A Sign from Hank

I swear, people, I hardly ever listen to the radio in the car. Secret Lulu repeats stuff, you never know what will stick and fly free later, and so I try to be careful about what I let her overhear. I know some of you are thinking of the Suh-weet Je-Sus incident and your eyebrows are raised.

I already told you, people. I have no idea where she got that.

So today I turned on the radio. It's April 2nd. The day after my birthday, no joke. And I spent most of April 1st thinking what a disappointment my first adult hobbit year was. It was just like the first time I reached adulthood all over again, so not what it was cracked up to be. Anyway, 33 done me wrong. 34 has to be better, right?

So, there it is: The Cure, Close to Me. From the beginning. My own personal sign from the universe that luck--the fabulous kind--is heading my way. That song takes me all the way from my driveway to the preschool parking lot. It's kind of a short drive. Really short. Because I sit in the parking lot for the better part of a minute to give the song time to finish and it's not even the extended version (aka, the Closer Mix).

And then.

No, seriously: and then.

Santa Monica.

If Close to Me is my lucky song, and it is, then Santa Monica is my start over song. What are the odds that the universe would send me those two songs back to back just when I happened to be listening. Statistically, I'm sure it was bound to happen eventually but stay with me here, people, I'm talking about deep voodoo and I don't want anyone rationalizing it up.

That would be an a*shole thing to do. You know that, right? Okay. Then don't do it.

Not that you would. Just sayin.

So now I am all about feeling lucky and making a clean break. This is all metaphorical, I'm still totally happy with Mr. Poppins so I'm not actually going anywhere. Even if I haven't had sweet love down by the fire since I was frikkin 33. How many nights in a row can someone have a sore throat? I'm keeping count here.

So far it's about one. Give or take half a day.

I notice these things.

So I've decided that maybe hobbit adulthood, like real adulthood, has a sort of a cruel lapse between when you get to take on adult responsibilities like voting and paying your own health insurance and when you can legally get this grown-up, liquor-will-be-served, party started. Something like that. Because, really, I hate it when there's not an explanations for things, especially when they don't go the way I plan (because when they go the way I plan, I know the explanation: of course, that was what was supposed to happen and things make sense). And if you've been around for a while, you know that when a reasonable explanation for me not getting what I want doesn't show itself, I am more than happy to make stuff up.

Like now.

(time passes, now it's five the next morning, migraine)

I woke up thinking about this, because it's important, at least it's everything to me. Yesterday afternoon, just after I began this post, Secret Lulu said to me:

Mommy, can you close the door? Because it's cold out.

I heard it immediately. Can you see it? Probably not. But this is what she didn't say:

Mommy, can you close-the-door-because-it's-cold-out?

And that's it. That's gestalt language becoming fluid language. And this raging headache that I have--one of my migraines that can have one of several causes--I think the cause here is the one I call "post-stress letdown" (and maybe a little dehydration). Because Secret Lulu is bridging the gap, the one between just confusing prepositions and not asking "why" questions and the mystery that is how Secret Lulu talks.

And I know for sure that those signs from Hank, the ones I was just laughing about, those signs were real, people.

Secret Lulu and I are both making meaning today.

And now I am crying, just absolutely crying, because I am so relieved I could. You know. Cry. And this is it, this is the moment, the very moment, when I stop just telling myself that everything be fine and I start really believing it:

Everything will be just fine.

And now I have to throw up.

 

P.S. It just occurred to me that Frodo had an even worse first-adult-hobbit-year than I did (movie, not book, version*). I should have thought about that when I was randomly inventing my own rights of passage. I seriously need to choose my metaphors more carefully. 

*I should clarify to the universe that my metaphor was based on the movie, not the book. Seriously, I do not want all heck to break loose again in seventeen years--which is how long Frodo kept the ring hidden in the book before setting out on his journey.

P.P.S.Universe (I am addressing the universe directly here), You are on notice: I am so not screwing around; don't even play. Seriously. Don't even play.

Comments

[Diosa]

Happy Birthday, Polly! You're year is off to a rockin' start. I would never mess with signs from Hank.

[Diosa]

Yeah, "Your year". Why do I always see it right after I post it?

[The Dol]

I always think of you when I hear "Santa Monica." Reminds me of simpler times, when you subsisted on popcorn and handed out your phone number to strangers in night clubs.

[karla]

all i have to say is, "Suh-weet Je-Sus! Way to go, fluid talker!"

[Bookgirl]

You are amazing and beautiful, and will have exactly that kind of year. I just know it. Of course I've been proven to have no psychic ability. And no matter how hard I try, I still can't make things move with my mind. But we'll just chalk it up to best friend's intuition.