THIS IS NOT A TIRE

“The body follows the head, which follow the eyes. Or: Where you look is where you go.”

She mentioned she wasn’t feeling well as we exited the brown line train. She inquired “how much further to our destination?” I pointed to the mural in sight. “It’s across the street from that mural, do you see it”? She said no, and quite indignantly as well. Hummm. While standing between a restaurant and a music institute, I continued to try and explain where the colored brick wall… It no longer mattered. I heard the sound of thick liquid hitting the sidewalk next to me. Yikes, it was noon. High noon, in the old west, just about time to have a gun fight. In France, just about time for lunch on the Seine. In ancient Greece, just in time to find no shadow on the sundial. We had most definitely gone out the night before, but general consensus dictates that what happened on the street about a half a day later should take place just as one is passing out for the night (as it did for me), or just as you wake after the binge. We consumed vodka all night until meeting friends at a dive bar. So, it is questionable if these events were a result of too much vodka, or the pernicious light beers purchased to close down the night. We will never know.

She, Christene, was up for the weekend to party and generally release the stress life can sometimes deliver to your front door. Christene and I played soccer together in college (over 10 years ago- spring chickens we are not), and hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years. Many things had changed in those years and clearly we had ‘beaucoup’ about which to chat. She had a year of seniority over me, along with a foot in height. In the sports clinic we were referred to as Mutt and Jeff, as I stand 4’11”. Her beauty is a lovely mix of her father’s Vietnamese length, and her mother’s Texas American strength. She was lethal on the field, and she knew from day one she was going to be a physical therapist, which she is today.

I figured one public deposit of ruminate on the street would be enough. Laughing, I checked to see if anyone had seen what just happened, and yes, there was a guy paying for parking just ten feet away. He did not seem to take any notice. Therefore, I assumed we were in the clear. A few more steps and a second batch was set free to the universe (no more chai lattes for this one). I feel I need to add that I was, in fact, unusually dressed up for a Saturday. We were on our way to my dojo, but we had plans for the whole afternoon. Being cute was on my list. I was sporting my long black jacket from VS, but my actual outfit was a juxtaposition of camo-pants and a pink tuxedo top. The belt and shoes were what brought it all together, as they were both a girly pink. Little did I know, that outfit would be reworked less than an hour later. Christene turned to tell me something, but before any words could be formed her upper digestive tract enacted its other plans: an enormous amount of projectile vomit found its way all over my side. She had 359 degrees in which to launch her demons, but her eyes had locked on me, and that was all she wrote. Her height enabled the eruption to cover me from my shoulders down to my heels. Even with her hands in front of her face, copious amounts of vomit passed between her fingers (she was no goal keeper). The gentleman feet away had little-to-no expression, other than a need to exit stage left, which he did promptly. I was walking in circles, laughing and questioning, “how the &*^% did this just happen”? True composure would not be found until much later that day, but at the time I had quickly realized we needed help. We were something of a hot mess.

I removed my jacket, folded it inside out, and handed it to Christene. “This thing is yours until we drop it off at the cleaners.” In the cold, standing on the street, I called our friend Bridget to come rescue us, as I was not about to board the train with a silent companion stinking the compartment up with disgorge. “I need you to come and get us, Christene just puked on me!”, I was able to force out somewhere in between crying and laughing. Bridget, quite concerned because she was not totally understanding the situation, told me she was on her way once everything was clear. Moments later I received a text message from Bridget informing me that it would be a few more minutes, as first she had to update her facebook status.

