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Ridiculous conversations #1

I have long since touted myself not only a braver of, but a thriver in awkward situations. Grammar experts, please hold your comments on the last statement; I have no time for that at the moment. Since I was old enough to reason, figure, understand and empathize, I have recognized that some of life's most uncomfortable or strange situations occur not only daily, but happen all around us on a constant basis, and it's how we handle (or don't handle) them that can bring us to a closer level of understanding ourselves, or people in general. Maybe it's my sense of humor that makes these situations stand out for me, but it can't be that alone. Because I keep them with me, even after the fact. They're not monumental happenings, believe me; I'm not being dramatic or trying to sound smart. They're just simple occurrences that make me think about people in different ways, all the time.

What I'm trying to say is: somewhat weird stuff happens to me and I'm probably going to start writing about it more. Here. I figured I'd start small, maybe recall some things from the past, and just put it all out there.

Wearing receptionist hat. Yesterday. Enter FedEx man. (Not our regular.)

He bursts through door brandishing clipboard. Hi, Got a delivery.

Me: jumping out of chair: OK! [chirping voice, annoying, yes. Self-entertaining, yes]

FedEx man: sidles up to desk and exhaustedly slams down clipboard. But, we gotta problem. The delivery is DAMAGED. I'm talkin WRECKED. I need someone to refuse it. I mean. No one in their RIGHT MIND would accept this delivery. It's like. Completely DESTROYED.

Me: Oh dear! [concerned. like, really, concerned.]

Me: so can I--

FedEx man: So I need someone to refuse this delivery. I'm talkin, it's wrecked. You or whoever ordered this cabinet's gonna have to call the company and say it was refused. That's all I'm sayin. You're gonna have to call the company.

Me: OK, then I'll refuse it.

FedEx man: Well and I need you or whoever to come outside and look at it in order to refuse it.

Me: OK, let me get someone to watch my desk then.

I locate my stand in, and follow FedEx man outside. He is still talking about the cabinet, and its DESTROYED state, but I'm not really listening to the details. He pauses, and looks at me as we walk.

FedEx man: And she's gotta be wearing flip flops! [sneering]

Me: um, what's wrong with my flip flops?

FedEx man: Well you're not gonna have an easy time climbing into my truck with those FLIP FLOPS! I bet you didn't think you'd be climbing into no FedEx truck when you got up this morning and put on those FLIP FLOPS!

Me: making use of appropriate long pause to think there is a correct response, there must be.

Me: I have to climb into your truck?

FedEx man: It'll be easy, well, relatively. You need to see the damage in order to refuse the delivery. I'll show you how to get up.

Me: You're not going to kidnap me, are you?

FedEx man: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. No. I have WAY too much to do today than kidnap you. Waaaaay too much to do. I'm very busy.

He climbs up the back end of the truck and throws up the door with the same intensity as he handles his clipboard.

Me: I think I can see from here. Yes. I see the damage. I utterly refuse. Cabinet BEGONE!

The rest of the details are even more useless, so I'll stop here. And he didn't kidnap me. But only because he was a very busy man.

7:30am

During the school year I'm at work at this time. I do love mornings.

summatime

Perhaps taking on more than I realized this summer, my talents continue to expand my repertoire and the hats I wear. Writing tutor, waitress, receptionist, editor, and don't forget, reliable cat sitter. I may soon be adding (somewhat reluctantly) "bookkeeper" to my list. I'm not complaining about the work; I've had a summer or two in the past where too much time on my hands and not enough money coming in made for a tragic combination.

This year I thought about doing the vegetable garden, even (sadly) bought seeds and in classic ADDJennystyle never got around to planting them. I have only a few flowers in the front of the house, but they make me happy. And that also means less plants to worry about when I go on my week-long-haven't-had-one-in-two-years vacation.

Now I have that feeling where I want to write about how living in this part of the country makes me happy to see the changes in season. But that's so lame; I've seen that one thousand times before. New England, blah blah blah. So I'll resist the urge and just acknowledge the fact I'm trying to stay in the moment and notice all that surrounds me. Even if that means seeing my neighbors in the periphery.

token spring post

I was thinking I'd find my camera and document the coming of spring this year carefully, but I cannot find my camera, so I just have my phone...old school April 2010 3G iphone (I don't have The ThreeGees). Anyhoo.
There's the peach tree at #19 well on its way to bringing mass quantities of fruit to our tiny woodland creature friends waiting in the wings to scarf it all up. Enjoy.

It's hard to explain

...why I have a thing for old Datsun Zs. I pursued this gentleman (while ironically driving an M3) yesterday as long as I could, much to the chagrin of my passenger who moaned and complained loudly about how much he hates that type of car. I told him, if I had grown up in a dysfunctional family, and my father had Datsun parts and pieces littering the front yard, signs of projects with no hope for completion, and each time my father drove me to school in one of those Datsuns, he played the same Genesis album on cassette tape repeatedly, then I might have the same aversion to Datsuns as he does.

But I didn't, and I don't. I like them. A lot.

I don't know enough about cars to say anything too smart here, so I won't try to fake it, but I do love old cars, and for some reason the 1970s-1980s Zs, or 240s (etc., see this is where I don't really know what I'm talking about but I can ID them in a crowd) really appeal to me.

