The Lady Is Still Singing

I feel like killing somebody.

I’m earnest when I say if one more SUV with Maryland tags cuts me off in Bethesda traffic I’m going to smash the old Volvo into their side mirror and graze the passenger door and possibly take off the significant number on the back that means I am a rich prick and I can go the wrong way into the parking lot and stop traffic and pull sideways into a straight parking place, put on my blinkers and stay there for 50 minutes while I complain to my shrink about the dick who shorted my company’s stock and cost me a bundle.  One more young thin confident blond woman in yoga black with blond pony tail sticking out of white baseball cap and I’m going to barf on her white shoes.  One more guy yelling into his phone while in the checkout line at Whole Foods (BUT I’M TAKING DEPOSITIONS TOMORROW…..) and I’m going to ram my cart into the back of his heels like he did to me. Take out the Achilles and he’ll never play tennis again.  If I hit the elbow, maybe golf goes too.  Ha!

I apologized to somebody the other day.  It was a straightforward, no excuses, no buts, and I sent it along the only way I knew how to send it.  I don’t have trouble with apologizing when I’m wrong.  My mistake, my weakness, is wanting acknowledgment.  It’s not that easy for a (sic) odd and bitter woman like myself – quoting now – to feel so sorry, but I did and I said it.  But if you want acknowledgment, you haven’t really atoned, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do when you’re sorry.

The problem I’m having is that right now, tonight, I feel like somebody ought to apologize to me for fucking up my nice life with old age, pain, loss of income, a bunch of perky young neighbors who build humongous additions to their houses, additions so big they blot out the sky and cause panic among the animals.  And they cause shade, but maybe that will ameliorate the global warming that is going to take us all by the throat in the next few years (I should live so long) and suffocate my sweet children and grandchildren.

Parenthetically, and I leave it to somebody else to figure out the transition here, a gun store owner in my vicinity (actually in a suburb of DC) has received death threats because he was going to sell a gun that had some kind of safety device in it.  God for fucking bid any technology should get in the way of children killing other children with their parents’ weapons.  So, uh, yeah, that’s the thing to do:  threaten the man, who is burly and tattooed and has a dog named Handgun or something like that, with death by firearm.  I’d say “what comes around” but a/I don’t know what that means and b/I don’t think it applies here.

My husband is sleeping through Tosca for the second time in a week.  He turned off the baseball game (my choice) and now on the screen a woman in red is screaming at a man in black satin and my husband is snoring.

I passed the morning adding up all we spent on our second home, and yes I’m a spoiled white woman brat, what the fuck is she complaining about, and it’s too many dollars and that’s with no major expenses like painting or replacing furnaces.  It’s basically plowing. Snow plowing.  Thousands of dollars worth of snow plowing.  Moving snowflakes from one place to another place with a big machine.  So of course we have to sell the house which will take years and by that time we will have gone seriously totally broke and/or be dead.  But we won’t be paying those oil bills any more!!  I have to clean out all the baby clothes and maternity clothes and kid toys that my grandchildren, who now look terrifyingly like grown people, played with, found in the farm dump or moved there from their teeny NYC apartments.  College books of my kids’.  (Oh my god the man in black satin is bleeding all over the breasts of the woman in red…..but they’re still singing.)  I don’t want to do all this.  I don’t want it done I don’t want it I don’t wanna.

I’ve been told to add everything up by a man who made $890,000 last year.  I know this because he told me.  He’s barely 30.  So let’s see some of that moolah, buddy!  Share! What could it hurt.  He could send his two kids to college several times in a year.  Nobody wants to buy words on paper any more, which is how my husband and I, largely my husband, made money.  I bleat to the cyber-world and it echoes back at me.  I apologize to the big guy for being a mean bitch and because he’s blocked dangerous elderly me from any possible cyber- or other- access I have no way of knowing whether he’s received my apology.  Who cares.  I care. What’s the point in apologizing to the ether?  Hm?  But wait, I decided that an apology that demands acknowledgment is not an apology at all.

So here we are.  Screaming on tv, sleeping dogs and husband, the hourglass with money in it emptying as I breathe, time running out, grandchild number one worrying about college which, they tell me, nobody, no any fucking body, can get into any more because you have to have perfect grades and perfect SATs and have developed a vaccine for cancer in your spare time and also be Asian or German or something.  That’s what they tell me.  So she can just go to some small nice liberal arts college in dumbfuck Pennsylvania and believe me Pennsylvania is not ready for the return of the Greider family.  Although that’s where they started.  I personally am not a Greider but something equally midwestern and dull. Protestant.  Earnest.  We are earnest.

I was so earnest in my apology.  I meant I was sorry to have been mean.  To have teased him with things he didn’t get, to have objected to the closed society, the ephemeral-like-moths rules of the cult which I didn’t get, to have super-Googled him like everybody else did and then omg write about it.  I am sorry I’m a bitch.  So sorry, and sorry and sorry.

The lady in red is still singing, although she has a knife in her hand.  Uh oh.


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