There's A Hole In The Bottom Of The Sea

Monday was a holiday, but the geriatric painter guy came anyway, and scraped, sanded, destroyed, and hummed from 8-4. When he first arrived, I tried to explain to him how I needed him to put up plastic to seal off the rooms from the paint dust, which he half-heartedly attempted to do. Only he didn’t tape the plastic down, and it billowed each time he moved around the hallway, which spread the dust even more thoroughly throughout the house. He doesn’t speak much English, so I stopped trying to communicate my anti-schmutz ideas and gave in to the paint dust falling where it may (which happens to be everywhere). I have to say this is the worst house painting experience I’ve had since the mentally ill painter guy painted my kitchen 12 years ago and refused to finish the job until I lied and discreetly told him I was having my own mental health issues.  He finished up in no time.

The word “discreet” brings me back in time. I’m 10 years old, and visiting my aunt and uncle in Manhattan. They run a ticket agency, which I don’t really know much about (but I met Ed Sullivan there, and he shook my hand). What I understand is that they have access to free tickets to musicals and movies. I get to see Oh, Captain, which bores me, but stars Tony Randall, who is very funny; a few years later I see Oliver, which is loud, boisterous, and veddy British. I miss out on seeing Oklahoma and West Side Story, but get to spend one afternoon by myself in a theater watching the movie Indiscreet, starring Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant. I mistakenly think it is titled In the Street, and I am unable to follow the plot or figure out what the heck is wrong with the characters. I have no idea what the word means, but 51 years later I finally do.

I have been ordered not be indiscreet or write about what’s really eating a hole in my heart, stopping it from calmly going on. I’ve been warned that if I disclose what’s tearing at my heart, I’ll either be sued or shunned like an Amish defector (or West Point cadet). Therefore, I force my fingers to type fluffy stuff, like how oil paint fumes give me migraines. (Yes, I have one now.)

You should know that I hate being hogtied by my fear of indiscretion repercussions. I wish I could blow the real stuff inside me in the wind. Unfortunately, my marred and scarred by mole removal lips must remain sealed. For a blabbermouth emoter like me, my gag order is hard to swallow. The quieter I have to stay, the more my issues try to reclaim a space in my leaky heart, where they have trouble sticking like glue, like birds of a feather that stick together. 

So, because I can’t write what I also love to refer to as the truth, I have to write fluff, which spills out of my keyboard like a tipped over bag of goose feathers. My resentment and upset at having to remain permanently discreet have driven me so crazy I convinced myself I could somehow disguise the truth by hiding it between the lines Yeah, I know that’s as insane as thinking that walking between raindrops keeps us dry. But I am no longer lying, like I did with the psycho painter guy – I have issues, and bottling them up is making me fester.

I know that “loose lips sink ships,” which is why I can’t open up the floodgates and spill any more beans. If I do, I’ll turn into the original human Titanic. Splish fricking splash.