I did have a boyfriend for a short time who was into cars, and he had a 1973 Datsun 280zx (I think) that was orange with a T-top. I was 18, he was 23. He used to drive me to New York in that car. It was amazing. (Many things at once happening there; one of the marvels was the idea that a person could DRIVE into Manhattan, not just rely on the train, as my family did.) For some reason my parents were alright with this (?) and it wasn't until after the fact did I realize the true reason he needed to travel to NYC so often, for his "business." He was a generous, kind guy who really meant well, and tried to treat me right. When I went off to college he wrote me letters, filling the page with his thoughts and observations as he traveled, always misspelling many words but he was so full of heart. We lost touch as his life slowly unraveled into the world of heroin, and mine became consumed in the selfish existence that is a college student's. The last time I saw him was probably between my junior and senior year, while on break, at a diner near my parents' house. He was not well, and I wanted to help him, but I couldn't.

Several years later I found out, in a very odd way, that he had passed away. The details were not shared with me, but I could only imagine the worst. I think about him sometimes, and I wonder what he could have been, how his life touched others like mine, if only for such a brief amount of time.

So I guess Datsun Z's remind me of Bob. And I'm happy with that, and will always think of him when I see one. Maybe I'll even get to drive one someday.

1.1.11

Am I overdoing it here? I, like the multitude of January gym-goers am a little gung ho today. If you can call two blog entries in a row gung ho. Which you really can't. But I'm doing it anyway. I promise I'll think of something good to write soon. I think I just wanted an entry under 1.1.11. Can you blame me?

In other hard-hitting news, I just started my lentil etc. soup to start the year off right. In order to not be up until 6am, I'm going to finish the soup tomorrow. But we're officially soaking. I am having trouble identifying which bean is which, but I think they're pretty. I'm glad I took this shot before they became more wrinkled, because wrinkled beans remind me of...wrinkled other things that are not nice to look at.

It was a beautiful day today, the kind of weather that makes me think, I could run outside today, as I drive to the gym. The driveway is a thick stew of gravelly mud and driveway parts and pieces, and it doesn't even bum me out to see the mud on my brand new nerdy sneakers. Because it reminds me of spring, which is light years away, and I'm fine with that. Apparently, according to James Taylor (and I'm not a fan, but not not a fan) the secret to life is enjoying the passage of time. I can work with that.

Yikes it's almost midnight. Cheers!

not wishing it away for once

Happy New Year! Happiness is not wishing away the moment. For the first year in about three, I haven't been dying for the year to end. I'm looking forward to 2011 of course -- and am very thankful for 2010. So much happened...I'm about to go make my list. Remember to open the front door at midnight and let the new year in.

Happy 33 to me =]

well, 11:49pm has come and gone...officially 33 years old. I'm thankful, happy, mischievous, tired, full, lucky, excited, slightly calculating and a bit more competitive than I was before. How's that!?

Here I go!

domestic disturbance

I am fairly convinced that my year living with no kitchen set my cookingskills-domesticmaturity back a bit. Sort of like reverting to pre-college days when I thought I could replace eggs in cookie batter with water (so it could be eaten raw, obviously) and then watched the result of my innovation liquify into one big cookie drippy mess that flowed off the pan and onto the oven floor. (This is loosely tied to my very near failure of high school chemistry. Some things just don't compute for me the first time around. Or the second, for that matter, but I'm not here solely to make myself look stupid.)

From March of 2009 until mid-April 2010 I lived with no kitchen. I thought about writing about it at the time, (hey what a cool blog idea! documenting a less-than-ideal life situation!) but those half-baked good intentions went the way of my watered down cookie dough. I spent a lot of time not thinking about it; instead functioning in a general haze of lollygagging internet activity, Law and Order episodes, perpetual laundry folding, and the ultimate time sink: playing with, speaking to, and photographing the dogs.

For the first few weeks, I had only a college-size refrigerator. I was stoked: an adventure! Like camping! I can do this! I smugly went to the grocery store, determined to make the best of my situation. I purchased as many prepackaged mini-sized preservative-filled delicacies as I could find. Mini cheeses, single serving fruit cups, anything that came in "bar" form, and with as much wrapping as possible. It was an environmentalist's nightmare, a gluttonous Ugly American snack paradise of wastefulness and Other Natural Flavors. I learned quickly that Lean Cuisines will not stay frozen in the freezer "area" of small refrigerators. (Had I only recalled me and my college roommates' pathetic attempts at early Jello shots that never came out quite right, I would have saved myself a couple of wasted dinners.)

Before I could completely lose my mind, the financial gods smiled on me (well, it may have been more of a grimace, but I take what I can get) and I was able to purchase a brand new "normal" sized refrigerator. The joy I felt buying condiments in standard-sized jars was euphoric. It almost made me forget about how I still had no kitchen, still washed my dishes in the bathroom sink, and still lived in one room with two dogs and saw no way out of the situation in the near future.

And luckily (luck? not so sure, do we make our own? more on this in the future) my circumstances and I were able to move me into a whole new living space this past spring where I now enjoy gasp four whole rooms, one of which is a kitchen.

However, I seemed to be experiencing some temporary amnesia when it came to things like operating a stove, making simple dressings and sauces, chopping vegetables, handling raw chicken...fish...how do fish work...? corn? boil?

