Nowhere Pam

I’m churning. On the brink of ornery. Too many fish swimming in my mental sea, competing for space, crowding each other, bumping and nudging, trying to get my attention. The seasons have finally changed. Blue skies two days in a row. You might think blue skies would be a welcome greeting of spring, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed, rushed with wants and to-dos and must-get-dones. My household is streaming chaos and I’m everywhere and nowhere all at once. Nowhere Pam. 

Billie Best writes about mental churn.

My seed packets have been gathering dust on my desk for weeks. But now I’m in the midst of editing a project and I have to keep my focus on it, or I’ll lose my continuity. Don’t stop writing to garden! The dog wants to go out. Stop interrupting me!  Then he wants to come in. I need to buy lunch meat for the man. My car smells. Must clean! The gardens need their jolt of fertilizer. Must water the rhubarb. The couch cover is besmirched. Must do laundry. The window screen in the bathroom fell out. Weeds! Grass in my tulips. Paw prints on my floor. You see where I’m going with this? Nowhere.

Yes, Beatles lyrics. Nowhere Pam please listen. You don’t know what you’re missin’. The world is at your command. Yeah, yeah, yeah. What condition my condition is in. My partner applies Love Potion Number Nine. But I’m busy chasing my tail.

An entire realm of my head, about the size of Asia, is still re-living our family reunion at a dude ranch in Florida, from which I returned on April 12th. Two weeks ago! But mentally I’m still drifting there. The experience was such a revelation that it continues in my thoughts. Fifty years ago, my brothers and I were teenagers. At the ranch we compared notes on retirement, Medicare, Social Security, and our teeth. My little brother gave us lessons in how to keep our eyes moist. My middle brother talked about how people treat him nicer when he wears his Vietnam Veteran hat. My dad brought my deceased stepmother’s rhinestone cowboy belt for me to wear to the rodeo. He wore a serape he got when we lived in Amarillo in the 1950s. We lived in Texas! Who am I?

The past is yet another packet of seeds gathering dust in my frontal lobe. Memories sprout new stories. But I’m pushing them aside to focus on the urgency of now. The dog needs training. His behavior is calamitous. Teeth and claws. Attitude. He’s two. A monster. The hierarchy in our household needs structural support. We can’t be equal to our dog. It’s not working. I dive into dog training for a couple weeks. Hire a dog whisperer. She tells me to stop yelling. Everyone tells me to stop yelling. I’m loud. My voice just happens. She says I should use my energy, not volume. I will have more power if I whisper. I definitely want power. 

Oh, yes, I whisper, Power. I have big plans for when I’m in power. I’m sure my ascendance to the throne is just around the corner. When I’m Queen slugs will not eat my tomatoes. There will be no more mud on the couch. Poodle hair will stop growing and my poodle will never need to be groomed again. Dinner will be delivered each night by men in tight pants with French accents. My cohabitant will not buy ice cream. Dust will not fall on my house. Garden gnomes will turn the compost. My car will not smell like pond algae. These are the things I wish for. All this and more will be done to perfection when I am Queen. Until then I need another cup of coffee. Maybe meditate.

Churn is a real thing. I’m churning between Nowhere Pam and Queen. Cream becomes butter when churned. Transformation. I’m sure it feels strange to the cream. I’m disgruntled. Dislocated. Overstimulated. Triggered. Itchy. Part of me wants to make a to-do list. But another part of me just wants to go back to bed. I’ll let you know what I decide. 

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4 thoughts on “Nowhere Pam

  1. Oh Billie. I laughed out loud at the I’ll-behaved dog! I’ve got one too that desperately needs “behavioral intervention”. It’s on my to-do list. My ever growing to-do list.

  2. THAT RHINESTONE BELT!!! WTF!!!??? Incredible. Hope he let ya keep it. Flashy/sparkly around yr tiny waist. In EST, the Horrible EST I usta call it, they’d talk about ‘coulda, shoulda, woulds’s’ as the hornets circling our guilty brains. And my violinist friend, Meredith, said she was actually making ‘lists of lists of to do’s’. The endless slog. Maybe all we need a hit from the opium pipe and a nice soft pink dream. For me it’s always been ‘I do therefore I am,’ even as I pretend that I have Shirley McLean spiritual-iish leanings. An so it goes…

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