It read: “Just got the most unique phone call al year to date” Bridget, can you come pick me up from the train station? I just got puked on…”

I’ve had the good fortune of having parents who work for a ‘truly’ international corporation. My father works for a tire company that has needed his expertise in nations that reside in continents other than North America. What has that meant for me? I’ve had multiple opportunities to visit other countries with tour guides that speak English, don’t charge me for room or board, and are in most cases happy to foot the bill to fly me to their location. My parents relocated to Romania for four years, and currently call Mexico home. Most often, whenever I was asked, “where do your parents live?” my response would leave shock on most faces. You might think the follow up question was, “are your parents missionaries?” My standard response: “No they are Mercenaries.” I would then explain that they were not fighting wars or selling weapons, but that they are clearly capitalists, and were for sale to work in countries that were willing to take advantage of low wages and poor working conditions for financial gain (obviously all the while improving the local economy). I always replied with a smile, because secretly I knew that my parents were really there because they were up for the adventure, not unlike myself; they wanted to party with new friends in cool foreign locations. Oh, perhaps there was career advancement in there somewhere for my father…perhaps.

During my first visit to Romania I found a number of things to be true: Vampires were born within the borders of the country, and Romanian is a romantic language that sounds quite French (though I bet you thought it sounded more Russian). The countryside is both stunning and rustic (the concept of peasantry is still very much alive). The capital city, Bucharest, is full of history, both before the Roman Empire and within my own cognisant memory. The city is in a constant state of growth from dawn to dusk, and at some point during the eighties an American animal activist won over city officials with the idea that instead of ‘putting-down’ the overwhelming amount of stray dogs in the city, those dogs should be free to run wild, forming packs packs along the way. The aforementioned factors make Bucharest both noisy and difficult to navigate from time to time.

I have issues with repetitive sounds. AT the top of my list: tapping, whistling, babies crying, hammering, beeping and ringing tones all reach different levels of paralytic sensations within my psyche. I’ve had outbursts in meetings, as well as completely ceasing to complete my point waiting for the tapping pen to rest quietly out of reach of the little drummer boy in control. The construction workers across the street from my parents’ flat quickly became my Kryptonite. How long is the standard work day in Romania? From my experience it is from sun up to sun down. Is there another way to insert a nail like object into planks of wood that doesn’t make a ton of noise? Are these men trying to hammer at different rhythms on purpose, or does it just say something about who he is? The off-beat sounds were accompanied by barking dogs hoping to snatch up food either dropped or dished out near the work area or by wealthy neighbors. Without question this reinforced my drive to see the city sites, have coffee at local cafes, and go for walks in the huge park within the city center. The walks especially have a place in my heart just as do the construction men.

One fine afternoon my mom and I headed out for a peaceful jaunt to the lake in order to enjoy the tranquility so close to the city’s ‘white noise symphony.’ While out we stopped for a beer at a restaurant with a patio that overlooked the lake. We chatted about all the things moms and daughters hash out; particularly when the two live on different continents. The sun was unrelenting that afternoon as we made our way back to the house. We worked on sorting out what delicious goods we were going to make for dinner, all the while making our way down a side street back to the house. A pack of large, mangy, homeless dogs were circling around the driveway of a neighbor who quite regularly, to the dislike of his entire neighborhood, fed these feral animals. Perhaps our lack of fear was from the beer, fatigue from our walk, our wanting not to be late, or even the estranged thought process that, as humans, we are at the top of the intelligence/food chain. Whatever the cause for our actions, the result was the same. We continued down our path, and as we closed in on the dogs my mom drew closer to me and began to provide two very clear instructions: 1. Do not make eye contact. 2. Do not run. Locked arm in arm we marched toward our enemy. With four dogs visible we were confident we could pass through with little trouble. But much like a flank attack, so often used in older tactics of warfare, dogs were continuously coming out from behind a wall. Five, six, seven, eight they circled us and barked to let us know we had been had, and quite aggressively I might add! Ambushed! Following the instructions given, I tried to keep mom moving slowly forward, but she lost her cool at K9 seven. Her index finger came out like that of any good mom when disciplining small children. She began to parcel out orders to each of the victors, not aware that her rank on the chain had just dropped, or that we were clearly out numbered. Her voice went from firm to scared and then to shouting, but the finger was out there to be chomped. Did I mention that she was also trying to stare down each of these dog (each of whom would never make it to Madison Square Garden’s best in show)? We could hardly take a step forward. My heart was racing and I joined in the shrieking for help. In the kindest of gestures, finally my mom instructed me to run and save myself. I didn’t want to leave her behind. We’ve already addressed my selfishness, but leave my mom behind? I don’t think so. The fiasco we were creating, both the four legged and two legged, grabbed the attention of even the noisy construction workers I had hours earlier damned.