Perhaps the confusion was because the domestic goddess within me had never really solidified prior to this. I'd only had a couple years under my belt of cooking for two or more. Plus, a great deal of time from 2005-2009 was spent spending copious amounts of money in fancy restaurants...rather than perfecting my Coq au Vin.

I think I can say I'm back on a better (albeit different) track now. For those of you who are concerned, I did manage to remove the wrapping off the chicken I soon victimized in the photo, above right. I'm thoroughly enjoying my tiny kitchen, and I'm even doing some baking lately (read: science). Maybe my cooking renaissance will launch me forward out of beginner domestic goddess to a comfortable spot in intermediate.

Whistling Rules

If you're in a hurry and don't have time to read these, swing to the safe side and just don't whistle. Ever. Especially around me. OK, you can whistle alone.

Wikipedia defines Human whistling as the production of sound by means of carefully controlling a stream of air flowing through a small hole. Whistling can be achieved by creating a small opening with one's lips and then blowing air out of the hole or sucking air into the hole.

(Thank you for specifying the "Human" part, Wiki)

In general, here are my whistling guidelines.

When to never ever whistle:
1. If I am near you
2. If you are in church
3. If you see a pretty lady (it's just too cliche, forget rude)
4. If people around you are sleeping
5. At a job interview
6. If you are on a first date (unless you want it to be your last)
7. If you are my boss
8. While you are serving food to the elderly
9. While you work (unless you are short and live in the woods with six other creatures all dressed the same as you but in varying colors)
10. If I am near you

When you pretty much shouldn't whistle, but probably could get away with it:
1. In a crowded bar where it's very hard to hear people talking next to you
2. In a storm system characterized by high pressure, heavy rain and strong winds
3. If you're really that scared, or about to be murdered
4. If the music is very loud so as to mostly drown out your whistling
5. If you're with a fellow whistler or someone characterized by a pro-whistling attitude (probably a street performer, a circus member, or someone who is socially inept or generally stupid)

When whistling is okay:
1. If you're alone in your car, and you happen to hear "Patience" by Guns n Roses in its entirety (you actually sort of have to whistle)
2. If you are Anna in The King and I (you kind of have to)
3. If you are alone watching Bridge on the River Kwai
4. If you are alone, singing "Goodbye Stranger" by Supertramp, "Golden Years" by David Bowie, "Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn and John, or "Me and Julio Down by the School Yard" by Paul Simon.
5. If you find yourself in solitary confinement.
6. If you train wild animals
7. If you're in a large group of fellow whistlers or a marching band of POWs.

I was recently told by a guy that I have a lot of "rules." And, in fact, he was not the first guy to tell me this. I have been told it's hard to remember my rules, so I decided I will occasionally post them here. I am sure some people mean well by whistling, or they're genuinely happy. I think whistling got damaged for me by a couple of key characters in my life. One of whom I cannot name, (cuz this blog is so famous and all of two people read it and it might get back to the bad whistler person) really made me twitch with whistling anger. He would dance around, whistling something I sometimes recognized, sometimes didn't, but it wasn't that part that drove my eyes to dart around within reach for sharp objects -- no, it was the part where he would whistle AT ME. TO ME. TOWARDS MY FACE. To evoke, what kind of reaction? I think he expected me to grow for him a broad smile, tilting my head towards his, perhaps gently swaying my head back and forth at his musical wonderment coming from his face. Blinking slowly. Smiling in a different way when the music got really good. Nodding my head time to time. Instead, I'm forced to smile politely like I just smelled something rotting, and go about my business as if I do not hear the sound of his happiness. I know it will pass, but I just don't know when.

And to all you people out there who cannot whistle: It's okay. You can really stop trying.

is she actually writing an entry on water?

Spending countless hours talking about writing on this blog and not doing it, I'm driven to this: jumping in again. Diving (in my lame way I can't really dive, but try to act like it) into the water. Like I've said before, swimming has always been a challenge for me. Despite growing up by a (gross) man-made "lake" (whose taste I will never get out of my mouth; once you swallow Candlewood Lake water you can relive it at any moment) and going to Cape Cod each summer for a week or two, being around water, I never fully trusted it. If I were a fan of footnotes, I’d have one about trusting myself linked here.)

My dog Grace is a big fan of water. She doesn’t really care for rain because it makes her blink a lot, but she likes jumping over puddles in a cute attempt to keep her little feet clean (or her tap shoes, if you live in my world). Which is thoughtful considering she spends 20 hours of day on my bed. Her first boat ride was last summer. We (insert phantom footnote here, explaining “we”) took Grace and her little brother slash boyfriend Levi on a ferry cruise in Hyannis harbor. For a summer that otherwise sucked worse than having teeth pulled with no painkillers, it was a small brightspot.

Since we don’t get to spend much time on boats, Grace has taken up the hobby Watching Water Go Down the Drain in the Tub. She couldn’t care less who is in the shower, or what else is happening in the room, but the moment she hears the water come on, no matter where she is in the house or what level of deep dog sleep she’s enjoying, she appears, almost immediately, at the doorway to the bathroom, seemingly transported by time travel. The look on her face makes me feel like I’m doing something right. That, despite the cold long winter where we do not get out of the house enough, her joy at standing tubside and watching the current swirl into the abyss is proof I’m some kind of good dog parent. It’s a combination of illusionary sights and echoing sounds that make her ears stand up, her head darting back and forth like watching a heated ping-pong tournament. It makes her happy, and that makes me happy.

