for that.

But for creating an unfailingly safe place for me, even when it meant taking me with her after she left the center at which we originally began. For proving to me that caring about someone does not equal being taken advantage of. For showing me that hugs are not dangerous or things to be punished over (this in particular, is huge. Huge). For letting me know that coming into session and talking about dog rescue and my latest taste in music is just as important and just as “okay,” therapeutically speaking, as talking about the tough stuff. For reiterating time and time again that it was not my fault and I’m not some twisted, perverted freak of nature because of what happened to me. For respecting me so much that when she messed up and told a little white lie (as she is, after all, only human … damn it) and I caught her in it, she gave me the option to walk away from her if I wanted. She had apologized, explained why she did what she did, and acknowledged a thousand times over that it was wrong, as I paced the side yard outside and tried to sort it all out … but when I needed a few weeks to myself to deal with what had happened and all of the flashbacky bullshit that it stirred up in me, she told me it was okay to leave.

And for showing me that “the water is fine, come on in,” with her own openness and self-disclosure.

Guys, seriously, she is one of those once-in-a-lifetime psychs that you know you’d keep seeing even if all of your so-called demons had been worked out. Just because you want her on your side while you deal with this thing called “life.”

I realized recently that nothing – truly, nothing with a capital N – is off limits in session. It is actually quite an amazing realization. And when she starts a sentence with a grin and, “Don’t put this on your blog, okay?” … well, I know I’m exactly where I belong.

She’s one of only three or four people that I know in the real world who knows exactly how bad things were as a child. She is also one of the precious few people I know in real life who have the URL to this blog. And after poking around it once (or twice, I don’t know … nor do I really care), she demonstrated her commitment to being foremost a therapist and second an ally, by telling me she felt it blurred the lines too much for her to read here, so she’d let it alone. Whether or not she still does is not of my concern; I don’t post that which I won’t later stand behind. But that she would know herself that well and hold such a dedication to our work to recognize what might ultimately complicate it spoke worlds to me. Worlds.

Tonight, we set off her alarm when we opened the front door, and though I almost offered to go back outside while she spoke to the security company, she didn’t hesitate to offer up that word while I sat on the other end of the couch. Granted, I knew it’d never leave my mouth, but that she trusted that it wouldn’t? Wow. Okay, then. And later, she took a page from my book and used dog rescue analogies to get through to me when I had shut her out and lapsed into feelings of failing and worthlessness over the whole stupid school situation.

Point is, she gets me. And she gets how to get to me, even when she may well think she’s not getting anywhere at all. I’ve used dog analogies to explain myself since almost the beginning, likening myself to a feral or comparing myself to a particular rescue case I had worked with previously when I couldn’t otherwise find the “human” equivalent to explain. And the fact that she took a chance and turned my own way of thinking on me tonight was huge. And for my defensive little self, it also worked—flawlessly.

It’s funny but earlier, I reread my journal entry from the day I met her and I still giggle at the bits of conversation that I wrote down then. Because really? It hasn’t changed. At all.

It still fits.

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Yeah, what SHE said

January 12, 2010 at 2:20 am · Filed under Happy-Type Stuff, Life As I Know It

I effing love it when I rediscover old favorites right when I need them. Hello, lyrical library to the rescue once again. In case there was any question, I am totally right here, right now. Exactly why is absolutely beyond me but if I were ever going to play off of the pit bull’s bad image and numbskull “locking jaw” wives’ tales, I would totally make some comparison to my whole refusing-to-let-go stubbornness and determination right about now. Which I kinda just did, so there ya have it, folks and funnybones. And said stubborness and determination are kinda springing up outta nowhere, but you know, I can’t say that I don’t like it.  We are (strike that, I am, as the dogs’ opinions don’t count for much outside of the toy aisle at Petco) picking up the pieces here, planning the next step, and cementing a way to get the hell outta dodge. And until that happens, mishaps and misjudgments aside, this sums me up curiously well.

Hand in My Pocket, Alanis Morissette

I’m broke but I’m happy
I’m poor but I’m kind
I’m short but I’m healthy, yeah
I’m high but I’m grounded
I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed
I’m lost but I’m hopeful, baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving a high five

I feel drunk but I’m sober
I’m young and I’m underpaid
I’m tired but I’m working, yeah
I care but I’m restless
I’m here but I’m really gone
I’m wrong and I’m sorry, baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be quite all right
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is flicking a cigarette

And what it all comes down to
Is that I haven’t got it all figured out just yet
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving the peace sign

I’m free but I’m focused
I’m green but I’m wise
I’m hard but I’m friendly, baby
I’m sad but I’m laughing
I’m brave but I’m chickenshit
I’m sick but I’m pretty, baby

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one’s really got it figured out just yet
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing the piano
And what it all comes down to, my friends
Is that everything’s just fine, fine, fine
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailing a taxi cab

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Onwards and upwards

January 1, 2010 at 4:31 pm · Filed under Life As I Know It

Last night, I read 2009 its last rites and at midnight, buried it beneath a mound of equal parts heartache and hope. I honored its losses and counted its triumphs (no matter how small), nodded to the doors that had closed, and raised a toast to those now opening in their places. In good company, I gave it a send-off to rival those of all the years past put together.

