My secret musings

Another useless scientific study

2009-04-21T10:50:00.001-05:00

This just in... CHILDBIRTH PAINFUL FOR NEANDERTHAL WOMEN!
No, this is not a headline from the tabloids (woman survives 100,000 years to recount the horrors of childbirth) but a study recently conducted by scientists, helping them draw to the astounding conclusion that Neanderthal women also suffered painful childbirth.

See article HERE.

Do we really need to study this kind of thing? I mean isn't it a well-known fact that childbirth is painful? Have you ever heard a woman come out of childbirth saying "Wow, that was so pleasant. It felt great! No pain whatsoever!" If you have, she's lying. Or sarcastic.

Are tax dollars being spent on this kind of thing? I'm thinking "yes".

It's necessary, you say? It's helpful for science; gives us a window into the lives of humans that walked the earth 100,000 years ago? What exactly do we learn from this? Women have been giving birth since the beginning of time and I'd guess that the process has remained essentially the same. Oh sure, we have modern technology. We don't have to squat in a cave or lie down on a bison pelt or bite a stick if it hurts. But the baby still comes out of the same place, in the same way.

Study our past to better understand our future. This just seems silly, indulgent and unnecessary. And I venture to say that childbirth will still be painful 100,000 years from now.

RICK'S MAGIC POWER HOUR

2009-04-15T07:55:00.001-05:00

A unique, fast-paced radio variety show making its CHIPFM debut on April, 8;

RICK’S MAGIC POWER HOUR!

Rick Wharton is pumped about the opportunity to be part of CHIP, the radio he names, "the last real radio station in Canada."

Widely recognized for his television character, "The Conspiracy Guy", which aired on SPACE, and was nominated for a Canadian Comedy Award as best male actor in a television series, Rick has performed in hundreds of commercials, TV shows, films and corporate events.

With a long history in the music business, working several years with Universal Music, Rick has promoted acts such as the Tragically Hip, U2, The Who, Tom Petty, Rick Emmett/Triumph, Aerosmith, BB King, Reba McIntire, Lyle Lovett, Steve Earle, Wynona Judd, Elton John, Guns and Roses and more.

Rick is a great addition to CHIP’s programming!

I fell in love with you here

2009-04-11T08:56:00.003-05:00

Quickly - the link on this will expire tomorrow, unless being Easter Sunday the Postsecret blog doesn't get updated, which is unlikely...

The first postcard is a big leaf and Goddess knows how it survived getting mailed from Goddess knows where, but how cool is that anyways?!

I fell in love with you under these leaves.

Do you remember where/how/when you fell in love and if you could mail "it" in to be posted for all to see, would the person with whom you fell in love know it was YOU sending "it" in?

Irregularity

2009-04-09T12:36:00.000-05:00

Sounds like a medical problem, doesn't it?
I find it very difficult to be regular here.
I love to write, but find that if I don't have a specific subject to write about, I struggle to come up with anything to say.

Shut up then, right?

And I should give this to you because...???

2009-04-03T13:07:00.003-05:00

I am a sometimes-concert promoter.
Sometimes because I only do it ocassionally.
This year, in May, I have 4 shows with Roger Hodgson, former lead singer for Supertramp, and 3 are sold out (yipee!). The 4th is on its way to being sold out, which means after all is said and done, 12000 people will see his show over the 4 nights.
Needless to say, when a "hot ticket" concert comes along, the promoter usually gets all kinds of requests for free tickets from people they know and people they don't know. It's all part of the game.
Usually a certain amount of tickets are blocked from public sale in order to do promotions, radio giveaways and the like, and yes, some tickets are given to friends and family. That's one of the perks of being the woman in charge.
I was recently asked to give tickets to someone and it's got me a little peeved. A little background is in order...
Mr. Hodgson appeared on Quebec's very popular version of the American Idol show - you know the routine... young people compete against one another for the chance to be named "fill in the blank" winner and hopes to go on to fame and fortune in the music industry.
As a thank-you to the people in charge of this TV program, I set aside a certain number of tickets for their use. I don't care who uses the tickets.
But I got a request from someone in charge that I give 6 front row seats to a man who has nothing to do with the production of said TV show. He is a prominent, high-ranking executive with another company associated with this TV program, but that had nothing to do with the actual production.
This guy probably makes more in a year than I could ever hope to make in my entire career and he's asking me for free tickets.
It puts me in a pretty delicate situation.
What I really want to say to this person is "And I should give this to you because...????"

Fiction Friday #1 Creative Solution

2009-03-26T12:40:00.003-05:00

http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/
This week's instructions:
Setting: An office building - A secondary character says: “Look, somebody has got to make a decision.” Your main character offers a solution.

I'm sitting in my cubicle, trying to ignore the knobs who are gathered in the break room, eating my lunch and surfing the Internet. I'd like to be wearing my headphones also, mostly to block out the discussion that creeps its way over the short space that separates my desk from the kitchen/breakroom but the boss said if I stay at my desk during my lunch hour, I need to look professional in case anyone wanders in for a consultation. Although the chance of that happening is about as thin as that flimsy, silk blouse she wears every time Mr. Pearson is scheduled to come into the office. As if that would work! I know for a fact that Mr. Pearson enjoys the company of girls much younger than my boss, who, to her disadvantage, evacuated the state of "girlhood" a long, long time ago. The perv actually propositioned me last February! He leaned across my desk when he thought no one was looking and salivated, "You know, Karine, I could help you get a leg up around here, if you wanted."

EWWWW!!!

Anyways, back to the incessant noise coming from behind me. I swear these guys are going to drive me nuts with their never-ending debates over which Superhero has the ultimate power. Today they are pitting Iron Man against the Incredible Hulk. I'd choose Iron Man just because Robert Downey Jr. is way cuter than the old guy who used to play the Hulk on TV. Sure he's had a problem with drugs or alcohol or whatever it was in the past, but he's totally done with that now. Well, obviously I don't know that for sure, but he must be because no woman as smart as his wife looks would put up with that nonsense for long. Besides, who could really get into a guy who turns green every time he gets a little pissed off?

Anyways... there was a box of donuts left on the table from this morning's staff meeting and I can now hear the dweebs trying to decide who gets the last one. I guess the sugar and fat from their previous feeding frenzy has worn off because they all sound a little irritable, you know, the way a girl gets during a certain time of the month?

I could feel the hairs on my neck get all prickly the way they do when something really starts to bug me so I decided right then and there that I had to do something about these guys. They are starting to sound like a flock of seagulls fighting over a piece of garbage. So I march myself into the kitchen, right over to the table where the open box of donuts shows one glistening, glazed prize is left. Darrin doesn't see me because his back is to the door and he says, "Look, somebody has GOT to make a decision."

I reach over his shoulder, take the donut and look each of them in the eye: Bill, Gary, that weird South American guy whose name I can never remember, Harold and finally Darrin. They're all staring at me like they think I'm going to do something drastic and then I lick the glaze off the top of that donut and put it back.

"Wonder Woman would kick all of your Superheros' asses. She's strong, she's smart and when she has PMS, you'd all better watch the hell out 'cuz she's one nasty bitch. Besides, they'd all be distracted looking at her boobs."

They stood frozen in their places, staring after me as I walked back to my desk, grabbed my iPod and left the building.

Harsh economic times demand... THIS??

2009-03-24T10:02:00.001-05:00

http://snipurl.com/eebk9

Even in these tough economic times, the government can find an extra $300 million lying around to spend on giving the Montreal Casino a facelift.
There aren't any other ways to better spend the money?
Health care, for example?
Fixing the crumbling infrastructure, for another?
Any schools out there in need of some extra cash? I'm pretty sure there are a few...
Apparently the Casino is a much better investment.

Canada could soon be under attack

2009-03-23T10:57:00.003-05:00

If anyone is considering an attack on Canada, your chance may soon come.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcJn5XlbSFk

Think, think, think....

2009-03-21T14:55:00.002-05:00

I sat down to write this morning and got interrupted.
I sat down to write this afternoon and now I feel like Pooh... the tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff kind of Pooh, not the other stuff.

Anyways, I'm sitting here kind of like Pooh, tapping his head saying "Think, think, think..." and nothing's coming.
Nothing but it's a beautiful day,
I had a lovely lunch with a friend earlier today,
the snow is almost completely gone,
the robins and cardinals are singing in the morning,
the car needs to get washed,
I still haven't read the paper from this morning,
I sure hope the Canadiens can turn it around because they look really pathetic lately,
I think I made my mom really happy by booking a flight to see her for her birthday,
I haven't been to a really good concert in a long time,
I can't believe it's already 4:10,
I miss a whole bunch of my women friends and am sad that there won't be a girls only vacation this spring,
I should get up and finish the laundry....

Nope, nothing's coming but the image of that willy, nilly, silly old bear.

Blog - recycled

2009-03-19T19:07:00.002-05:00

I gave up writing for a while. I either got too busy or too lazy, or maybe a combination of both.

Anyways, I'm making another attempt at this blog.
From time to time I will repost old entries, just because there are some that I am particularly fond of... a bit of indulgent vanity, I suppose.

So without further delay...

On the job

2007-01-29T22:23:00.000-05:00

Has this happened to any of you?
I'm sure it has because it happens to me... a LOT, it seems.

Yesterday I walked into a book store and took a nice, lazy walk around the aisles. I was enjoying an hour of quiet until I came upon 2 employees talking rather loudly. Well... one of them was talking loudly and animatedly - bitching about her JOB.
Bitching about one's job is no crime, hell I've done it a million times.
But NEVER within earshot of my clients.
And NEVER EVER in full view, right in front of my clients.

Later, I asked myself... why didn't you say anything?
And I don't have a good answer.
I didn't fear bodily harm.
I didn't fear scorn and ridicule.
I didn't fear getting thrown out of the store...

Yet I couldn't find it in me to say
LOOK, LOSER. IF YOU DON'T LIKE YOUR JOB, THEN QUIT.
OR OFFER UP A SOLUTION TO YOUR EMPLOYER FOR YOUR PETTY PROBLEM.
AND IF YOU CAN'T, THEN KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT IN FRONT OF THE CUSTOMERS.

Maybe I'll go back next week!

Track me

2007-01-17T23:13:00.000-05:00

I only read a few blogs that are on my blogroll.
I should really delete the ones I don't use anymore.
Sometimes I'm inspired or moved to write because of something I read out there.
Simply Leen has the honor today. This is the part that struck a note in my overly-tired brain.
walagata allows me to see how long it has been since i last visited
down to the days, hours, minutes, seconds
wouldn’t it be cool if there were ways that you could track stuff like that?like the last time you got good and laid - the kind that leaves you all breathless and shakey
or the last time you got hammered but not sick
or the last time i slept all night
or
or
or

I got to thinking about that... what if there was a way to track all kinds of stuff.
Would we even want to know some of it?
Would we dare peek?

