Scott was not sure what he felt inside. He knew it teetered between sheer rage and extreme sadness but somehow they blurred. He felt the heaviness of the wood handle in his hands as he gripped with two hands. The sledgehammer was all he could think about this morning when he decided he was ready.
Maggie had left a month ago and he knew she was not coming back. They had spent every day together for the last seven years. She had moved in shortly after they had met and it was somewhat effortless. Somewhere along the way she was slowly retreating and he did not even notice. Last month, he came home to find the closet empty and most all the CD’s gone from the mega-hundred collection of favorite genres they both enjoyed.
Scott stared at the white ceramic subway tile walls. He remembered when they had tiled this bathroom in just one weekend impressing themselves with their effort. He pulled the hammer back over his shoulder and swung with all his effort into the pristine tile wall. As he felt a solid thunder of energy release and tile crackle to the ground, he thought about how he had hated the white tiles all along. Why did he agree to such a plain, colorless room anyways? Scott gave that first blow every bit of his deep hatred for the sterile perfection that surrounded him. He needed it to be gone. He was cleaning house. Time for a new beginning, a new bathroom, something that was only about him and not them.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Cleaning House - Kent Wright
It was never long after he had buzzed you in and barely said hello that he offered the first drink. He didn’t pretend to be grandma. It wasn’t lemonade but alcohol he was talking about when he said drink. He pressed if you declined or opted for water. Usually, he had already had one (or more depending on what time you rang his bell). He was thirty or so during the brief time I knew him. He had a prep school background, had a diploma from a good college, and was still looking for a job that suited him. By being picky about whom he worked for he could avoid work. By talking endlessly, condescendingly about his search for that position where his unique talents would glow with prominence he could also avoid the uncomfortable fact that he lived on an ample trust fund provided by a family he professed to hate. He could indulge himself and did. He enjoyed being volital in his opinions, and nothing pleased him more than broadcasting how he could impose his ideas of acceptability on others. He didn’t impose them on the strong of course. He enjoyed being a bully far too much for that.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.
Cleaning House - Melody Cryns
This morning I awoke to music softly playing on my iPod which I set to shuffle and fall asleep to – it’s cool because you never know what music will pop up. A Led Zeppelin song, a Beatles song and then Irish folk music – I slowly sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes looking at the boxes stacked in the corner, the dresser filled with stacks of paper I’ve got to go through, a laundry basket sitting on top of yet another box – my room is a disheveled mess, the place where we put all the stuff we have no idea what to do with.
I always have these grand plans of cleaning up my room, sort of like cleaning out the cobwebs in my brain or my life – but then I wonder, what the heck am I going to do with this stuff? There’s that box of stuff that we got out of my car that was totaled – miscellaneous things that I don’t want to throw away, yet have no idea what to do with. There are the boxes of pictures that some day need to be gone through, and the sleeping bag and sleeping pads from the Burning Uke campout I went to September. All I have is a closet, no storage room, no garage – all of the piles of things that would normally go someplace sit in my bedroom – there are the bookcases stuffed with books and bathroom items sitting on the book shelves – in hopes that Megan doesn’t use them or lose them, deordorant, nail clippers. I’ve had to replace nail clippers countless times because whenever I need them, they’re gone – disappeared someplace into the abyss. I ask Megan and she says, “I don’t know where they are!”
Last week, we managed to misplace a huge package of toilet paper. How does one lose something like this? Well, apparently, the package was buried some clothes on my dresser and we just didn’t see it right away.
Sometimes I wonder where we’ll be living. Will we even stay at this house? Is this situation really going to work out or are we just going to have to pack up again and move? I’ll finally get my room in order and suddenly, we have to leave again – I’m always afraid of that. You never know. So my stuff is still unorganized – and I will get to it, one day.
I remember that recurring dream that I had for years – where I’m in an empty house with hardwood floor – it’s an older house and I can see bare tree branches outside the window – but I have no idea where this house is. The living room is completely empty and there’s a warm fireplace – and I see my mother wearing her flannel nightgown walking towards me – with that “matter of fact” look on her white face, and those gray blue eyes so much like my daughter Melissa’s eyes wide – she smiles and then she says, “Mary, when are you going to unpack your boxes? It’s time!”
She points to stacks of boxes in the kitchen of this house – the kitchen is on the other end of the rather large living room, and the rooms sort of blend together with a countertop in between – I can really see this house, but I don’t know where it is, why I’m there.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I promise.”
Then Mom fades away and I’m back here again – and I still have to unpack those boxes. After all, I am going to be a Grandma. Time to step it up.
