Parking Meter Tears

Went to the County Seat today to be sworn in as Executrix of my Mom’s estate. Haven’t been to the Court House for a while and didn’t know that it costs 10 cents for 8 minutes, to park. 5 cents will buy 2 minutes. I had very little change and in the cold wind I put it all into the meter. The minutes added up to a little over 20. I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the read-out. There was a Sheriff’s Office car nearby, and I stared at the guy in it, hoping he’d come over and ask if he could help. Naturally, he didn’t. Why would he? Silly women who arrive in town with “insufficient coinage” are beyond his jurisdiction. So I just stood there by my car, crying, until the Court House opened. As soon as I got away from the parking meter, the tears stopped. Odd.

I speak with my Mother’s voice.

For anyone who doesn’t know, my Mom died toward the end of December of last year. She was sick for a long, long time. For many years, we shared the house that I grew up in.  I’m here now, working to make my way through the days, to rebuild a life that was “on hold.”

Anyway, I spent a lot of my childhood alone and got used to talking to myself. It’s a normal thing, to chatter away; there’s comfort there, I think. Now that my days are so quiet, I hear my voice loudly.

The thing is, it’s my Mother’s voice. We sounded alike. Not just a little alike but almost scary-alike. Even my aunts and uncles couldn’t tell, on the phone, who was who. So these days, when I drop something and say, “S%&#!!!” I hear Mom. And when I say, “Have a good nap, Sweetie,” I hear Mom. And when I tell me I’d better get the dishes done, I hear Mom saying it.

It’s not a bad thing. Just jarring. You know? Yesterday I began to realize that it’s a wonderful gift, to hear her voice. And I’m treasuring it.

TOP CHEF: It’s back! And tongues are wagging on the homefront. Gah.

TOP CHEF returned last night. I just started watching it, just having my breakfast, just enjoying the show. The trash guys arrived, so I stopped eating and watching to bring down the empty trash cans, and saw a couple of my neighbors yakking at the end of one of their driveways. They’re both nice enough women — 40’s, mothers, active in their jobs, and at home; the usual — and one of them yelled over to me if I saw Top Chef. I said I just started watching it.

“Did you see they came out?” (her, with a nasty edge to her voice)
“No. Who?” (me)
“Lesbians. It’s got lesbians now. Don’t bother watching it.” (her, with a dismissive wave)
“What?” (me)
“Lesbians. Gays. Two of the contestants are a couple. I don’t care what they do in private, but I don’t want them rubbing it in my face!” (her, screwing up her nose to avoid what she’s obviously thinking)
“Oh.” (me, stunned into unaccustomed wordlessness)

I came back in the house and watched more of the show. Yep. There’s a couple. Women. Chefs.
I have newfound disrespect for that neighbor lady.

OK, now I’m going back to eating my breakfast and watching the show. Have a good day, everyone — and try not to rub anything in anyone’s face, hunh?