Loud Parties and Alcoholism: Labor Day Sort Of

My husband told me something I wrote sounded like a real writer wrote it. No greater compliment can be received. I had to stop cuddling him to make sure I reach my daily blog post goal. That’s how important this writing business is to me. You're welcome. 

I suppose I could have harassed a friend for a guest blogger post. I am doing that soon. Once I get to posting every day I will post a guest blogger once a week so I can take a day off, or even better post two in one day. Oh the excitement. 

I hope someday my husband and I die at the same time. Something cheesy like the notebook. I can’t imagine living without him. I don’t think I could ever leave him behind. I don’t know how someone like me was lucky enough to find true love at only twenty years old. No one else has ever really understood me and certainly no one else has ever accepted every part of me, even the worst parts. I can’t imagine how he didn’t abandon me a million times as I flailed around trying to stay afloat. I should have known better and just have been calmly treading water. 

I wonder if my Latin teacher remembers me? I think she hated me. I bet she’d hate everything I have to say although I still use all her wonderful grammar knowledge. They don’t teach grammar very well in Elementary School, they expect you to know it already in High School. I really only ever learned it in Latin class. She dropped me to the lower level in between years, even though she taught both. I was very happy there. The kids with perfect grades taking Latin weren’t exactly what I would call Good Times. 

In High School everyone was always telling me what I should and shouldn’t look like. So I took it  to the extreme and tried to look as offensive as possible. I don’t regret a single moment. It is good to own what you look like and be proud of it. It is the you that is projected to the seeing world. Perhaps we rely too much on seeing. I’ve read that some blind people can sense all the items and happenings in a room. There must be a sense or multiple that the seeing world is neglecting. 

My neighbors are supporting my writing career by having loud drunk parties at night so I couldn’t sleep at night even if I wanted to. I support loud drunk parties. I do not support loud drunk parties that always include children and often fire of some sort. 

One night a while back someone left their house and drove head first into a work van parked halfway down the street. A van that was parked on the other side of the road. That giant work van continued on in a backwards U pattern until it hit the side of little red car in the neighbor across the street's driveway. The biggest mystery of that night was certainly not where the drunk driver of the mini van with little sticker people on the back window came from but where did the giant work van full of tools go? 

The entire neighborhood stood outside wondering what that sound was. I stood under a dark tree as two long haired blond girls waddled down the street in their slippers. They didn’t see me against the tree until I scared the shit out of them by saying “hello.” I knew the minivan with little people on the back had left their house. As a matter of fact, I heard the van start and drive exactly halfway down the street before a very loud crash. Those blond girls were shocked that the minivan belonged to someone they did not even realize had left their house already. I really hate alcoholism for so many reasons. 

There must be an interesting energy about vans around my block. Another time a work van struck a telephone pole causing the transformer to explode in a burst of beautiful blues as they do. Half the street went dark. The first person to approach said, “are you ok?” Instead of answer, the man took off running top speed down the street. Coincidentally cutting through the backyard of my poor friends who owned the work van from the first accident. Did I mention I hate alcoholism? 

At least the neighbors serve as a constant reminder for me as to why I won’t allow my son to grow up in the world of alcoholism. Not to mention keeping me up all hours to write fun stories and make sure when they set themselves on fire, my house doesn’t also go up. 

I’m sure all of this is what the Labor Movement had in mind when they fought long and hard for this long weekend to commemorate the blood sweat and tears shed over their civil rights. 

Now they are screaming at each other angrily as drunk people do. Sometimes they laugh so it seems no one is getting hurt. Other than their liver and their brains but ya know who needs organs. As my Gram would sing, “the parties over..” 

Someday my husband and I will more to a beautiful place full of symmetry and sacred geometry instead of strange angles placed seemingly randomly. This magical place will have lots of peace and quite. If I ever get peace and quite I won’t know what the fuck to do with it. Maybe by then there will be nothing left to write about. The only thing left to do will be cuddling.