I’m cold, and this light hovering above my head is just on the hospital waiting room side of fluorescent. But the teapot is about to boil.
The instructions on the table by the door told me to only pour as much water in the kettle as I intend to drink. I am not that good of a person, but I don’t want to get in trouble for being not that good of a person. So I’ll pour out whatever water is left before I leave in the morning. That way, no one will ever know that I don’t give 2 fucks about 8 ounces of unused tap water.
I’m also not allowed to eat or cook meat on the premises. Do you think if I bring in the rest of the chicken and beef jerky that I didn’t eat, in from the car, that Heidi, the walking willow tree in birkenstocks, who seems to be the woman in charge of this “open-air mediation retreat”, would be able to smell it after I leave? I can’t afford another bad Airbnb review, and as much as I hate rules, I follow them as obediently as a well trained dog.
Well, there we go, fucking it up already. I thought the water had boiled, so I poured a mugs worth out over a chamomile tea bag, aaaaaaaand it was cold. I poured out the water, and have already broken the sacred agreement I made when I stepped through the pre-fab door that led me to this alternate universe. I can just picture Heidi, dressed head to toe in grey wool, breaking into the house in the middle of the night, and pouring violently cold water all over my sleeping body to teach me a lesson in conservation.
Theres a grey haze in the air, and all the trees are golden. The sun has already dipped below the mountain, and nighttime is approaching the window, quickly. I’ve been folded in a car all day, and I’m folded on a kitchen chair now. Pretty soon, I’ll fold myself back in the car, take myself to a restaurant of some kind, plop myself atop a barstool, stuff myself with wine and something other than crackers and jerky, fold myself back into the car, and eventually into a foreign bed, with foreign sheets, and foreign pillows. The ratio of body folding to body extending is not great for today. That’s what traveling for me usually looks like. It’s no wonder I’m watching my beautiful calves and toned inner thighs turn to mashed potatoes.
Ok, it’s 15 minutes to town, I’ve already missed the light, so I won’t get to actually see Eureka Springs, not unless I take a spin around in the morning before I head to Oklahoma City. I’m not hungry per say, but I’m afraid of the outside in the dark, and I want to capture the last bit of blue haze for my walk to the car before it turns to black nothingness. I can fully picture myself paralyzed in this chair, sipping frantically on chamomile tea all night, skipping dinner entirely, all because I’m afraid to go outside. I need to slap some makeup over the massive zit that has boiled up over my chin, snap the other strap of my overalls back over my shoulder, and get myself out the door like RIGHT NOW! COME ON! ONE TWO THREE AND GOOOOOOOOOOO!
Still here. Still sitting in the chair. Omg. I’m impossible.
Helllloooo from the other side of a steak dinner with mashed potatoes and mushrooms and some weird saccharin cherry wine cocktail. All of which I picked at, wondering if the bartender would judge me for only eating an 8th of the steak before asking for my check.
I think I ordered the steak as an act of rebellion against Heidi, the willow tree. I asked for it to be boxed up, and considered bringing it inside and putting it in the fridge, but I’m too afraid that I’ll forget to take it in the morning, and that Heidi will find it, and will ruin my reputation on Airbnb forever.
Other than that one stupid review from Maine, where they claimed I didn’t follow the instructions (which I absolutely definitely did, for the most part,) I have a spotless record as an airbnb guest. Nothing less than 5 stars and glowing comments about my tidiness and ability to communicate.
Alas, 7 ounces of bloody, buttery steak, with bloody, buttery mushrooms, and bloody, buttery mashed potatoes, is sitting on the passenger side floor of my Chevy. And there it will sit, till tomorrow, in the natural refrigeration of a cold wet night in the mountains. I hope you’re happy Heidi. Your perfect vegan house will remain perfectly vegan for yet another day.
I think I’d like to make a habit of listing the things I’m grateful for before I go to sleep. Since I can feel my eyelids drooping, I should probably get this out now, before I get too fuzzy to string any more words together.
Here’s what I’m grateful for tonight:
-I’m grateful not to be in a La Quinta somewhere off of I40 west, ordering a 25 dollar caesar salad with rubber chicken, trying not to notice the stains on rug.
-I’m grateful to not have had to check in with a toothless man named Jerry, who’s eyes are pink and puffy and linger for too long.
-I’m grateful for the chamomile tea, for the yoga mat by the bed, and for the oddness of this night.
-I’m grateful to be on my way to play shows in big beautiful theaters where I’ll be able to hear myself sing, and I won’t have to strain.
-I’m grateful for my sweet new boyfriend who makes me feel less alone, even when I’m completely alone and terrified in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do but shuffle through my own thoughts.
-I’m grateful for a heater, my soft red sweater, and for the time and space to write, and the courage to do so