April 10: Brightening. Heading NSW.

Right. Let us not forget the possibility that an invisible friend may continue the relationship beyond what is deemed the norm by what is termed normal society which contains, one presumes, a fair number of so-called normal people who deny the existence of invisible things as people who admit that they are aware of same would then possibly be considered unusual and therefore possibly skidding outside the lines. Ergo, not good.

My own invisible friend was a girl who lived in our bathtub. I spoke to her whenever I visited. I usually admonished her for being stupid. That was about all I could remember, until the other night, when I was in the bathroom, rummaging around looking for another roll of toilet paper. As hope waned, I heard a voice.

It: “You haven’t changed at all.”

Me (from deep within the dark cupboard): “Ow.”

It: “Put on a few pounds, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

Me (extracting self from shelf): “Who the hell are you? More to the point, how did you get in here… huh?” Eyes moving from side to side. No one there.

It: “You really don’t remember?”

Me: “I refuse to be drawn into a conversation with a figment of my imagination.”

It: “Why not, you do it all the time.”

Me: “Because I don’t want the neighbours to hear me. Through the vents, you know? In the old house when I was a kid, we were detached.”

It (crowing): “So you do remember!”

Me (defeated): “Aye. How come you.. Ah.. stopped by?”

It: “I didn’t.”

Me: “You didn’t?”

It: “I didn’t stop by. I’ve been with you the whole time.”

Me: “All the time? Every place I’ve lived? All the… oh my gawd.”

It: “Yes, it’s been quite an education.”

Me: “I bet.”

It: “I’ve had a bit of trouble with the Union over you.” There’s the sound of someone dragging on a cigarette.

Me: “Really? No smoking in here. Please.”

It: “It’s invisible. You can’t smell it or see it. Don’t worry.” Flips her ash into the tub.

Me: “I heard that.” Sighs. “What’s this about the Union.”

It: “They have rules you know. They wanted to assign someone else to this beat. Said I was getting jaded. That there were too many hours with no reports followed by logbooks that rivalled the Tower of Pisa. Said I couldn’t possibly handle it myself anymore. That they’d need to send someone stronger. Someone who wouldn’t take the B.S.” Drops her smoke onto the porcelain and crushes it with her big toe.

Me (sitting down on the side of the tub): “Wow. I can’t believe it.”

It: “You defy description. They have no category in which you fit. They figured it was me. Then Ralph came out for a month. He went on long term disability the morning after you had that bagpiper over for supper.”

Me (laughs): “No doubt.”

That’s another story. One I might share one night when I’ve had more than one. Not that I drink often, but Irish Whiskey is rather lovely. And no, he didn’t wear a kilt. More’s the pity. (Why? Because I might have been able to actually ascertain what actually is worn under a kilt. No. Not by looking. By asking him. Sheesh.)

~~

April 09: Overcast. Heading NNW.

Ever notice how the recycle mounts up? I mean, if one forty-something (shhh) female can accumulate such a massive amount of cardboard and plastic in a week or two, what must it be like for the traditional family of three point one?  Come to think of it, what’s a point one kid when it’s at home? An ear?

“Mommy, Johnny’s listening to me again!”

“Tell him to stop.”

“I tried but he’s not listening!”

Personally, if I’m going to have a point one kid could that be the part that does dishes and vacuums and carries out the recycle, even if it has to make six trips? Might be a problem getting him into kindergarten though.

Me: “Yes, I’d like to register Johnny for preschool please?”

Her: “And where do you reside?”

Me: “Down the street.”

Her: “Left or right?”

Me: “Umm, from here? I guess you go down Main and it’s on the left just before the Co-op.”

Her: “Not here then.”

Me: “Not here? Who’s not here.” Turns and looks anxiously.

Her: “He can’t come here. He needs to go to school district five hundred and three, Obsolete Elementary, over on Pine.”

Me: “But that’s blocks away! On the other side of town! We only live two blocks from here!”

Her: “Can’t be helped. That how they draw the boundaries,” pointing to a large map with a large red line.

Me: “He’s only point one. Surely you have space for a point one?”

Her (perking up): “How much of a point one?”

Me: “He’s got total use of his right ear.”

Her: “You’re in. My boy has a left.”

Me: “Are there many points here?”

Her: “Not yet. But they are slowly adding up. We might have an entire child in three years. Mind you, the newer ones will have to work harder to catch up. Your Johnny too.” Looking stern.

Me: “Roger that. I’ll get him a tutor.”

How exhausting was that?

I always eschewed anything like this kind of quote unquote normalcy. Getting married, having children, two cats and a dog, mortgage, vet bills, cooking large Easter dinners for large groups of irksome relatives who spill wine on your carpet and stay too long after dessert and coffee. I’d rather be the irritating one who gets invited to make sure the numbers balance and because I always bring the best whiskey. I may be annoying, but at least I never talk about religion. (No, I’m not going to talk about it, at all. No, not because I’m politically correct. Because it doesn’t interest me.)

What other things are we not supposed to talk about? Oh, yeah. Sex. Money. Politics. But there should be more than that, don’t you think? Like, I really really, I mean really, do not want to hear the details of Debra’s bout with stomach flu, or Frank’s prostate surgery. Nor do I want to hear in the complete unabridged story of Betty’s heart valve replacement. Look, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic. I just don’t want to imagine the procedures in full colour Imax surround sound for the next ten years. Cause that’s how my brain works, that’s why. Same reason I don’t watch Zombie movies. Ugh.

~~