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design | host weird hysterical lady in my kitchen i got home from school today with Green Day jamming in my cd player. No parental units in sight, but a cheerful blue post it on the computer screen. (oh how they know me...) it had a nice little to do list for me... they went to a movie and my dad didn't want my mom to have to lift a dainty finger on her birthday. yeah it's my mom's birthday. she's awesome. so i put the groceries away, made a birthday cake, and did the dishes. there was a new seventeen magazing for me on the kitchen table so i grabbed it and waltzed into the livingroom to read it at my leisure. The dishwasher hummed relaxing white noise from the kitchen. the counters gleamed, freshly wiped, of a job well done. i had just finished reading an article about an internet stalker when there came an urgent pounding on the front door. i figured it was one of my brother's idiot friends so i wasn't in too much of a hurry to answer, but when i opened the door there was a grown women standing there, and she was going going gone all to pieces. i recognized her as a neighbor from down the street i'd never spoken to personally. her cafe colored face was streaked with smeared makeup from crying a small river of black gooey tears. Smudges of the greasy eyeliner were smeared on her white tshirt. she didn't seem to notice. from what i could paste together from her little sobs, her dog had been hit by a car. in the last of her rationality she asked me "Honey, do you have the number for the quickest-- where they take-- animals -- are hurt?" i motioned for her to come in the house while i grabbed the phone book. she obiediently followed me into the quiet house, with the dishwasher still swishing its melody. I noticed for the first time that her little four-year-old daughter, Gracie was trailing behind her like a sad kite tail. she remained composed, saying nothing. my fingers fumbled awkwardly on the phone book pages with the apparent need for urgency as my mind blanked of who i should call or what i should do to help this poor woman. it was as if a seam had been torn along her side and a scared little child had been revealed hiding inside of her. She was bawling, right there in my kitchen where a fresh cake was cooling lazily on the oven. frustrated with my efforts or, seeing another option (or both,) she asked if she could borrow our phone. other than that request i might not have been there. she started to talk to herself in hushed, childish tones. repeating a number to herself (and trying three times before she could get the phone on) she begged whoever lie at the end of the line to please pick up. she said he's not picking up. she wasn't saying it to me, or gracie either. she continued to cry. she put her fists to her eyes as still more frustrated sobs escaped her heaving chest. it became difficult to breathe. she leaned over and gagged into our kitchen sink. talking in circles to herself, she mumbled something about trying something else and made her way to the door. Gracie trailed behind her, still silent, still composed. Her sun-dried-tomatoes orange red hair gleamed in the sun as she followed her dark haired, sobbing mother. she had thanked my profusely, but i hadn't really done anything. all i could wonder was what i could do with this woman sobbing in our kitchen. i heard from my little brother when he got off of the bus that the dog was in the middle of the road. evidently, she had hit it herself with her own truck. the plot thickens... there was guilt mixed in with her childlike sadness. the house seemed much to quiet when she'd gone and a paced wondering if there was something i could do. calmer now, i searched the phone book more slowly and found the number for the dumfries animal hospital. i copied the number to a post it and sent my brother down to give it to that poor sad woman. i don't know what's going to happen to the dog, but i really hope that woman is going to be ok. |