Evil Yellow

Evil Yellow struck again last night.

Sure as the world, he messed up the one freshly blacktopped stretch of highway on my road most traveled and hid somewhere, rolling with amusement. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s had it in for me ever since I started driving.

I gritted my teeth when they began tearing up my road. Having to travel it twice a day, five days per week back and forth to classes, I dreaded the inevitable delays.

The construction phase seemed to last forever. And of course, they blocked off one side of the road for miles, although the five workers, wiping sweat from tired faces, progressed only a few feet on any given day.

They were experts at what they did. When they finally re-opened the whole highway, the pavement was solid and even. My tires moved over it as smoothly as a knife moves across buttered toast. It was heavenly. And it was sure to last, until the first heavy Texas rain cut grooves into its surface.

The road was still unicolor charcoal, which seemed to bother the highway department, because they sent the stripers in next. I must assume that someone actually drove the stretch, before giving striping orders. Someone, who has to use an automobile on a daily basis and knows what it takes to safely pass another car. I am certain that this individual slowly drove the whole length of new pavement, making notes on visibility and road curvature. I must believe that – or lose faith in the human intellect.

Surely, this individual then wrote the orders precisely, noting where to place the double yellow lines and where to allow interrupted stripes. Just as certainly, the striping crew consisted of intelligent, responsible citizens who carried out orders correctly and according to standards and common sense.

Yet, some time during the night, Evil Yellow struck. Or perhaps he waited until morning, when he saw me roaring up in my 89 mustang.

“I’ll teach her!” he must have said and then gone straight to work.

By the time I reached the new road, the yellow stripes had taken on new life. I was late, so naturally, I got stuck behind a slow moving vehicle going at least ten miles under the speed limit. Murphy’s law.

Unfortunately, there was double yellow line for most of the wide open stretch with its great visibility. Right before the curves, the line broke for passing. Right after the curves, when I could have whipped out quickly and buzzed around the slowpoke, there it was again: double yellow – no passing!

I tailed that slowpoke all the way to the next town, waiting for an opportunity to pass. By the time I turned off from that road, I had hurled every known swear word at the foul entity responsible for my demise. And somewhere in the distance, Evil Yellow snickered and howled with amusement.

By the time I returned, the stripes had changed again. This time with open lines on the other side of the curves. And again, I rode tailgate behind a dawdler. But this time, I had enough. With one final especially colorful metaphor for emphasis, I stopped being a law abiding citizen and passed anyway. Now, I was the one laughing, while Evil Yellow scratched his malevolent head.

I wonder what he’ll cook up next to ruin my day. I’ll be at his mercy again Monday morning.

Mouth Musings

Will any of us ever forget the miracle of a new tooth?

The itchy, achy anticipation announced the blessed event days in advance. I’d probe with my tongue every few minutes, checking for points of emergence.

Once the first cragged edges appeared, I couldn’t keep my tongue off of them. Over the next few days, the itchy achy feeling magnified, until at last, a fabulous new mountain peak rose up to grace the tongue’s panoramic horizon.

Much show-and-tell followed after the break-through. The sharp, zig-zaggedy edges of my new tooth garnered sincere admiration. No money at this point, although I thought I should have been rewarded. After all, I had just grown a whole new part of myself, with no outside help.

After the birth of a new tooth, I always matured a bit. I saw myself as wiser and more dignified, as if the lump of miraculously materialized calcium and enamel imparted some deep and long-expected knowledge. My tongue stayed busy, wearing down the tooth’s immaculately sharp edges. For the sake of my dental bliss, I never wanted my childhood to end.

When the last wisdom tooth rounded out my mountain range, the fun was over. My childhood had slid into the past, unawares, and suddenly the magic was gone. No more itchy achy, no more buried treasures, no more grand scale landscaping.

I thought about this today, as I prepared to visit my dentist. After two recent root canals in the very teeth that once evoked such pride, I returned to set my crowns. I hadn’t chewed on the right side of my mouth in months, first from the pain, then from lack of solid dental surfaces. Over the past weeks, my tongue had rubbed itself raw on the temporaries. I was ready for a miracle.

Life changes as we get older. Instead of itchy achy, my failing teeth caused me vicious pain. The root canals were straight from a scary movie, and waiting for replacements made me lose at least three pounds. But today, I’m biting into a fat, juicy apple, and I’m chewing on the right side. It’s not like growing my own teeth, but it’s still a miracle. And my tongue is busy exploring the new immigrants.

Twilight Zone

Who among us with children doesn’t have a sleep deficit?

It’s like a pact with the devil: The moment a child enters our lives, we give up our right to sleep through to morning.
Maybe that is why we want to place our hands around the neck of an oblivious teenager and choke the blissful ignorance out of her.

It doesn’t get much better as they get older.
One of my childless friends smiled smugly on her way to the adoption agency. She informed me that she was adopting an older child, far past the “Waaahh” phase.
She thought it would be easier, but what a surprise she had, when the twelve-year-old wet the bed in the middle of the night.

Children are not born for our convenience. If we are creatures of comfort, we should stay far away from child-rearing. Once we give birth (or adopt), our lives receive an instant and radical makeover. Everything changes, from the way we socialize to the way we talk, from the way we eat to the way we sleep. And especially to the amount of sleep we can wrench out of an average night.

I’m in the twilight zone this week. I think I’ve been slipping into it slowly over the past month or so, losing sleep an hour at a time. I am now sleep deprived to the point of goofiness. My husband considers me hilariously entertaining. I’m not even aware of it, but something sharp and sarcastic usually rolls off my tongue at the slightest provocation. Lucky for him, I’m too tired to get really angry when he guffaws at my every remark.

I love my child. I would do anything in the world for him. But sometimes a mother just has to vent. Our hearts are big enough to hold the world, our arms wrap many times around our loved ones, but our minds float in lala land, craving sleep. I’m up early today, watching over a restless child, while my husband saws logs in the bedroom. I think I will drag him out by the ear and deputize him, while I go take his place in bed and crash.

Then again, I probably won’t. But it felt nice to talk about it.

The Eyes of The Empire

It was the eyes. I don’t know why, but I always pictured them to be glowing.

Not so much glowing from a light, but from intensity, matching the large voice that sounded so menacing, and yet so seductive.

I watched that movie probably a dozen times, and at night I dreamed of the eyes, spellbound.

“What is thy bidding…my master?”

So much power, so frighteningly casual with his violence, yet deferential, as he knelt before his own Emperor. I wondered, why Luke Skywalker fought him so fervently. How could he possibly resist submitting to the honorable Lord Vader?

No-where in that film were his eyes visible, yet I still felt them whenever I heard his voice. And I heard it often.

“Do not disappoint me again!”

Oh, I would not have! Or gladly suffered the consequence. Under the dark hood, the eyes surely glowed, rage and dominance holding me captive, like a tractor beam. It was almost spiritual.

For six months or more, I imagined, throwing myself at his mercy, not caring if he would grant it. For those few seconds’ wait, while I heard him breathing under the hood, I knew he considered it. Then I clutched my throat, accepting that My Lord Vader had passed sentence, and I only prayed to die honorably.

I finally stopped watching the movie, when my obsession got out of hand. Still, occasionally, I see the eyes burn, as they are watching me.

It was always the eyes.