Feeling: exhausted
Listening to: electronic buzz
Reading/Watching: Prozac Nation... I think it's affecting my writing style.

I enjoy the chaos, truly. I'm even getting to the point where I know myself well enough that I can see what I'll instinctively do, and regret later.

I know that with Rosh Hashanah coming up this weekend, I have a gig tonight from 6 to 9, I will be singing tomorrow from 9:30 to 2, and working in the bookstore from 7 to 12. Then Sunday, I will be at jobchurch from 8:15 to 10:30, the synagogue from 12 to 2, and then at the store from 3 to 10. Monday, the week begins anew with shifts every day at the bookstore, and some form of rehearsal every night until 10, with a few voice students tossed in there for variety.

So it definitely did not make sense to take a subbing job today, because I would need a day to rest, to have at least a mini-weekend before I sang tonight. In interest of my own sanity, I called Nimsay and made plans with her as soon as my phone started ringing with sub jobs, so that I wouldn't be so much as tempted to wake up at 5 a.m. and be the gatekeeper for bratty middle school kids all day. Because to my practical side it looks like seventy bucks, but to my mental health it looks like suicide.

I spent the day at Nimsay's, talking and laughing and watching Gilmore Girls, and when her aid came in the afternoon to fix her dinner, I still fell asleep on the couch, because I seem to be a narcoleptic lately.

Afterward, I drove up to the synagogue in my crappy Nissan, and on my way to sing Erev Rosh Hashanah I smelled the familiar odor of Luna's exhaust leak. Note to Self: no long-distance trips in this car until that is fixed. I warmed up, singing as I drove, because the gaping hole in my dashboard still hasn't been fitted with a stereo, since when I had time to hunt for a repairman, they were all too expensive, and once I started working and could afford it, the free time to do it was gone.

I arrived at the synagogue, looking regretfully at the spot where a tree in the parking lot of jobchurch bit Luna's rear bumper. She has a trick hip, which has been punched into so many times it embarrasses me. Thanks to a careless hydroplaning driver on the interstate, and later a friend in a large Dodge Ram who was incapable of using side mirrors, I knew exactly how much it cost to replace a right-side rear quarter panel, even using aftermarket pieces, and how much it cost to blend the specific paint color Luna was cursed to possess. I also knew how much a cracked bumper would be to replace.

So when the tree bit my car, it didn't even have to take a big bite to total it. And I, crying and cursing in the parking lot, watching as the steamy September smog already started rusting the jagged edges of the wound, knew that I couldn't pay to fix it. So there's another fun thing to add to the list: falling roof liner, peeling window sealant, exhaust leak, stolen stereo, bald tires, and a brand new six-inch-wide dent in Luna's ass which cracked through the exterior and revealed it to be tinfoil (as previously surmised).

Mon coeur swears I'll get a new (certified pre-owned) car once he gets a job. But I've decided that driving her around until then is a suitable penance for backing out crookedly in the slanty old parking lot at jobchurch, haunted by angular trees with out-thrusting stumps of old branches.

I meant to relax today, but instead spent the entire time noticing all the things in my life that are being worn to threads or bashed to hell and left crumpled, because there just isn't time, there just isn't money. Well... there is money, but I can't see myself wasting it on a drizzle when the forty-day-flood is coming.

At least she still runs. At least she still gets me where I need to go. She looks like ass, she sounds like ass, she purrs throatily like an epileptic chainsmoking kitten, but she goes. And for now, for now, for now, for every now that keeps happening with no hint of later, it just has to be enough.

P.S.- I also locked my keys in my car today, while it was still running. As I dug the spare key out from its hiding place, I heard Miller laughing from somewhere in Kansas.

Comments? 0 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.