It’s time.
I always have these grand plans of cleaning up my room, sort of like cleaning out the cobwebs in my brain or my life – but then I wonder, what the heck am I going to do with this stuff? There’s that box of stuff that we got out of my car that was totaled – miscellaneous things that I don’t want to throw away, yet have no idea what to do with. There are the boxes of pictures that some day need to be gone through, and the sleeping bag and sleeping pads from the Burning Uke campout I went to September. All I have is a closet, no storage room, no garage – all of the piles of things that would normally go someplace sit in my bedroom – there are the bookcases stuffed with books and bathroom items sitting on the book shelves – in hopes that Megan doesn’t use them or lose them, deordorant, nail clippers. I’ve had to replace nail clippers countless times because whenever I need them, they’re gone – disappeared someplace into the abyss. I ask Megan and she says, “I don’t know where they are!”
Last week, we managed to misplace a huge package of toilet paper. How does one lose something like this? Well, apparently, the package was buried some clothes on my dresser and we just didn’t see it right away.
Sometimes I wonder where we’ll be living. Will we even stay at this house? Is this situation really going to work out or are we just going to have to pack up again and move? I’ll finally get my room in order and suddenly, we have to leave again – I’m always afraid of that. You never know. So my stuff is still unorganized – and I will get to it, one day.
I remember that recurring dream that I had for years – where I’m in an empty house with hardwood floor – it’s an older house and I can see bare tree branches outside the window – but I have no idea where this house is. The living room is completely empty and there’s a warm fireplace – and I see my mother wearing her flannel nightgown walking towards me – with that “matter of fact” look on her white face, and those gray blue eyes so much like my daughter Melissa’s eyes wide – she smiles and then she says, “Mary, when are you going to unpack your boxes? It’s time!”
She points to stacks of boxes in the kitchen of this house – the kitchen is on the other end of the rather large living room, and the rooms sort of blend together with a countertop in between – I can really see this house, but I don’t know where it is, why I’m there.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I promise.”
Then Mom fades away and I’m back here again – and I still have to unpack those boxes. After all, I am going to be a Grandma. Time to step it up.
It’s time.
Light - Maria Robinson
The fog over Tangiers is swept away in the hours before 5 am. The clear sky is reading for the first call to morning prayer. The City, buttressed up against the rock of Gibraltar and the westward expanse of the Atlantic, was the final port of the Phoenicians and the Romans as their ships coveted the last landfall before the infinite darkness to nowhere, the end of Africa and the Mediterranean.
Vera is sleeping lightly in her room at the El Minzah hotel, waiting for the moment with the Iman will call out the chant to Allah and the City will begin to stir with a frantic rhythm until the evening.
The mornings are so precious. I want them to last forever, says Vera. The night coaxes me to sleep only at the last moment and then its time.
Turkish coffee will arrive outside her door with a small knock from the concierge and she will drink it on the small balcony overlooking the Islamic fountain in the hotel's courtyard.
Vera is sleeping lightly in her room at the El Minzah hotel, waiting for the moment with the Iman will call out the chant to Allah and the City will begin to stir with a frantic rhythm until the evening.
The mornings are so precious. I want them to last forever, says Vera. The night coaxes me to sleep only at the last moment and then its time.
Turkish coffee will arrive outside her door with a small knock from the concierge and she will drink it on the small balcony overlooking the Islamic fountain in the hotel's courtyard.
Saving It - Barbara Jordan
She was saving it for someone, she just wasn't sure for what or whom. She wanted to feel safe. She was sick of that gnawing feeling that Internet dating had given her--that she was a disposable commodity, and some kind of entertainment for someone with a short attention span. Plus she always seemed to be matched up with a geriatric headed for the nearest nursing home. Nor was she was interested in this new-wave cult that called themselves "friends with benefits." She had so many friends and so many benefits, that it made her laugh that some horny person had the need to create a name for it, just for the sake of getting laid.
So she woke up everyday alone. Because it was better than the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from empty promises and well rehearsed lines. She had stopped chasing and was in a place of repose, and it didn't make her sad anymore. And she had stopped running, because one day she woke up and couldn't remember what she was running from. It was like being in a constant state of longing--a sweet place really--of anticipation and excitement and living on the edge. Sometimes she was lonely, but she did not miss being a couple.
So she woke up everyday alone. Because it was better than the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from empty promises and well rehearsed lines. She had stopped chasing and was in a place of repose, and it didn't make her sad anymore. And she had stopped running, because one day she woke up and couldn't remember what she was running from. It was like being in a constant state of longing--a sweet place really--of anticipation and excitement and living on the edge. Sometimes she was lonely, but she did not miss being a couple.
