The skyline of Nashville always reminds me of Batman's head cover. The pointy ear tops of their signature skyline stands tall above the waters edge, overseeing the city and meeting folks coming around the bend of the interstate.
Hopping city to city, it's these small details that help me remember where I am, where I'm arriving from. The downside of this is that instinctively, as my brain recalls my brief encounter with Nashville, my index fingers creep up to my head, in simulation of Batman's costume.
The shock of the women's faces make me quickly realize this could also be confused with devil horns. Apparently, not everyone sees the Superhero resemblance. This explanation is much easier done in retrospect, sadly the following would serve well for the docudrama reenactment.
"So where are you coming from?"
"Uh..." Light bulb flickers on and my fingers jump up to the sides of my head, bending at the knuckle almost as if putting my next words in quotation. "Nashville."
Que confused slightly horrified look.
"That city always reminds me of Batman. Not in the Gotham City sort of way, but... You know, that big building by the river? The tall one? With the pointy ears, er, towers on it? Anyone? Well, ladies, believe you me, if Batman truly had to choose a city to live in, I think we all know it would be that tower for obvious reasons."
They exchange glances.
"Not that Georgia isn't amazing! This is a way prettier area, plus the drivers aren't nearly as crazy- trust me on that one." Apparently I've grabbed a shovel. They sip forcefully out of their water bottles, murmur between themselves and turn away.
I try and brush it off as the next group of women approach my table.
"Would you ladies be interested in filling out this survey for me?"
"That depends," A younger brunette smiles nodding towards the retreating group. "Is it whatever they just experienced?"
"Explaining Batman is pretty difficult. I'd say it's up there to a chirade enactment of Jurassic Park."
"What?"
"So is this your first Iron Girl?"
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Marquette, MI
There’s sand in my bed. Not little granules, stubbornly hiding near my feet, piles. Handfuls of sand that have shaken from my clothes, my toes, escaped from my gnarled ponytail and are now scattered soundly between the gold comforter and the while pillow-top mattress. This is the end result of a night on the beach watching the lights from boats in the distance disappear behind islands and reappear on the other side; squinting at the fading yellow string of lights to differentiate one boat versus many smaller boats; digging my toes into the white sand and watching them sink a little lower with each lap of a wave.
Two days from now, as I am still emptying pockets and shaking my ears from remaining sand, I can build sand castles from another comforter and listen to the bath run in the dark, recreating these past few nights in a desolate town at the beach. I just need one of those ocean noises cassettes with the seagulls in the background. Or a neighbor with a kid.
Two days from now, as I am still emptying pockets and shaking my ears from remaining sand, I can build sand castles from another comforter and listen to the bath run in the dark, recreating these past few nights in a desolate town at the beach. I just need one of those ocean noises cassettes with the seagulls in the background. Or a neighbor with a kid.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Overland Park, KS
After circling the neighborhood for twenty minutes, I pin down the Rainbow foods I had spotted from the freeway. The lot is desolate. Carts are spilling out from the corral. I pause for a moment wondering if it is, in fact, a functional grocery store, or one that has gone out of business since the last update of my GPS unit two years ago. I venture in.
Every once in a while, I find myself in a grocery store like this, seemingly healthy and green from the outside and toppling with sugary cavity inducing pastry goods lining the walls like lick able wallpaper. The lettuce is aging and wrinkled, the fruit section is deteriorating from underneath the shadows of the doughnut table. The dairy section lining the back wall is fully stocked, while a lone lemon-lime can stands as the sole survivor of a victimized six pack atop empty shelves of the soda aisle.
Unable to find a basket, I tuck three yogurt containers under my left arm and Jenga the rest of my items atop a cereal box I’m carrying horizontally. I’m walking briskly back and forth, dodging the other twenty-somethings. They’re hard to miss. Anyone remotely close to my age is wielding a rather shiny speck of light on their finger and two or three snot faced children. I’m suddenly quite confident in all of my life decisions.
My balancing act is becoming more difficult as I add the one salvageable ball of lettuce to the stack.