The energy built to the point of breaking. Mom pushed me forward and with that shove came a final wish, “SAVE YOURSELF!” I was off at a dead sprint toward the construction men. With me followed a good three dogs, but I slowed and turned because I couldn’t believe what I had done. My flight reaction had kicked in. However, we were not the only ones who noticed the climax of the standoff. The construction workers also recognized that the moment was about to turn nasty. The men came running toward us; their yelling and the smashing of shovels on the street causing enough distraction for me to reposition my arms around my mom and pull her out of the circle with me. The men continued to run after the dogs until we were safely on the steps of our building. We stood there arm in arm for a minute or two before finding the composure to enter. My heart was jumping out of my chest for the next hour it seemed, and when recounting the story for my father I’m certain my blood pressure raised a few points. The three of us do laugh about the story now, but at the time it was traumatic, so much that my father walked a case of beer down the construction men as a thank you for saving the women of his family.

Hammer away boys, hammer away. You’re okay in my book…provided I am surrounded by mangy dogs (so close).

For years prior to my relationship with Koolie and those that lingered after we separated, I was passionately in love with him. We were born only days apart; he in South Africa and myself in Canada. We were two Geminis and both fit the defined personality of the twins. He is the only man with whom I have ventured into the social experiment known as co-habitation. The sun rose and set around him in my heart. He spurred poems out of the depth of my soul, and he accepted all the love I had for him. We found playfulness around the barbeque he referred to as a Bry. We were friends long before we were ever lovers. I met him on my recruiting trip to the university that I ultimately chose to attend, and we ended up having the same group of friends that all lived together in a giant old house in Birmingham. We were always hanging out on the porch and passing the days away discussing topics that were heavy, flighty, and exceptionally funny. ‘The Tennis House’ was our home outside our family’s; most of us were living on a different continent than our parents. The Common Wealth, which had always been vacant, somehow began to take on some relevance. There were guys and gals from most parts of Europe, and references to which country lost both world wars was a popular punch line at our mixers. Conversations in different languages were customary at the house. Seemingly meaningless, random, foreign words were thrown around in situations both good and bad, much like an explicative.

Koolie was often heard shouting ‘Yes-ss’ this, and ‘Yes-ss’ that in both situations of joy and frustration. What a clever, yet nonsensical word. I thought to myself “no one word can have that many meanings”. Now, I’ve found when you are around someone long enough you begin to adopt his mannerisms and repetitive phrases. This was one that I took on as my own. Believing it to be ‘Yes’ that had a little extra spice it required multiple ‘S’s’ to truly convey the message or feelings stirred by such an event.

In the prime of our living together, we planned to spend Christmas with his family in South Africa. We booked the tickets about five months in advance; many phone calls over seas went back and forth to determine the best dates and holiday plans. I had only spoken to his sister and mother on rare occasions, but couldn’t wait to finally spend time with his loved ones. Clearly the next step in the level of our committed relationship… meeting the family. Once in the country, many hugs were passed around, and everyone was so wonderful. Their native language was Afrikaans, a dutch dialect, but they spoke English when I was in the room, whether I was a part of the conversation or not. His father engaged me in parroting his words trying to teach me words throughout the holiday (nothing better than rolling your ‘R’s’ in a car for 15 hours!). Near the end of the vacation I was speaking in phrases. It must have been the children’s books I was reading trying to teach myself the language of the man I loved. His family was great, and I wanted them to accept me and love me as well. We all know how the first impression frames a person for the rest of their life.

