GPS

I have this distinct tendency to occasionally get lost in life.  Sometimes I feel like fate brought me there.  Fate can be much like a football field in which you are sitting on the wrong side next to strange, unpopular people cheering for the wrong team and wondering how you got there.


I invested in a GPS.


There are many different settings.  You can set them to male or female voices and they can scream or speak softly to you.  I have my own variations.

My driving skills are very advanced and I am usually on my way to a Mensa meeting or to a secret meeting of the Underground Extraordinary Women's Club somewhere when I need to use my GPS.

I notice at times during my Mensa or Club travels that there are people who are very distracted while driving.

It is really difficult to put my citizen involvement into action at this point.  I can only become very disgruntled at seeing this.  Watching someone else's car veer into three different lanes while that person texts makes me often wonder where the cops are. 


Texting only reminds me of several things that never made it as a sport in the Olympics.

At times I drive too fast and have some wicked sweet car passing skills that may or may not put me in the category of amateur stuntwoman.

Getting lost is a lot like changing a diaper.  You don't always know what you are going to find and usually it is the unexpected.  

One time, during my lostness, I pulled my car over to the side of the road and got out.  I strained to see if I could hear those beautiful words in the distance that were not only my first words, but could possibly guide me home or at least near a high-class civilization. 

We once loaded our buggy with about fifty 300-page trivia books that were on clearance really cheap.  They were all the same book, but we had fifty of them in case a hurricane came along and blew forty-nine of them away.  We were set on trivia knowledge for years.

You would be very surprised at the amount of useless knowledge that takes up space in my head.

Our car was so old and loud at the time, though, that it gave our competitor clearance shoppers notice that we were on our way with our clearance money.  They could hear our car from a few miles away, so that gave them about a five minute jump on the good clearance. 

My job was to just grab as much as I could as fast as I could.  It was cheap enough that it didn't matter what it was.  

I don't always make the right decisions in life.  Sometimes I wish that I could just plug that GPS up to my brain and let it guide the way.  I know that I have a brain because I was in a serious accident when I was 22 and everyone told me how relieved they were when the doctor did a brain scan and said I had a brain.  I knew I did.   How else would I know important information?

I have gotten a few speeding tickets (ahhh...that's where the cops are--watching me) because I don't know how to use my cruise control and because I speed.  Take this as a word of advice:

Whatever you do, don't tell them you are friends with the A-Team.  That just doesn't go in the direction you think it would.  They also don't like it when you ask them, "What is the option where I don't get a ticket?" I have found out the hard way that a cop's "happy face," his "I'm gonna give you a ticket face" and his "I'm about to throw you into my squad car face" are eerily similar.  

But whatever you do, don't abandon humor altogether.  Humor is your friend.  Mostly not in the back of a squad car.

I do pay a hefty price for my actions.  I need a Global Positioning System to guide me and to help me make the right decisions.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not out there robbing banks, lately. 

But I'm also not perfect.  

At the end of the day, if I take a wrong turn somewhere, I would like for people to be there to say it is OK and realize that just because I accidentally rerouted myself that I am worth reprogramming and guiding in the right direction.  I know where I am going.

Getting there is the hard part. 

Everything we do has a consequence, just like me and my collection of traffic tickets that may be actual collectibles one day.  I hope to never justify my wrongs and maybe slow down a bit (a lot) in my wrongness of things. Most importantly, I hope the fact that people give up on me doesn't affect my ability to believe or never give up on them.  I don't want their weaknesses to lead me down the same road.  Give up on me, I still won't give up on you.  

If I did, I would just be lost, again. 

Note to self:

    Stop at cookie factory...num, num, num!

 

Bullies, UFO's and Me

While I was growing up, my family moved a lot.  By a lot, I mean multiply any random number in your head by ten and then again by 10 or so and that would be about right.  No, I take it back. Just keep multiplying.  Don't stop.  Ever.  We inexplicably became morally opposed to staying in just one place, or fifty.  That would have been just wrong.

Here are a few examples of what "a lot" is...

The first day of school, every school, caused my stomach to spasmodically tighten before I even entered the building.

I was bullied, horribly, at every school I attended.  I was always the "new kid." Apparently, new kids are an entire race of people, ready to be pounded and smashed at any given moment.  That feeling stays with you a lifetime.  It didn't help that my family's sweet ride was a land barge on wheels wrongfully abducted from some movie called Cheech and Chong.  This thing took up half a country block and could easily transport a mass migration of Star Trek fans.  I was optimistic about the car, though, and harbored two of every kind of animal just in case of a great flood.  Optimism, however, can be very exhausting.

