Boring Blog of Misery

Originally Posted Sunday, March 9, 2014

I know you are waiting to hear more about my health woes.  I got sick again yesterday, a new cold on top of the old flu.  I think.  I was going to take my mother to get a new dishwasher early yesterday morning.  I was getting one, too.  The battery in the car has been on its last legs, but I thought it had enough juice for a bit longer.  When I went to start the car, though, in the southern cold, it wouldn't turn over.  I called my mother and had her come over to give me a jump.  She was full of advice, telling me all the things that I should have done and should be doing, all nonsense.  She followed me to the Firestone store where I dropped the car off for them to install a new, expensive battery.  Then I got into my mother's car.  She drove.  I haven't ridden with my mother for a while, and it has become an even scarier experience. Pulling onto the highway, changing lanes. . . all life-threatening.  And she loves the gas and brakes.  We got to the appliance store, though, where she was her usual rough hillbilly self when it comes to salesmen.  She is a product of poverty and the depression, and she, like my father, will order food by the price so that there is no mistake.  But this salesman had seen people like my mother for the thirty years he had worked at this store.  It is one of the old established places that has been around since my town was Crackerville run by southern good old boys.  Sure. . . but if they were screwing people, they wouldn't still be around.  Eventually my mother settled on one of the cheaper ones which I got as well to make her feel safe and good.  "I'll get what you get mom." 

I told her I would take her to breakfast, so we got back into the car for Death Ride II.  I wasn't feeling so good at the diner and had little appetite for my breakfast.  By the time we had finished and had driven back to the Firestone store, I was feeling pretty bad.  "I think I'm car sick," I told my mother.  She had a habit of using the gas and the brake in pretty sudden ways.  It was cool outside but hot in the car.  I don't know.  I thought maybe it had all gotten to me. 

Back at home, I felt weak and went back to bed.  Maybe a nap will fix it, I thought.  In the middle of a most gloriously beautiful day, I slept for three hours.  When I got up, I knew I wasn't right.  At the studio in the late afternoon, I tried to shake it, but it wouldn't be shook.  I poured a vodka and sat on the couch looking through some photo books.  The doors were open.  The air was perfect.  I was rotten. 

I had only soup for dinner.  I watched a little t.v. and went to bed. 

I woke with the sun just coming up over the horizon.  The birds were singing.  The clocks had changed.  It was eight o'clock.  Shit, shit. . . fucking Daylight Savings.  Have you ever heard anyone who said they loved changing the time, just loved shifting the hours back and forth during the year? 

I go to have my knee examined at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.  My body will say seven.  My mind will say "fuck you." 

That is all the good news I have.  This has become a boring blog of misery.  You only have to read it, though, and not even that.  Imagine living it.