Here's my list of OR OR OR

Wouldn't it be nice to know...

the last time your secret crush thought about you

the last time someone gave you a compliment when you weren't around

the last time your kids felt loved

the last time you laughed out loud

the last time your parents were proud of you

the last time an orgasm blew your mind

the last time there was something WORTH WATCHING ON TV

the last time you were rude

the last time you smiled at a stranger

the last time you felt worthy

What would be on your tracker?

Why not just put it down?

2007-01-06T10:35:00.000-05:00

Just before Christmas, I discovered the most thought-provoking little book.
It's called Weight by Jeanette Winterson and is part of the Myths Series.

Weight tells the story of the myth of Atlas holding up the weight of the world on his shoulders. The author takes many interesting liberties and poetic license, which gives a "human" character to Atlas, Hercules, Hera and others.

If you carry a burden, if you have taken on too many responsibilities, think you can do it all, don't know how to let go... read this book.

Then ask yourself WHY NOT JUST PUT IT DOWN?

Things I learned from relationships with men

2006-12-15T19:10:00.000-05:00

Brooke made me do it...

1. How to do a beer bong without letting it spill all over my shirt.
2. The difference between a man-to-man and zone defence.
3. Biting the neck... a really good thing.
4. I have spectacular breasts.
5. I am always right, no matter what.
6. They like to be waken up in the middle of the night for sex.
7. Men aren't good with reading between the lines.
8. Track pants are sexy... go figure!
9. Married men don't always want to cheat.
10. Being a child at heart can really get on your nerves.
11. Being a child at heart can be a lot of fun.
12. When you're with the right one, he'll put up with all your shit.
13. If he puts the toilet seat down, he's a keeper.
14. If he cooks something revolting, eat it anyways and lie.
15. They ALL have fantasies about women getting it on together.
16. Girls' night out is essential.
17. A hot, toe-curling kiss is sometimes better than sex.
18. There's nothing like his warm feet in bed at night when you're not wearing any socks.
19. Knowing he wants you is a total turn-on.
20. Arrogance can be an aphrodisiac.

School's out!

2006-06-22T13:58:00.000-05:00

School vacation officially began today at 11 :42 am. Do you remember what the last day of school was like during your elementary years?

We’d clean our desks with that stinky spray and brown paper towels. The boys (and some girls) who had written on their desks with pencil had to scrub extra hard. The teacher would walk around and inspect everyone’s desk. Some of those boys had to re-wash their desks until they literally shined and I wonder today if the teachers weren’t exacting some kind of revenge when that happened! All the posters were taken down from the walls; garbage cans were filled with the junk that accumulates at the bottom of the desk, erasers, crumpled papers, barrettes, dirt.

We’d hand in all the text books, making sure to erase any blatant marks or notes in the margins. Back in the day schools supplied our text books unlike at my kids’ school where we have to pay for them. Funny though, at the end of the year, they don’t come home with a pile of textbooks. I wonder what happens to all those books because come September, everyone has to pay for new ones all over again.

The last day of school was always a half day and by noon when the final bell rang, we were all hot and eager to get out into the sunshine. It was always sunny on the last day of school. When the bell rang, we’d always yell and clap and race to get a good seat on the bus.

Here’s to remembering looking forward to long, lazy days of bike rides, swimming in the lake, eating popsicles, playing in the woods, getting dirty...

Fast Fiction Friday #29 - Creation

2006-03-17T18:50:00.001-05:00

It's Fast Fiction Friday time again. My apologies at the outset...

"I never said you were supposed to understand my motives, but you are supposed to respect my wishes and obey. That's part of the deal."

"But as an inquisitive, intelligent being, created in your image, I cannot simply accept and follow. I must ask why, I must test limits, I must understand how the outcome will affect me, I must..."

"OK, that's enough." (pause) "What am I supposed to do now? Everything else has been done; there is only this one thing left to complete."

"You're asking for my opinion?"

"It would appear so. Since I did create you in my image, giving you a brain with which to think for yourself and a heart with which to feel, it is only natural that I trust you will provide some useful insight into this situation."

"Well... let's see. First of all, it must be less smart than I, but with a great need to provide for my well-being. But you must make it think it's smarter and allow it to run free from time to time lest it feel a prisoner. It will be uncomfortable in situations of stress and likely unable to bear the weight of anything of great emotion, so it must be physically stronger than I, allowing it to assume its dominance. It must not have a long memory, which will serve many purposes and likely give me the chance to put it back in its place every so often to ensure it doesn't want to take over. It must protect and have pride yet be tender and compliant. And above all, it must aim to please."

"Is that all?"

"That's all I can think of for the moment. If anything else comes up, I can certainly mold it to my liking."

"And what shall I call it?"

"Well, if it is to be created using a part of me, yet is inferior, its name should be a part of mine and yet inferior too."

"Ahh... yes, I see. I shall call it MAN."

I remember...

2006-03-14T21:46:00.000-05:00

what it's like to sit on the porch swing during a thunderstorm and count the seconds between the lightning and thunder while my grandfather, smelling of pipe tobacco and cologne put his arm around me and swung us back and forth

what it's like to walk down the hill through the woods, wading through 2 feet of snow in nothing but a cheerleading uniform, varsity jacket and little white tennis shoes and finally getting to the house with red skin on our legs and laughing at how stupid we were

what it meant to play spin the bottle at 13

the feeling of being utterly inconsequential while looking down into the mouth of a bubbling, smoking volcano goddess and finally, for the first time in my life, realizing that there is something more powerful than me at work in the world

lying awake in bed, cousins all around, listening to the grown-ups talk and laugh and swear and play cards and drink and have the best time while we giggled under the covers and hearing grandma and uncle don say "goddamnit!" (those were really happy holidays, all of us together, friends as children, now strangers as adults...)

the electricity and raw hunger the last time I kissed someone I really, REALLY physically wanted

feeling the panic at not being able to say goodbye in person and knowing that she would soon be dead without hearing me say how much I loved her

the look in his eyes when he realized that I was going for good

I remember...

Missing you all...

2006-03-05T19:35:00.000-05:00

Be careful for what you wish for...

2006-02-05T10:31:00.000-05:00

How many times have we heard that and just laughed it off?
After all, if we wish for something, that means we really want it, right?

I had a conversation with someone this week that makes me think we don't always want what we wish for...

that the longing and the wishing are enough
that fantasy is better than reality
that once it becomes too real,
too possible
too certain to happen

we get a little uneasy with it.

Or maybe it's just the after effects we're afraid of
and anticipate
and don't want
and make us run away from
that thing we want so much.

Maybe we act as our own
saboteur
allowing ourselves to
want

but

not to have.

Is there something that YOU really, really want, but hold at arm's length for fear of actually getting it?

Fast Fiction Friday #22 - Bring in the clowns

2006-01-15T21:01:00.001-05:00

The mourners arrived just in time dressed as clowns, trying to look inconspicuous: a nearly impossible feat wearing size 22 red shoes and various colors-of-the-rainbow afro-style wigs. I tried to imagine why they were dressed like that: they had come from rehearsal; they were on their way to a child's birthday party; they really were clown-people. I smiled at the thought of these people actually wearing their clown suits and makeup at home, honking horns instead of talking and bonking each other on the head with sponge hammers. They slipped into the church and out of sight so I went back to the magazine I was reading.

I am sitting in the "Spin and Tumble" laundromat, sipping a Diet Coke and reading a gossip magazine - my favorite weekend activity. I look forward to the solitude and the gentle hum of the dryers all week long and experience has taught me that people have a million other things to do on a Sunday afternoon than wash their clothes, so I ultimately have the place to myself.

My machine sighs to a halt and I get up to feed more quarters into the slot because I know the clothes aren't dry yet. It will be another 20 minutes until I can take the armload of soft warm towels and bury my face into their comforting embrace. When I turn around to go back to my seat, there is a young wisp of a girl sitting in my place, reading my magazine. I didn't hear the bell on the door and find that strange because it's normally so loud and clangy.

I'm slightly annoyed that with all the empty seats in the room, she chose one that was obviously occupied and that she's flipping through my magazine, licking her pointer finger to turn each page. I imagine the corners getting infected with this girl's wet germs and know that I won't pick it up again even though I was in the middle of reading a really juicy piece about my favorite actor.

There's something not right about her: maybe it's the sallow color of her skin, or the lack of spark in her eyes, I'm not sure, but the way she methodically swipes her finger across her tongue, lowers it to the page and flicks it with a sharp snap of her wrist sends a wave of strangeness down my spine. She doesn't pause to read or study the pictures; just lick and flick, lick and flick until she reaches the end of the magazine, turns it over and does the same thing - this time back to front.

I'm starting to get creeped out watching her and silently will the dryer to hurry up so I can get out of here. The Diet Coke has found its way to my bladder and since I don't have a purse and the girl has already ruined my magazine, I think it's pretty safe to go to the bathroom. I don't have any personal belongings lying around for her to steal, except for the clothes in my basket and who'd want to steal someone else's clothes anyways?

So I make my way into the bathroom, pee and wash up. When I open the door, I can't believe my eyes. The stranger has her hands in the dryer - my dryer - and she's feeling up my warm towels! This is all I can take. I stride over to her, prepared to give her a piece of my mind but when I see her up close like that, I stop dead in my tracks. This girl's eyes are solid stone black. No pupils, no whites, no EYES! Black, empty sockets but no eyes! My hands fly to cover my mouth, stifiling a scream that turns into a sound like a kitten mewing.

"Don't be afraid," she said. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just remember my mother doing laundry like this, when she was alive. I've missed this smell for a really long time." She moved back and I could see that her feet were not touching the ground. She was floating, skimming the floor, legs unmoving!

Finding my voice, I manage to say "What the hell is going on?"

She didn't look back or offer an explanation, but said "I must be getting back. It's almost time."

I watched her pass right through the window, move across the street, up the steps of the church and through the heavy wooden doors. I stood frozen in that spot until something caught my attention. The doors of the church had been flung open and a procession of mourners solemnly filed out, heads bowed and tissues pressed to damp eyes. Two caskets were carried down the steps, single file, and placed into the waiting hearse. I run outside quickly and head for a man I see who's getting into his car.

"Sir, excuse me, but can you tell me who the funeral was for?"

"Terrible accident. A mother and her little girl - trapeeze artists. Seems they had been practicing a new routine and they both fell to their death. Stupid to have been at it without a net, if ya ask me."

I guess I had my answer about the clowns... and about the girl.

Jekyll & Hyde

2005-12-21T10:30:00.001-05:00

"Do you know the story of Jekyll and Hyde?"

"Of course."

"Well then - to avoid either extreme, it is necessary to find all the lives in between."

This is from Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson.

Fast Fiction Friday #20 - Tiny bubbles....

2005-12-17T21:59:00.001-05:00

He watched the bubbles rise and tried to suppress a giggle. He counted 1-2-3-4... 4 seconds before the fart bubble smell wafted upwards and hit his nostrils. This was a game he loved playing in the tub since he was a small child. When he was still young, his mom would roll up her sleeves, bend over the side of the tub and use the washcloth to scrub behind his ears. While she was concentrating on the task at hand, he would let a loud one rip, making bubbles so strong that they tickled him between his legs. His mom would always pause for a moment, shake her head and say "Darrin, what am I going to do with you?!" Then they would both laugh so hard that tears would form in their eyes.

