Well, it has been a looong day. It started off with me drinking orange juice in the kitchen in Methuen, and has ended up with me looking out the window at my car packed full of crap in the parking lot of Chisholmes Motor Inn on Route 1. When things started to go sideways at home, I called up Barbie (last loyal friend I have) and said “I gotta get out RIGHT NOW!” No questions asked, she told me to get myself down to her place in Medford. I started shoving stuff in trash bags – the dog’s bed and toys, some pairs of pants, a couple of sports bras and tee-shirts, an armful of hoodies, Skechers, make up bag, box of panty liners and the blow dryer – and Linda and Macaroon were out that door!
Driving down Route 93 (thankfully I didn’t get pulled over ’cause I couldn’t see a damned thing over all the crap) I was thinking about the therapy session with the little blond twinkie intern girl that started this whole shit show. She asked me “at this point in your life, what advice would you give your younger self?” I thought “what kind of a fucking dumb ass question is that for a therapist to ask – DEPRESSING ….ugh…..” but what I said was, “I would tell my stupid ass younger self to make sure you don’t die in the town where you were born, raised and lived then raised your own sorry spawn.” Then suddenly realized at 63 years old, the odds weren’t looking good for me getting out.
That thought really set something off in me, and after that it was kind of a blur. I had a full on panic attack in twinkie intern’s office and knocked over a potted plant while flailing around. Supervisors came running to talk me down as I hyperventilated. The thought kept circling in my brain that I just couldn’t die in that one story ranch in Methuen with 1 bathroom, 6 people and 40 years worth of tchotchkes, and bric-a-brac, and gag gifts from Yankee Swap, and my dead aunt’s house coats in a box in the closet, and stale cigarette smoke from all the “non-smokers” puffing away in their bedrooms while they played video games. I could no longer cope with the yelling, the toilet clogging and overflowing weekly, the rest of the adults in the house intermittently unemployed and living off my crappy job at the insurance company. I felt like Bob Cratchit coming home weary every day to my hungry brood – except my brood is a howling mob demanding take out from Chick-fil-A.
The one good thing that came out of that therapy situation was a prn prescription for Atavan.
Anyways, driving down to Medford I stopped at a rest area to let Macaroon pee, and Barbie called to tell me that all the plumbing in her house had backed up because of the 8 people living in her house and Roto-Rooter was coming for an emergency house call but weren’t sure when. She said she was sorry but I was going to have to find another place to stay. I had $200 in my purse and an almost maxed out credit card, so headed to where I could get a cheap room for the night – Route 1.
Now Macaroon and I are settling in for the night. She doesn’t seem to mind that the rest of the howling mob isn’t around and it is just her and Mama here at Chisholmes. So far it doesn’t seem like anybody at home has noticed that we are gone….. typical. God only knows what I will do tomorrow. But I like what I hear right now in this room, which is nothing, except for the sound of the traffic whizzing by.
Linda LaRosa Carries On 