Water can be so calming, so soothing. Floating in Onset bay with my nieces and nephews, standing at the edge of the pond at Tarrywile Park watching the dogs lose their minds in excitement, running in and out of the lily-pad speckled pool, the memory of rain steadily coming down on us in the August heat of Saratoga, listening as Allman Brothers performed so reliably. As a kid we played in the stream behind my house; depending on how rainy it had been, there was anything from barely any water among the rocks, to a rushing imitation of a river, which was wildly exciting…being eight years old. My friends and I returned to the stream time and time again, later as young teenagers to have secret discussions about Important Matters, using substitute terms for things that could not be spoken aloud. The privacy the sound of the water offered was later replaced by conversations held with boyfriends inside a car, dragging our feet to put off ending the night. (Insert phantom footnote here: No one can hear what’s discussed in a car, of course.)

Of course, water can also be our worst enemy, anywhere on the spectrum of mildly annoying, to causing death and destruction. From accidently running your wristwatch through the laundry to the pain and horror of floods, tsunamis— times when the very thing that keeps us alive can also kill us. My own personal nightmare reoccurs not on a scale of abovementioned calamities, but in a mental/physical/mess you up and other people can see sense: I despise getting my hair washed at the salon. I don’t just despise it, it makes me completely insane, like a mental patient lunatic who should probably be sedated, for the sake of the others nearby.

Now, I need to be clear. I don’t mind washing my OWN hair, thankyouverymuch. And I’ve never enjoyed the neck strain of the hair washing sink when getting my hair cut; they always say, “You comfortable? Water temp okay?” Yeah, yeah fine, just get this garbage over with. But sometime a couple years ago, something about me changed. Maybe I altered my state when I touched a faulty outlet in the 250-year-old house I used to live in, or some amount of hearing damaged caused by one too many Phish shows finally caught up with me, or maybe I’m just nerve-broken due to old age, but I completely spaz out feeling water go down my sides of my head.

Unfortunately, I seem to be the only person on the planet who experiences this. No support group exists for people who feel an outrageous and horrifically orgasmic (I know, I know, but not in a good way) sensation down each side of their spine every time the water whooooshes past their ears. Even thinking about this as I write makes me shudder in fear. And the scary/funny/weird/I’m feeling old part about this is that it didn’t use to happen. (Some could say it parallels my dentist-attending experience the last few years. As a child, nothing bothered me, doctors, dentists, irritating people, it was all fine. Now I can barely get my teeth cleaned without letting my hypersensitivity get the best of me.) My coping skills include: visualization techniques, imagining that what I’m feeling IS actually a good thing, hugging my arms around my torso in a sad attempt to squelch the urge to go into hysterics, and giggling. All the stylists at the salon I attend know about my…issue. They are kind and keep their judgments to themselves, or at least they wait until I leave to make fun of me. I must be an absolute hoot to imitate. A sharp-minded comedian would have a field day.

I’ll wait to divulge into metaphors of me swimming near docks for safety. Need to think on that a bit more, and I’ve already overwritten for one topic. And now I need to go recover. And drink some water.

redemption

I recycle. Not as much as I used to, or plan to again in the future. Life took a weird turn and to make a long story short [too late] I am not as...on top of the whole recycling thing as I wish anymore. But, I still make an effort. My confidence lies in my original beliefs; I will be back on track in the future. Yes.

In the meantime, I manage somewhat haphazardly. But manage still. One of the most irritating things about Living in Connecticut and being a recycling is the fact that, unlike many other states, we still have a "bottle bill" law. Shit this is getting boring, even as I review my facts.

The other afternoon, I decided to do the one thing I promised myself I'd do over the school break, besides eat and sleep and read: Clean Out My Car. It's a circus that imitates other parts of my life, and the biggest obstacle turned out to be the bottles I'd driving around with a scary amount of time. I and my former We don't drink much beer, at least anymore, having graduated to (a phrase that made me look really bad so I just deleted it because sarcasm doesn't always translate via my interweb skills) so it's only every few months that I end up having to return soda and beer bottles for the incredible awesome reward of five cents each.

Bottom line: it sucks and the benefits don't seem to outweigh the costs. I do NOT mind dragging my recycling out to the street on trash night. Prepping empty peanut butter jars, rinsing out pickle jars...it's almost fun compared to standing in a cold 6x12 grocery store annex containing five bottle redemption machines, three of which are broken; the smell a cross between Very Old beer and Cheerio throw-up. The only person authorized to repair the jammed "Glass" machine is an ex-con who has to be paged over the loudspeaker from his hideout in the back by the dumpsters and he is reluctant to say the least.

The weird thing is, in college, and someone back me up on this...returning bottles was kind of...fun. Maybe it was the sheer volume that promised us an impressive sum each weekend, a stupid mind game of "deposit" and "redemption" that made us think we were somehow saving money, when all we were doing was...not wasting more. It all went straight back to Latham wine & spirits, or whatever it was at the time.

Fast forward to now. A generous combination of fear, disgust and panic arose last week when I returned bottles for the first time in months. The realization that the cuffs of my jeans, resting softly on the concrete floor were quietly soaking up the filth in which I stood left me speechless, stupid.