As a grown man, he still enjoyed the smell of his own farts. It was a secret thrill that only other guys could understand. Women found this habit repulsive, as if they didn't emit smelly gas from their own bodies! Darrin remembered taking a bath with his ex-wife one time. He asked her if she wanted to take a bubble bath with him. When she joined him in the tub, she asked where the bubbles were. Darrin then proceeded to make bubbles (the result of lunching at Taco Bell - or Taco Smell as he liked to refer to it). Shar jumped out of the tub so fast she almost slipped on the wet ceramic tile, calling him an immature asshole and storming off into the bedroom.

Darrin swore that it had been the straw that broke the camel's back on their relationship. Not long after, he was served divorce papers. Trying to numb the humiliation, Darrin told everyone that Shar left because she was having an affair with her chiropractor, which could have been true if she'd actually had a chiropractor.

Tonight, as Darrin mixes his own witch's brew of a bath, he writes his entry for an on-line dating service specializing in strange requests:

DWM seeks SF, any size or color
Must love a child at heart
Will share many tender moments
In my bubble bath of farts.

Snow day

2005-12-16T08:48:00.000-05:00

Closed due to a horrendous snow storm... Everyone who lives in the warmer part of our continent, CAN I COME VISIT???!

Fast Fiction Friday #19 - Memories best forgotten

2005-12-11T19:41:00.001-05:00

I think it was his photograph that made me spiral back 30 years into the past. I ran across the picture in the paper by pure chance. I had no idea that he'd even moved back to this area, but then again, how would I? It was a big city, after all, and people can disappear if that's what they want... it was what I had wanted 30 years ago.

I spent the rest of my coffee visiting the past. Donny was idolized by everyone back then: captain of the football team, star pitcher in baseball, crowned homecoming king our senior year and, as if all that wasn't enough, his good grades put him at the top of our class. Gorgeous, charming and just the slightes bit arrogant, Donny was every teachers' favorite and every girls' fantasy. He dated casually, breaking hearts left and right, but even with his reputation as a no-committment kind of guy, we all wanted a chance to be his girlfriend, convinced that WE were the one that was going to win his heart.

Even me.

When Donny got around to asking me out, it was April of our senior year. Graduation was only a few months away and I was just rebounding from a bad break up with a boy from a neighboring town. He had cheated on me with another girl, the distance between our 2 schools made it a pretty easy thing to do. I was crushed when I found out and broke up with him immediately. Donny sensed that I was ripe for the picking, so he asked me out. I, of course, was ecstatic. Not only would going out with Donny make me forget about Paul, but I'd be so perfect a girlfriend that he would fall madly in love with me and never want to look at another girl.

Boy was I ever wrong.

Sparing myself a replay of the sorrid details, my mind jumped forward to the day before graduation. What should have been a time for celebration and hope for the future had turned into a life-altering nightmare. I had my bags packed and my one-way ticket into the city and I was more scared than I'd ever been, or ever be, in my life. As the bus pulled away from the terminal, I cursed the day I ever agreed to go on that first date with Donny.

That was 30 years ago.

The sound of a car door slamming shut jerked me back to the present. My son was bringing the children over for the day so he and his wife could go house-hunting. With 2 young boys and another baby on the way, their 2 bedroom apartment was quickly becoming obsolete. The kids ran in the house, looking for cookies, no doubt. As the car backed down the driveway, I hear Taylor yelling from the kitchen.

"Look, Grandma! Daddy's in the newspaper!" Taylor shouted. "Come see! But what does obituary mean?"

"That's not your daddy, honey. That's just someone Grandma used to know. Why don't you run along outside while I get my gloves on and you can help me in the garden..."

Fast Fiction Friday #18 Opening Act

2005-12-02T22:27:00.001-05:00

Although I'd like to shy away from using "incredulously" and "wonderous" in the same sentence, JJ's the boss, so I'll play by his rules else risk mysteriously falling asleep under a camel with post nasal drip.

Incredulously they turned their wondrous eyes to the stage at the first notes the guitarist ripped off his double-necked fret board. The notes wailed high and urgent, silencing the crowd of disbelievers who had not come to hear this band, this gang of never-heard-ofs. Opening acts were usually tolerated only as a way to get extra drunk before the real head-banging kicked in. After all, there's nothing better than getting wasted at an outdoor concert in the summer.

The sights and smells were the same as always: beer-soaked grass trampled by thousands of pairs of feet grew even slicker by the vomit spewed by teenagers having had too much cheap beer, Madonna-wannabes in off the shoulder, cut-up sweatshirts and layers of makeup competed with the biker babes in their leather and lace for the primest spot in front of the stage and the unmistakable nostril-pinching odor of pot wafted through the air thick as cotton.

But... tonight different.

Tonight, the opening act ROCKED!

The guys had taken their places on stage only seconds before, with no introduction and without fanfare, and no one paid attention. I was trying to ignore the non-stop bullshit that was coming out of my boyfriend's mouth, so I watched saw the lead singer swagger up to the microphone, his mane of blondish locks enhancing his high cheekbones. He was wearing tight, ripped jeans, a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and dark Ray-Bans. He was beautiful.

For a moment, he looked at each of his bandmates and said something into the microphone that was inaudible above the noise of all those rowdies. And then it happened. Those first notes pierced the night sky like a laser of sound directly into our eardrums. There was a moment where everyone stopped what they were doing, turned to the stage in disbelief and then WHOOSH!

The roar of 3000 believers rose up in praise of these new gods. Fists in the air, pumping with the beat of the bass drum, so loud you could feel it alter the beat of your heart, we were now worshipers of this band we'd refused to acknowledge 30 seconds before. By the end of the song, we were all singing "Oohh she's a little runaway..." at the chorus, like we'd known it all along.

Thankfully, the band ignored our initial disrespect and rewarded us with a blistering 45 minute set and left the stage to cries of "MORE, MORE, MORE", to the dismay of the headline act.

Leaving the stage, the blond god took off his shades, looked into the crowd and said "Watch out for us... we're Bon Jovi."

Fast Fiction Friday #17 Dear Abby

2005-11-20T21:23:00.001-05:00

...so anyway my girl friend Brooke is totally pissed about the fact that this guy she likes, let's call him "V", is really way more interested in me because after all, I am pretty cute and I don't have blemishes on my face, I know how to dress and love photography and all, just like "V". I mean he's so totally gorgeous that he could have any girl he wanted, but he told me he likes me best. Well, who am I to tell him no? I'd be like mental to turn down "V"! He's got the cutest smile and can ride horses and OH! He promised to take me riding next week! Wait 'til she hears about THAT, she'll just have a hissy fit. I wonder if he'll read me poetry or want to take my picture? I'll have to go out and buy those cute little riding pants so he can get a good look when we're galloping through the field... would that be too slutty? I mean, I don't want to appear cheap or anything, but if he asked (because I'm sure he's such a gentleman that he'd ask first), I just know I'd say yes to going all the way. I can picture it... he'd bring a blanket and we'd lay down in the tall grass and he'd be really gentle, not like that awful boy in my history class, Jeno, who has this reputation of getting girls to give him... well, you know, and doesn't ever call afterwards. Not that I'VE ever done it, but I know "V" would be soooo great. Well, I guess I should wrap up this letter and get to my question, which is this: Is it true that you can get gum out of your hair with an ice cube?

Thanks, Dear Abby, you're the best!

(Sorry, Brooke! I had no idea what to write this week!!)

Fast Fiction Friday #16 Evil Masterpiece

2005-11-12T15:36:00.001-05:00

Fast Fiction Friday gives us a list this week, rather than a sentence.
We must use these 3 items in our story:

1. An arrow
2. A Nose
3. A snake

Here we go:

I hate my name. My parents decided to commemorate the atmospheric conditions under which I was conceived by christening me Stormy. Growing up was no walk in the park. I've heard all the jokes: stormy weather, stormy seas, stormy night, watch out a storm is brewing... fucking idiots, all of them just losers who thought they could get away with calling me names.

When I was little, I found the best way to let out my frustrations was through drawing pictures. As a child, I'd draw angry stick people and then scribble dark crayon all over them until they disappeared. This disturbed my parents, I know, because on several ocassions I overheard them whispering in the kitchen about me. Never once, though, did they ask me why.

As I grew older, my drawings took on a darker, more explicit nature. I would draw pictures of people harming each other, harming animals, harming themselves. I learned my lesson as a child though, and these pictures were hidden away under a loosened floor board under my bed. I think if my parents had ever seen those images, they would have sent me to the mental hospital.

My "artistic" talent landed me a job in a tatoo parlor in Las Vegas when I was 18. My designs were so much in demand, that I became somewhat of a celebrity and soon people were coming from all over the world asking me to create personal designs. They would tell me a story and I would illustrate something that represented their pain/joy/love/hate.

Tonight, Brooke walked through the door just before closing time. She was falling-down drunk and was carrying the half-empty bottle of tequila with her. Her blonde hair was a horrible mess, as though she'd just had a romp in the back seat of a car, and her makeup was smudged into heavy dark circles under her eyes. Wobbling on the 3-inch spikes that passed for shoes, she bent over and I got a glimpse of something I probably shouldn't have seen. But I was glad, just the same.

I invited Brooke to sit down before she collapsed and explained my way of working. She got comfy in the chair, offered me the bottle and proceeded to tell me the story of how she was pushed into modeling at 11 years old by her selfish, vain mother. Her mother had used Brooke to finance her insatiable appetite for the finer things in life: trips, cars, diamonds. She forced Brooke to quit school and pimped her out to various agencies, quitting one after the other when a more lucrative deal came along.

Men soon began to pay attention to Brooke in a way that should be reserved for adults. Brooke's mother didn't care. These men always brought expensive gifts as a way to buy satisfaction for their pathetic desires. This went on for 4 years until tonight when Brooke had finally gotten the courage to run away. She was only 16.

Brooke hated her mother.
Brooke hated herself.
Brooke was here to destroy the beauty of her face like her mother had destroyed the beauty of her innocence.

Her misery had inspired me and when I showed her the drawing, she was pleased.
"It's perfect," Brooke slurred, before passing out.

I laid the drawing next to her, covered her with a blanket we kept in the back room and turned out the lights. Climbing next to her on the chair, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, knowing there was no way I would let anyone else harm her. There was no way I would let her harm herself.

My evil masterpiece was a drawing of a flawless sleeping beauty with grotesque snakes winding in and out of her nose and an arrow through her heart. She was surrounded by cloaked men wearing masks and an evil looking woman lurking in the background.

This time I would not scribble until it disappeared. This would be Brooke's secret to hide away.