Saving It - Kate Bueler
As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grows and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.
I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.
And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understand my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest. I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What do in a crisis in a school not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.
I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.
And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understand my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest. I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What do in a crisis in a school not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.
Dark - E. D. James
It was dark before Julka left the apartment. The stolen day to herself had left her feeling rejuvenated but lonely by the end. As much as she wanted Arnold out of her life, she was used to having someone around and she knew getting used to the solitary life would take a bit of time. The streets were shiny from the streetlights reflecting off the water from the light rain that had fallen all afternoon. The air tasted fresh and alive. There was a Friday night hum in the air. A woman carrying bags from two of the shops on the street smiled as Julka caught her eye. A young boy holding his mothers hand as they waited at the stoplight squished his pudgy fist at her in greeting. Three guys in their twenties steamed past leaving the smell of burning bush in their wake.
She’d started her journey thinking she would head for one of the restaurants on the street to have a drink, maybe sit at the bar and eat. But as she passed the bright doorways and looked in at the packs of bodies jostling she lost her nerve and kept walking. The rain had lightened to just a gentle mist. Moisture gathering on her eyelashes refracted the lights creating crazy color patterns in her vision. She walked with an itch not knowing what would satisfy, only that she hadn’t found it. Russian Hill loomed and she kept on, climbing in the mist, the wheels of the cars splashing by on the street beside her. It felt as if she were joining a great pilgrimage to North Beach.
At the top of the hill the Bay Bridge gleamed with the great stream of cars carrying bodies into town for the Friday spawning ritual. She headed down into the fertile flow of Columbus and wandered through the tourists and lovers until she found herself at City Lights. The man in the pork pie behind the counter gave her a wink and she plunged down the cedar planks to the travel section in the basement.
She’d started her journey thinking she would head for one of the restaurants on the street to have a drink, maybe sit at the bar and eat. But as she passed the bright doorways and looked in at the packs of bodies jostling she lost her nerve and kept walking. The rain had lightened to just a gentle mist. Moisture gathering on her eyelashes refracted the lights creating crazy color patterns in her vision. She walked with an itch not knowing what would satisfy, only that she hadn’t found it. Russian Hill loomed and she kept on, climbing in the mist, the wheels of the cars splashing by on the street beside her. It felt as if she were joining a great pilgrimage to North Beach.
At the top of the hill the Bay Bridge gleamed with the great stream of cars carrying bodies into town for the Friday spawning ritual. She headed down into the fertile flow of Columbus and wandered through the tourists and lovers until she found herself at City Lights. The man in the pork pie behind the counter gave her a wink and she plunged down the cedar planks to the travel section in the basement.
Dark - Judy Albietz
For a year now, ever since she turned five, the family thought she was afraid of the dark. Just like any other little kid. They probably thought she was afraid of monsters, like Jeffrey next door.
Every night it was the same thing. “Light on!” she yelled after one of her parents or sisters read her a story and tucked her in. She insisted they wedge her wastebasket just so—to keep the door from closing. The hall light stayed on. However, for a short while someone would turn it off later on. She always woke up. “Turn it back on!” she screamed. With the hall light on again, she would go back to sleep. But not really. She would never actually sleep. She’d just be resting with her eyes closed. And only so long as the light in the hall was on.
Just about this time last year she’d asked her mom, “What will happen when I die?”
“Oh, honey. Don’t worry about things like that.”
“I want to know.”
“Well, it’s just like throwing a penny in a lake. The waves never really stop touching everything. They go on and on. So do we. After we die we still live on in the hearts of those we love and who loved us.”
“What happens when those people die?” she’d asked.
Every night it was the same thing. “Light on!” she yelled after one of her parents or sisters read her a story and tucked her in. She insisted they wedge her wastebasket just so—to keep the door from closing. The hall light stayed on. However, for a short while someone would turn it off later on. She always woke up. “Turn it back on!” she screamed. With the hall light on again, she would go back to sleep. But not really. She would never actually sleep. She’d just be resting with her eyes closed. And only so long as the light in the hall was on.
Just about this time last year she’d asked her mom, “What will happen when I die?”
“Oh, honey. Don’t worry about things like that.”
“I want to know.”
“Well, it’s just like throwing a penny in a lake. The waves never really stop touching everything. They go on and on. So do we. After we die we still live on in the hearts of those we love and who loved us.”
“What happens when those people die?” she’d asked.
