ONE SHOE ONLY

ONE SHOE ONLY

These days the dream sequences fade so easily into post-alarm clock buzz that I cannot separate the physical fragments of my day from the psychological. Whenever I get confused, all I have to do is look at my feet:

SHOES PRESENT = REALITY
SHOES ABSENT = DREAM STATE

I suddenly see myself in the mirror, hands to my cheeks, streaked with the open-mouthed tears that precede the Miss America crown being staked upon your head. I look down to see I’m wearing no shoes. DREAM STATE

I notice I am in a public restroom trying to find an appropriate place to urinate. Everything looks like a sink. I notice I’m wearing no shoes. DREAM STATE THANK GOD.

A co-worker is standing above me telling me that one of my old co-workers, a sweet, dear, gentle man in his late 60s has just left his wife of 40 years for another man.

Her: What are you doing?
Me: I’m just making sure I’m WEARING SHOES.

* * *

I don't remember where we heard it, perhaps over the radio, perhaps stolen from a side table, but we nodded since it seemed to make so much sense, 'If you want a man who'll treat you right, find a man who adores his mom.'

But upon further reflection, we could count too many instances of men who loved their mothers so much that their significant others suffered through serious neglect. And we agreed, we will only arrange marriages for our children with other children who do not under any circumstances behave.

And should state and federal law preclude us from marrying Tristan off to the nice family up the street with Mariners season tickets, and Naya off to the commune at the edge of town that brews its own liquor, then I will tell them, "Wed somebody who responds 'SLAMHOG' to that old standby of financial security questions: WHAT IS YOUR MOTHER'S MAIDEN NAME?"

Because I certainly do not want to die knowing the only sage advice I've ever given to my children has been, 'If you wake us up before 10:30, pretend you're choking.'

And there's nothing I hate more than smiting my brood with I told you sos.

* * *

Over the weekend, all of us are deathly ill. The house is full of buckets and mops. At one point, there’s nothing left to do but sweat the illness out through hard labors. In searching for the 4 foot lengths of rebar I bought long ago, I find a joint that had to be 2 years old. ADDICTIVE MY ASS. Through the coughs, hacks, wheezes and strikes, I find myself at my property line, a retaining wall newly constructed, dirt still black, me, sunburnt and bruised.

My Neighbor: You sound pretty sick.
Me: We’re all near death.
My Neighbor: Summer flu?
Me: Anthrax.
My Neighbor: Isn’t that fatal?
Me: I WISH.
My Neighbor: /takes step backwards
Me: /checks feet, notices I’m wearing one shoe.