Suburban Decay

I was so freaking full of *city* this week that by Friday I was on the subway in tears, pledging that if one more person touched me I'd bite them, and I realized it would be in my own best interest and that of society at large if I took a weekend in the country. And so on to Connecticut, to my hideout in the woods, Desolation Angels style, the retreat also known as Suburbia.

My retired parents left behind a house when they moved to Florida. They return begrudgingly for 6 weeks in the summer to repair things and mow the lawn and participate in other suburban rituals that shackle homeowners to their 2.5 acres of the land until the day they die. This leaves the rest of the time for me to spend weekends like a queen in the sprawling house on the edge of 7 miles of wildlife and reservoir preserve.

The entire way there, I fantasized about Sleeping In, the holy luxury I have not experienced in at least two weeks. Just to lie down at a reasonable hour and sleep until I'd had my fill. I don't think that's so much to ask. I knew it would be quiet there, and unlike my apartment, there are curtains to block the light. No roommates, no squalling parakeets, no buses or ambulances, no elephants on roller-skates that live upstairs. I drove a little faster, just picturing my king size bed, toasty warm and silent, waiting at the end of the journey.

When I got off the highway, I remembered how incredible it is to drive through the cornfields in Wallingford at midnight, under a clear sky. I stared out my sunroof, amazed. I mean, they have stars there and everything. Rolling acres of nothing but untouched snow with the moon glowing off of it; not a car for miles and miles. It blew my mind. I didn't realize how much I needed a break from the close quarters of citylife. I drove along these country roads for half an hour, snaking through fields along lakes, finally getting to the house.

It still smells the same. Always. It smells like trees and water.

I got into the house and everything was still where I left it a few weeks ago. Because it was nearly 1:00 AM, it was dastardly cold. The heat was set at 42 degrees so I bumped it up to 70 and started making myself comfortable.

Almost an hour later, I could still see my breath in the frosty air.

I went down to the cellar, kicked a few things, made sure I had flipped the right switches. Still no heat. I wasn't sure what to do. It was almost 2:00 AM and I couldn't call my dad. So I figured I'd take a really hot shower, put on some warm clothes, and dive into the bed under a million blankets. At 3:30 AM I was so cold I was shaking uncontrollably and I had to get up in search of some relief. I thought about sleeping in my car but barely had gas left and wasn't sure I wanted to die of carbon monoxide poisoning just yet. I found a space heater in the bathroom and pointed it at my face. It raised the temperature in my bedroom to 50 degrees.
My whole idea of the weekend was to have a break from the city and to be able to sleep, and write, with no distractions. I spent all day Saturday with the oil guy coming and going, and my dad about to have a coronary over the whole thing on the phone, especially since if I hadn't showed up that day, the house probably would have burned down. I was running on three hours of sleep and no food, trying to write amid all the banging and smoke. I was a little unsettled.

At least my evening was salvaged with an excursion to New Britain to watch Excalibur, drink four thousand Cokes and smoke five thousand cigarettes. I'm not sure I got the same thing out of the movie as the review promised, but it was good nonetheless. We watched it "Mystery Science Theatre 3000" style, as one giant peanut gallery, and some of the external dialog was better than the movie itself. But don't tell anyone I said that. I braved the snowy drive despite my broken windshield wipers and lack of night vision (from a tragically botched eye surgery last year), but it was worth every white-knuckled mile there. When I finally got to sleep around 6:00 AM, I had a headache from giggling like a mad person all night.

I love driving. I wish it was a longer drive between CT and Boston so I could do more thinking. There's no thinking like that which takes place while alone on the highway. I'm kind of pissed though that my stereo, which lost its CD capabilities last year, decided to donate its tape player to the land of the dead -- partially. It got stuck, and will now only play the tape currently lodged within. Of course it would do this not while listening to the Best Mix Tape on the Planet, but while I was indulging in my rare moment of forbidden weakness that is John Mayer. Serves me right. Now I am forced to do penance by listening to "Your Body is a Wonderland" endlessly until I scrape together $400. Doesn't somebody still owe me a birthday present?

I raided my dad's closet in search of ironic t-shirts like the legendary "I got it at Goody's." Instead, I emerged with the most perfectly awful belt ever that must have belonged to my dead grandfather who was a member of the Elks Club. The buckle is the size of a dinner plate and gold, with an elk head on it and flowers, the belt that horrible maroon, blue and off-white prevalent in the 50's. I took it as a consolation prize for the whole oil burner incident.

A gem I learned on my way home: Burger King now has veggie burgers. And they're not half bad. Considering.

Hope you all had a good weekend. I'm going back to CT Friday for a second shot at Mission: Sleep and Relaxation, this time without oil burner stress. Or John Mayer.