The Disappearing Car
Nothing about what you are about to read is structured in such a way that might educate a reader on anything useful. That’s not an ideal way to bloggy. I‘m still learning the best bloggy practices. For instance, Did you know that the term “bloggy” is incorrect. It’s actually just “blog.” How is anyone supposed to know that? Upon coming upon this information, I still insist upon calling my bloggy “my bloggy.” So I suppose I have learned nothing. As will you, gentle reader. As will you.
No! We must learn! Life is education, your highness! Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.
In the coming future, I will be embarking on a very extensive Shakespeare experiment for like-minded nincompoops. In fact, that’s not a bad working course title. I’ll plop it in a box marked “possibilities.” Also, just earlier this week in fact, I bloggied about the virtues and constraints of Kindle Unlimited. So there you go. Helpful shmelpful do good and well-full! You’re super welcome.
All this is to say, I apologize up front that you will learn nothing here today. Nothing of value anyway. Welcome to my obscenely average existence. Though I do enjoy myself immensely, I understand that a good bloggy is one that is accustomed to the gentle reader, not the egotistical writer. Like all other things, this bloggy and I are both sincere works in progress. With all this in mind, please pretend to enjoy “The Disappearing Car.”
The Disappearing Car
Routine. Routine. Routine. It goes on and on. Everyday you make the doughnuts or do whatever it is that you do. For me, I wake up next to the boy. Usually he’s crawling all over me by 6:15 and I submit to morning. We go downstairs, he cries for milk or just because he’s awake and doesn’t understand what that means yet (which is strange because he was just having a grand ol’ time waking me up). He’s not exactly what one might call a morning person. He gets his milk, I feed the cats, I feed more cats, I feed some more. The girl comes out from some corner with a “Boo!” and scares me half to death even though I expect it every morning. She gets some food. The boy eats something. The missus heads off to work. I’ve had my coffee. Other stuff. Clean the kitty litter. Get the girl’s lunch prepared. Get them dressed. Get me dressed. Brush everyone’s teeth (not the cats). Get in the car, move out.
That last bit was glossed over because, as boring as routine can be for the person in it, surely it is even more painful for the reader reading it. And of course, it’s not always as meaningless as all that. There are many beautiful moments to be found in the monotony. The girl, for instance, is now, unbelievably, using the potty all by herself. Miracle of miracles! She still has had a few minor accidents here and there and does need help in the bathroom more times than not, but trust me, it is soooo much better than where we were last month. And the boy is a squishy, happy receptacle of hugs and kisses. My apologies for painting a less than perfect family picture. In real life, the joy can be peppered with tedium. That is all.
Did you want to hear more about the daily struggle to get them up and out into the world? No? You’re good and you want to see where this is headed? Me too. Let’s go there.
The Predictable Commute
My daughter is enrolled in an excellent early education center. It’s approximately half an hour away. On the road, we drive over bridges, pass the ocean (it’s everywhere!), and take the long necessary, out-of-the-way route because, alas, we are not crows.
When you do a thing over and over again, ad nauseum, it becomes a part of you. I could probably make the trip with my eyes closed. Not that I ever would. Calm down. We don’t have self-driving cars just yet.
There are few things that can take me out of my “get the girl to school” zombie-like hypnosis. The biggest one being her. She loves to talk about all these things that purportedly happened to her when she was a baby.
“When I was a baby I saw a unicorn and he helped me brush my hair and then we went to the store and we bought lots of candy and dolls and presents for Grandma and we danced and…” Yes, baby. That all happened when you were a baby. Absolutely. “Daddy stop talking! I’m talking!” Yes, honey. Sorry, baby.
I zone out for the most part, but when we get close to her school, just a couple streets away, there, parked on the side of the road for the longest time, is some mystery car enshrouded by a black covering. The first time I saw it, maybe three months ago, it was no big deal. The second day, it was still there and I figured, “OK, fine. Maybe someone doesn’t want their expensive sports car to be damaged by the winter elements.” Mind you, we had a pretty tame winter, but still. Benefit of the doubt.
Every time I drove past this bundled up car, it went from a gentle annoyance to a major head-turning, noodle-scratching part of my day. I no longer cared why the car was there, never moving, forever sleeping under its black blanket. My brain had moved past the natural questions. Now I was playing a hateful game with myself where, once I got close, I knew the thing would be there and the awful mind trick was “Will I look today? Or won’t I?”
WHAT DOES IT MATTER?! It certainly matters not. Yet if you try not to think of the pink, polka-dotted elephant, boom, there it is.
I despised the owner of this car for no reason other than he/she was the unbeknownst tormentor and initiator of my own mental failings.
“Daddy, are we almost to school?”
Yes, honey. We are close. We know this because of the car. The car that is always there. The car that never moves or comes out from beneath its cover. The car is coming. We will be upon it soon. We pass it now. I won’t look. I won’t look. If I look, maybe it will be gone. No, it is never gone. But just maybe. Maybe today.
I look. It is there. As always.
Noooooooo! Why did I look?!
“Almost to school, honey.”
Do I have serious issues that perhaps need to be addressed in a mental professional’s environment? Or does everyone obsess over inane nothings such as this? I ask myself, “Why do I care?” And the answer is. I don’t. I don’t give a flying fart whether the car is there or not. I also don’t care why I look… I don’t think. Or why I’ve chosen this one recurring object to own a good 30 seconds to three minutes of my daily life. Why do I play this game with myself? Look or don’t look, jerk, just try not to think about the pink, polka-dotted elephant. Come now, you can beat this.
🎶 This was such an easy game to play. Now the car has seemed to go away. Oh I believe in yesterday. 🎶
Yes. As I write this, the shrouded car is no longer parked on the side of the street. It was not there yesterday and it was not there today. I believe the thing is gone for good. But I’m not entirely certain it was ever there at all. A not insignificant part of me actually thinks my mind created the car and, because I could not take the game any longer, my mind (thankfully) chose to alleviate my stress by taking it away. Poof. Goodbye imaginary mystery car. Happy travels and Godspeed to whatever make-believe land you have driven to. I hope that wherever you’ve gone, it is warm and you can sun yourself and be free of your constricting black blanket.
Please don’t come back. I don’t think I could reckon it.
Say, what’s up with that blade of grass? It hasn’t grown a millimeter since yesterday!
I see you, grass. I’m on to you, you no good, rotten, son of a …
Writer’s Note, Part Deux
You’re still here? OK, cool. I’m not sure why you’ve remained. Maybe there’s nothing good on TV tonight? Pppbbttthhh. Haha. Sorry. But that was rich. Well, I won’t keep you for too much longer. I only wanted to accomplish two things at the end here.
1) I told you so. — Sorry for the boring story that went nowhere.
2) What have we learned? — Can you think of something in your life that needles away at your thoughts? Is there a disappearing car/pink, polka-dotted elephant in your world? What do you do about it, if anything? If nothing or something, I’d love to hear.
There we go. We have made a connection, you and I. Hello.
OK, here’s some crazy dude on fire.