Getting Lost

Copyright: stokkete

I am really good at getting lost. As I’ve mentioned, I’m also not a very good driver, so maybe don’t get in the car with me. Ever.

Young and Lost

When I was a wee thing, younger than five, my parents sat on the sands of Galveston, Texas, and watched me frolic in the surf and dig holes in the sand with my chubby hands. They saw me collect shells that only a child of that young age would find remarkable. Then, they watched me walk off down the beach in the wrong direction, away from them. They waited for me to realize my mistake, but when mom began to lose sight of me, she hustled down the hot sand to retrieve me. I had no idea. Ah well, she’s young, they thought.

When I was thirteen, my friend, Cindy, and I liked to be dropped off all the mall where we would revel in our independence and spend all our babysitting money on nail polish and cheap earrings at Claire’s. One of the first times I was allowed this freedom, I got lost. We’d agreed Mom would retrieve us from the very same Sanger-Harris entrance where she’d dropped us off. We waited, and Mom didn’t show. Mom waited, and we didn’t show. After a lot of driving/walking around and missing each other in that pre-cell-phone era, we realized we’d been waiting at the wrong entrance. At thirteen, Mom decided a little advice was warranted:

“April, when you walk in the mall, look at where you are. Are you by women’s shoes? Luggage? Furniture? What floor are you on?”

Most people don’t need to be told this, but I did, and I still forget to pay attention to it sometimes.

Drunk and Lost

In my late 20’s, I attended a gathering at a close family friend’s new condo in East Austin, about the time the gentrification in that area was really picking up momentum. We were scarcely out of earshot of I35, but I still turned the wrong way out of the complex and ended up driving around two-lane roads bordered only by tall grass and trees in the dark for the next two hours. I had a cell phone by then. I called my then-husband, Javier.

“We’re lost!”

“Where are you?!”

“That’s the problem, dummy. I DON’T KNOW!”

I don’t know what I expected him to do. You couldn’t track phones back then, and he, stupidly, did not have the magical ability to divine where I was. I gave up, hung up, then I put my little red Dodge Stratus in a ditch. I rolled right off the gravel side of the road into a small depression in the earth that was not exactly a gully but trapped my car nonetheless. We may have been a little drunk.

Miraculously, after driving around for over an hour on unlabeled roads without seeing another vehicle, a car came by, and the group of guys inside helped us push the car back onto the road. About fifteen minutes and several more random-guess turns later, I saw a road sign:

“Ed Bluestein!” I yelled.

One of the special and maddening things about Austin is how half the streets have more than one name. Start driving down Bullick Hollow at one end, for example, and it’ll turn into RM 2222, Northland Drive, Alandale, then Koenig before it sputters out at I35. Ed Bluestein happens to be what Highway 183 is called at one of its more easterly sections. 183 would take us home.

Married and Lost

Once, when Jason and I first started dating, his cousin was giving me directions over the phone. Mike said, “April, you’re going to have to be the direction person in that relationship because Jason has no sense of it.”

Uh oh.

Jason and I have spent a lot of time driving around, missing exits and asking each other, “Where are we? I thought the restaurant was right here.”

Engaged and shopping for wedding bands, we drove all over the city looking for a Jared’s we swore we’d seen on Brodie. Or was it on William Cannon? Maybe the other side of 71? We finally gave up and went home only to find the Jared’s within spitting distance of our apartment.

Soccer Mom Lost

The advent of Google Maps on our phones changed our lives. We reduced our driving-around-in-circles-lost minutes by 60 percent. I still sometimes manage to get myself and my family spectacularly misplaced. A couple of weekends ago, I was responsible for all the driving for the soccer tournament because Jason was sick.

I carefully mapped out each location, saved them in Maps, checked traffic well in advance and left extra time for parking and finding, say, field 17 out of 35 when nothing is labeled. (Seriously, have you ever tried to find one field in a park/event center/soccer complex? It’s a Where’s Waldo? sea of numbers, nets, cleats and umbrella chairs.)

