Couch Island

I’ve been a prisoner of my beat up leather couch. The culprit: the flu which has taken my immune system and sanity hostage. Stranded in a pile of blankets, wadded up tissues, and empty bottles of Gatorade.

I’ve been home from work for three days which means non-stop “Friends” and “2 Broke Girls” binge watching. I’ve drank so much water and Ginger Ale that my blood is now fizzy and carbonated. My dog seems to give me side eye as if to say “Really, you again?!”

It is better to have flu when you are a kid. I still can taste that chalky pink goo my mom put in a medicine syringe in contrast to the horse pills with fun filled side effects. I vividly remember lounging around watching soap operas and missing math tests and book reports. In grade school you didn’t have to worry about missing out on a news story. Nor feeling anxious about what is going on in your world while you are a castaway on couch island.

My temperature spiked over 102 degrees with a cough that resembled the sound effects of lasers from Star Wars circa 1985. Pew! Pew! Pew! My body ached, head pained and I felt a chill to my bones. I miss being hungry and eating, the upside is losing a few pounds.

Due to how bad I felt I had to go to the doctor. My doctor was unavailable so I had to see the nurse practitioner. She was alarmed over my low blood pressure and high fever. My actual doctor would know I have white coat syndrome which makes my heart rate rise. This person kept saying I didn’t look good and ordered a battery of tests because she was concerned.

Panic mode activated. I had blood drawn, a chest x-ray and swab tests. She called in the morning and seemed disappointed to tell me it was just a very bad case of the flu. I think she was hoping for a tropical disease or something more interesting. Even my germs are boring.

Speaking of boring, I’m itching to get off couch island and back into civilization.

 

 

 

36 going on 37

 

“You wait, little girl, on an empty stage

For fate to turn the light on

Your life, little girl, is an empty page.”

Sixteen Going on Seventeen from The Sound of Music. (1965)

Hair raised in fright, ghastly shrieks echoing from the bathroom. A silver strand of hair was observed and I nearly had a heart attack. That was when I turned 35 years old, my appointed scary age. I was born on January 7, 1979. You do the math while I cry.

Despite the unfortunate discovery, my 30th birthday was uneventful. Homemade birthday cards from my stepchildren and flowers from my new husband. My 30th birthday was celebrated with heckles from younger colleagues and family members.

Quietly I reassured myself that I was still young and that I could panic when I turned 35. This Thursday, I mark the cusp of the greater scary age birthday, 37…

My husband amuses himself by pointing out the silver in my dark brown mane. “Hey, hon I found three more” he would cackle.

Disgusted I looked up at the mirror in the car, there they were. Glistening and shining almost screaming to be noticed. Recoiling, I recalled my mom inspecting her dark tresses frequently when I was a pipsqueak.

“Remember, if you pull one, many more come to it’s funeral.”

That didn’t prevent her from engaging in a pull-a-thon. In the white porcelain sink there were a few gray hairs matted down by a pool of water.

You know what, she was right. A million more did come to the funeral. She couldn’t pluck out those suckers fast enough. The follicles were untamed weeds taking over her scalp.

Of all the funny nuggets of wisdom from my mother, I remember the hair strands one the most. Oh and don’t be bringing home any babies.

Eventually she grew accustomed to hair dye but it took a few scary ages for her to get to that breaking point. Perhaps she grew tired of unclogging the sink drain.

Where the hell did my youth go? I recall when I was able to pull an all nighter before an exam. Talking on the phone to a boyfriend until the wee hours and being able to function on a few hours of shut eye.

The energy disintegrated within the sands of time. Back in the day I could get by on a hour of sleep ready to conquer the world. In my thirties a lack of sleep equals a lady drooling and groggy.

Anxiety and turmoil was interspersed along the years. However, it worsened after my twenties. In grad school I developed a nasty insomnia spell.

I envied my stepchildren and how they stayed up till the cows came home. They probably had the opportunity to take a snooze in a boring class. I had no such luxury.

In the past I have written about my fertility issues. Soon after we were married, my husband and I went to a reproductive specialist. We didn’t have the money to go through with treatments. The doctor said “You are still young, you still have time.”

When leaving the doctor’s office all I could think was “Awww, he said I’m young.” The rest of the defeating news was an afterthought. My stepchildren are now teenagers and frankly a new reason for the insomnia and aging hair. The desire to have a baby has taken a backseat to getting through the horrible teenage years.

Why are the thirties so tormenting? Is it because of the ‘life check’ we all do? Life check means interrogating ourselves by asking the following:

1. Am I where I should be at this age?

2. Do I need to make a change?

3.How close am I to completing a goal?

I’m sure by now I may have alienated readers over 40. Trust me when people say 37 is a scary age, it feels like several sharp harpoon stabbing at once.

I’m with you when you overheard a twenty something declare they are old. I too want to slap the youth off them.