Fast Fiction Friday #15 Bad day

2005-11-06T00:37:00.001-05:00

The champagne cork was on the floor and in her hand was the bottle she'd just finished. Darla thought if she actually let it go and threw it away that she'd somehow turn this nightmare into reality. As long as she gripped the slender neck of the green bottle, time would stand still.

Making her way to the couch, she tried to gather the layers of tulle and silk with her free hand so she wouldn't stumble and fall. Why had she insisted on this fairytale princess wedding gown in the first place? She was so much more sophisticated than all this billowing fabric, but in the end her childhood dreams won out over the more rational voice in her head and she chose the dress with the biggest train, the puffiest sleeves and the highest price tag. She was a successful lawyer and could afford anything she wanted, after all, so why not indulge all her wildest fantasies? But the fantasy she'd had as a child certainly didn't include the catastrophe that unraveled before her eyes today.

The church was a vision of soft candle-light and white flowers. Orchids had been flown in directly from Hawaii and were attached to the end of each pew by a billowing satin bow. Guests had been instructed to come in black attire to heighten the contrast between dark and light and peeking out from the balcony before the ceremony, Darla had though the effect spectacular.

As the first notes of Pachelbel's Canon started to play and the huge wooden doors swung open, Darla stood ready to walk down the aisle. She thought it was odd that Scott wasn't waiting at the alter for her, but assumed he would be appearing any minute to take his place by her side. As the music swelled, she made her way slowly towards the front of the church, basking in the admiring glances of everyone around her.

Admiration turned to confusion and then pity when Darla reached the alter and the priest leaned in to whisper in her ear. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to turn off his microphone and everyone in the church heard what he said. Several women gasped and after a split second of tortuous silence, the murmurings started and spread like wildfire throughout the crowd. All Darla could do at that point was to run out the side door of the church and into the waiting limo.

Snapping out of the flashbacks, Darla caught a glimpse of her reflection in the massive mirror hanging over the couch. She couldn't believe the image looking back was really her: mascara had run the lengths of her cheeks, the tiara sat askew on the top of her head and she'd smudged the ruby red lipstick all over her mouth. The makeup artist said it was kiss-proof and that even after greeting everyone in the reception line it would still look freshly-applied. A lot SHE knew!

Kiss-proof maybe, drink-proof apparently not.

Feeling the rage and bile rise in her throat, Darla raised the bottle high above her and heaved with all her might, letting it fly across the room, shattering the monstrous image into a thousand pieces. In that instant, Darla broke not only the mirror but the silence that was protecting her from the nightmare turning into reality.

Not only had she been left at the alter, but her husband-to-be had run off with her mother.

Fast Fiction Friday #14: Urgent

2005-10-30T10:49:00.001-05:00

It was just a bad feeling he'd been unable to shake since waking up that morning. A sense of foreboding that seemed to have no logical source, no cause, yet was there in the back of his mind, nagging like sore muscle that you can't even massage away. Something was going to happen today, he just didn't know what it was. But as long as his routine stayed the same, maybe nothing would come of this strange feeling.

Don had gone about his daily routine on auto-pilot, performing the same tasks he'd done every weekday morning for the past 23 years he'd been employed at Geckel and Associates: rising to the sound of the alarm at precisely 6:43, he used the toilet, took a 7 minute shower, brushed his thinning hair, dressed (socks first, underwear, tee-shirt, shirt, pants and shoes, just like his mother taught him to do - bottom to top, top to bottom) and went downstairs for breakfast. Eating was always a ritual he enjoyed. The 5 hard-boiled eggs he prepared on Sunday night allowed him an extra 6 minutes in the morning since he didn't have to wait for them to cook every day. That's smart planning, he thought with a smile. He made a cup of instant coffee, peeled an orange and made a piece of toast just the way he liked: almost burnt and lots of butter filling the little pores.

Eating took exactly 12 minutes and this allowed him to scan the headlines of the paper and mark the articles that were interesting so he could read them later that evening. He put the dishes in the sink, brushed his teeth and was out the door at 7:20. A brisk 3 minute walk and he wouldn't have more than 2 minutes to wait for the bus that took him into the city. He wasn't particularly eager to get to work, per se, but employment had one benefit: a computer. Every weekday morning at 8 a.m. for the past 6 months, Don had been coming to work for the sole purpose of writing emails to the object of his affections: Elaine from accounting. They both were extremely shy and felt more comfortable getting to know each other in this way, rather than face to face.

Today though, that slight feeling of dread just wouldn't go away. Sitting down at his computer, Don decided not to read the message marked "Urgent" from the head of the department (the supervisor was always marking his messages "Urgent" and they always turned out to be nothing important) and instead started to compose a message to Elaine. Their correspondences were starting to heat up and he could feel a little thrill in the pit of his stomach. Today he was going to describe his fantasy - something which he'd never be able to do face to face - but writing had given him courage. As the vision formed in his mind, he typed in great detail what he would like to do with his hands, his tongue, his body... Don could feel himself getting red in the face just typing, but that didn't stop him. He was even more excited by the fact that Elaine would read his message in only 10 minutes and he would make sure to walk by her desk to see her reaction.

Pushing SEND, Don could feel his pulse racing at the anticipation of her response and he smiled at the thought of her reading his words. Deciding to read the "Urgent" message, he was surprised to see that the email he'd just sent to Elaine was waiting to be read in his own Inbox.

Everything became horrifyingly clear the second he read:

To all staff,
We have been experiencing technical difficulties with our email since late last night. You are advised not to send any internal email until further notice, as messages seem to be somehow routed to the entire office. Thank you for your understanding.

The eyes... it's all in the eyes

2005-10-28T18:31:00.000-05:00

eyes

windows to the soul
some say

get lost inside
losing sound of the surroungding noise
that somehow fades into the distance
and all your concentration is
focused on those

eyes

lost in their greenishgoldenbrownness
that almost, on the right day
match the color of your own

eyes

that have a tendency to
change color with the weather
sometimes more brown
sometimes more golden
always with flecks of green

did you know that about me?
that my eyes change color?

and the

eyes

they just draw you in and
make you want to lean over
just far
enough
for
everything to
become
out
of
focus
and
just close enough
to
almost
reach

lips
that you want
so
much
to
kiss

and now you're watching the lips
instead of the

eyes

and it takes all your concentration to
focus
until you realize that you're

staring

how rude
and so you go back to
looking into those

eyes

and finally have to look

away

for a second and catch your breath
because it's been
taken
away
by
those
eyes

Fast Fiction Friday #13: Lucky 13

2005-10-23T20:44:00.001-05:00

With money in my pocket and a bad attitude, I stood in the long line of people waiting to get into "Oz", the newest, hippest club in town. The burly gorilla of a gatekeeper stood at the door, arms crossed and stony-faced, looking past all the eager faces trying to make eye contact in hopes that THEY would be let in. The groups of girls in line were all clones of the same model: tall, thin, miles of leg disappearing under micro skirts, flashy halter tops and long hair. They all wore the same can't-leave-home-without-it accessory: the cell phone in basic black. I say "wore" because the phones were all attached to the girls' ears.

By the expressions on their faces, it was easy to guess what each conversation was about. They were all so shallow that most were smiling and chattering at a hallucinating speed, meaning they were gossiping about someone - probably someone standing a little farther down the line. Girls can be so catty.

I had ventured out tonight alone in hopes of hooking up. I was currently following the numbers game to dating and tonight it was number 13 - lucky 13 I kept telling myself. The numbers game was simple: You can't ask a woman out unless she's the whatever-the-date-on-the-calendar-th woman you speak to. It's a strategy that I learned in my "Bad Boys Win" dating seminar. You see, my problem getting dates all these years hasn't been because I'm not nice enough to women, it's because I'm TOO nice. Zander, my personal bad boy dating coach, taught me that women really want a bad boy. They want to be challenged, they want men to make them prove that they're worth his time.

Sounds kind of screwed up to me, but I'm willing to try anything.

So, today is October 13, I'm outside this hot club teeming with hotter chicks, and I've got to talk to 12 of them before I ask anyone out. I start with the group of 3 standing directly in front of me.

"Hot club, huh?" I venture.

Hot chick #1 looks at me and seethes "Are you talking to me?"

I want to tell her no... every fiber of my body wants to tell her no, but I make myself arrogant and crude and say "Not if you're gonna be such a bitch, I'm not."

With that remark, her two friends turn around and take notice. "Wow, Sherri, he really told you!" hot chick #2 offers, her eyes flitting from her friend back to me. Hot chick #3 closes her cell phone and gives me the once-over, top to bottom. I silently pray that my clothes aren't somehow repulsive to her. "You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?" she challenges.

"I kiss a lot of women with this mouth and they always want more." Audacious, arrogant and just a little bit crass were the rules to follow. Dare to be reckless, venture rudeness and the women drop like flies.

That's what Zander said, anyways.

Hot chick #2 wants to engage, but I can't waste any more time on this group. I've got to make it to number 13 as quickly as possible. I've already got her picked out - gorgeous creature, dark hair contrasting with all the blondeness in line, sleek black trousers and a sexy handkerchief top (please don't ask me how I know what that is) that shows off well-formed bare shoulders. She is stunning. She's also only 4 people behind me, and she's alone.

I continue my ascent through the numbers and my confidence builds with every interaction. Some women don't respond to classic bad boy maneuvers "Did you know your teeth are a little crooked?" or "Couldn't find a date tonight, huh?" but I'm amazed to see the change in their eyes when they do respond. I'm suddenly not easy; I'm now something out of reach that they want to possess. I see it in their eyes and it gives me fuel to move on to the next one.

Finally, I reach and dispose of #12, a slightly overweight red-head with a see-through top and too-tight white pants. Even someone like me who could be classified as "desperately seeking anyone" wouldn't give her the time of day. But, she's an easy target and happens to be right behind me, so I turn around and say "Nice night to get laid, isn't it?"

She stares back at me with a blank expression on her face.

I think to myself, "C'mon, play along... you have to talk back so I can get to the prize." and quickly try to think of something to make her respond. I try again with "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

Eyes straight ahead, she only muttered "Please, just leave me alone."

That's all the conversation I needed. My prize was in sight and I felt sure that tonight, I would be successful.

Pumped with confidence, I move back in line the few feet that separates me from #13, keeping her fixed in my sights. She's actually looking at me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Standing directly in front of her, I see how beautiful she really is and this makes the butterflies in my stomach take flight. My palms start to sweat and my pulse races. But before I can open my mouth, she says "I'm number 13, aren't I?"

"Wh-what?" is all I can manage to stammer.

"Today is October 13th, and I'm number 13, aren't I? I've been watching you make your insults to 12 other women in line and figured it was just a matter of time until you made your way back to me. But I had no idea that I was the chosen one."

My mouth hung open in disbelief. She'd been following my every move and somehow knew what I was doing! Trying to regain some semblance of composure, I could only utter "How do you know?"

"My ex took the Bad Boys Win class. That's how he got my attention and wound up in my bed for several weeks. When he dumped me, he had the balls to tell me all about it. He said that I was his homework assignment in order to pass the class."

