NOTES TO MYSELF

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My husband does must of the grocery shopping. He hunts. I cook. This weekend he was playing tennis and asked if I could do it this time. Now I’ve been on a writing binge and haven’t been out of the house for a while so I’m experiencing MWD. Mad Writer’s Disease

When I have MWD I lose contact with reality or what I call “that other world”. The best thing for someone experiencing MWD is to be eased back into to “that other world” slowly, like bringing up a deep sea diver to the surface. You don’t want to get the bends. But there was no time for a slow reentry. So I slapped on my sunglasses, forgot to comb my hair, grabbed my purse, the grocery list, and got into my car.

My car is about a year old and as car age goes that is still new, at least to me. My new car is nothing like my old one. And I mean nothing. It doesn’t have a gearshift; it doesn’t have a hand break; and it doesn’t need a key to turn on the ignition. However I do need to have a key somewhere on body or in my purse make it run. I’m thinking of getting a key implant.

What I do have is a start/stop button. When I push that (you must have your foot on the brake, not on the gas otherwise it won’t start. And if it does you will go through the wall and into the kitchen) Once I have hit start (think of this as rebooting) up pops a giant silvery knob. This is my gearshift. When this knob pops up, the air conditioning/weather vents open. I usually like this because it’s as if my car is lifting its heavy eyelids and waking up. But when I have MWD all these new things are annoying and go against everything I’ve learned abut driving.

I throw my car into reverse. Sorry, I turn it into reverse and begin to back out of the garage. Suddenly the car is having a hissy fit. It’s screaming at me with all its dongings and beepings. l look at the computer screen which usually shows me what I’m about to back into. But the garage is dark and I can’t see it very well. Dark? Why is the garage dark? I look in my rear view mirror which thankfully does nothing but reflect images. There is big white thing behind me. What the hell is that? I crane my head around my very large protective headrest and peer out my narrow rear window. That big white thing is the garage door and it’s closed. Okay. I obviously missed a step. MWD can do that to you.

Our local market is called Lazy Acres. The name fits the sun-and-surf-hey-dude Santa Barbara lifestyle. But the parking lot is like the 101 Freeway at five o’clock in the evening, only with the elderly and the young wandering around with their earth bags and carts. I have come to the conclusion that neither of these age groups have a conscious brain. And they are certainly oblivious to an oncoming car driven by ruthless women experiencing MWD who is looking for a parking space. Forcing a bearded young man eating an energy bar to jump out of the way, I find one between a Prius and an Escalade. Good bless America.

In the market I whop out my grocery list and push a cart the size of a Smart Car down an aisle. I check the first thing on my list: Smart Crazy. What’s that? Looks like my handwriting. Maybe a new kind of Gatorade that Bones wants. Something he can drink while playing tennis that’ll make him deviously clever. I wonder if it would be good for writers.

“Excuse me.”

I peer over my shoulder at woman, her face screwed into a knot, leaning on her cart. “You’re blocking the aisle.”

“Do you know what Smart Crazy is?”

Her face unscrews a bit and she thinks. “Sounds like a TV show.”

“TV show? Oh, my God, now I know what it is. It’s a title I wrote down. I mean, I made it up first and then wrote it down.”

“I would like to get by, please.”

I push on, she’s nipping at my heels with her cart. I speed up thinking does Smart Crazy sound like a TV show? Veering down another aisle, I checked the next thing on my list.:

“I bet you feel like you’re in one of your movies.” He said, holding a gun on me.
“No. I don’t. Believe me.”
“I always feel like I’m in a movie.”

Dialogue I scribbled down for my novel. I scan the entire list. Leaving Sunset. What does that mean? Another title? It does conjure up images of driving on Sunset Boulevard with the sun in my eyes. But I doubt it would conjure up those images for readers who haven’t driven on Sunset. The entire piece of paper is filled with my jottings of dialogue, descriptions and title ideas. I’ve brought the wrong list.

“Excuse me.”

A man stares at me. I stare back. He doesn’t say anything. He’s a man. And I’m in the wrong world. Then it dawns on me he wants by. I awkwardly edge my cart sideways and he squeezes past, shaking his head at me. I want to clout him. I bet he has the proper list made out properly by his proper wife. I begin searching my pockets and purse for the grocery list, but it’s a futile effort. I turn the only one I have over. Written in big letters is EASY OFF. And it’s in Bones’ writing. Great. I can buy that! Or is that a title he wrote down for me? Easy Off. Not bad. I push the cart aimlessly. Easy Off. I think it has possibilities.