Throughout the vacation we visited an ostrich farm (I rode on the back of one, thank you very much), drove past a herd of Spring Buck, hiked a trail with Baboons, swam in shark infested waters (all we saw were dolphins), rock climbed cliffs along the shore of the beaches, watched Southern Right Wales migrate to the warm Indian Ocean, bartered for trinkets at road side markets, and countless other smaller but no less impressive daily sights and adventures. However, it was Christmas dinner that has left a colossal impression in my mind, so many years later. It was a quiet morning, and not all that warm. Koolie’s mom was working away in the kitchen, and refusing to let me help, I went back to reading my book. When it was time to take our seats at the table I could hardly believe the spread. Everything eaten was grown within 25 miles of our location. The food overwhelmed my olfactory senses, and I was brought to a state of delight. I began stating, and with confidence I’ll add, “Yes-ss look at this food!” “Yes-ss, this looks and smells amazing!” I was promptly kicked from under the table. Kicked so hard, in fact, I had to grab the seat to keep from falling. “Why did you kick me”? I whispered, as to not enlighten anyone of the pain I was currently in, and unknowing the reason for such a punishment at such a moment. “Why are you cussing at the table, Christmas dinner no less?” Koolie quietly demanded to know. “What are you talking about? I’m just noting how great this meal is about to be, and how wonderful it all looks.” He took a deep breath and said, “Lisa, Jesus (pronounced ‘Yes-ss’) means Jesus in my language.”

Mortified! Realizing that I had just been seated at Christmas dinner affirming, “Jesus, this food looks great!” His family went about their business as though I hadn’t used profanity of the worst kind moments before. Why had I never asked what the ‘BEEP’ that word meant in all those years! My ankle throbbed throughout the delicious feast laid out for a king.

Ever been called crazy, batty, berserk, bonkers, kooky, mental, screwball, unhinged or wacky? Ever think you might be? I know I have been referred to as many or perhaps all of the above. Yes, I have been quite certain a number of times in my life that the only safe place for me was in one of two places: a nunnery or insane asylum. How the two relate may be a stretch, and could be attributed to my self diagnosed psychoses; nonetheless, in society at large I was convinced I did not belong. Over the years I have found balance by coming to terms with the plethora of experiences from both ends of the spectrum.

In true teenage angst, I often thought I had some kind of terminal illness, or that I had lost all rationality from time to time. Both my hormones learning how to release themselves, and having enough autonomy to experience new situations with others going through the same thing lead to many adventures and in retrospect dangerous situations. Insanity might be subjective; however, there certainly were times where my control was limited and my thoughts and actions were unpredictable. In hindsight I was just trying for two things: stability and confidence in myself. While being acutely aware that I did not fit the mold of most teens (case and point/point and case: I was about 14 years old, chatting on the phone with a friend of mine. She decided it was time to end the call and go on to do other things and said “okay, I’ll talk to you soon,” I replied ‘okay,’ then sat by the phone waiting for her to call back. I waited about 30 minutes then called her, asked her why she hadn’t rang? She was clearly as confused as I was at that point. I had an inside conversation with myself about missing that, and then from that point forward watched others’ behavior to try and pick up the norms). Also, I was in the pure hunt for attention. What better way to bring my senior classmates out of the daily obsession with “who was and was not at last week’s party” than sporting a homemade Straight Jacket to school?

One of my few school friends (oh please don’t feel bad for me, it was totally by choice) Katie came over to the house and we pitched the brilliant, I mean ludicrous, idea to my mom. Yes, somehow I convinced another living human being that making straight jackets from scratch was a great idea. Oddly, I have been able to swing Katie to do a couple of idiotic activities over the years, but being as this is where it started, its not hard to believe we found ourselves in Scotland dancing a jig on a bar table, while quoting ‘everything happens for a reason’. Really? Yup, except that phrase does not hold true for me anymore (I’m running away with my thoughts here…let’s bring this back to focus…wait are you helping or just along for the ride? The ride? Good… I do prefer it when people know their place ). Katie and I located a number of old belts about the house, we figured each jacket would need a total of three: two for the arms and one that would appear to pass between the legs. My Mom was attempting to be a road block in the beginning, saying things like: “Those are good belts Lisa!” , “What do you need this for?” And, “I don’t know how long to make the arms.”