More on this. Or, Moron: this. Will be soon. Loveya audience in my mind.

honestly

I'm looking forward to a point where I can say: Gee, look at my past year! How I have accomplished and thrived! (My brain wants to write thriven, but we'll move on.) Lots of bloggers I see do this sort of thing. My recollection of the past year would move some to tears, other to nausea, and others still to eating themselves into a coma. I do not want to harm my readers, and it is with this I say, how about I just not mention last year!

Which leads me to now. It's a Tuesday night, and I always claim that a week is much better once one is IN it. Anticipation is a killer; see my thoughts on Sunday Nights. Even Monday nights are such a relief: You're back to school / work / what you do / and you can't turn back. You're in a program and programs save you from procrastination and indecision...something that can take the brightest kid down a notch. Or three.

Of course, not everyone works M-F 9-5 blah-blah. But everyone has a personal "Sunday night." When whatever freedom, in whatever temporary form, had presented itself on-- hopefully a repeating basis-- is about to end. And the only solution to this anxiety is jumping off the dock.

I'm terrified of jumping into water. My nieces and nephews have had to almost literally push me off docks on our family vacations. My relationship with swimming in any way, shape or form has been spotty at best. I think (OK, I know) I made it to "Intermediate" in whatever the hell swimming crap I was signed up with when I was little. After that, I buried myself in...anything but. Then by the time I was a sorta-adult, I was able to float, bob, hang out, chat, tread water, be social...just not swim per se. I got away with it for quite some time. I have made peace with it, and clearly I'm writing about it now, so, Hey World: I suck at Swimming! You were right about me in 7th grade! BUT, the jumping is the more important point.

When that anxiety of The Next Thing occurs, I have found it's best to hold my breath and jump in. Not altogether reckless (although there's a time and a place for recklessness; we'll get to that later) but at least some semblance of awareness + OKAY. You'll. Be. Fine.

Here's where a pithy ending would work. But we all need cliffhangers.

cautious reflection

Happy New Year! 2010. Weird.

But seriously, never have I been happier to see a year go away as I am to see 2009 end.

If you ask me, I could callously answer you that 2009 sucked big time for me. And I have, in different ways, loudly made this clear. But, I have to be honest: to say nothing good happened in 2009 would be a lie; sure. Lots of good things happened. A little dog named Levi came into my life. I found out, the hard way, who my true friends were. I got closer to my family, especially my parents. I realized what the break in my palm's "life line" actually meant (it's called "new start, for reals"). I learned independence doesn't just occur, but is something that grows over time. I wrote more than I wrote the year before. (Some good stuff, actually.) I read a lot more and learned new avenues for learning (just go with that one). And I actually saw a glimpse of a healthy me; a ME who hasn't surfaced in about...five years. Turning the glimpse into a constant is the next step.

Part of me feels like all this 2009 reflection crap should have been taken care of by 11:59pm on 12/31/09. But I guess one thing I've realized over the past ten years is I take a little longer than I expect to reflect on things, and in turn, DO something about that reflection. I knew when I studied abroad in Salzburg, Austria in 1999 that I wouldn't fully be able to write about the experience until years later. I had the awareness to realize what I couldn't realize at the time, but what I knew in my head and spirit I would realize over time. Realize. Thesaurus, anyone?

Anyway, I'm happy to have this place to write. We'll see where it goes. Having your life completely thrown off course and have the crap kicked out if it is something I'm sure not everyone has the privilege of experiencing, so I should be thankful if not boastful. OK pushing it a bit...

It just took me five minutes to figure out how to spell privilege. Small victories.

Other things for 2009: use coupons to buy new desk chair (mine died), take more pictures and post them, work on upper body strength, eat more vegetables, write a manuscript of a really messed up kid's life, start playing guitar again, write down my family history, run more than three miles (at a time), find new ways to break grammar rules and get away with it. sounds like FUN sign me up!

I've been very good at keeping busy lately, not entirely with what I should be up to, but I keep moving in some way, shape or form. I know it's bad when procrastinating prone friends call me out on my own sluggishness, or when a room full of 10th graders has more focus than I do. But i keep going forward. I heard it's the only way.
Three goals for today:
1. find a comfortable position to sit in so my back stops hurting
2. make two appointments
3. walk at least one of the dogs

Small bites, chewing carefully.

I haven't really been absent.

Haven't posted anything in a while. My efforts haven't gone unassigned, however. Since February I've been writing on 100words.com, and a group of us friends/writing humans have come up with topics for the day or week, and writing accorindly. It's been a while since I was so inspred to write.  The topics for this month were suggested by my friend Claire. 

They were:[april 1-7]: hearth and home
[april 8-14]: traveling 
[april 15-21]: adventure
[april 22-30] transportation/commute 

I honestly wasn't sure what to do with the topics. I didn't know why I was stuck.  All I could see was the first entry.  So I went with it.  The following is my fearful dance around a short story.  I never thought I could write fiction, so I...didn't.  Interesting what can be done when we actually get over ourselves and try.  so here's what I've been up to.  This, and trying to cut back on sentences beginning with "so," 

04/01

He parted the metallic blinds with two fingers and squinted out the window. The foreclosure sign on the house across the street had fallen down again. It was the ugliest house, ugly, sad and empty. If he had the money still, he’d buy it right up, just to knock it down and start over.