As she said this, her eyes never left mine. I was speechless. I was crushed. I was defeated.

"Let me give you a piece of advice... there are some women who want to be pursued by a bad boy. They might even like the insults or crude things you say to them in the short term. But if you're looking for a girlfriend, rather than a roll in the sheets, I suggest you listen very carefully to what I'm about to say. The only way to win the prize is to treat her with respect, patience and tenderness. We have enough self-image issues that we don't need assholes like you telling us our hair looks bad or our ears are not even. We don't want you to think you're better than us, we don't want to hear filth coming out of your mouth and we certainly don't want to be insulted. If I were you, I'd go back to class and ask for a refund."

I hung my head and prayed that no one else was looking at me. My face burned scarlet red and there was a strange ringing in my ears. All I wanted to do was escape.

"Sorry, I never meant..." but I couldn't finish the hollow words. She'd thrown me a punch in the gut and slashed my ego and I just wanted to crawl away and lick my wounds. I turned my back to leave and felt a tug on my shirtsleeve. Hoping she wasn't winding up for another fast ball, I reluctantly turned around. She grabbed my hand and started writing something in the palm of my hand.

"When you've unlearned everything they tried to teach you, call me."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open.

1 lie about me....

2005-10-21T16:57:00.000-05:00

I saw this on Deadly Female's site and, well... never one to turn away from a good idea, I'm stealing it! She did too, so it evens out!

Four statements about me. Three are the truth. One is a lie. You figure it out....

1. I once got so drunk on a bottle of Asti Spumanti - and an empty stomach - before an Aerosmith concert, that I had to be taken to the medical tent and missed the whole show passed out on a cot.

2. I am turning into a concert promoter as a second career.

3. I have never ingested any illegal substance (under-aged drinking doesn't count).

4. I once won $100,000 with a winning lottery ticket as part of the office pool.

Tags.... tags... spin the wheel and see where it lands....

1. Tom (Well in Dowd) because he needs to take his mind off his broken heart
2. Todd (Your Name Here) because he's such the storyteller and I'm sure he will put my 4 statements to shame
3. JJ (Purgatorian) because he always gives ME something to write about so I'll return the favor

Dad

2005-10-18T20:50:00.000-05:00

My dad was never the kind of guy to verbalize much.
He hunts, he fishes, he golfs.
He's retired.

I remember seeing him cry at my grandfather's funeral when I was 15.
I don't think I saw him do it again until my grandmother's funeral 18 years later.

But lately, he's become more sensitive to things, like he's so full of pride that the tears just burst out of him.

I recounted a story about my oldest daughter a few months ago. She was praised by some other parents for her generosity during a soccer game. My daughter has a lot of talent and this other little girl does not. It was the championship game and my daughter had already scored a goal. In the final minutes of the game, she passed the ball to this other girl, allowing her to score her only goal of the entire season. The parents were ecstatic. We were proud.
Telling this story to my dad, I could see tears well up in his eyes and he had to leave the room for a minute.

When we say goodbye now (we don't see each other much more than once a year), he hugs me extra hard in that one-armed way of his - not really a hug but close enough. And he adds a kiss on the cheek, which he's never done.

Tonight we called to talk for a bit. The kids both had their turn, husband too.
My oldest, being the perceptive genius she is, hung up and said "I think it really did grandpa good to talk to us!"

She's 9.

Sometimes I really hate being so far away.

Fast Fiction Friday #12 The children are gone

2005-10-14T23:11:00.001-05:00

The children are gone.

The children are gone!

I walk around the house, calling their names: Caroline, Emilie... where are you? Anwser me right now! GIRLS!! WHERE ARE YOU?!

Feeling the panic rise with the bile that catches in my throat, I start to shake uncontrollably. I run from room to room, opening doors, looking in cupboards, closets, under beds. I pull back the curtains, certain that I'll see their smiling, conspiring faces any minute. But that doesn't happen. Terrified that some harm has come to them, I pick up the phone to call the police, Bbt set the receiver down just as quickly and wonder what I'd tell them anyways.

What happened? I didn't hear the alarm ring this morning, or maybe I forgot to set it last night as I stumbled into bed. My deadbeat husband didn't bother to come home last night and I spent a good part of the evening sucking on a bottle of Grey Goose. Actually, the Grey Goose went down rather quickly: it was the lemon I sucked on. I drank so much that I don't remember going to sleep. I was still dressed in the clothes I had on yesterday, so I must have been totally wasted when I fell into bed.

Now, at 9:07 am on a Tuesday morning, I was hungover and my girls were missing.

I pull on my boots and coat and made my way outside. A light snow is falling, starting to cover yesterday's tire tracks in the driveway. I looked around quickly, noticing nothing out of the ordinary: no footprints near the bedroom windows, no broken glass. Nothing pointed to anything suspicious. Yet, my girls were no where to be found.

Freezing now, I go back into the house and pick up the phone again, not really knowing who to call. I could call David's cell phone, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing something was wrong. No, he needed to believe that I could get along just fine without him. That way, he'd come back and grovel about being so inconsiderate. I couldn't let him know that I was bothered in the least by his staying out all night.

I go back into the house to look for clues. In the bathroom, I find barrettes strewn about the counter just like every other morning. The toothpaste cap is left off the tube and the dental floss lays hanging over the side of the garbage can, probably discarded in haste. The girls' beds are made - rather, Emilie's is made and Caroline's half attempt at straightening the comforter befits her "too busy to bother" attitude about anything involving cleanliness.

I search further, noticing that their backpacks are gone, as are their coats and hats. I look in the refrigerator and see the lunches I prepared last night have gone missing too. Taking a closer look at the kitchen, I realize that there are freshly soiled bowls of cereal in the sink and a half-empty glass of juice left on the counter.

Panic subsiding, I come to the only logical conclusion: my kids have gotten themselves off to school while I lay asleep in my bed. Grabbing the near-empty bottle of vodka, I go back to my room and wonder if I have any chance of being sober when they come home from school.

You are what you.... put on your walls?

2005-10-11T22:58:00.000-05:00

Tonight, my company had a client appreciation event that was held at an art gallery. We listened to a well known Canadian artist talk about how he paints, his career, his life etc... and then he talked about how people connect with a piece of art, fall in love with it and want to own it. Of course, the "connection" principle struck a note with me...

But what he said next, is certainly food for thought.

He said, "I can go into anyone's house, look at what's hanging on their walls and know what that person is all about. Art is a reflection of who we are. We buy what we see in ourselves."

My walls are almost bare, save for a painting my sister-in-law made for me several years ago. A very abstract painting of 2 chic women having tea. Very elegant: flowing scarves, big hats... not a lot of detail visible, kind of blurry... I love it, but it doesn't represent me.

If I could, I would fill my walls with these pieces (all of which have already been used in posts here) and all the others that have graced my posts since last June.

What do they say about me?
You're all welcome to share your opinions...

Fast Fiction Friday #11 The Clover Crown

2005-10-09T21:10:00.001-05:00

Loping along through the moonlight... was this week's opening line.

Loping along through the moonlight was no way for a teenage boy to be seen, but Sam didn't care. Sam was on cloud nine. He'd just spent the afternoon with Melody. She had the most beautiful thick black hair and Sam thought it smelled like the clover that grew in his back yard. Sometimes on hot summer days, he would lay down and watch the clouds float by, letting the clover smell waft over him and fill his nostrils with its thick sweetness. That's what Melody's hair smelled like. Sam decided to make her a crown of clovers and give it to her tomorrow; then she could be his princess. That thought made Sam feel warm all over in that special way and he giggled to himself.

Arriving at his house, Sam could see that the light in the kitchen was still on, meaning his mom was waiting up for him like she always did when he was out past dark. She would be in her bath robe - the blue fuzzy one she'd had since Sam was a small boy - sitting at the table drinking tea. The radio would be playing "old" music - the kind his mom said she listened to when she was a teenager - and there would be a plate of cookies: she always put out a plate of cookies for them to share.

"Hi mom, I'm home." Sam announced, remembering to take off his shoes before coming into the kitchen. His mom hated a dirty floor and Sam was mindful to leave his shoes by the door so she wouldn't get mad.

"What did you do tonight, Sammy?"

"I went to see Melody. We took a walk to the store for her mom and bought some bread and eggs. Melody couldn't remember the other thing her mom asked for so we walked up and down the aisles looking, until she finally remembered. Soap. That's what her mom needed. Soap for the dishes. When we tried to pay though, Melody had a little trouble figuring out the money, so I had to help her. It's a good thing I was there because it was that mean boy Stewart who was working the cash register. I think he might have stolen her money if I hadn't told him that 20 minus 7 was 13 and not 3. Melody doesn't do so good at math so I had to help her. Stweart must not have liked me telling him that because he swore at me and called me a stupid retard. I told him I might be retarted but at least I knew what 20 minus 7 was. He got real red in the face after that and looked at me with bad eyes - you know like when a dog growls? That's what Stewart's eyes looked like."

Sam rambled for another 20 minutes about what Melody said and did, what her mom made for supper, the new words her parakeet learned to say and that his bike tire was flat so he'd had to gallop home like a horse. While he spoke, he ate every one of the cookies that were on the plate.

Satisfied that he'd told everything, Sam hugged his mom and went to bed, thinking about the clover crown he was going to make Meloody.

The next day, Sam did all his chores after breakfast. He was responsible for washing the bathtub because his mom had a bad back and said she couldn't bend over like that anymore. He was also in charge of taking out the garbage and cutting the lawn. Today though, before cutting the lawn, Sam went into the back yard and picked enough clovers to make Melody's crown. He took care to take only the longest stems so he could easily tied the ends together like his teacher in the 2nd grade had taught him.

When his work was done, Sam got himself a big glass of lemonade and sat on the steps. He was gentle so not to break the stems, tying them carefully but just tight enough that they all held together. Taking his empty glass to the sink, Sam left a note for his mom, telling her that he'd gone to Melody's house and would be back for supper. His mom worked until 4 every day at the Wash 'n Dry and she'd be worried if Sam wasn't there when she got home.

He felt really excited about seeing Melody. Today he would ask her to be his girlfriend, even though some people thought retards couldn't be boyfriends and girlfriends. Sam knew better though. He loved Melody and today he would place the crown on her head and tell her so.

Locking the door as he left the house, Sam started off in the direction of Melody's house, oblivious to the figure lurking under the huge maple tree across the street. He didn't see them as he turned the corner and headed for the field that was the shortcut to where Melody lived. He didn't see them on their bikes, hanging back just far enough so they wouldn't be noticed. He didn't see them as he skipped in the sunshine and sang about clovers and smiles.

And he didn't see them as they pounced from behind, knocking him to the ground and sending his beautiful crown flying from his hand, only to be trampled under their angry, stomping feet.