Still, I would try to have hopeful projections for myself, but usually, by the first or second day, the teacher would figure out my IQ was well above room temperature and would say something brilliant like this:

I was always a high target for bullies because I never knew anyone to take up for me and I never fought back and the ego of bullies feeds off of the weak.  Their ego would eat me alive.  

I would look for places to hide.  Usually, it was in the restroom, which ironically was not a good place to rest.  There would be puddles everywhere, almost as if a giant shaggy horse had bathed in there.

I staunchly believed in talking out differences by being diplomatic, tactful and graceful; whereas bullies just want to keep it going to continue feeding their ego.  And trust me, whatever you do, don't touch their ego.

There came a time, though, when I realized that I was stuck in this neverending loop of being bullied. I tried to come up with a plan.  I was not street smart, at all.  I knew the only thing going for me was I had a slightly higher intelligence.  By slightly higher I mean they weren't smart at all and I could have been Einstein squared. 

One thing that made me stand out and did not work in my favor was the fact that I was reading at a college level in the third grade.  I was reading Shakespeare and Bronte by the age of 8 and would often sit and dissect the hidden meanings and symbolisms in literature.  In the story, "Beauty and the Beast," books symbolize a way of escape for Belle, away from the life she does not want.

One reason I would read was because it gave me the opportunity to hide behind books so that I wouldn't have to make eye contact with anyone.  Eye contact never went into the direction I wanted it to and always ended badly.

The only problem with reading classic books at such a young age is I talked liked this:

And then this would happen:

Then one day out of the blue, just like a brick, it hit me.  I simply needed to blend in more with my environment.

First, I tried to tone down my 18th century free-speech vocabulary so that I wouldn't stand out quite so much.  I added in a few extra effects to appear more like them and less like someone from the Dead Poet's Society.

I probably went overboard on the effects.

I even tried the "Mafia Staredown."  I secretly practiced an Italian accent and would subsequently advise them that my dad was a Mafia crime boss.

But, then they would see me drive up in our attractive land barge and that gig would dry up quicker than the Mojave Desert.  I became trapped in the soft vice like grip of their oppressive bullying as my self-esteem lazily drowned in a sea of complex post traumatic stress disorder.  My stress levels soared to infinite portions well beyond my day to day childhood love of stress.

I doggedly learned the art of being "gangsta," and would constantly reaffirm to them just how gangsta I was.  

I would handle up on my bizness and still have a sense of honor and integrity about me.  That would buy me only a little bit of time and ultimately I tried to coach myself on moving my internal organs so that their punches felt less like the hull of the Titanic repeatedly crashing itself into my stomach.

My insides began to stealthily wish that they were on the outside of me.  My outside of  me wished it was on the other side of the playground in another country. 

Secretly, though, I wished my family could move us someplace a bit less hostile, like Iraq.

It would have been nice if I would have had something to fight back with like a chocolate cake or a bomb. 

They would call me "Tracie Lion" (my last name was actually an animal name so they were pretty brilliant with that one) as my hair is naturally curly and I hate curls and would try to comb it straight but it would just poof up like a golden giant mane.  Then, they would roar at me and say bad poetry. 

Their heartwarming behavior of torturing me began to take its toll.  I began to realize why UFO's don't bother to land.  We don't play nice here.  

Then one day, one of the bullies grabbed my coveted Gilligan's Island lunch box with the matching thermos that had Gilligan himself on it.  OH, but no! I don't know if it was the gangsta or the mafia crime boss coming out of me, but I became enraged and wanted to give her a dose of either fresh air or a severe head injury.  I stood there chaotically envisioning in my own head what type of ninja I should morph into and secretly hoped that something heavy would fall on her, like a waffle house.  

I was not street smart and all I had going for me was my Mensa I.Q. certificate.  Prepare to be thought at!  I pathetically stood there with them pointing and laughing at me.  They had something that was mine and I wanted it back and I knew that it was time to pull out the punches.  I wanted Gilligan back with everything that was in me.  But, I just stood there with my fist in the air.  I wanted to pound the daylights out of her like she had been doing to me, but I just couldn't do it.

In those seconds of remembering I remembered who I was.  Just like the land barge I was so ashamed of and would duck down deep on the floorboard of the car and slither out hoping no one would see, I was lowering myself to their level.  I was giving them the power that they were so desperate for.  My power.  I thought of the UFO's and how the aliens were frightened of us, thought of Iraq welcoming me and ultimately decided I wasn't going to do something brainless, so I languidly put my fist down.  Carefully, I stood back and waited for the universe to dispense some exemplary crack justice.   

At that instant, while I was standing there waiting for a waffle house to plummet down out of the sky, one of the bullies lunged over and punched me in the stomach.  Then, they laughed.