This is my third attempt at writing this entry. My last two drafts got deleted. If it happens again I'll be throwing my phone out the window followed by myself.
The GPS says we're four hours away from New York. We gave ourselves nine or ten days to make this trip and, assuming nothing happens to stop us today, we'll have done it in a week. Turns out Monty is a great traveller. Also, we are god damned rockstars.
I still don't believe this is actually happening. I'm convinced that a year from now I still won't believe it. People will ask where I live and I'll say, "Los Angeles, but I'm staying in New York for a while."
Yesterday we stopped at a playground in Monterey, Tennessee to stave off an impending Monty yellfest (He's a great traveller, but he's still two.). The playground was an old, decrepit, rusty collection of 1980s-era equipment, the kind that has been banned in most cities (Oh, those uppity parents and their aversion to Tetanus.). We were the only ones there (Both at the playground and, seemingly, in the whole town.) until three tow-headed (toe-headed?) children of the corn scrambled out of an old Buick and bee-lined it for the merry-go-round. I was thick into worrying that Kurt, Monty, and I were soon to be strapped to old tables in the back of a barn somewhere, tortured, turned into wax figurines, and then chainsawed into thousands of bits by a giant dude in overalls and a leather mask (I've never seen Children of the Corn.) when the eldest of the three children asked me to push the merry-go-round and then said, "Thank you, Ma'am." I instantly felt guilty for stereotyping these sweet cherubs. Then I remembered that they will probably grow up and vote to take away my rights. See, there I go again with the awful stereotyping. I should know better. They probably won't vote.
The middle child was a six-year-old girl. She was running up and down a steep, steel slide, leap-frogging over her brothers in the process. I commented on her bravery and she declared she could probably be a football or basketball player. I told her I agreed. Then I asked her about her shirt.
"It says, 'I study boys'," she said.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I don't know, but that's what it says."
"It means she wants to be a boy!" Said her older brother.
"No, it don't!" She yelled.
"Yes, it does!"
"It could mean that," I said. "But I don't think it does."
"My swing at home goes much higher than that one," she said thoughtfully, pointing at an ancient swing set across the way. Then she added, "I'm almost as tall as you. But you're pretty short."
"I am," I agreed.
When it was time to go, she ran off with her brothers waving good-bye as she went.
"Bye!" I called after her. "Don't forget to study math and science, too!"
That's me. Fighting sexism one child of the corn at a time.
This is me a year ago with bangs to cover up the worst acne situation of my entire life.
And this is me today with no bangs and no makeup.
Here's where I spout my brilliance.