Fast Fiction Friday #10 That one time

2005-10-02T00:18:00.001-05:00

(fiction... or not so much?)

whenever i open
this particular bottle of wine
(you know the one with the label that looks like
a child's drawing of a single black balloon
but it's wavy like you're looking
at it through a rain-covered window
and the color surrounding it is the exact color of
a tangerine crayon)

whenever i open it
i think of you and
it reminds me of that time
we drank it together

that time
that ONE time

that one time your eyes were intense
concentrating on me
and what I was saying

that time you knocked me off guard
before i had even sat all the way down
took my breath away
just for a second
saying what i didn't expect
or want
but wanted anyways

“I had no idea that’s where that goes.” you said

i had no idea what you meant until
you nodded in the direction of the table behind us
and i saw what you saw
and i smiled
like we were sharing a secret

and when I'd catch you
looking at my mouth
instead of my eyes
you didn't even flinch
it's like you didn't try to hide it
or maybe it wasn't on purpose
or you didn't know that I knew what
you were doing

or maybe it was all just my imagination

(did you know i was watching your mouth too
wondering what it tasted like
felt like)

but i saw it
the flicker
the intensity
the wanting

that time
that ONE time

Fading star

2005-09-29T07:36:00.000-05:00

Come on, oh my star is fading
and I swerve out of control
If I, If I'd only waited
I'd not be stuck here in this hole.

Come here, oh my star is fading
And I swerve out of control
And I swear I waited and waited
I've got to get out of this hole

But time, is on your side
It's on your side, now
Not pushing you down
And all around
It's no cause for concern..

Come on, oh my star is fading
And I see, no chance of release
And I know I'm dead on the surface
But I'm screaming underneath

And time is on your side
It's on your side, now
Not pushing you down
And all around
Oh, It's no cause for concern

Stuck on the end of this ball and chain
And I'm on my way back down.

Stood on the edge
Tied to a noose
Sick to the stomach
You can say what you mean
But it won't change a thing
I'm sick of the secrets
Stood on the edge, tied to a noose
You came along and you cut me loose
You came along and you cut me loose
You came along and you cut me loose

Coldplay - Amsterdam

2005-09-28T07:18:00.001-05:00

Women and Wine

2005-09-27T12:26:00.000-05:00

I first saw this painting hanging in someone's house.
It blew me away.
It's by Kathy Womack.

Don't you wish you were there too?

Control issues

2005-09-26T21:25:00.000-05:00

To be or not to be...
That is the question.

In control, that is.

I like to be in control.
I'm a bit of a control freak, if truth be told.

But I have a fantasy that centers around NOT being in control...

I recently rented the movie "Closer".
There is a very powerful scene in the beginning of the movie, where Dan (played by Jude Law) is being photographed by Anna (Julia Roberts). She's a very "together" woman on the outside. She controls the photography session, telling him which way to pose, giving direction...

Then the roles reverse, and he, standing, simply commands "Come here."
You can see her weigh the possibilities and consequences in her mind before taking a few defiant steps closer to him. He walks the rest of the way and they kiss.

Very simple. Very direct. Very powerful.
He had the upper hand for a few brief moments.
She let herself be controlled; gave in to letting someone else take over.. decide.

Do you allow yourself a moment of abandon (or taking control) with your significant other or do you reserve that for your fantasies?

Fast Fiction Friday #9 Caught in the Rain

2005-09-26T11:12:00.001-05:00

JJ changed things up a bit this week, saying "this week's story will simply have to be about or take place in a storm."

The rumbling of thunder in the distance confirmed what I had smelled being carried by the wind for the past several hours: a storm was brewing. I could tell it was going to be a big one by the way animals in the forest started talking to each other almost hysterically. Squirrels chattered, birds squawked, deer ran nervously from one end of the woods to the other, looking for reliable shelter. Static electricity in the air made us all a little jumpy. Whenever the animals got this crazy, I knew Mother Nature was concocting a nasty witch's brew for us all.

The wind had been blowing warm from the southeast all morning; a balmy breeze that made us lazy and content to just enjoy being in the sunshine. By noon, however, the air started to cool and the leaves on the trees showed their undersides - you know how they look whitish when they turn upside-down. By mid-afternoon, the temperature had easily dropped 15 degrees and debris on the ground was being swirled around by a chilly northwest wind. Dark clouds moved in, shrouding the sun and I got the eerie feeling that night was falling earlier than usual.

At the first crack of lightning, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I knew I had to find shelter immediately. I'd been slow to move, thinking I would have time to react when the first raindrops started to fall. I don't mind getting wet, contrary to what most people think. A nice soft rain is cleansing and I'm often brave enough to stay outside while the drops fall from the sky. But this time, when the lightning struck the treetop directly above me, I jumped and ran for cover.

The rain came quickly and violently. I tried as best as I could to hide underneath some low branches, darting from one tree to the next, but my efforts were useless: in a matter of seconds, I was completely soaked. I was still almost a mile from home, having taken a long walk in the morning sunshine. Now I regretted being so hypnotized by the path that took me deep into the woods.

I remembered passing a deer blind on the opposite edge of the forest that might offer shelter. The fastest route though, was straight across the meadow, through the tall weeds. I wasn’t sure that it was safe to venture out into the openness of the flat ground, but retracing my steps along the path would take twice as long. I decided to muster all the courage my mighty name could afford me and make a mad dash. I had to rely on instinct because I couldn’t see if I was even heading in the right direction. Trying to keep low, running was difficult as the grass whipped across my face. A branch from a tree that had fallen many years ago reached out to scratch my chest and the downpour instantly washed a trickle of blood away. My feet were sore and I was panting harder than when I run while hunting birds. The frequent clap of thunder was the only thing that could be heard above deafening combination of rain and wind.

I finally reached the blind, only to find the door closed and windows boarded up. Having no roof, the small shack offered almost no protection from the deluge. I huddled against the backside, exhausted from my sprint across the field. The wind bit and chilled me to the bone and it felt like even my insides were wet.

Cursing myself for the 100th time, I picked up the path where I remembered it to be and began the last stretch home. As the wet, earthy smell filled my nostrils, I looked around and could see the porch light shining faintly through the sheet of rain. My heart raced as I realized I’d soon be safe and sound.

Then I heard it:

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Samson... where are you? There you are! Oh, you poor thing, you're soaked!"

I jumped into my mistress' loving, warm arms and purred as she dried me with a towel. I think I'll stay close to home from now on.

Fast Fiction Friday #8 Unlikely ending

2005-09-17T20:48:00.001-05:00

"Hell bent for leather and ugly as a dirt clod" was the way we described Scat in the old days. Oh, that wasn't his real name but everyone called him that after Daniella Simpson sent him away, tail between his legs, so to speak. He'd finally worked up enough courage to approach her unattainable silkiness, sweating and fretting all month long until I slapped him on the back one day and said "Steve, it's now or never, dude."

He adjusted his leather jacket, the pride and joy he wore even in 90 degree weather, got off his hog and hooked his shades into the neck of his Rolling Stones T-shirt. He sauntered over to Daniella, making a great attempt at looking casual, although the few of us who knew him well could pick up the telltale sign of nerves: one shoulder creeped up higher than the other and his head cocked slightly to the right.

Every high school has one girl who is so out of reach, so intimidating, so desirable that every guy turns into a stuttering idiot in her presence. Daniella was that girl: the epitomy of perfection on the outside. Check under the hood though, and that was another matter. Daniella could slice you apart with her razor-sharp tongue and she could burn holes right through your skull with one scornful look.

That didn't stop most guys from trying to date her though. We all knew better, but the allure of being THE ONE who triumphed was too tempting for us to ignore. Over the years, she took great pleasure in shooting us down, one by one.

Steve was a bit of a wild child. He started riding a motorcycle when we were just 12 after a surprise birthday present from his dad. It didn't take long for him to want the riding jacket to complete his "image". He saved money from the empty beer cans he'd collect every Sunday morning from the area around the Wigwam bar down by the river. The drunks would stumble outside after last call, clutching a beer in each hand, discarding the empties into the bushes surrounding the parking lot. Steve quickly learned that if he got up at the crack of dawn, he could find enough cans to fill a garbage bag before the owner came to clean up from the night before. After only one summer, he had enough to get that jacket. Buying it extra roomy made people think Steve was bigger than he was at that age, adding to his image of a hard-ass, and it allowed him room to grow. By our senior year, he filled it out perfectly.

Anyways, that's about all the background you need. The story really starts when Steve tried to cozy up to Daniella and ask her out. She had her back to him, so she didn't see him coming. He paused for a split second and then cleared his throat, the raspiness in his voice betraying his false bravado.

She shot him a look that would have instantly frozen the sweat dripping off a steel worker's forehead. All the loathing and contempt she could muster was conveyed in the 10 seconds of silence that followed, as if she could make him vanish into thin air by sheer will. But Steve was tenacious and he usually didn't blink first. Daniella must have realized that Steve wasn't going to back down. She crossed her arms in front of her, widened her stance as if she were getting ready to hit one out of the park and said in a voice loud enough to attract attention, "I don't believe I heard you right. You couldn't possibly think I'd pay you any heed, you loser. What would I want with a bike-riding, needs-a-hair-cut-and-a-bath, bottom-of-the-food-chain, welfare-bound hick like you? Now just jump back on your toy and SCAT!"

Everyone who was within earshot heard what Daniella called him and from that moment on, the nickname just stuck. No one really knows what happened after that because Steve jumped on his hog, revved the engine and rode away in a cloud of dust.

Without further delay, ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to raise your glasses in a most unexpected toast as I present to you, Mr. Steve Parks and his bride, Daniella.

For Tom

2005-09-14T19:49:00.000-05:00

Tom asked about my new profile picture. It's by an artist named ALICIA GRAU and called "Femme Étendue".
It's French!!
Tom, you'll have to ask your wedding date what that means...

Takes 2 to tango or a man choking a woman?

2005-09-14T10:15:00.001-05:00

Fast Fiction Friday #7 Impulsive confession

2005-09-11T09:00:00.001-05:00

If only I had been able to retrieve the words that somehow managed to escape my lips before that awful flash of comprehension showed in her eyes. The moment I saw that her brain had wrapped around what had just come out of my mouth was the moment our relationship changed forever.

Julie and I had been friends since we were toddlers, playing together while our mothers drank coffee and smoked stinky brown cigarettes every afternoon from 3 until 5, waiting for our fathers to come home from work. We grew up, not so much living next door to each other as melted into each other's families and homes. Our mothers had grown up together in a similar fashion and it was only logical that their children should follow in their footsteps.

When we were old enough to start school, Julie and I would walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, turn the corner, and then, just when our mothers lost sight of us, break away from each other and sprint the next two blocks to the safety of the schoolyard. I was always faster than Julie, but sometimes I let her win, just so she wouldn't feel bad. I loved to fall behind and watch her long brown hair blow loose from the ribbon that tried unsuccessfully to keep its place. By the time we reached the playground, Julie would be belly-laughing so hard that we had to flop down on the grass to catch our breath; her cheeks scarlet from running and her hair now a tangled, wild mess.

I thought she was beautiful like that. I never told her, though, that I let her win.