Start over. The blinds clicked back to a close. Deep sigh brought on a hacking cough as he dropped backwards into the worn armchair. Gazing at the stack of bills, torn envelopes and scraps of paper, he felt sick.

Empty. The house was once a home.

 

 

04/02

If she hadn’t left. His heart raced.

He stood up, walked to the bar. “Bar.” Was going to be. Surveying slim choices, he decided on cheap rum, rum and seltzer…sad excuse for a drink, but…he reasoned: you give for living, and you live to give…was that it? 

“I’m starting. Again.”

 He set the bottle on the on the granite. Inspirational quotes flooded his mind, ironically, consistently taking no root. Childhood friends’ phone numbers, neighbors’ license plates numbers.That was all saved.
He left. Friends took attention. 

Where was that one-liner? He poured the rum hard, droplets exploding evenly. Start try now.

 

04/03

He awoke with a horrible jump, his mouth pasted shut. Butcher sat at his feet, tail beating the floor, heavy chin on Keith’s thigh. Empty glass indicated night’s end and familiar disappointment hung low. His mind rummaged...what was I…

And Butcher sat, waiting. 3:40 a.m.

Keith slouched while the dog lumbered hastily outside. English Mastiffs were known to be large; this was a creature of epic proportions. People would gasp when they took him for walks. Laughter. Butcher was scared of bugs, loud noises, loved his belly rubbed after dinner.

Butcher used to hide behind her when the doorbell rang.

 

04/04

Sunday morning Keith awoke on his own and took Butcher out. He looked at the pile of lumber along the side of the garage and felt his stomach turn. All those pre-ordered cuts, destined for a dead project? He rubbed his forehead and nodded, it will work out.

Butcher ran, Keith followed. When this was all over… He envisioned an apartment up by Manor street, behind the bay. Man and Dog. Fresh start. He felt energized for a moment, then quickly took a double glance at Dog.

“BUTCH!”

He ran over to the fence, dropping his coffee mug. Oh God.

 

04/05

Butcher was holding a bluebird. By the foot.

Keith wanted to scream, and gulped instead, thinking of her. “DROP IT!” he yelled. Butcher thumped his tail dropping the dead bird at his Master’s feet. I bought a massive dog, and he is a cat. He wondered if he should call…who? The dead bird people? Should butcher get a shot? Crap.

These things never came up when they lived in the city. Things were neat, straightforward, sometimes unexpected, but never dead birds, well, after all this.

Keith turned towards the house, his left foot crunching what sounded like cereal. A barrette.

 

04/06

Inside, Butcher sauntered over to his favorite blanket beside the old armchair. Keith thought about brushing the great beast’s teeth, then shook his head.

He walked towards the staircase and began to climb slowly. The barrette was small, painted red with tiny blue flowers, and now in two pieces. He wondered if she knew it was missing. She bought them in Axe en Provence, in a tiny shop near the university, and continued to wear them well after college ended. They were unique, highlighting her quirky, bright personality.

He placed the broken pieces in the shoebox by the bed. Teresa.

 

04/07

The shoebox was not full, but contained an odd assortment …pieces she was unable to launch into boxes, unknowingly.

Downstairs, he gathered himself at his laptop. He remote-controlled “on” in the fireplace. Tomorrow, a professional “stager” would be coming to the house to determine how best he could mask the truth in order to sell. His colleagues’ at the college had pushed him; Keith fully intended on blowing it off.

Butcher sniffed, picking up a pillowcase. Trotting to his Spot, Keith’s heart sank. Baker and Seemaker (they had tired of Candlestick Maker) didn’t have a chance to pack their bags.

 

04/08

Their first trip, alone. Keith’s heart beat proudly as the stewardess handed him a weak Bloody Mary. Being 21 and heading overseas for anyreason is reason enough. Teresa organized her bag for the third time that he had counted; everything in its place. Going to Thailand with few days’ notice was not only exciting, it was Life; their story, their plan, afterwards knowing.... He took a long sip, grabbing her hand.

“I’ll never leave your side” he whispered.

“Is that number two or three?” she smiled, tilted.

He eased his grip and turned towards the wing, reliable and strong.

 

04/09

Stuck in traffic. Understatement. The car dumbly waited miles from the border of Vermont.

“We’re gonna miss some of it,” he said. She remembered learning the word perfunctory in college. She nodded. Perfunctory.
“Yeah.” Bury frustration in beer: setting loose cap with keychain bottle opener.

Cars ahead hadn’t moved in…45 minutes at least. He sighed audibly, turning the key inward. Loud silence a welcome blanket for the Exhausted. . . She settled, tried to view the situation from a new perspective. Perspectives, unlike rural routes, are endless. “I’ll never leave your side,” she whispered, smiling true; no shower for days.

04/10

She awoke with a start. “KEITH.” She punched his side. “WHAT. IS. THAT!” Keith snored loudly, turning on his back. “KEITH!”

He snarled and choked, “WHAT? Crap! I’veasked you not to—”

“SOMETHING is DOWN THERE”

“Whatwhere?” he felt for his glasses, the flashlight, his grip.

“I hear chewing…” she whined. “Get a light, please…” Silence.

He fumbled, pointing the flashlight wildly around the camper. Light poured onto captains’ seats, worn brown stripes, the shine of a CD, an empty beer bottle, matches.

