Not the Destination: Part I

I am a collection of experiences. This is life, right? Not the destination, but the journey. I have the strangest memories. Nobody has memories like mine. Of course not. Memories are unique. Every person’s memory of the exact same event will be different. Perception.

I wish there was some way of comparing my childhood memories with those of my younger brother. We have led such completely different lives -- especially in the fifteen years since the divorce (has it been that long? longer?), but even before.

I have memories of hospitals and physical therapies and children who I somehow knew were dying even though I probably didn’t even yet know what death was. There were clowns there. I remember the clowns. And the nurses. But the doctors and my parents aren’t much more than a blur. There was a toy box, too. When you went back for check-ups, you got to pick a toy from the box. I once picked the pink elephant from Carebears. I loved it. I cried once for it, because it wasn’t there when it was time for bed. I think my dad went and got it for me, but I’m not sure. I mostly remember the crying.

I also have a stuffed beagle that I have had since … forever? Her name is Muffin. She has been in storage for a year with most of the rest of my belongings. Sometimes, I wonder if she thinks this means I love her less. I just don’t want to lose her.

I remember the first time my dad taught me to say “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” It didn’t make the words hurt any less. It never, ever did. But thanks for trying, Dad.

I had friends in first grade at Wild Peach Elementary. I still remember all of their names and faces. But we were only friends at school. We did not have playdates or sleepovers. And I didn’t really have friends after that for a long time.

I remember that time, in second grade, when my mom “accidentally” baked my hamster by leaving it outside in an aquarium while she cleaned its cage. I have never been convinced that it was an accident. That hamster was vicious.

I also remember, many years later, how she killed my pet iguana by unplugging its heat source. She eventually owned up to that one. I really liked that iguana. Strangely, she didn’t object to the obscene number of pet turtles I was keeping.

I remember playing ball with my dad and little brother once. I hit the ball really far and my dad was surprised and kind of proud. He made a big deal out of it, anyway. I wasn’t that horrible at sports. I just got nervous around the other kids. Because kids are so cruel.

I am a collection of my experiences. This is my journey.

Do ice cream trucks still exist?

In keeping with the theme of belatedly posting content, the following post was created 02/26/11.

I am sharing my boyfriend with his children this weekend. What this actually means is that I get to spend a lot of time “cleaning” the house while he is at his mother’s with his kids. They haven’t met me yet. It is, in my opinion, too early – especially considering that his wife doesn’t yet know he’s seeing anyone. Sometimes, I think I am the one guiding this whole process. I am an expert at divorce, despite never having been married. Thank you, Mom, for these small gifts.

I am not complaining, mind you. Time alone in the house gives me time to vegetate, and also time to do all those little nitpicky chores that he won’t ever notice, but that I certainly will. Things like cleaning the outside of all the doors, because a door is a first impression and I don’t want people thinking that the inside of my home will be icky before I even open it to allow them in. Though this house has a long way to go before I will willingly allow people inside.

It also gives me time to get used to the sounds the house makes. I will never understand that – how all houses have their own creaks and groans and random bangings. Sometimes, these things further convince me that this place is haunted. They certainly further convince The Boy that this place is haunted. But that is still a story for another time.

I’m also acclimating myself to the sounds of the neighborhood. It’s relatively quiet here, even though the “ghetto” is just a hopskipjump away. We are technically in the narrow margin between the “wrong side” of the tracks and the “right side.” It’s not a bad neighborhood. I rarely see the neighbors and never hear them, unless one of them is mowing the lawn. Someone knocked on the door earlier, but it was right after The Boy left, so I chose not to answer it. Because who knows what was out there. OMG, strangers! I don’t like strangers.

Earlier, I thought I heard an ice cream truck playing the tune of Justin Bieber’s Baby. But it couldn’t be, right? Do ice cream trucks even exist anymore? Probably not. And if they did, they would have better taste in music, right? Right.

I would certainly not want any ice cream infected with Bieber Fever.

No, really, do ice cream trucks still exist? And if so, where can I find one?

I lived in a trailer park when I was a kid, and there was an ice cream truck. We could hear it coming for miles. All the little trailer park children would run screaming to our parents, begging for dollars and quarters. That ice cream truck driver was like God in our little minds. I mean, really, what beats having ice cream delivered practically right to your door? Nothing, that’s what.

That is probably my best memory of that trailer park. Mostly because I don’t remember ever seeing an ice cream truck since then.

Always armed with excuses.

I have developed a habit of writing blog posts when I’m away on the weekends and without an internet connection. Then, I’ll forget to post them when I get back. So, now, I am finally posting a series of meaningless ramblings that were written almost a week ago. This will probably end up being a running theme as my life is currently rather chaotic. The following was written 02/25/11.

Yes, yes, I know. I was supposed to be redesigning this place. Creating content. Working on becoming a “real” blogger. Or at least one who actually, you know, blogs. But you see, as usual, life got in the way.

So what’s my excuse this time? Well, I’m moving.

The thing is though, due to my inherently indecisive nature (and various other factors, but mostly that), I can’t just pack up and move like a normal person. No, I have to do this shit in stages. So, four nights a week, I still live at my mom’s and go to work and live my life as I have for the last year or so. And the other three nights a week, I live in South Louisiana with my boyfriend. All of my belongings are slowly making their way down here (furniture will be last), so I will actually “live” here before much longer, but will probably still keep my job and live with my mother four days a week for a while. Because just moving is far too much for my fragile psyche to handle.

Quit judging me. This is the way I roll.

But, hey, it’s an adventure! No, really.

I have lived in Louisiana for pretty much my entire life, though that life has been interspersed with brief stints in Texas and Arkansas and a few briefer jaunts about the country. However, South Louisiana is like a whole different planet. Seriously. If you have never been here, you have no idea. And you should totally come visit, because it is awesome, but completely different than pretty much anywhere else.

Because when I say South Louisiana, what I am telling you is that I have moved into what is pretty much the heart of Acadiana. Um, hello, what did you expect? I am dating a coonass after all. Oh, wait, you probably have no idea what that means.

Google. Or move to Louisiana. Actually, just move. Google will never properly explain the intricacies of such a thing.

I am actually supposed to be doing some more clean-up on the house we are renting, but I am lazy. And bloated and crampy. TMI? I don’t care. I’m also terribly grumpy.

I might go throw a few things in the wash and then snuggle down and watch a movie. Or read a book. But mostly likely? Yeah, there’s not going to be much “cleaning.” Good thing we’re mostly done. And that the boyfriend doesn’t really stay here much when I’m not here.

Because he thinks the house is haunted.

But that is a story for another time.