Tuesday Night Lights

You know that book, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff?” As I was mopping up my flooded upstairs bathroom and downstairs laundry room yesterday, I was evaluating whether or not being a temporary single parent, while single-handedly cleaning, purging and organizing for a cross-country move and handling every single bill, errand, kidtastrophe and bit of minutia, qualifies as “small stuff.”  Stuffing a massive load of soaking wet towels and rugs into the washer, as water dripped from the ceiling onto my head, I determined that yes…this was small stuff. But, I forewent the polite admonition to not, “sweat it,” and just said, “fuck it.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” is more of an admonition, isn’t it? “Fuck it,” is just the decision to not to let the small stuff suck you into the mind-numbing vortex of bullshit that constitutes a day in the life of the average American house frau. So, I sopped up the mess…ceiling still dripping, and headed out to retrieve The Duchess from school. Thus far, my Tuesday had been a comedy of errors created, I’m quite certain, by the mind of a distracted, overworked, underpaid and unappreciated, Me. Too many things to do, too many interruptions, too much on my mind, not enough sleep and not enough help. 

The Duchess and I arrived back at the house, completed her daily 30 or 40 minutes of homework and I poured myself a glass of wine.  From a box. Don’t judge me.

As I was standing there in my kitchen, experiencing a wee bit of the blues, it suddenly occurred to me: “It’s Tuesday!” I picked up my phone and sent a text: “I made red sauce, salsa and dessert.”  Within minutes, a text back: “I’ll be over in 10 with tamales.” Oh, yeah.

You don't even want to know...

For the past several months, my neighbor, Carmen, has come over on Tuesday nights to eat, drink and commiserate. Tuesday nights are her Fridays, so she can stay up late, eat, drink and be merry without having to get up at 4:00 a.m. for work. On Tuesday nights, my house lights up like a stadium. The food is abundant, the cocktails flow, and Carmen and I talk and laugh and gossip until standing up is no longer an option. Usually, at least a couple of her kids come over and eat, talk and laugh until it’s time for them to go home and get ready for school the next day. Most Tuesday nights, her husband gets off work and comes over about 9:30 and we warm up dinner, make him a Shirley Temple or two and yenta it up for another hour or so. Two families, blended into a lovely, cross-cultural oneness, held together by food, laughter and love. Bliss.

At the end of the night, Carmen weaves her way down the sidewalk, two doors down. I do a quick clean up of the kitchen, head up the stairs and take my final cocktail of the night, which consists of two Ibuprofen, water, and a significantly lighter spirit.

You see, Carmen and I have somehow, unknowingly and unintentionally, created a tradition. It’s not just that I have a neighbor who comes over every week to hang out. No. It’s more than that. Over the past four years, we’ve developed a friendship…that has turned into a sisterhood… that I have come to count on.  When Carmen and I are together, the world just fades to black and nothing exists outside of my lit up kitchen and those precious Tuesday night hours.

It was only a year ago that I realized that Carmen is one month older than my youngest sister. The realization floored me and made me sit there on my bar stool with my mouth hanging open trying to process that fact. If you’ve read my blog, you know my past feelings about my younger sister. Hapless, helpless, unfocused, immature, irresponsible, etc.etc. etc.  I’d always considered Carmen my absolute peer and equal. She’s been with her husband since high school, had three children, two of which are very close in age to two of my own, keeps an immaculate house, works full time and despite having had tremendous obstacles to overcome in her life, is a happy, well-adjusted, fun-loving, responsible wife, mother and citizen.

Carmen is the very epitome of the American Dream. Her parents were immigrants from Mexico and she is a first generation U.S. citizen.  She became pregnant at sixteen and worked her little buns off to go to school, work and provide for her son. Her boyfriend was killed when their son was an infant and yet she persevered and worked to create a stable home life. Like me, she has daddy drama and struggles with the emotions of loving her father yet despising his actions. Her family gatherings with her mother and six siblings are boisterous and loving. They fight, they cry, they love and they make up. By watching them, I have learned what “family” is capable of being. When they invite me to family affairs, I feel strangely different, yet familiar. Not fluent in the least in their native Mexican-Spanish, I understand little of what they say when they speak to each other. But, Carmen and her sisters are always quick to turn to me and translate what’s going on and include me in the conversation. I have learned much about love, family, forgiveness and perseverance. For that, I am truly grateful.

Last night, Carmen helped wash the dishes and put away the remnants of dinner and dessert. As always, I walked her to the door and she kissed my cheek and thanked me as I locked the door behind her. In the process of wiping down the counter tops and readying things for the morning, it hit me like a bolt of lightning.  In just over a month, I would be in Texas and Tuesday nights would be, well…just Tuesdays.  No Carmen, no swarm of kids asking what their adopted, “tia” made for dessert, no gossip and no house with every light blazing.

The thought of no Tuesday night lights and no Carmen, makes my heart heavy. As happy as I am to be moving back to the city I consider, “home,” I’m so very sad to be leaving my Carmen. In the past forty-three years of my life, I’ve moved somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty times, but for the first time, I feel as though I’m leaving behind a little piece of my heart. Family is consistent. They are “there,” no matter where you are. Middle Sister and I live on opposite sides of the country, but still speak and e-mail and text several times a month. With a friend though, you have to wonder...will this be it? Will moving away mean the loss of the closeness between the two of us?

Carmen has taken to referring to me as her, “guera,” which loosely translates as, “blonde girl,” in Mexican lingo.  For hysterical reasons I won’t go in to, I refer to her as my, “bandita.” It only occasionally occurs to us what we must appear like to others when we’re together, but neither of us cares. As far as we’re concerned, we are just two of the best of friends, laughing ourselves silly every time we’re within six feet of each other. La Guera y La Bandita. Amigas para siempre.

As I’ve written before, “home” isn’t necessarily a place; it’s who is waiting for you behind the door when you arrive. My new home in Dallas may not have all of the lights lit up on Tuesday nights, but I need my bandita to know that no matter where I am, she will always have a home, a friend, a sister and a partner in crime. Hours and miles may come between us, but the bright Tuesday night lights will burn on in my heart.  

La Bandita y La Guera