The silence broke.

A brown mouse crouched beside the clutch, frozen. Stereo wire in its deathgrip.

04/11

Three nights after they moved to Maine Lane, two nights after meeting the Fitzmeaneys, the smell of smoke interrupted Teresa’s teeth brushing.

Keith was at the window. “Holy shit,” he said softly, “Get the phone. Reese, phone!” 
Sirens nearing, blaring; lame sense of relief. The Fitzmeaneys’ garage and breezeway was engulfed in flames, rapidly threatening the house. As trucks approached, Keith pressed his face to the screen: two children sat dumbly by the swingset.

“Where’s the rest of them?”

Pounding down the stairs barefoot, Teresa ran outside and scooped up the twins.

Keith shuddered at the thought: to lose everything.

04/12

The monkey on the back of the tour guide stared at them. His brown head looked balding, and Teresa asked Keith again if he thought it was sick.

“He can hear you, Reese,” he muttered.

“It’s gross and making fun of me,” she said, softly.

“The king of the rainforest!” the tour guide declared, motioning towards a large banyan tree. Cameras clicked and khaki-clad geeks circled closer.

Keith couldn’t resist the urge to laugh. Teresa shot him a glance, followed by a kidney punch.

“I’m sorry, it’s a tree,” he whispered. Teresa smiled tightly, stifling a giggle. They trudged on.

04/13

The toothless man offered them a stick of gum as the car sped down route 9.

“Ah, no thanks,” Keith waved his hand. Teresa, crowded on his lap, tightened her grip around his arm. Sharing the passenger seat was difficult, but the backseat was full of, what Teresa thought was old computer equipment. She stared out the windshield and bit her lip. Pushing the gasless van to safety didn’t seem so bad now. What is that smell?

“Ya gotta git yourself a GAS CAN!” the man shouted, laughing. Keith rubbed his forehead. Not exactly the adventure they had in mind.

04/14

“Il a dit «Cela Est le mauvais fils» Teresa bent in half, laughing, shaking. She wiped her eyes.

“He said, ‘it’s the other son!’” she explained. Keith nodded, rolling his eyes at the hilarious stranger who clearly did not see their wedding rings.

After missing the last train to Bordeaux, the pair had parked in the train station’s bar, thank God for small favors. He took a long swig of hisChoulette Blonde and reached into his coat pocket. Smuggling Corn Nuts was difficult, not because of customs, but because of her.

Anyone who didn’t like Corn Nuts was insane.

04/15

That feeling of being in the deep end, not being able to fully register: is this real or simply perceived danger?

She’d convinced him of another adventure trip, this time hiking in the Tatra Mountains of Poland. His pre-trip research made his stomach go cold. Unable to climb a ladder without fear, Keith wondered if Teresa’s goal was to ultimately kill him by falling off something they had just scaled with a tour group, or by a badly-timed spider bite in an exotic country most people couldn’t find on a map.

“You ready?” Teresa squatted and held out her hand.

04/16

Teresa’s hand was soft and dry even in the 90 degree heat, and Keith was conscious of his sweaty palm. She smiled as he rose.

“You’re gonna be OK,” she nodded. Sure, he smiled back.

Feeling queasy, Keith wondered if he’d overdone it on the Corn Nuts. He tended to overdo it with certain snacks; between Corn Nuts and gummy bears, he was bound to end up in the hospital some day.

They continued with the hiking group, Teresa walking ahead, as usual. Keith admired her bravery. He wouldn’t tell her that for a long time.

The air became thinner.

04/17

The note on the refrigerator simply stated: GUTTERS. Keith sighed. They’d been through this, a matter of a phone call. She knew he couldn’t go up a ladder and there was no reason to use all caps. Keith hated all caps.

He hadn’t believed her, years before, that her mother was a trapeze artist. “So that, makes your family circus people?”

“Hey better than carnies!” she chirped.

Keith really hadn’t believed it until he saw it. I guess, he reasoned, packing the garage, you marry the daughter of a trapeze artist, you should know anything is possible. Why end now.

04/18

The only things that scared Teresa were small spaces and roller coasters. The small spaces “thing” went right along with her personality. She thrived on open spaces, freedom, movement, all that was in flux. She made reference to a time in her childhood where she was trapped on a hospital elevator; it had become stuck on the way to go see her new baby sister. Although it was only moments of waiting, the fear seized and didn’t let go. Sort of the way Keith grasped her hand when the plane took off.

He only felt safe in small spaces. Protected.

04/19

A little after five in the morning, Keith informed Teresa he was sick. Feels like flu. She awoke like a surprised cat, stiffening to attention in one motion. What do you need? What can I do? He slumped back into the mess of covers. Nah ok, need sleep. He knew last night he’d miss the 5k. Third one he’d signed up for, third secret hangover and a curtain diagnosis. Last time, food poisoning. First time, he’d pulled off a migraine.

I’ll take care of you. She turned on her side, coldness coating her stomach. Back to sleep, it’s not contagious.

04/20

She had started out an art history major, then decided photography was her calling. A project junior year led her to a stint of abandoned buildings, most of which she photographed from the outside.

Then she got brave.

And dragged him along.

It was the abandoned Holiday Inn on Route 4 where she learned he was asthmatic; he learned she was nuts.

And he had to be with her.