Am I where I want to be? Well, no. I don’t thing anyone at any age can say there are where they want to be. Even when dreams are realized it is without 100% happiness.

Hiding beneath the surface like those dulling colors of hair locks, are regret. A  yearning and unsatisfied emotion brimming to be noticed. In a vulnerable state of being, those feelings make themselves known.

So here I am on the eve of my birthday, living how I’m supposed to be right now. Successes are coming but not without hard work. I’ll make the rest of my 30s count, one silver strand of hair at a time.

 

The Boy: Part 1

The Boy
A short story written by Karen Pilarski

The pane of glass was thin and fragile. Off in the distance boys could be heard using vulgar phrases and talking big despite their shortened statures.The stickiness of the summer did nothing to glue their dirty mouths shut. I took my paws and covered my floppy ears.
Sirens erupted all evening which was far more comforting than the relentless lump on the bed. I heard the growling of an empty tummy. He shouldn’t be starving; I wish I could find him some food.
Harris, a child of ten with dirty blonde hair appeared as if 90. A torn white t-shirt hung off him like a tent, he was skin and bones. I adored nuzzling my face against his sweaty blistered feet. My black and white fur felt good when he stroked my back. He had teeth missing and an outbreak of brownish freckles across his nose.

He kissed my black freckled nose and called me ‘girl.’ He was my boy and I was his girl.
The apartment was the size of a shoebox and even cockroaches would demand better living arrangements.
“What the hell! Who ate the last frozen dinner?” The smoke lady had arrived home. She burned through the sticks with fire on the ends. She was crass and had tight blonde curls and wore a blue apron with ruffles. She wore a badge with a name on it, but the boy called her mom. It seemed somewhat arbitrary to do the same.
Boy ran to her, “I ate it, It didn’t fill me up though. I’m still hungry…” He said in a hushed tone.
“I don’t wait tables all day long to come home to nothing to eat. Next time ask.” She hissed. She retreated to her bedroom.
I heard keys jingle in the door and smelled a familiar stench. The mean man staggered in, breath drenched in booze and smokes. He coughed and bumped into the kitchenette wall. He tossed his heavy boots at the wall and swore loudly. The boy and I froze. We both noticed it at the same time. I had to use the bathroom badly and no one let me out today. The lime green linoleum seemed like a safe spot to relieve myself.

There was a mushed brown pile of stink and mean man stepped in it with his bare foot. “Son of a..! That damn dog!” He rolled up a thick newspaper and held up in an exaggerated manner. He was aiming for my boy. I barked and jumped in front of him and felt the swift motion of the paper against my hind legs. “Get that mutt out of here!” The mean man smacked my boy upside the head. Boy clinched his fists and grabbed the scuff of my neck. My ears pinned down, I thought I did a good thing.
“Laverne, did you see what that stupid mutt did? Harris, get that piece of crap out of here…” As boy dragged me outside I could hear a repetitive hacking sound coming from mean man.
“Girl, that was bad, you go outside!” Boy chained me around the tree and went back in. The air was brisk and I was hungry. I saw boy in his window, the shine of his tears pierced my heart. I will do better tomorrow; I won’t make my boy sad. I could hear the muffled sounds of a train passing a few blocks away.

I wish me and boy could hop on a train and never go back. The sweet old lady that lived next door came out. She had a wrinkly face and a lumpy body but a smile that made my tail wag. She had a bowl of water and scraps of food. She pet me and said, “You are such a lovely dog, you take care of that boy, he needs love and care.” I wish I could give boy my turkey scraps and clean water. The lady put a worn blanket over me and my eyes became heavy.
It was hazy and foggy but the boy appeared. He had looked like he ate a good meal and his eyes were bright and full of life. He had a bike with a basket and he told me to hop in. I licked his face all over and was giddy with joy. I sat in the basket as he whizzed around on his bike. His heavy book bag didn’t slow us down. “Girl, lets ride to the train tracks and go away,” he said with no hesitation. I wagged my tail and danced happily. I barked as if to say “Lets!!” He hopped that train and got all the way down to the end of the tracks. We found food and water and stuffed ourselves silly. I smelled that stench again. “Get up bitch.” The beautiful haze was gone and boy evaporated into my night vision. I was outside the apartment and the sun was coming up.
Mean man kicked my side and flicked a fire stick at me. “Next time you shit outside.” The keys jingled and an engine burned as tires squealed out of the lot. Boy appeared sullen and ill. I jumped on him and licked his face. “Girl, my head hurts and I have to go to school. Be good and stay out of trouble!” He kissed the top of my head and pedaled off on his bike to learn some things. Smoke lady had a bus ticket and a bag and headed off to catch a ride to work. I guess I was meant to be outside all day. That was fine, I wanted to see boy when he got home.

To be continued…