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Diary Rings

Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
A Gift from Hil - 2014-12-28
There was A LOT of turkey. - 2014-12-04
Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
A (don't kick the) Bucket List - 2014-10-28

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3:11 p.m. - 2014-04-30
Good-Bye and Hello Again!

He thinks I'm goofy, but I'm in tears over the loss of my Escort. Took my poor beater in for an inspection and found out it wouldn't pass. Topside my car is shinier and nicer than any 15 year old econo-box has any right to be, the interior, too, is damn spiffy, but underneath? Underneath it's nothing but rot and rust. Not anyone's fault, except for maybe living in the northeast with its crappy winters and salt cruddy roads. My Escort is simply old. Ancient by car standards. Funny to think it rolled off the assembly line around Wolf's first birthday and now my car is all worn out, broken and beyond saving, and my son is just inching out into being sort of a grown person. Despite the fact that I'm always hocking Mick to use things, no point to having a thing if it just sits in a box on a shelf, I am terribly sad to lose my car and feel bad that it's all used up.

Mick, at least when it comes to cars, is all New is Good! New car all the time! Always have a car note! Always covet and finagle to get the newest model! He has a car for about 18 months then gets all antsy in the pantsies to trade it in for a new one. Car leases were invented for guys like Mick.

Me? My disgust at having a car note aside, my cars are family. I take them into my heart. My cars fall somewhere between a friend and a pet. What I drive is no mere appliance and source of transport, it's an extension of self almost. As necessary as a purse, more intimate than a hug. Sometimes my cars have names, but even those just called by their brand and model MY car is special and stands apart from all the other cars of that make and year. Thus despite there being a bazillion Ford Escorts, MY Escort is a pal. It's THE Escort and now it's leaving for the scrapyard. And I feel awful about it.

By default the Rogue becomes mine. It was supposed to be mine anyhow, but since Mick drove it 95% of the time and took all the new off it (he's VERY careful, it's just a time spent thing) I feel like once again I'm getting a hand-me-down while he gets the spandy new car. Tonight we pick up his new ride. A 2014 Ford Fiesta. Very minimally equipped, but super slick and speedy as all hell for the dough. This is also where we say good-bye to my Escort and believe you me it'll be wicked tough not to bawl all the way home. Politeness demands I stifle my weepies and ooh and ahh over Mick's newest man-toy, but inside I'll be a teary mess. If I knew the Escort was going to some new family it'd be better, but with all the rot I know darn well it's going to the crusher to die.

Cars aren't the only new things. We picked up our new glasses last night.

Didn't take a pic of Mick's yet. But they're as obnoxious as mine. His are small black rounds with grey tinted lenses. Very hipster with all the negative connotations implied. But what the heck, we don't drink PBR or wear skinny jeans and Mick's facial hair is non-ironic. If we went a little goofy with our new eyeglasses none's the harm. Wolf, btw, thinks my glasses should have a fake nose and silly mustache attached.

And yeah, for those who haven't seen it yet, that's my new hairdo. Pretty much my old favorite hairdo. As much as I believed turning 50 didn't bother me I see now I went through an internal walloping. Got sucked in by all kinds of unacknowledged gremlins of "shouldn't" "mustn't" and "not any more". The arty badass hair had to go. Scarves became sedate and neatly tucked in. I got very quiet. In looks and manner. Tubby and boring seemed appropriate...and safer somehow. I was morbidly aware of all the ways I've screwed up my life and thought going to ground might prevent me from starting this next phase without being a total jackass. Annabelle Gurwitch wrote hilariously about her own turning 50 megrims and in her memoir states she had quite a tizz over that she still be 'fuckable' at 50. I dig that, but since most of my troubles have come from that very thing- needing to be desired- I did a screeching 180 and made sure no one even SAW me let alone thought about getting me naked. It was time to stop with the naked. So as much as a person my size can I disappeared. Okay, I never resorted to jeggings and sparkly sweatshirts, but I came as close as a semi-retired fashionista could manage. Perhaps in the middle of the country I'd have been still a somewhat exotic animal but for a New Yorker I was pretty goddamn bland.

Slowly I'm coming back to myself. Hopefully a somewhat wiser version, definitely a stronger one. Still absolutely a no drama mama. I have had enough shit-storms forever and ever amen. But the safer smarter life should have room for a sense of humor, reasonable adventure, and a really kickass hairdo.

That's the plan anyhow, ~LA

4 Wanna talk about it!

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