Paul and I agreed to house sit for his parents while they went to sunny Florida to visit his brother. I don't know what possessed me to say yes. Maybe it was just the thought of having four different walls to stare at everyday. . .that's all I got.
Anyway, day one, well, night one, Paul is working as a pseudo handy-man gutting and then re-doing a kitchen for a former boss of his. At around four in the afternoon my brother, Zaq, calls and tells me he's been pulled over and will probably be going to jail. We live in Dallas. This can only mean one thing: Lou Sterret. This is like, I'm not kidding here, people, the most poorly operated prison in the country, bar none. So, I call my dad to go get the car he was driving so it doesn't get towed and we have yet another expensive emergency on our hand. I then call, everyone I know on advice on how to get this kid out of the slammer before he has to go back to work on Monday. Now, for those of you who don't live in Dallas, or are good law abiding citizens with a steady pay check who always pay tickets if you even get them, the average stay in Lou is 24-26 hours. One guy we know waited three weeks after posting bond to be released. This is what I'm dealing with. So I call all sorts of people, this cowboy my mom knows who owns a bail bond company, a lawyer my parents met standing in line to bail Paul out once, my aunt who knows who to go to since she's bailed her son out so many times. . .and all the while, no one has a land line for him to call.
In any case, I finally track him down and find out that due to a series of circumstances we're going to have to pay $600 in cash to get this kid out. So I, miraculously, get said amount together and send my dad and brothers to get him. He gets out. things are cool. So most of the first night was spent on the phone with him inside the jail, my mom, my dad and my DUMBASS brother who tried to be the hero by bringing a cashier's check to bail him out. Right. Good job.
Day two, wake up early with Paul to send him off to record a session and ask, purely out of habbit, if he'd mind running to Starbucks and picking me up a mocha before he leaves. He looks at me and says "That'd take a whole extra hour out of my day." This is how far out into nothing we are. Freaky. We're south of Desoto. I live two seconds from Downtown. This is gonna take some getting used to.
Day three, at least I have a backyard.
Day four, there is something strangely liberating about living out of a suitcase. I start remembering that feeling from when I used to travel alot, or when I was in college and moved every three months. It's wierd how I want all sorts of dishes or clothes or whatever but
hate living in the space I've created for them because there is just so much crap everywhere. I also get really mad at my brother for being a flaky twenty-year-old chasing tale, dose up on some klonopin and muscle relaxers, (because, that's what you do as a suburban housewife, right?) and cook up a storm including cupcakes with home made lemon frosting.Day five, my white-trash sister-in-law calls to tell me to turn on the news because there are "massive thunderstorms with tons of rotation heading striaght for us." It took a heroic effort on my part not to tell her that people who have a foundation under their house don't freak out any time they hear a thunderclap. I'm proud of myself. The storm comes in and is loud and windy and sorta scary and I'm all alone in this house because Paul is engineering a session. I cuddle up with both my boys in the bed and they fall asleep. That's the time being a mother of really small active children is the best. When they slow down long enough for you to hug them.
Day six, Paul goes to work and has an audition. I do nothing and miss home but still love the backyard.
Day seven, I look forward to coming home has I'm mopping someone elses floors and washing someone elses sheets. I wish my life was still like this, playing house every once in a while, but not really having too much to worry about. Paul's family comes home with an obsene amount of fried chicken, pictures and suveneres. Everyone has a suntan and everyone talks about the beach. We pack everything and everyone up and smell the Trinity River as we drive back to the Big D where Zaqi gives us all hugs and says he's glad we're home.
So, I'm too broke to afford Starbucks today. But it is nice to be home and tell myself that I'm just playing house in this space I rent. That really, I'll get back to wandering the world and living out of that suitcase. But I hug my babies when they sleep and I feel I'm in the right place.
It's a good feeling to have when you're too poor to buy coffee.