Saturday afternoon, Jack and I departed Gage’s game early to get to his, leaving my mom to ferry Gage home. My phone battery was dying, so I asked Jack to navigate us, ensuring he typed the address correctly. We’d been at the same exact location earlier that day for his morning game.

We took a lot of weird turns and ended up at the address on Pecan Street, where we intended, but somehow, it was a gas station now. There were TWO addresses that were THE EXACT SAME on that street. It makes a big difference if you leave the “East” off “Pecan Street” apparently. When I squealed up on two tires, delivering Jack to his game minutes before the start time, I was full of apologies, explaining we got lost then ran into horrible traffic. A friend teased,

“You know they didn’t move it after this morning, right?”

There you have it. I can get lost at age three on the beach within sight of my parents, and I can get disoriented in a brightly lit, well-labeled mall. I can misremember what is outside the home I’ve lived in for two years, and I can take a wrong turn while driving to a place I’d been THREE HOURS AGO. With GPS! It’s one of my many talents, so friends, if you ever find yourself just a little too well located, a little too sure of where you are in the world, hop in the car with me. Let’s go on an adventure.

How to Procrastinate in One Easy Step

viktor-theo-1316823-unsplash
Photo by Viktor Theo on Unsplash

I’ve got a light form of writer’s block today. I cannot think of one single thing to post here. I have several things in my “drafts” section that haven’t been published. I just went through them looking for hidden gems — no jewels, just old junk. And a few things that are too personal to share. Maybe someday. I caught up on other people’s blogs I follow, hoping for inspiration. They made me laugh, made me think, but didn’t make me want to write about anything in particular.

There seem to be people in the world with a lot more energy than I have, like just naturally. This isn’t a new thing; I’ve noticed it since I was a child. There are people who run marathons, people who start new businesses and charities on a regular basis, people who get up at 5am, people who work full time, volunteer and have a family all at the same time.  Some are tearing their hair out, but a few seem to thrive whilst doing all the things.

I can accept that I’m just not like that. I need rest; I need to recharge. But sometimes it’s frustrating because I’d like to do all the things. Even casting aside all the things I think I “should” do, I can’t even get to all the things I want to do. That’s part of why a day like today bothers me. I’m already not doing all the things I want to do; now I can’t even come up with 500 words for a blog post?

Full disclosure, I am also avoiding editing my book. Yes, I’ve finished it. Woohoo! Now I am knee deep in the laborious process of editing, rewriting and rearranging. It’s kind of like slogging through a swamp with the task of clearing it out to reveal the rich garden dirt underneath. It is soooo not the fun part. So much so, I’d rather write a blog post when I have nothing to say and torture us both with it.

Well, the kids will be home from school soon, so I guess I’ve procrastinated long enough to avoid editing. Thanks for your help.

 

So I’m Writing a Book

 

thought-catalog-217861-unsplash
Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

And the first thing everyone asks me is, “What’s it about?” I usually respond with, “It’s fiction…” then I devolve into the existential meaning of my story in partially mumbled sentences and eyes glaze over. I decided I need an elevator pitch.

 

An elevator pitch is a handful of words you could deliver to someone in an elevator while they’re your captive audience for the short duration of the ride. It can be just five words but definitely no more than 20. Within that brief description, you’re supposed to communicate why your story is unique, striking, fresh and compelling. It’s supposed to make the listener intrigued in a “tell me more” kind of way. So here’s what I worked up:

A woman chops off her thumb one day and runs off to live in the woods, struggling to survive.

The thumb chopping part is both unique and striking. The struggle to survive is compelling. I’m fairly sure it’s fresh. I know I’ve never read a story like this before. Does it make you want to know more?

That’s the question I can’t answer. I am about 30,000 words into this story, and I waffle back and forth between thinking it is an awesome, adventurous statement on the modern world and thinking it’s utter shit. I can’t see the forest for the trees. So friends, help me out. Do you want to know more? I need honest opinions, not reassurance. Thanks in advance.