Bad Ju-Ju

Never Too Too

 There are days when one shouldn’t get out of bed.

There are entire weeks when one shouldn’t get out of bed.

A friend told me that last week was like a week of full moons, even though we were nowhere near a full moon – everyone she interacted with was either being stupid or nasty; everyone was walking around like they were mad.

I should have paid more attention.

But I didn’t.

So: I have a dear friend who lives in a state we won’t name, that’s always in NH news – actually, it’s always in news all over the country – because the state’s governor, and half its citizens, regularly do incredibly stupid things, often involving alligators. My friend is a smart, smart woman, but her life circumstances have changed, so that now she’s a genteel, aging woman in straitened circumstances. And she really, really, doesn’t want to adjust to that.

Thyme, hosta, coral bells, and unfinished chores

Her only relative  and I have been spending untold numbers of hours and days and months during the last year, doing research for her to try to determine where and how she can live for as long as possible, as comfortably as possible. And she’s been fighting it – the State of Denial is a large one, and parts of it have alligators in it. But finally, a week ago – pay attention to the time period,  and the days of full-moon activity my other friend recorded – she suddenly became cooperative and actually did something we’d  been warning her for months that she needed to do, but she didn’t wanna do.

Hallelujah! A massive, collective sigh of relief  was  heaved by her care-giver, cousin and me. We relaxed for a moment, then jumped into the flurry of activity that had to  follow in order to  get  ready  the preliminaries to make a move she needs to make, and more intense research and financial plans checked and re-tabulated, and long, written explanations about things she needs to know and make decisions about, all of which involving 3:30 am time slots for me writing writing writing -  and then ---

Allium flower

---and then, she changed her mind. OK, we thought, we’ll just move on and she’ll consider another option. But no – she wasn’t going to do anything more, she was done, she’d stay in her house ‘til she’s completely destitute, and  - well, you can guess what else. I really, really wish I had remembered what my other friend had told me about how her weird-energy week was going, but I didn’t.

Instead, I blew up. I could feel the top of my head open up and the lava of my brains flowed out all over my computer. My nostrils flowed with smoke and ashes. My tongue dried up and fell out. I had visions of roaring fire into the distance. But my typing hands were still working. And they, and my thoughts, were incendiary. And I wrote a very detailed letter to my dear friend, explaining, with many  adjectives and descriptive characterizations, exactly how I felt.

Okay, next part of the story: The day I went  into the World of Fury, the Husband took my car to run some errands and fill the tank so I’d have enough gas to get to work the next day. But a check engine light came on, so, instead, he took the car to the garage to get it checked out. “Oh,” the garage guys said, “that’s the Doomsday signal. How’s the car running?” It seemed to be running fine, they decided it might just be a loose connection or something inconsequential that digital signals often do in cars, but added, “We turned it off, but if it comes back on again, bring it back.”

Happy Johnny Jump-Ups

Remember what week it was?

Next day, I left the house early enough to get gas on my way to the office, and then headed to the post office to mail the incendiary letter, and a copy as a head’s-up to her care-giver so she’d be warned about the temper tantrum I’m expecting it will set off , grinning to myself  evilly because it occurred to me I could let my friend pay for her own damn postage if she was going to piss me off this badly – and noticed on the way to the post office that the Doomsday Signal was on again. And no, I still didn’t remember about the week warning.

I mailed the envelopes, then went across the street to the garage, and asked office lady if she’d ask whoever had looked at the car yesterday if it was safe for me to drive the car to work, which is 30 miles away and then 30 more back again at night. All the mechanics, she said, were out to lunch. I didn’t ask if she meant literally or figuratively, but, ok, there’s no one at the garage to ask. Sounds like I need to go back home and switch cars with the Husband.

Now I’m in a rush, because I’m running late. As I sort of speed up the hill on the way home – a black bear cub runs in front of the car. No, I didn’t hit it, but where was Mom, and is there a sibling about to dash in front of me?  Out loud I said, “Okay, that was cute, be careful!” and continued on towards home.

Columbine

I got home, and tracked him down to tell the Husband I need his car. I move all the sloshing jars of flower bouquets and a tub of cut herbs I was taking on that day up to the café in the building my office is in, into Husband’s car; I shuffle my own backpack and other gear into the Husband’s car; and as I rarely drive the Husband’s car I ask some questions about where some controls are - and I have a premonition that this isn’t going to go well.  But I’m running late, and I still don’t remember about the moon energy warning. 