As we grew older, our friendship deepened and we became inseparable. We did our homework together, we rode our bikes to the corner store in the summer, holding the dollar bill each of our mothers gave us once a week as a reward for some odd job or another. We'd stand for long, silent minutes looking at the selection of candy and treats, even though the items never changed. Julie would say the same thing every time: "I think maybe I'll try something new today." Then she'd stand there, looking at everything with her wide, blue eyes. Sometimes I'd steal a look at her from the corner of my own blue eyes, watching her try to make her decision. She would concentrate so hard that she'd start chewing on her thumbnail - a habit she'd developed when her mother took away her pacifier when we were 3. After several minutes, she'd turn to me and declare that maybe NEXT time, she'd try something new, grabbing a package of M&M's because they lasted longer "cuz you can eat 'em one at a time" she used to say.

High school was a test on our friendship as Julie was becoming quite a good ballerina. She started taking lessons when we were 7 and really had a natural talent for dancing. She had an elegant, sleek line to her body, graceful hands and an ability to interpret music that could take your breath away. She would spend hours in class and practicing, which meant sometimes we wouldn't see each other for days. Those were the hardest times for me, sitting alone in my room, watching out the window for her return. If it wasn't too late when she came home, I would make myself wait exactly ten minutes before going to her house, trying not to run down the stairs. I'd learned that ten minutes was just enough time for her to shower and change her clothes. She'd be in her room, hair wet and tangled, painting her nails or tending to her sore feet. When I knocked on her door, she always said "Where've you been? I've been waiting HOURS for you!" and I was greeted with a smile that lit up the room, and my heart.

I was the total opposite of her graceful being: clumsy, a little overweight and I wore size 10 shoes by the time I was 11. I'd developed an interest in photography, though, and that hobby served as an excuse to have Julie pose for pictures whenever she could. She was a willing subject, growing more aware of her beauty as we aged. I think she secretly liked the attention I lavished on her, even though she'd always find some small fault in her appearance as we scoured over the prints.

By the time we were seniors, I'd taken hundreds of pictures of her. Our rooms were plastered with prints of Julie laughing; Julie dancing; Julie lying in the grass; hanging by her legs from a tree; up close; far away; just her eyes, mouth, neck, hands, feet... everything Julie. I had a portfolio of the best prints and was ready to pack my bags and flee to New York with her if she received an acceptance into the Julliard School of Dance.

That day finally came a week before graduation. I heard her screams of joy from my bedroom window and almost broke my neck as I stumbled down the stairs in the rush to see what had happened. When she showed me the letter, we embraced and cried and laughed all at the same time. It was heaven for those few minutes. Then, in the 30 seconds it took me to utter these words, everything changed:

"Julie, I'm in love with you. I always have been. I want us to go to New York together, if you'll have me."

She stared at me and I could see in her eyes first confusion and then comprehension, as she backed away, shaking her head, and said "Susan, what have you done?"

Absolutely Fantastic!

2005-09-08T05:58:00.000-05:00

Did anyone SEE this match!

Unbelievable.

That's all I can say.

Fast Fiction Friday #6 The most embarrassing thing...

2005-09-03T19:25:00.001-05:00

The most embarrassing thing about it all, is the way people look at you funny. They know they shouldn't stare, so they look away quickly, a little embarrassed. But they always try to sneak a peek when they think you're not looking. If they're with someone, they pass judgement in hushed tones as if I don't exist or don't merit the common courtesy of being treated with respect.

What they don't understand, is that I'd give anything for genuine acknowledgement. If someone had the courage to look me in the eyes, they'd see beyond the stereotypes: wino, drug addict, loser, no ambition, lazy, runaway, pathetic, beggar. All of them, untrue descriptions of why I am homeless.

Kids are the only ones who will dare try to speak to me. Lacking the reflex to pity, they are simply curious as to why I look this way. Unabashed in their inquisitiveness, they ask all sorts of questions before they are shushed by their parents. This is the only real conversation I partake in. However infrequent it may be, I still crave the human interaction. Their parents are all cautious and warning, telling them not to bother me, but I can see in their faces that it is a protection mechanism. They all think I will harm their precious children because that's part of the stereotype too: child molester.

I sit on this bus, day in and day out, rain or shine, winter, spring, summer and fall. It's never very busy during the day and I try to stay off the commuters' route into the city. I usually ride the inner city routes because the bus drivers tend to look the other way when I get on, if you know what I mean. The faces around me are in constant change, but the looks and whispers remain the same.

I am homeless. I can't bathe with any regularity. I don't own a toothbrush, razor or comb. The clothes on my back are a mish-mash of items I've been given by the various shelters I frequent. I wear them all in layers, afraid that if I take anything off, someone might steal my bag while I'm sleeping outside on the back steps of the library.

It's quiet there and since the back entrance butts up against the Trattoria Primi Piatti, I sometimes get "lucky leftovers". That's what Gino calls the food he brings me after the restaurant's closed for the evening and the manager has gone home for the night. Gino cleans the floors and is one-step removed from being on the street with me. Yet, his heart is a big as the meatballs that the ladies with perfect manicures and 4-inch stilettos leave on their plates. If they only knew what happened after the bill gets paid by their overweight boyfriends, I'm sure they'd think twice about being so wasteful. Gino says all they really eat is the insalata anyways.
I've moved beyone the shame I once felt at eating other people's discarded food. Now I simply thank Gino and gobble whatever he brings me. Sometimes, it's my only meal of the day. On the days he doesn't work, I might not eat at all.

I am not homeless because I am an alcoholic or a drug addict. I'm not a bum or lazy or unambitious. I am homeless because 4 years ago, my wife and children were killed in a fire that destroyed my house and we had no insurance. I should have died along with them, but the graveyard shift at the plant paid time and a half over the holidays and we needed the extra money.

Seems like a bad choice, in hindsight.

Amazing guitarist

2005-09-01T19:24:00.000-05:00

RIK EMMETT

HAVE YOU HEARD HIM LATELY??

Fast Fiction Friday #5 Bittersweet exit

2005-08-26T23:30:00.001-05:00

My heart broke as he turned and walked away. He'd done it before, and every time it hurt like hell.

Once a year, every year, for the past 15, we've been meeting like this. He, always dressed to the nines, me in my hospital gown. Oh they think it doesn't bother me, but if they only knew they would dress me in my own damn clothes! How do they think it feels? A woman of my age and background, sitting in this bed, unable to move, to talk, to communicate... can't even go to the bathroom on my own, as if the whole situation wasn't embarassing enough. For Pete's sake, would someone just put some pants and a shirt on me so I can feel human again, just for one day?!

But they don't. And so he comes, bringing my favorite pink flowers... what kind are they again? Oh I can't seem to remember, but the buds are so full and fragrant that they make my nose tickle. And he must get them from the same flower shop because year after year, the green crinkly paper is always the same. Creature of habit, he always was.

As each year passes, he has less and less to say to me. Oh, he gives me a report on each of the 3 kids... Jane, Sam and... oh no. What is the 3rd one's name? I can't remember! Is it a boy or a girl? Oh this is so frustrating! WHY can't I remember? Then he launches into a description of the weather, as if I can't see perfectly well that it's raining outside today. His coat has splotches of water on the shoulders like he couldn't bother with an umbrella. He never could. It could be raining cats and dogs and yet he'd run from the store to the car out back with narry a concern for getting his clothes wet.

The nurse always comes to take the flowers and puts them in water for me. She's so thoughtful... Nancy is her name. A great big black woman with strong arms. She has to be strong since I see her lift Mr. Peterson from his chair to his bed with no help from anyone. She sings to herself when she's making the rounds with the meds. She places the vile little pill on my tongue and holds the cup up to my lips so I can sip a little bit of water to wash it down. She always tells me "Good girl, Ruth." when I swallow. She doesn't know that I don't want to take the pill. It makes my stomach hurt, and yet I can't tell anyone about it. Oh, I tried a few months ago, but all that came out was "AWWHHHHH" and no one paid any attention.

He always stays for lunch and the poor soul volunteers to feed me. The nurses always offer. They say "Mr. Stevenson, we can do that for you."

"No," he always says. "No, I'll do it." And he does, slowly feeding me every last bit in silence, waiting patiently as I chew and swallow, wiping my mouth after each bite so I don't look like a messy old fool. He holds the straw to my mouth and tells me "Have a sip, Ruthie." I obey like a small child. Just like Sharon did when she was only two. Sharon! That's it! I remember... some days are good for me.

So he comes and sits and tries to think of things to say to me after all these years. He is a stranger to me now, but I love him with all my heart. After the accident, he came every day for so many months. Now he only comes once a year. If only I could tell him I hear what he says. If only I could give him a sign that my brain is not dead, only my body is.

If only he knew...

And when he walks away at the end of the afternoon, he always gives me a kiss on the cheek, says "I love you Ruthie" and wipes a tear from his eye. It breaks my heart to see him walk away.

Breathe Me

2005-08-24T23:22:00.000-05:00

I've never watched Six Feet Under - I don't have HBO.
But tonight I am in a hotel room and see the commercial advertising the series finale. Thinking I'd better see at least one episode of this critics' darling, I lay down to watch.

By the end, I was sobbing.
If you have not seen this episode and heard the song at the end of the show, find it somewhere and watch, listen, cry, breathe.

It is the most powerful series ending I've ever seen.

Breathe Me - Sia

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me, I am small and needy
Warm me up and breathe me
Ouch, I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found
Yeah, I think I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me, I am small and needy
Warm me up and breathe me
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me, I am small and needy
Warm me up and breathe me

12-step program for internet addiction

2005-08-24T19:14:00.000-05:00

MoDigli wonders if there's a 12-step program for her internet addiction...
Here's one:

1. Admit you use the internet way more than you work.

2. Accept that this is counterproductive to maintaing human relationships and earning a living.

3. Analyze the reasons why escape to Blogging is so important to your life.

4. Argue that it isn't all that bad.

5. Tell everyone around you that you're exploring your creativity by Blogging.

6. Refuse the intervention offered by friends and family.

7. Lock yourself in your room with the computer, chips, cookies, red wine or anything else that inspires the creative muse.

8. Spend hours and days and weeks not shaving, showering, answering cell phone, door or mail...
9. Accept that this is an addiction.

10. Let go of the guilt you might feel over spending so much time with your keyboard that you develop tendonitis and carpal tunnel syndrome.

11. Realize that Blogging and the internet keeps you sane.

12. Go back to step one and start again!

Red, red wine

2005-08-17T07:18:00.000-05:00

Babbling Brooke has a funny post about men being like grapes...

There's a huge difference between California and French wines.

Drinking a California Zinfandel is like being backed up against the wall, arms pinned overhead and being kissed so passionately that your skin tingles.

French Bordeaux is like the cigarette afterwards.

Flash Fiction Friday #3

2005-08-12T22:40:00.000-05:00

"You thought I forgot, didn't you? (the end quote mark was left off purposely)

Purgatorian gives us the first line in our short short story. Here's my attempt at a FFF.