I have three choices;
1). Walk back to the entrance and get a cart, which I will likely only fill the child seat of. Because I have that ability. Because I am here alone. Because I don’t have children. Suck it.
2). Check out. Leaving behind the beer which has at this point become necessary.
3). Deal with the looming scent of piss and apple juice that will inevitably cling to me after using the throat lozenges in my pocket to bribe the youngsters into carrying my groceries to the checkout counter.
I turn to survey the nearest toddler. His sticky chubby little fingers are slowly releasing his grasp around the handle of one of those child sized carts. He wanders away down the aisle to, presumably, his mom who is waving him towards the check out. I nudged the cart with my foot, wheeling it forward a few inches to see if he would run back down the aisle towards it. Nothing. I waste no time dropping my items into the basket-sized cart and turn the corner.
I hunch my shoulders in attempts to control the cart while maintaining a seemingly casual walk. It doesn’t quite work. The cart veers to the right with each push, a flag sporting the words “IN TRAINING” extended from the handle whipping me in the face with each nudge. I pause in the coffee aisle. I could easily begin calling out any name, and looking back and forth while pushing the cart and no one would be the wiser. Judging from the amount of bedazzled t-shirts, I’d fit right in.
Instead, I head towards the beer section, pile two six packs atop my salad fixings and make way for the check out.
“Awe, bring your little one with you today?” the cashier greets me, as I begin the Pilates workout of unloading a miniature cart onto the conveyer belt. She has my items completely bagged and is handing me my receipt as I respond with the only thing I can think of.
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.” I look both directions in the store, shrug, and walk to the van.
Every once in a while, I find myself in a grocery store like this, seemingly healthy and green from the outside and toppling with sugary cavity inducing pastry goods lining the walls like lick able wallpaper. The lettuce is aging and wrinkled, the fruit section is deteriorating from underneath the shadows of the doughnut table. The dairy section lining the back wall is fully stocked, while a lone lemon-lime can stands as the sole survivor of a victimized six pack atop empty shelves of the soda aisle.
Unable to find a basket, I tuck three yogurt containers under my left arm and Jenga the rest of my items atop a cereal box I’m carrying horizontally. I’m walking briskly back and forth, dodging the other twenty-somethings. They’re hard to miss. Anyone remotely close to my age is wielding a rather shiny speck of light on their finger and two or three snot faced children. I’m suddenly quite confident in all of my life decisions.
My balancing act is becoming more difficult as I add the one salvageable ball of lettuce to the stack.
I have three choices;
1). Walk back to the entrance and get a cart, which I will likely only fill the child seat of. Because I have that ability. Because I am here alone. Because I don’t have children. Suck it.
2). Check out. Leaving behind the beer which has at this point become necessary.
3). Deal with the looming scent of piss and apple juice that will inevitably cling to me after using the throat lozenges in my pocket to bribe the youngsters into carrying my groceries to the checkout counter.
I turn to survey the nearest toddler. His sticky chubby little fingers are slowly releasing his grasp around the handle of one of those child sized carts. He wanders away down the aisle to, presumably, his mom who is waving him towards the check out. I nudged the cart with my foot, wheeling it forward a few inches to see if he would run back down the aisle towards it. Nothing. I waste no time dropping my items into the basket-sized cart and turn the corner.
I hunch my shoulders in attempts to control the cart while maintaining a seemingly casual walk. It doesn’t quite work. The cart veers to the right with each push, a flag sporting the words “IN TRAINING” extended from the handle whipping me in the face with each nudge. I pause in the coffee aisle. I could easily begin calling out any name, and looking back and forth while pushing the cart and no one would be the wiser. Judging from the amount of bedazzled t-shirts, I’d fit right in.
Instead, I head towards the beer section, pile two six packs atop my salad fixings and make way for the check out.
“Awe, bring your little one with you today?” the cashier greets me, as I begin the Pilates workout of unloading a miniature cart onto the conveyer belt. She has my items completely bagged and is handing me my receipt as I respond with the only thing I can think of.
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.” I look both directions in the store, shrug, and walk to the van.
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