Dena Taylor’s Musings

MOM: Did you watch the Oscars?

ME: Yeah. Kind of boring. Except for Javier.

MOM: Oh, yeah. We love Javier.

ME: And Viggo.

MOM: And Viggo. Yes, yes.

ME: And Colin Farrell is hot.

MOM: (sarcastically) Ohhh, yeah. Right. With his scraggly long hair. He looks awful.

ME: You know, there’s a rumor that he’s really well hung.

MOM: (kind of disgusted) Oh, yeah. Like that really makes a difference.

ME: It does to some people.

MOM: Well, he’s such a tiny little guy it must just drag on the ground.

ME: Yeah. It just might.

I wake up prematurely at 7am. Instead of going back to sleep, I strip the sheets off the bed, gather the towels and put them all on the washer. (I won’t be showering today. I will be sitting in a car for four hours and just don’t find it necessary.)

I feed the animals. Scoop the boxes. Pack my groceries. Check my email. Make a wheat grass smoothie. Break a glass in the sink. Pick up each little shard, carefully placing it in a paper towel and then inside a ziplock bag before putting it in the trash. Take out the trash. Load the dishwasher. Make a clean sweep of the house—is everything turned off? Are the cats fed and happy? Are the doors locked? I check the washer/dryer again. Under the bed, too. I haul all my crap out to the car. I tell the alarm lady, “Monitor this!” and close the door. This cat is leaving town.

The last full day has come. I don’t feel worse but I don’t feel 100% better. Allergies for sure.

I spend about four hours at the coffee shop writing. The man next to me strikes up a conversation. He is a writer, too. Small world. Small town. Small pollen particles in my nose.

I turn the car into the safe “lifestyle community.” A little red truck is riding my ass. I slow down a couple of digits but remain above the 30 mph limit to make a point. “Off me,” I say aloud. I round a curve, slowing to about 29 ½ mph and the little punk ass mo-fo actually decides to pass me. “This is a ‘lifestyle community’ not a race track!” I shout. “Where kids play and ride their bikes and roll their backpacks down the street. (By the way, WTF with the rolling backpacks? My backpack didn’t roll. And I didn’t have a cell phone either). Anyway, you decide to pass me?! Seriously? On a neighborhood street? On a Sunday?!” I flip him off. He ignores me.

I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t believe I’m defending this place. But danger is danger, people. There’s no telling what you’ll do.

I’m on a mission. Amongst the sprouting chiahoods, at the corner of an intersection, is a horse pasture. It is obviously a hold out. It’ll get bulldozed some day and someone will receive a wad of cash. But for now, it has horses in it and I’m determined to get my country on and visit them. Though the sidewalks don’t extend the whole way, I traipse through the mud and grass to get there. It takes 30 minutes. I’m astounded by how much litter I see along the way. I stand at the fence and three horses come to check me out. Having recently seen the documentary “Zoo,” I make sure my fly is up and extend only my hand to pet one of the horses on the head. They are robust and muddy. I say something about how weird it is to see them amidst such abundant development. I wonder if anyone else comes to visit them. They should. They won’t be here forever.

I walk back. Feed the animals. Administer the meds for the last time. Eat. Pack. Just a few hours now.

I wake up. No one broke into the house. No grainy photos of my extremities will be splashed onto 48 Hours Mystery or Suburban Secrets. I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not.

I rifle through the CD collection and upload some oldies into iTunes, including “Dear Prudence” and “Rock you like a hurricane.”

A big ass storm thundered and flashed its way through the night. The Weather Channel says more is on its way; that east Texas is in for a doozy. I decide to brave the dumping, stormy white sky and drive to the aquarium in downtown Dallas.

So does everyone else. The winding ramp to the entrance is full of dripping coats, wet shoes, strollers and parents holding onto their children’s hands. One woman even takes her son’s picture two times before she even gets to the ticket window. I shudder to think how long it will take them to get through the aquarium with her taking his picture every 10 steps. I wonder if she follows him into the bathroom, too.