A Big Deal - John Fetto
Hawley felt it everywhere he walked. A lie as weightless as a whisper, floating in the air, almost imperceptible, tickling young men until they smiled, flexed their muscles and look for something to kick, making old men frown, shake their head, and women, young and old, reach with thin fingers to touch their face, worrying, as if the lie were little more than an unexpected kiss on their cheeks. Hawley heard it wherever he walked the same syrupy sound of it because he had tasted it before. As he turned the corner, he saw the place on Placer street, a small corner store with an American flag out front and signs in the window, one for each the four services, army, air force navy and marines, signs filled with colorful pictures fit men, eager for fun. You had to sign up. You had to join! Now was the time! This was the big deal that justified that justified everything else.
A Big Deal - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
``We have to do something major for your thirteenth birthday, dear one. It’s when you become a man, and it’s honored in many cultures with a ceremony.’’ She smiled and her eyes gleamed at the thought of putting together a festivity.
Pete shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground.
``Gran, I’m not sure –‘’
``Nonsense. What would you like to do and who would you like to invite?’’ Pete looked at her with dismay.
``You don’t mean a party? With friends and everything? I don’t know.’’ Pete blushed and rubbed his nose. He loved his grandmother who was lively and interested in everything he did, but this was a little too lively.
``We could have a dancing party, or go somewhere on a train,’’ she went on. ``Or we could hire a carriage and drive through the city. Or we could take a trip. We could go to Paris or Hawaii or Sacramento. We could go the top of a hotel and watch the sunset before we go to a play. We could go to spring training. We could fly over the Grand Canyon.’’
``They don’t let people fly over it any more, Gran, and besides, I don’t want to do any of those things.’’
``Oh,’’ she sitting down and taking a deep breath. ``I’m doing it again. You see, it’s just because it’s such a big, big deal.’’
``I know,’’ he said, relenting. ``I might want to go to spring training, though.’’ He put his chin in his hand and grinned at her. Her smile came suddenly and she glowed.
``Ah – we could go to Florida to see the Red Sox, or Phoenix to see the Giants. We could stay in the Western Horizon ranch and ride and hike – ‘’
``Gran, stop. You’re running away with me.’’
She looked embarrassed,``Oh.’’ she said. ``I’m doing it again. I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll stop planning. You think about it and I’ll stay out of it.’’
He smiled at her again.``It’s OK, Gran. No big deal.’’
But it was.
Pete shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground.
``Gran, I’m not sure –‘’
``Nonsense. What would you like to do and who would you like to invite?’’ Pete looked at her with dismay.
``You don’t mean a party? With friends and everything? I don’t know.’’ Pete blushed and rubbed his nose. He loved his grandmother who was lively and interested in everything he did, but this was a little too lively.
``We could have a dancing party, or go somewhere on a train,’’ she went on. ``Or we could hire a carriage and drive through the city. Or we could take a trip. We could go to Paris or Hawaii or Sacramento. We could go the top of a hotel and watch the sunset before we go to a play. We could go to spring training. We could fly over the Grand Canyon.’’
``They don’t let people fly over it any more, Gran, and besides, I don’t want to do any of those things.’’
``Oh,’’ she sitting down and taking a deep breath. ``I’m doing it again. You see, it’s just because it’s such a big, big deal.’’
``I know,’’ he said, relenting. ``I might want to go to spring training, though.’’ He put his chin in his hand and grinned at her. Her smile came suddenly and she glowed.
``Ah – we could go to Florida to see the Red Sox, or Phoenix to see the Giants. We could stay in the Western Horizon ranch and ride and hike – ‘’
``Gran, stop. You’re running away with me.’’
She looked embarrassed,``Oh.’’ she said. ``I’m doing it again. I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll stop planning. You think about it and I’ll stay out of it.’’
He smiled at her again.``It’s OK, Gran. No big deal.’’
But it was.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Watching Out - Kate Bueler
Watching out. Watching out for douche bags really isn’t that hard. Not when they text you things like- and I quote- “hey if you’re still interested give me a shout, you cool.” It was as if one of my high schoolers was crank texting me-no this is real folks this is an attempt at trying to hang out with me. Me a grown ass woman. Me someone who could be considered attractive and funny and at this point I got better attempts at hanging out with me when I was in the 6th grade. This shit is pathetic. And this attempt at courting or dating or bumping is just so shameless ridiculous I can’t help but feel this might be the dating low of a lifetime. Oh but it’s not because there has been others.
So I have decided that my ass my pretty nice ass is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.
Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-your aren’t.
Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.
