another dirty shirt

past: kissing + celebrating

present: kissing + rioting 

guy in office: “i eat every four hours”

me: “oh yeah, i totally do that too”

a few minutes later i learned this… 

guy in office = diabetic who must eat frequently to control blood sugar. 

a few seconds later i decided this… 

me = non-diabitic who must eat frequently to control work crankiness and optimize job performance. 

1. get a flat tire.

1. someone to pay my most recent parking ticket.

2. someone to reimburse me for my past 5 parking tickets.

3. someone to stand by my car and fend off parking attendants, preferably armed with a water gun and silly string. 

Piano lessons are to blame for my being stranded in a Kohl’s parking lot. I had decided to walk the long way home avoiding two evils: the cemetery and the Wal-Mart parking lot. I would be able to pass my childhood home, allowing me to reflect on a better time. A time where a 12-year-old wouldn’t be forced to shop at Kohl’s. A time where it would still be cute for girls to wear black Sambas. A time where my soft-spoken piano teacher would never have called my mom politely inquiring, “Did Cara forget about her lesson today?” Sure she was soft-spoken, but I remained certain she was hiding something. The Amish are a quiet people, but I dare you to tell me they aren’t up to something.  

I knew what I had done the instant I heard ringing. The car phone was cutting edge technology and a working mom’s must. I however likened the thing to the shit tattletale kid who asks you for a piece of gum, gets caught chomping on it, and then rats you out for giving him the gum in the first place. The receiver was mounted on the floor of the passenger side seat and a long, spiral cord allowed the phone to reach the driver’s side. While my mom’s face contorted and reddened, I thought of how I should have stuck my head out when she reached for the phone. The spiral cord probably would have taken to my neck like a snake and I would have been able to feign choking. Yup, a self-sacrifice for the sake of… myself. 

Instead I did nothing and a few moments later I found myself outside the car, watching my mom drive away. “Why should I be punished,” I thought, “hadn’t she forgotten, too? Had it not been for her four meetings, my sister’s Irish Dance lesson, dinner, and her nighttime meeting, surely she would have remembered.” This had not been the first piano lesson I had missed; I was better at forgetting my lessons than I ever was at playing piano. In that moment, I stood there praying for the extinction of car phones. Prophecy!

A few Christmases earlier, my sister and I had received a piano as a gift. The enormous mystery present lay dormant under a blanket, ready to make its debut. Its cover was blown by a game of post-dinner tag. As my cousin rounded the corner, she tripped and used the mystery gift to cushion what became a cacophonous fall. “Oh my gosh, Mom, Santa brought a piano!” Perhaps we all should have taken this premature unveiling as a warning sign. Or perhaps this one: the first woman who taught my sister and me quit, claiming she wouldn’t be teaching piano anymore. Oddly enough, she still showed up every week to the house across the street where a mini Mozart waited with tapping fingers. Hey piano lady, my sister and I sucked at piano, we weren’t blind. 

In hindsight, I liken my journey home that evening to “Wendy and Lucy.” I sure was distraught, but not much happened. When I got home the air had been cleared. Partially because I had wrongfully convinced my mom that the soft-spoken lady was a rotten teacher, and partially because we were both embarrassed to return, I switched piano teachers. You thought I was going to quit, didn’t you? Piano gods ignored again. 

Enter Cheryl Eckert. A self-proclaimed JAP: Jewish American Princess. Cheryl was our neighbor which meant I could walk to my lessons- surely that would produce a piano savant! Cheryl’s mom had been terminally ill for, forever. I’m pretty sure she’s still alive though. She would sit on the front porch during my lessons and cuss. She was like Elmer Fudd if you replaced his shotgun with a potty mouth. Firing obscenities at the birds, at the neighbors, and at the noise coming from the piano. In turn, Cheryl would cuss. Sometimes she even let me cuss.

This time around, I was so dedicated I would stay at Cheryl’s late into the night, eating noodles and cheese (cottage cheese + butter + noodles = noodles and cheese) and playing Mancala with her daughter. And to think the same Mom who left me to fend for myself against crazy mothers, swerving Grand Theft Minivan* style down suburban streets, is the same Mom who continued to pay for “piano lessons.” A good mom knows learning ways to use the word “crap” and becoming a Mancala master can be just as important as learning to play piano. Peace at last in my 12-year-old world of self-absorbedy! 

*copyright on future video game. 

NOPE! this entry is not about the team of doctors stationed in south korea during the korean war. but close- it’s about the childhood game girls between the ages of 8 and 12 loved to play when not making friendship bracelets or starting babysitters clubs. last night i played an enlightening game of M*A*S*H and here are my results:

husband: bob ross

# of kids: 1 cabbage patch doll

profession: toothpaste top screwer 

income: 6 water coolers

location: bio-dome w/ pauly shore 

car: red rider sled

pet: mini me

welp, that’s all for now. time to go get started on my life. 

the only thing young about her is her croissant. the puff pastry, only a morning old, was made three bites big just for her. “eva!” the caffeine consumers are jolted by her presence. she knows them all. she shuffles to the corner seat. while subtle, it whispers seniority.

from here she has the best view. through her slightly tinted glasses she scans the cafe, seeing flashes of herself. she is the young mother in the corner wiping the jelly from her daughter’s cheek. her eyes carry to the middle-aged man who sits nose to the window. his hair is just starting to sprinkle with salt and pepper. eva used to share breakfast with a man whose hair aged similarly to his. 

a small ramekin of jelly is placed to the side of her pastry. eva is thrilled- the waitress knows her tastes so well.

eva smiles, “you know everything.” 

“i think you are the one who knows everything, eva,” a genuine response. 

eva smiles and chews. two opposing movements that she performs with ease. 

“i didn’t know anything until i knew people. a lot of people.” 

for the rest of my travels in europe i will be dedicating this blog to my lovely mother, who is always saying something unexpected. tune in, you won’t be disappointed.

“every now and then it’s nice to be right.” [proceeds to spit a grape seed across the table, aiming to hit me]

“what did you just call me? a DVD dog?” [in response to my sister calling her an ADD adult]

“ok so dad and i are getting off at russell and you guys are going to the king’s pancreas” [actual name of the tube stop: king’s cross/st. pancras]