"You thought I forgot, didn't you? Well, I'm here, aren't I? That proves I didn't forget. I was thinking about you all day yesterday, remembering this anniversary and I wanted to get just the right flowers. I remember that calla lilies are your favorite, but do you think I could find any today? No.... After running to 3 different florists to no avail, an old man at my fourth stop took pity on me and called over to a greenhouse in Cheboygan. I must have looked a sight because it was 95 degrees by 10 am and the air conditioning in the car is broken. I know, I know, you told me to get it fixed last year, but you know how I am about taking care of anything besides people. Well, I regret it now! Anyways, that old man's phone call tracked down the flowers and I had to drive 20 miles to get them. There was an accident on Miller Rd. that had traffic backed up for almost 2 miles. People had their engines turned off and some were leaning up against their car doors having a chat in the bright sunshine. Let me tell you, there's nothing hotter than waiting in your car on an asphalt road in the middle of a July heatwave. We were stuck there like that for 15 minutes before the police finally let us pass. No one got seriously hurt, but my patience was taking a beating. Once I got to the greenhouse, the young girl behind the counter didn't know what calla lilies were so she had to call in the back for help. Thank God the manager took me into the refrigerator, where all the fresh flowers are kept. In heat like today, they don't last long, she said. Sue, the manager, helped me pick out the best looking ones because I told her they were for my special girl. I have to admit, they're beautiful... pristine white, elegant, long stems. Just like our wedding day, honey. I know you'd love them, if you could see them. I'll just lay them right here for you."

Wiping his brow, he lay the flowers next to the headstone.

If you knew...

2005-08-08T01:56:00.000-05:00

If you knew the consequences of your actions beforehand, would you do it anyways?

I've recently seen 2 movies that ask this question as it pertains to relationships and falling in (and out of) love. In the first, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, the main characters have their memories of each other erased after their breakup using some kind of ficticious medical procedure. In the end, however, their paths cross and once again they are drawn to each other. Upon discovering that they were previously involved and had already broken up once, they decide that, despite the knowledge of what had already happened, it was worth it to pursue falling in love a second time around.

The question is raised in the movie: If you knew what would happen, that you would break up with someone after time in a relationship, would you go ahead with it anyways?

The second movie, Code 46 has this food for thought:

If you had enough information, we could predict the consequences of our actions.
If you kissed that girl, if you talked to that man, if you take that job or marry that woman, if we knew what would happen in the end, would we ever be able to take that first step?
To make the first move?

Should we protect ourselves from less-than-perfect encounters or is it true that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Knocking at your back door

2005-08-05T14:49:00.000-05:00

Long time no post...
busy week
How 'bout this -

I can't deny it
With that smile on her face
It's not the kill
It's the thrill of the chase

Deep Purple - Knocking at Your Back Door

Interview Me - Well in Dowd

2005-07-28T22:00:00.000-05:00

I'm not going to post the rules again...
These are GREAT questions.

Tom said...
Okay "the real me" here is your interview.

#1-How did you stumble upon my blog?
I Googled for a NYC carpet bagger weaving a web of destruction through the south like General Sherman!

Kidding, of course. I stumbled across it following the links from some other Blogs. It was happenstance.

#2-What is sexy?
Confidence in men and women, men's wrists, the collarbone, full lips, a man in a really well-fitting suit, navel rings on only some women, email flirting, sexy-talk email, a whisper in my ear, a verbal challenge.

#3-What is the one thing that none should die without experiencing?
Total acceptance and love from another person.
That or molten-center chocolate cake.

#4-Who is the 4th greatest band of all time?
I especially love this question because it can be answered in 2 ways, which I'll do.
4th greatest means I have to name my top 3... and why 4th???! Why not 1st or 3rd or 25th?
My personal favorites:
1- Bon Jovi
2- Van Halen
3- U2
4- Triumph

Bands that have made the most important contribution to music
1- The Beatles
2- Pink Floyd
3- U2
4- Rolling Stones

#5-What is the worst name that a person could have? Why?
Justin Time

Imagine the jokes...

Something missing?

2005-07-26T19:13:00.000-05:00

Are you missing something?
Looking for something?
Tired of everything
Searching and struggling
Are you worried about it?
Do you wanna talk about it?
Oh, you're gonna get it right some time......
.......Is there something missing?
There's nobody listening
Are you scared of what you don't know?
Dont wanna end up on your own?
You need conversation
And information
Gonna get it right sometimes
You just wanna get it right sometimes.

Coldplay - How You See The World

And I thought I was alone...

Talk

2005-07-26T04:36:00.000-05:00

So you don't know where you're going and you wanna talk
And you feel like you're going where you've been before
You tell anyone who'll listen but you feel ignored
Nothing's really making any sense at all, let's talk
Let's talk, let's talk, let's talk

Coldplay - Talk

Connect with someone.
Connect with anyone.

Connect.

5 questions game

2005-07-22T13:49:00.001-05:00

This is so much fun,I asked the brilliant and witty Merovingienne to interview me.
Q&A is below, but I am contractually obligated to explain the rules to this game.

Here are the instructions:

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "Interview me." "Blow me" or "Eat me" are not acceptable substitutes.

2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different. I'll post the questions in the comments section of this post.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post on your Blog.

5. When others comment, asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Merovingienne says:
Alrighty, then...
Q's for TheRealMe

1. You are banished to live in a TV show (become a part of that show as if it were real) for the rest of your life. Which show would you pick and why?

Desparate Housewives seems to obvious an answer. And unfair because I'd have to compete with the likes of Susan and I'm just so much cuter than her! She'd have to then worry about Edie AND me!

Happy Days maybe, so I could date Chachi.

The Bachelorette so I could have 20 beautiful, if not always bright, men fawning over my fabulousness... oh wait a minute, I'm married. And I already have more objects of my affection than I need at the present time anyways.

Alias would be very exciting.

West Wing would be stimulating. I'd be a verbal sparring partner for Josh Lyman.

SEINFELD. Simply stated, it would be absolute hilarity.
Final Answer.

2.What would you do if you knew you only had 24 more hours to live?

Surround myself with my family, cherish them... We'd fly to Napa Valley, pick up a bottle of Stags' Leap Petite Syrah and take a pre-sunset cruise in a hot air balloon. We'd land in a vineyard somewhere where Bon Jovi would be waiting to play a private concert for us. We'd dine on something très gourmand like goat cheese and grilled figs with balsamic vinegar, pork tenderloin with morel mushroom and madiera wine sauce and of course molten center chocolate cake.
After that, we'd jet off to Hawaii's Big Island to watch the volcano eruption (which would, of course, happen on cue) from the beach where Rik Emmett would be playing his guitar. We'd stay up all night, watch the shooting stars, listen to the waves and the music and finally watch the sun rise over the 2 volcano peaks to the east.

Sounds almost perfect...

3.Which is your favorite of the seven deadly sins and why?

Oh my, that'd be LUST!
Why? Because it's so much fun!

4.If you could go back in time to witness any historical event, what would it be?

This one isn't an easy question to answer. I'm not big on history.
Does the US Festival of 1983 count as an historical event? That's my choice.
OK, I guess not.
Maybe when women won the right to vote. It would have been a cool time to be a woman.
Maybe the collapse of the Berlin Wall.

5.if you had to eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be and why?

ONE MEAL?
I love to eat, how can I choose just one? Impossible.
Take all my favorite flavors and mix them up, I guess.
Something with pasta, shrimp, sundried tomatoes, goat cheese, basil... lots of really good Cabernet or Zinfandel. I know they don't go together, but it's MY fantasy!

But then there's McDonald's fries to think about!
Why?
Because if I chose my Bushia's pierogies, I'd weigh 300 pounds in no time!

Thanks M, that was fun!

He doesn't care, he doesn't have to

2005-07-22T07:48:00.000-05:00

The paper delivery guy, not my usual muses.

Needing to vent here...

It's close to 5am, hot enough that we need to sleep with the windows open.
The paper comes early, which is OK.
The paper gets thrown against the side of the house early, which is NOT.
My bedroom window is 3 feet from where the paper hits the house.

Complaining doesn't do any good. Oh, I'm sure he gets his paper-flicking wrist slapped a little from his territory supervisor because for a few weeks, he'll put it in the mailbox like we asked. But he soon reverts back to the annoying habit.

Cancel the paper, you say?
I've tried it. Last year, after several complaints, I did cancel the paper.
But they wooed me back with a dirt-cheap rate and a promise that I wouldn't have any more problems with delivery.

They lied.
It's started again.

But I've realized one thing:
Delivery guy... he doesn't care.
He doesn't have to.

Watch the weather change

2005-07-19T20:24:00.000-05:00

mention this to me
mention something
mention anything
mention this to me
watch the weather change

Tool - Disposition

Do I create deliberate chaos?
Do I get so sick and tired of the weather that I force the climate to change?
Do I crave the slightest hint of the "breeze" of change through an open door?

...oh yeah, for sure.

Crash

2005-07-14T07:21:00.000-05:00

"It's the sense of touch. I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other just so we can feel something."
opening line from Crash - writer-director Paul Haggis

Life can be so sterile sometimes. We go about our business, hum drum. Hiding the "Desparate Housewives"-like thoughts that run through our heads (yes, even if you're male) from those around us.

Wear the mask, because no one really wants to see underneath... they've all got their own masks on to hide what they think no one wants to see.

But in the late hours of the night, during a coffee break at work, after dinner, before getting dressed in the morning, the BLOG rules.

Reading other people's blogs, listening to other people's troubles, being affected by what we read/see/hear...

Aren't we all looking for that sense of emotional touch? To connect with someone validates our humanness; makes us feel not so alone in what we're feeling. Allows us to share in our triumphs.

Is that why I write this blog?

Is that why you read it?

Real live connections are so rare! Celebrate them.

Therapy doesn't cure

2005-06-30T05:22:00.000-05:00

I was watching Rick Springfield talk on Larry King Live the other night. Aside from plugging his new album, he was talking about going to therapy.
He had one really interesting observation:
Therapy doesn't cure you, it only makes you aware of what your demons are.

DISCLAIMER: I'm not talking about diagnosed mental illness here.

I though that was really insightful. People can spend their whole lives going to therapy to understand why they do what they do that causes them problems. Does understanding it solve anything? Does changing behavior lead to a happier life? Is it worth the effort - because some change requires HUGE effort, especially if the behavior is part of who one is.

Denying or supressing part of our character traits because society tells us it's wrong can be more damaging than the problem itself.

Maybe the trick is just to accept one's self the way one is.

Maybe I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

Bewilder

2005-06-05T22:10:00.000-05:00

Don't you just love it when someone bewilders you?

Don't you just hate it when they stop?

Open for business

2005-06-01T22:17:00.000-05:00

My secret musings is open for business.
My secrets.
My musings.
My random thoughts.

My place to vent.
My place to rant.
My place to confess.
My place to say whatever I want.

Yours too...