Ohio Girl

I have a horrible headache and am working on a Sunday and am missing the rescheduled Cup race and cannot quit watching cable news instead of sleeping even though they keep having the same Palin is folksy versus Palin is an inexperienced, wing-nut debate.

That run-on sentence could run on and on and on.

I had a very good Saturday and cannot quite figure out how Sunday went so very wrong.

The sky is grey which could be a factor. There is some threat of rain. Rain makes my sinuses hurt. Did I mention the headache?

It is September which may also be a factor. September has always been my favorite month. Perhaps it has to do with the start of school as a kid. You know, all the anticipation and the fancy, new corduroy duds.

Maybe it’s that September includes the coolest summery days and the warmest, brightest part of fall. It previews October when orange leaves contrast the steel, grey autumn sky. I love that.

Maybe it is because my birthday is in September and I associate the month with gifts and friends and milestones. Driver’s license, voter registration, drinking enough to bring down a Rhino LEGALLY. Oh and that legendary 30^th birthday party. If you were there you are blushing right now. If you weren’t, well, put my 40^th in your calendar.

As much as I love this month the universe is always trying to bring it down. There was that birthday lunch spent watching the
Twin Towers collapse. There was the worst ear infection EVER during my 19^th birthday party. There was that one party in my 20s where only my boring friends showed up and I accidentally put cinnamon in the salsa instead of red pepper. Two birthdays ago I was doing battle with an abusive boss.

And then there’s last September.

My 34^th birthday was on a Wednesday and it was a delightfully, low-key, redneck affair. My sister and her family took me out to a little country bar for pool and drinks after work. That’s right, my niece went too. Baby in a bar. I wasn’t lying about the redneck.

My sister bought me a shot of Wild Turkey to round out the beers and had one herself. I thought it might kill her. She is more of a pink, fruity drink kind of gal. She recovered and we ate.

Country karaoke began and the crowd did not disappoint. There were reasonable facsimiles of Garth and Trisha, Tammy and Merle. Many were regulars with the perfect cowboy hats to match the perfect pitch of their performances. I wanted to sing too and although I knew I would not sound as good, I decided at age 34, worrying about what drunk people thought of my singing was no longer a valid excuse for staying quiet. I got up and asked for Delta Dawn and sang my heart out. The crowd appreciated the effort.

That good feeling lasted through to Friday when my friend Julie was offering to show me a good time in Indy for my birthday. We had talked earlier in the week about me going along while she watched her man lay down the bass with his band. I wasn’t feeling up to the drive. Couldn’t we go find some local karaoke, I whined? Who wants to worry about making it back from Indy in the middle of the night? Don’t you have to work in the morning?

We talked about karaoke and how if she ever got the nerve she was going to do These Boots Are Made for Walking–Nancy Sinatra, not that marshmallow Jessica Simpson. We talked about our 30s and the new man she met. It was true love. We talked about dancing and about going to Africa next summer. Well, this summer.

She sat in a chair by my desk with her legs crossed and a woven, hippie bag strapped across her. We talked and lingered until I finally said I wasn’t going to go, definitively. She left. She texted me a few times. Needling me. Taunting me for not going ‘because it was a gorgeous sunny, September evening. The perfect evening for a drive.

The text I got in the middle of the night was not from Julie. And you can guess the end of the story. She never made it back from her drive.

As my 35^th approaches so does a year without her. Maybe this makes the grey feel heavier. Maybe its makes the anticipation of my favorite month overcast with the specter of what may go wrong. Maybe I am just being dramatic.

I have no idea what my plans will be. Drinks, or the cemetery. Drinks at the cemetery? She’d like that. Low-key, or loud and raunchy? Live music or karaoke? If it’s the latter I’ll do These Boots AND Delta Dawn.