What did we talk about? Me, mostly. God knows I’m a diva.
When I don’t feel good, I have very vivid dreams. Not the kind of vivid dreams where I’m stretched out on a chaise lounge being pampered by Go-Go Boys (Hey Mason! Love you, Boo!) and having my every whim catered to. No, I’m not that lucky. Instead my dreams find me sitting around having conversations with dead boyfriends, dead relatives, and now apparently divine entities. I guess this means Patricia Arquette will be playing me in the television series adaptation of my life.
But I digress. After a particularly grueling day of feeling like I’d been snatched upside the head by my weave, I retuned to Serial Blonde HQ, turned off my Blackberry, covered the windows, crawled into bed and crashed. Hard.
Or so I thought.
What felt like only minutes later, my serenity was shattered by a knock on my door. I was prepared to lose my shit on whoever it was.
“Somebody better be dead!” I bellowed as I swung the door open.
“Not quite.” answered my visitor.
Standing at my door was a woman in her fifties with perfectly coiffed blonde hair (so jealous!) and a smart silver pantsuit that Hillary Clinton would kill for. Her outfit was accented by a pair of hot pink Louis Vuittons (fabulous shoes for the three straight men reading this). She was a vision.
“Look, I’m sorry for being so abrupt,” I began. “I had a shitty day and just want to curl up in bed and forget about it.”
“I know,” she answered, “And you weren’t being abrupt, you were being a total bitch. Now fix that hair of yours and come for a visit with me,” she continued. “I’m on a schedule.”
Having nothing better to do now that I was awake, I followed her.
As I stepped outside I was taken by how beautiful and bright it suddenly was. Rochester generally has four shades of grey, so this was definitely an improvement.
“Come sit and have a chat with me,” she said, motioning me to a bench that had miraculously appeared in the middle of my yard.
“Where in the hell did that come from?” I asked
“Hell is responsible for many things,” she answered, “but not my traveling necessities.”
“Traveling necessities?”
“Well I don’t intend to stand while we talk. Coming down here from all the way up there takes the wind out of you,” she explained, pointing to the sky.
“Oh my God!”
“Oh good, I see a light bulb went on in your head. No need to be so formal though. You can call me Mary,” she said.
“Mary? Like Mary and Joseph Mary?
“No dear, I came first. I just know the Gays are very fond of calling everyone Mary. So much more dignified than that ‘hey, girl, hey” thing the kids are doing now.
And then it hit me.
“Oh my..err..Mary, am I dead?” I asked.
“No, I believe we already established that when you answered the door.”
“Oh, well that’s good,” I replied. “Does this mean I’m going too die soon?”
“Robert, everyone is going to die. Why not try asking me why I’m here instead of guessing.”
“Why are you here?”
“You’re very nosey, aren’t you?”
God, I mean, Mary, was very catty. I was impressed.
“Every now and again I like to check in with my soldiers and see, how do the kids say it? What’s up?”
“Soldiers?”
“What? You don’t think that you’re on earth just to be blonde and fabulous do you? No, you, like many others, are down here for a reason. Every now and again I appear to touch base, check on everyone’s progress, and find out what is going on.”
“Well, work is okay, but I’m ready for a vacation. My Mom is driving me up the wall as per usual. Oh, and I really miss my best friend. He moved.”
“Seriously? You think I came all this way to listen to this?” she asked, incredulously.
Catty and direct.
Gulp.
“I’m not sure what else to say?”
“Okay, let’s try a different approach,” she continued. “You can ask me three questions. If they’re good questions I might just get a sense of where you are in the grand scheme of things.”
Jesus Christ. Talk about pressure.
“Really Robert? Right in front of me?”
“I’m sorry. I kind of have a filthy mouth.” (I should mention that God hears your internal monologue. It’s a bit unsettling, but you should know this in case you ever get the chance to meet with her.)
“Oh honey, I’m well aware of your filthy mouth,” she continued. “Every week I have to stop the angels from picking up the slang you use on that blog of yours” (I have fans all over the world, even above it!)
“Okay, three good questions. I can do this.”
“Yes, you can. Here are some tips,” she offered. “Keep them general, don’t ask something you know you’re not ready for the answer to and don’t be afraid to be selfish and ask about yourself.”
Selfish? Moi?
Gentle readers, usually the biggest decision I have to face in my life is which brand of hair product to use. This was some serious shit.
“Okay, what’s the meaning of life?” I asked,
“That’s not a question. That’s a discovery. You get a do-over. Try again.”
“Hmmm. This is hard.”
“Oh honey, losing someone you love at a young age is hard. Watching people come and go is hard. Finding out who you are in this life is hard. This should be the easiest thing you ever do.”
“Well since you brought it up, why does everyone I love go away?”
“Everyone has their own path. Sometimes where you are. Sometimes where you’re not. No one is meant to share the same path. What’s important is the effect your path’s crossing has on each other. That is what you’re meant to carry with you.
What you learn from each other.”
“Okay, so I’m not exactly the world’s best example of a life well lived. And I’m hardly role model material...”
“On the contrary. I think you’re a good role model. You’ve made a lot of mistakes. A lot. Really, we’re talking triple digits. But you’ve always owned them and have never shied away from being up front about your flaws to guide others.”
“Thanks, I think.” Really? A lot? “Sometimes I wonder if my friends and family get that. If I’m such a good example, how come so many of them are, excuse the expression, so hell bent on making stupid choices when they know better?”
“Ahhh, let’s refer back to your first question. Everyone has a different path, remember? Because they are on their own paths, others don’t necessarily find or have the answers you or anyone else have.”
“Everybody learns at their own speed.”
“Precisely. Ready for your last question?”
“Can I have three more?” I asked.
“No,” she answered. “But because I’m merciful, we’ll strike that pitiful attempt at humor and continue”
“You don’t fuck around. Ooops! Sorry, it slipped.”
“It’s alright,” she laughed. “I was waiting for that. You wouldn’t be you without your colorful vocabulary. I gave you that for a reason.”
Sweet! God, err, Mary approves of my dirty mouth!
“I didn’t say I approved, I said I gave it to you.”
Oh snap! Internal monologue.
“My last question. Geez, there’s so much I want to know! This last one has to be important.”
“Stop over-thinking it. Ask the first thing that comes to your mind. One’s first thought is usually their most honest.”
“Okay, I’ve got it! Does my voice really matter in your grand scheme of things?”
“You don’t need to ask me for the answer to that. You’ll hear it in the voices of the people who love you whenever you talk with them.”
Shucks. I’m getting kind of weepy now.
“Well, Robert, this has been an interesting visit. I’m so pleased we had this opportunity to meet.”
“You’re going already?” I asked, crushed.
“Oh honey, I’m on a cross country tour and I need to make my next connection. Besides, I need to freshen and prepare to see my next soldier.”
“Costume change?”
“Of course my dear. Who do you think you got that from?”
So cool.
“Yes. It is," she purred.
“I’m really happy I got to talk to you too Mary. I’ve had a week and this was really nice.”
“It was my pleasure. Oh, and Robert, I’ll give you one more answer. And it’s yes," she said, running her fingers through her luxurious blonde locks.
“Thank you. Uh, what was the question?”
“Good bye, honey. We’ll chat again.”
Then I woke up.
And I felt so much better. I did begin to cry though. But these were tears of joy. I knew what question she had answered before she departed. It made me realize that everything would always be okay.
Now that I've had my say, let's hear yours! Post a comment below or email me at robbymorris.serialblonde@gmail.com!
No comments:
Post a Comment