At the end of the driveway, I notice there’s not enough gas to go to the office and back again, but I’m running really late now and figure I can get gas before I come home. At the end of the drive-way, I stop to grab the newspaper from the paper tube, to read at work. There is no newspaper – first time the paper guy has screwed up in a couple of weeks. Hmm. Another feeling of unease, but I’m really running late.

A couple of miles up the road, a black kitten runs in front of the car. No, I didn’t hit it, but at that point I shoulda just turned around and gone home. I considered it for a second; but I didn’t.

Twenty miles up the road I get on the highway, and the car starts to make a most god-awful noise, and it’s bucking around, water is sloshing everywhere, jars of flower bouquets are clashing against each other, and I’m trying to figure out, what the heck? I realize I should pull off to the side and look, but it’s Friday on Labor Day weekend, the road is packed with speeding cars, and we’re rapidly approaching a construction zone, where the road splits and there’s no pull-off lane. I get off the highway just before the split, and drive another mile to where I know there’s a Mobil station, with a Shell station across the street.

Oh, yeah, the tire is definitely flat. And the Mobil station, and the Shell station across the street, are both just lines of gas pumps and quick-marts. Sigh. 

On the wart this summer

I call AAA, and I get Jennifer, who wants to tell me about a special deal AAA is offering just this weekend for long-time members, it’s a free medical alert system, and I’ve never heard anyone talk that rapidly and continuously without taking a breath. Now I’m shouting: “Jennifer, Jennifer, stop talking! Jennifer, SHUT UP! I need road service! STOP TALKING!!!”  I hung up on her and tried again.  That time I got the road service person, who took down my description of where I was – you know how sometimes you drive places all the time, and you can do it in your sleep, but you have no idea what the route numbers or street names are? Yup, that was me.  We came up with a description I was pretty sure a local guy would recognize. “OK,” road assistance gal says, “someone will be there by 4:30.”

Am I hearing wrong? “4:30 PM?” I ask. “Did I hear that right?”

“Yes, it may take awhile because they might be busy when we contact them,” Helpful Lady says.

Great. I need to call my patients and reschedule.

So I do, and then I hunker down and read while I’m waiting. OMG – no newspaper! Ah, but I have a book in my backpack. Always have a book with you, it’s saved my brain many times. And thank heaven it isn’t hot and humid like it has been. But I do start to ruminate on the bad ju-ju week a bit.

Eventually a great big, long truck pulls in next to my car, and a beefy, short, young dude with pants the standard 6 inches below the butt crack gets out, and takes the absolutely shredded tire off my car and puts on the spare. It’s only 4 pm – hmm. “Can I drive this into WRJ and then home again, which is 30 miles south, or should I just go home? I can take the back roads home,” I ask my savior.

He thinks about it. “Yup. But don’t go over 50 mph, and get a real tire on within the week. These things can blow, too, and because they’re under a lot of pressure, if this one blows it’ll take the whole back end off your car.”

Lynxie

Oy. OK. I call my patient and say it’s ok to come in; then I fill the gas tank  - so if the spare tire blows we’ll have a massive and interesting conflagration – and so I can get home, because the Husband can’t rescue me, because he’s home with the car with the Doomsday Signal lit up.

I get to the office, I deliver the flowers and herbs – they needed more water by then – I water the plants in the waiting room, which were panting for attention by the time I got there; I treat my patient, then I cross my fingers and drive slowly home, and manage to get there just before dark without hitting any moose on the way.

Today it’s Sunday, and I see we have an actual full moon next Saturday: the Full Harvest Moon.  I wonder what I’ll be reaping this week?

 I have a few clues: At the office, I found a text from my alligator state friend’s care-giver saying my friend had changed her mind again, and was now planning her next step in self-responsiblility. The text should have arrived the night before – before I mailed my very descriptive letter - but the gods of Full Moon Bad Jokes didn’t let my phone receive it until 5 pm the next day.

There’s a mouse in my pantry, and the cats aren’t interested.

I had exactly two winter squashes this year, because the rest of the winter squash plants died or were weirdly dug up and killed; I picked those two precious squashes last week, because the plant they were on was rapidly dying. One went into this week’s soup – the other, I discovered tonight, is rotting.

Crow; photo by Clare McCarthy

And, it’s Labor Day weekend, so the garage isn’t open. Who knows when the cars of Doom will be fixed?

I think I may just stay at home and read books, not go anywhere, not answer the phone, and keep my fingers crossed. We do, after all, have rattlesnakes in NH, though they’re rarely seen and wouldn’t usually choose a garden to sun in.

But I’m not sure I’m willing to risk it.

 

For the blog, 4 September 2022: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com

Rasta Furian: photo by Julie Schroppel