And this morning, with clouded sunlight leaking through the blinds, I woke up in the arms of someone I love, rolled over, and thought that this really wasn’t such a bad way to begin a new year. Back at home now, wrapped in a bathrobe and sorting through the pictures from 2009’s going-away party, I still stand by that sentiment. It’s going to be a good year.

I’ve opted not to reflect much on 2009 here. But to deny the past is to also discount its lessons, and as the self-assured highs and the bitter lows of the last 365 days come crashing back, I’m overwhelmed with something I can’t quite place my finger on. Something almost like defiance.

Because some of the dust has settled now and some of the smoke has cleared, and I’m still standing. So rest in peace, 2009. It was a hell of a ride.

Here’s to the other side.

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In which I am owned by North Carolina

October 31, 2009 at 12:34 am · Filed under Gripes & Grumpings, Life As I Know It ·Tagged , , ,

As a firm believer that all things happen for a reason, I am currently failing to understand what lesson is to be learned from today. Originally, it wasn’t supposed to be so complicated.

The plans were made around the fact that I turn 21 on Sunday, but will be working all day and no one will be around afterward to go out for any festivities. Plus, with an 8:30 class on Monday morning, the stereotypical “overindulgence in alcohol in the company of friends” thing isn’t such a hot idea. Damn being responsible. So, as Friday is my day off, I set up a grand adventure for myself today instead – a hot air balloon over the sunrise in NC, followed by a leisurely lunch and a two hour trail ride in the mountains. I didn’t post about it because I have an unimpressive track record when it comes to weather-dependent activities and figured it best not to jinx myself. Yes, well.

The fact that the balloon was scheduled for sunrise meant hitting the road at a painfully early hour, but at the time it just added to the adventure. So I rolled out in sleepy cheerfulness, armed with coffee and an iPod full of irresistably happy tunes. For several hours, it was just my trusty little Accord keeping pace with the big rigs as we made our way to the state lines.

I hit South Carolina, and eventually, North Carolina, all with little traffic and a comfortable amount of time to spare. I was just a few exits from my destination and things were going smoothly … until I felt the jerk, the lurch, and then heard the most ungodly scraping sound issuing from the rear of my car. Fearing the whole rear bumper had spontaneously decided to abandon ship and was preparing a theatrical farewell (there was absolutely no rational basis for this fear, btw), I hit the hazards, made a careful lane shift, and exited the freeway.

Unfortunately, I apparently picked the one exit that led directly to industrial seclusion and to what looked like the perfect setting for my own, real life episode of Gangland. For the entire stretch of road, between the factories and warehouses, there was only one dingy orange street light. But dude, my car was about to disassemble itself, remember? So I pulled under the one hazy light and stepped out to survey the damage – only a mangled tire. Okay, well, that’s not hopeless, right? Right. No biggie.

I reached for my phone only to discover that not only had I picked the one exit that led to Creepy Warehouseville, I’d also managed to land in a stretch where my phone couldn’t get service. It was at this point that I wrote off the morning’s plans, realized I was slightly screwed, and proceeded to calmly, collectedly … freak the fuck out. It was 7:30 in the morning, the sun wasn’t up yet, I didn’t have cell phone reception (thus no GPS either), had no idea where I was (except that it was Sketchy Town), and obviously, no one else knew where I was, either.

Since there was no way in hell I was staying in the shadowy parking lot, I did the only thing I could think to do: I got back in the car, fired her up, and hobbled down the road in search of human life, with the blown tire grating in protest all the way. Afraid of pushing my luck too far, I pulled into the first somewhat inhabited-looking lot that I could find, and made for the brightly lit office nestled between several loading docks. The older gentleman inside was (fortunately) extremely kind and helpful, and ushered me to his desk.

“Of course, young lady, come right on in here and there’s a phone right there on that desk with your name on it. You just do whatever you need to do, and don’t worry about a thing.”

Naturally, I reached only voicemail after voicemail after voicemail after voicemail. I finally got a hold of my older sister, and she got me straightened out with our roadside assistance benefits, so help was called for and on the way soon after.

After the tire was changed out, and a replacement purchased in town, I proceeded to get lost as hell on someone’s directions not once, not twice, but three times. Ultimately, I decided that screw it, I was falling back on the people I knew, so I stopped at an animal hospital. Good choice – I was met with desperately needed coffee and equally desperately needed directions. Sure, the directions may have involved phrases like “you go that way a ways” and “pass a sign that says …”, but they also included a tip about recognizing the exit I needed, despite it being unmarked. And with that little gem of information, voila!, I was homeward bound.

So, moral of the story. Blown tire + dark side-streets + no cell phone reception + no GPS + scratched birthday plans = rather exhausted, slightly shook-up Inky. And the best part? I’m doing it over again next week, weather-permitting. So there, North Carolina … so there. In the meantime, I suppose I should hunt down something to do this weekend that might mark the occasion of turning 21…but bah, fucking last minute planning.

As a random, bonus side-thought, do you know what’s really weird about all of this? I’ve been compulsively inspecting my tires for like, the last three months (much to my father’s aggravation). I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was up, despite all evidence (and professional opinion) to the contrary. Even weirder, I had a dream a few weeks ago about having a flat on a dark highway somewhere out of state. It was a different highway than the one I was on this morning, but in the dream, it was a trucker that helped with the tire then, too. Just strange. Cue the Twilight Zone music, I guess…

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