It's memory weekend

The sun shines, the car heats up, and I ride.

The Boy and I went to the Big City this weekend. We took in some sights of life, of real life in some unsuspecting places. (We went to visit his friends and didn't get a chance to see my friends. I think the next trip we take out there will be to see my pals so he can have the chance to do the meet and greet. )

We drove through rain and beautiful sun. Then on Saturday we enjoyed the sun on our skin, too much sun our on pale skin. From peachy tones to red they went. Dreams in the Mist, Miss Blueberry Juice, and Little Wagon entertained us with their strong muscles, sleek coats, and flying tails and manes. They ran for our delight while we tried to bet which horse would come in first. I was often wrong, but was right a few times. I took that long shot and earned two dollars. Count 'em, two. What a booty to take home. Alas, all I took home was a new hat in order to prevent my head from burning and to be allowed the luxury of not squinting into the sun for hours, the Boy still holding my hand, and a new experience. The horses were not the experience alone. I witnessed love in the bleachers. An older couple, two women, both of whom smoked their lungs that day, like jerky, tough and dry women, who held their arms around each other and spoke of the mundaneness of life. It was not that they were lesbians that was new, it was the way they looked at each other, with adoration, that caught my eye.

Another new experience was the Bon fire we went to late that night. While the bon fire itself was not new, getting lead poisoning from a 50 year old picnic table that was destroyed by karate kicks and a chain saw in the dark of night was new. The early morning trip while driving drunk people to Denny's was not new. However, being the only white people in a room filled with 40-50 Black people was new, especially since many of them lived up to the stereotype of "urban black." Baggy pants, huge t-shirts, sideways hats, the n-word flying fifty miles an hour at each other, the man who blames the African-American manager for being an Uncle Tom because the manager is trying to do his job and force an unruly patron to leave, the belly and booty bearing clothes on the women. The girls were quiet, eating their meals, and talking amongst themselves. It was the men, the boys who called attention to themselves.

We sat silent and soaked it in. My French Toast soaked the sugar free syrup. Perhaps the French Toast absorbed more than syrup, maybe it took on a bad attitude, maybe it carried in it's crevices a negative connection, but whatever that French Toast hid in itself, I threw it up four hours later.

We went home on Sunday. I did not feel well most of the day. A slow nausea wandering around my body, coming to roost here and there as if my elbow would suddenly be on the verge of throwing itself out or my hair desperately wanted a hat in case it had to purge excess oil or something. We stopped by an outlet mall, picked up some clothes for The Boy and a shirt for myself. I will write more at another time.