I try my best to admire the wildlife but the fact is, the crowd gets in the way. I honestly thought people would stay in because of the weather but I was sorely wrong. I stand in front of the bat enclosure and try to stay fascinated by these nocturnal creatures. A young couple approaches and the female vehemently says, “What are these?” “Bats,” says the man, blandly. “Sick! They’re disgusting! Don’t they have rabies or something?” “You know what’s really disgusting?” I want to offer up. “Your lack of intelligence and respect for wildlife,” I would continue. “You spent $20 to get in here and you’re completely unwilling to learn. Oh, and you have no fashion sense. And you’re dumb.” I fantasized about her getting stuck on the other side of the glass. But I wouldn’t do that to the bats. That would be sick. And disgusting.

Everyone seems to be coughing and standing right next to me. And one after one, the parents point out the obvious to their kids. “Look, Jeremy! It’s a shark! Do you see the shark Jeremy?” Jeremy sees the shark just fine. In fact, Jeremy sees several sharks because they are like 50 of them swimming in front of his face and over his head. “Look Jeremy,” I consider saying. “Your mommy needs you to respond because she just spent $40 to get you and your sister in here. Plus she had to load all your shit into the car and drive through the rainstorm when what she really wants to do is meet her friends for a Bloody Mary. She’s wondering what the fuck she’s doing with her life, Jeremy. She’s afraid her mind is turning to mush. So if you could give her a little, ‘Wow, I see Mama!’ or a ‘Yes, mom! I see the fucking sharks, already,’ I think you’d really make her feel like it’s all worth the effort and we could keep this party train on the tracks. Whadya say, little buddy?” But I don’t. Instead, I rush the rest of the exhibits and leave before I contract some sort of untreatable plague.

I drive through the torrential rains back to the suburbs and to the Pei Wei for some takeout. I eat it and watch “Superbad.” I think it’s juvenile. Immature. Gross. And I love it.

I run/walk on the treadmill. The doozy storm never comes. I tell the prick-teases at The Weather Channel to blow themselves, laugh at the crappy pun and watch Kathy Griffin.

Don’t feel 100%. Something snotty going on. Maybe it’s the animal kingdom I’m living in. I wonder if Jane Goodall was a closet Benadryl junkie. Then I realize there aren’t any closets in the jungle. Then I realize I’ve given this way too much thought.

The Weekend Without Plans looms. I remind myself that I only have three nights left. Three nights to try and not go crazy and text people things I shouldn’t; to log onto some inappropriate chat room; or drop into the local tavern and take up smoking and stall sex.

Meet a new friend for tapas in the historic downtown center—pulsating with antique stores and bible study. New friend is very funny and knows the suburbs like nobody’s business. She gives me the DL on the world of comparison mommies. We gab. Time flies.

I go to the coffee shop again. I finish another project. I feel prolific. Two foreigners  in the coffee shop (Germans?). Cannot imagine what in the world brought them here. One smiles at me. I smile back and wonder if they know the monotony they have stumbled into. I toy with inviting them over to the house and having some drunk, raging three-way off the chandeliers, playing to an audience of cats. Then I realize just what my time here is doing to me and yank myself out the door.

I watch “Shoot ‘em up” with Clive Owen. I mean, starring Clive Owen. If I were watching it with Clive, well, I’d be writing something entirely different. Actually, I wouldn’t be able to write because I’d be so entirely worn out and unable to walk. There’s definitely a theme going on here.

My BFF and I talk on the phone about everything. I burp and am amazed at how it reverberates throughout the house—off the hardwood floors, up to the high ceilings, off the walls and appliances. I’m almost embarrassed but laugh instead. BFF says, “Wow.” In the background I hear the alarm bitch utter, “Crude. Unladylike. Slut.”

While I’m in the kitchen making dinner, the doorbell rings. It’s after 8pm. It’s dark and there’s a storm brewing. All the makings of a bloody Suburban Secrets recount or Lifetime movie. I don’t answer it. I just stand there. Whoever it was—WHATEVER it was—goes away. I wonder if they’ll wander to the back of the house and peer through the curtainless windows. The liquor cabinet is full. Maybe I will invite them in after all.