Once my Mom was on board properly we were able to channel her talents to assist with our creation. We were even able to find a light canvas material (be it an off white, almost cream). My mind was able to accept this short coming on color as my Mom would not volunteer the extra cost for the pure white canvas. Since she was the financial backer of this project, cream was better than nothing. We modified a causal top pattern and like Edward Scissor Hands created a thing of beauty that was a little different for the average on-looker. As I sewed the belt buckles to the back of the shirt and the tips of the belt to the ends of the long pointy sleeves the more certifiably insane and delightfully perfect my jacket of the ‘straight’ kind became. I made a slight modification to my sleeves so that my jacket was functional. I made two slits in the fabric at the wrist (any irony there?) so that I could slip my hands out to perform ‘normal’ tasks that required hands. This was necessary because clearly I would be wearing this new item often and needed to be able to take notes at school and drive the car.

Working all weekend, by Sunday afternoon we had a finished product. Katie went home with her ‘crazy shirt’ with the agreement that we would both wear them to school the next morning. Finally a friend who was not influenced by peer pressure, and just quirky enough to dabble in crazy with me. My family sat down to eat Sunday supper together. A small but powerful argument began about my weekend’s work. “Lisa, you cannot wear this to school,” my mom told me with confidence. I’m quite certain she had the support of my father. Seeing that this two-on-one situation was not looking like one I was going to be victorious in, I quieted my voice and commenced to formulate a plan that would allow me to do what I wanted without parental knowledge. That plan evolved into folding the jacket in my backpack so that once dropped off at school I could pull it out and put it on (I know, genius). I’m sure my parents never thought I might do that. Besides, it was only a year ago when I had my mom hem a NASA astronaut blue jumpsuit and wore that school, so I thought my boundaries of ‘off the wall’ ideas were widened; however, I think for my parents, and perhaps rightfully, a homemade straight jacket was outside of the area given to me.

I spotted Katie from across the open entrance of the school. In my groovy new top with miss-matched belt buckles I noticed that she was not wearing hers. A pit in the bottom of my stomach began to grow. Suddenly being an individual did not seem as much fun, as cool, or as interesting as it had appeared when knowing that Katie was along for this crazy train approach (and thus not really being an individual, which is a fact I have only realized of at this moment). I wanted to know what was going on…not really in a panic, but in more of an ‘I’ve been let down’ sense. (Really, let down? Who let whom down? Clearly, Katie was the carrier of more social awareness). Similarly to when a ‘group think’ event occurs, and the group doesn’t want the ‘event’ to get out; they all agree to take it to the grave. What that really means is “who ever tells first has dibs on framing the story.” Or in this case, not ‘commit’ to the plan.

A wide berth was given to me in the halls that day, and the subsequent days to follow. First period was full of all the looks and whispers, everything for which I was hoping. Jokes and cracks were flying from all corners of the class. Oh how they thought they were taking the upper hand of my lunatic canvas top, but they were reacting just as I had planned. I owned the room; my brain was hot, and my hands were tucked inside the length of the sleeves with a light covering of sweat. Class was finally brought to order as our teacher came into the room, and any further plans of attention were dashed. The focal point was no longer mine and would not be returned again until lunch.

So, am I weird? Sure, without question, provided your perspective is one that doesn’t often take you to the edge of social discovery. At the end of the school day my energy was low, and my need for a nap was beyond compare, so much that I forgot to remove the item I had been forbade the night before. My mom must have known as she didn’t have much to say aside from a knowing ‘how was your day’?