I've come to the conclusion that the things I accept to be absolutely normal, are seen in the eyes of others to be, well, er, totally insane.
How was that for a catchy intro? Fair warning, the rest might not be so thrilling but, what's really new with that statement?
Several examples spring to mind but I shall try to concentrate on just one for the purposes of this blather.
Some background is necessary, not only to fill space but to prevent my capture by those infamous men in white. (Do they really wear white these days? Did they ever? I love digressing in parenthesis.)
My regular readers know that I'm somewhat of a camping enthusiast, if enthusiast is now defined as “madwoman.”
Due to finances being tied up in car and van repairs, money is rather tight, (if tight is now defined as “nonexistent”), and I've had to make other arrangements in terms of sleeping in the wild. Therefore, I've moved operations to about 40 feet from my front door and have taken up the hobby of driveway sleeping.
Stop. Erase the image of an over the hill broad, lounging upon a cot directly under the stars and allow me to elaborate—like you have an option.
My van is always set up as a bedroom on wheels. Please, get your minds out of the gutter as this is quite serious. Did I just use the word, “serious” in this space? Anyhow, rather than go into any more debt, by paying to stay at an actual campground, I simply sleep in said van directly in the driveway.
I have most modern conveniences located within, such as a laptop computer, my cell phone, a camp potty, clothing and a fan. (The fan is used to transport my smoke out the window.)
I've actually done this kind of thing for years and most of my friends, Perpetual, (fiance), family and stray neighborhood cats just accept it as the norm. Therefore, when I express to someone with whom I've not spoken in a while, that I'm heading out to sleep in the van, he/she is oft' taken aback to put it gently, yet effectively.
For instance, I just rekindled whatever the opposite of a “bromance” is, with my dear friend Diane. I won't use her last name because I don't want her to recoil in horror—not yet anyway. As I said, we just got back together, so to speak, so I have to give it some time before I plaster her name all over page 3 of this delightful publication.
I casually said to her, “I'm now in the van ready to go to bed,” to which she replied, “Are you and Perpetual having issues? Why are you exiled to the van?” Even after I explained, I don't think she bought any of it. And really, if one thinks about it for longer than five seconds, who would take me at my word? I'm a fifty-year-old woman who slumbers in a van, for crying in a bucket.
Now, other friends take pause, consider the source and then totally accept it as Lisa being, well, Lisa. I have a friend in Houston named James. I happened upon him on facebook the other day and took note of how he was posing near a campfire with a very nice RV behind him. I then inquired as to whether or not it was his camper. I also imparted to him that I was doing a ton of camping here on the property.
He penned me back and said, and I quote directly, “What do you mean you are camping in your yard in a van????? Kim, only you could tell me something like that and I am thinking... hmm... well okay....LOL!” (He calls me Kim and I call him Jim. Don't ask.)
I've now had actual visitors come to the van in my turn-around portion of the driveway, in order to deliver party invitations, invite me to dinner and to just shoot the bull.
Another reason for my big move is that Perpetual is still healing. Because of his particular method of sleep, which would be in a recliner in the doorway of the bedroom, it's just easier for us to live in separate quarters presently. See, he still awakens in horrific pain, which causes him to scream and leads me to awaken. Need I say more? No, but I will. See the next paragraph for the big closing.
In case you are wondering if Perpetual minds my change of address, allow me to illustrate. The other week, cocktail hour, er, um, kinda lingered longer than it should have. So, when my darling partner came home from working, (five broken ribs and a shattered collarbone in tow), I thought I'd take on the verbal skills of an auctioneer and impart every aspect of my life to him. In other words, I talked AT him with speed and agility.
He took things in stride for about the first hour and then, he turned to me in that tender manner, (I believe I spotted a bluebird launching from his shoulder at the time), and said, “Lisa, when is Spencer getting home with that van?!” I was highly offended that he was not dying to spend his every waking moment with a pinball on speed, (that would have been me in case you missed it) so I exited. I waited on the porch until my motel was strategically parked in the drive and then I made my move.
I think, and I could be wrong, that the curtains and blinds swayed in the breeze due to Perpetual's strong exhale of total relief.
This is the part where I casually segue into some kind of closing. Hold on...
Well, that sews it up for the week. I'm off to put in an official change of address at the post office.