She was writing a thesis paper, something about preserving the past and human nature and disposable habits…

He was terrified, sure he would die from an asbestos-related illness.

But in love.

04/21

He typed “How To Fish” carefully in the search engine. Hmm. So many sites. He smiled; the feeling of satisfaction creeped. Nothing like solid research to prepare a guy for a situation. He bookmarked a website that showed little fishermen with all the right moves: bait casting, fly fishing, spin casting, still fishing. Jackpot. He Ctrl T’d: “Fishing Gear.”

Teresa’s bound up the staircase was faster than Keith’s “minimize window” skills. She flung herself at his shoulders and rested her head next to his.

“You’ve been fishing, right?” She met his silent gaze. Her big eyes looked sadder than usual.

04/22

Traffic interfered in their lives more than Teresa thought normal.

“This lousy jerk in front of us shouldn’t be allowed to drive that hunk of crap,” she stated in the even tone Keith only heard when they were disagreeing…or she was driving…or claustrophobic…or enduring tax season…

“Remember your old car, be kind?” Keith replied from the back seat. That irritating manner he had of ending a statement with a question...

If Teresa could have growled, she would have.

She shifted her attention to the rearview mirror. “He ok?”

Keith smiled, cradling the kitten in his big sweatshirt. “Baker is a-ok.”

04/23

Butcher and Baker got along surprisingly. Both Keith and Teresa were on edge, in their own ways, upon bringing the new cat home. Male dog, male cat? Who knows? It turned out to be bizarrely fine. “Bizarrely fine,” a Teresa-esque phrase Keith came to know quite well.

Butcher’s massive size was like a joke from Mother Nature. He was awkward, like a puppy, but a puppy who’d never quite grown into his immense sneakers. Baker, whose laughably boring—but given—name, was more aggressive, but not around his Big New Friend. They sat, in approval, on the couch.

Odd combinations.

04/24

Driving home from work was when Keith first saw the cat. She was hiding behind their garbage cans; peering, next to the school bus stop. He noticed her a couple nights in a row, and began to wonder how she was that bold to lean in the direction of his car, turning onto the dead end (which Teresa wouldn’t hear of: it was a cul de sac of course). It was a Friday afternoon when Keith finally stopped the car. Feeling sort of reckless from a frustrating day, he pulled over and walked to the cat. Same place, different day.

04/25

Keith was not a natural animal lover; neither was Teresa. It was of the few things they did together, without knowing it.

That Friday, Keith got brave. The cat was just being herself. What cat would willingly jump into the arms of a stranger? Circumstances aside, Keith felt a rush of adrenaline. Who knows how she’d react?

At that point, he had started to not care. Maybe another pet would do to the trick. Out of all the things that worked and didn’t work, it seemed that this was working. Her name, whether she liked it or not, became Candlestickmaker.

04/26

Two days and several hangovers after she’d left, Keith got dressed for work. He was in a fog, mentally, a maze, emotionally, and pretty much broken all over.

The reasons still evaded him, he was angry and broken, did he mention broken? He knew though, that was the sad part. He knew everything and it didn’t help.

Before his dad died, his mom had given him a letter. It was written from his great grandfather, and was supposed to have been passed down from generation to generation. He didn’t read it for years.

And it didn’t help when he did.

04/27

Teresa learned, age 7, that not everyone’s parents were in a circus. The insulation, the protection was all she knew. By the 2nd grade equivalent, her father insisted she would no longer be home schooled, but would attend the local public school. He believed in the Public School System, not in his wife as a sound purveyor of knowledge. At least, not any knowledge that a young girl should have. Yet.

Her clothes were the first isolating factor. Closely following were: bathroom rules, sitting [still?] on plastic chairs for lunch, and a stifling 30 minutes per day, to be outside.

04/28

The ride to school was long and rough. Keith grew up outside of town, way outside of town. The buses didn’t come out that far, so he was subjected to a fate worse than school, worse than getting pantsed at his locker, worse than getting body checked in the cafeteria, worse than being picked last for dodgeball: the Car Pool.

Tom McGillis made Keith’s life miserable. The sound of the sliding minivan door, the smell of cheerio throwup, and looking into the eyes of evil McGillis, each and every morning. Almost more than he could take. But he took it.

04/29

Teresa sobbed uncontrollably. Shaking in Keith’s armpit, she appeared to be shrinking. He tried to pull her up; she flopped like a sack half full of dead weight. The people in the car next to them stared. Keith shot them a face attitude and kissed Teresa on the forehead.

“Let’s go home, we don’t need to see this,” he said, too late.

“I think we’re trapped,” she replied, wiping her eyes. She sat crossed-legged on the passenger seat, looking around. Keith looked too; disappointed in himself—he should have known. Drive-in movie with death penalty theme. What was he thinking?

04/30

Early June, eleven months after he believed his life to be over, they met near Navy Pier. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t expected; it held little promise. But it was real, it happened.

Their breakup had been called “messy.” Shaking the earth free from its axis would have been as challenging as breaking the connections that bound them. Yet they pushed on, broken, damaged pieces; items in Keith’s shoebox.

Rounding a corner, dodging tourists and junk food, Teresa slammed into Keith’s side. His coffee plummeted.

I’ll never leave your side.

A cool breeze met their warm faces, eyes locked.

Home.