Call me old fashioned. Call me whatever you want. But this I know. I know I need someone who can do it the right way. Or I’d rather talk to myself in the mirror than get a pathetic text message such as the one from the 615. I am just too busy stop for anything else. But a phone call. A phone call so simple. So easy. But so hard for someone who is wrong for you to do.
So I have decided that my ass my pretty nice ass is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.
Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-your aren’t.
Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.
Call me old fashioned. Call me whatever you want. But this I know. I know I need someone who can do it the right way. Or I’d rather talk to myself in the mirror than get a pathetic text message such as the one from the 615. I am just too busy stop for anything else. But a phone call. A phone call so simple. So easy. But so hard for someone who is wrong for you to do.
Watching Out - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I was annoyed at my mother. Through no fault of hers, I was feeling cooped up in her apartment where I had come to look after my fading parent. I was wild to get out.
``Let’s go look at the sunset in the mountain park.’’ She came reluctantly, but she came. She toiled up the path to the benches, rocking from side to side like a little bear, my little bear. I didn’t, then, recognize Parkinson’s. We sat on the concrete bench and looked west over Albuquerque, the land sweeping from the Sandias behind us, to the great plain cut by the Rio Grande to Mount Taylor, rising to a point, unaccompanied by other mountains.
I got up to do my tai chi, wishing she would move with me. It would do her so much good. She never did want to learn about it for herself, but she watched me carefully.
Finally, she said, ``This bench is too hard,’’ and made her way slowly back down the path. I saw, on the far path, a young man striding up the mountain, maybe off for a hike. At this hour?
She stopped, turned her head and then her whole body as he walked steadily up and out of sight. Then she went back down the path in the red sunset light. The car door chunked. I finished, not cooped up anymore. In the car, I turned to her.
``Were you watching out for me back there, that man?’’ She smiled, looking straight ahead.
``I was,’’ she said.
``Let’s go look at the sunset in the mountain park.’’ She came reluctantly, but she came. She toiled up the path to the benches, rocking from side to side like a little bear, my little bear. I didn’t, then, recognize Parkinson’s. We sat on the concrete bench and looked west over Albuquerque, the land sweeping from the Sandias behind us, to the great plain cut by the Rio Grande to Mount Taylor, rising to a point, unaccompanied by other mountains.
I got up to do my tai chi, wishing she would move with me. It would do her so much good. She never did want to learn about it for herself, but she watched me carefully.
Finally, she said, ``This bench is too hard,’’ and made her way slowly back down the path. I saw, on the far path, a young man striding up the mountain, maybe off for a hike. At this hour?
She stopped, turned her head and then her whole body as he walked steadily up and out of sight. Then she went back down the path in the red sunset light. The car door chunked. I finished, not cooped up anymore. In the car, I turned to her.
``Were you watching out for me back there, that man?’’ She smiled, looking straight ahead.
``I was,’’ she said.
Watching Out - Judy Albietz
As they walked, Sam kept his body so close to Lily that she could hardly see around him. Sophia was elbow-to-elbow on the other side. As if they’re going to have to fight over who’s going to save me next. Not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s just a little tight here in the middle, she thought to herself, once again glad that this telepathy thing didn’t include reading each other’s private thoughts.
Sophia was so light on her feet, she pretty much glided along the path. When she sang or hummed her bird songs, she fluttered her fingers in front of her, as if she was playing an invisible instrument. As they walked, Sophia would reach down to pick up leaves, twigs and stones, placing them in one of the several woven pouches she carried at her side.
“This is for you,” Sophia said, showing Lily a small creamy white stone. At first it looked no larger than a dime. Then as Sophia held it out in her hand, silver bands of light pulsated around the stone. “The heat from my hand has activated the stone’s energy. See. It feels warm,” Sophia said as she gently cupped Lily’s hand in hers to receive the stone.
Even though it appeared to be alive, Lily wasn’t afraid of the stone. She absolutely trusted Sophia. Why wouldn’t she? Between Sam and the three Blue Monkeys, they had a perfect score in saving her life not once, but three times.
Sophia was so light on her feet, she pretty much glided along the path. When she sang or hummed her bird songs, she fluttered her fingers in front of her, as if she was playing an invisible instrument. As they walked, Sophia would reach down to pick up leaves, twigs and stones, placing them in one of the several woven pouches she carried at her side.
“This is for you,” Sophia said, showing Lily a small creamy white stone. At first it looked no larger than a dime. Then as Sophia held it out in her hand, silver bands of light pulsated around the stone. “The heat from my hand has activated the stone’s energy. See. It feels warm,” Sophia said as she gently cupped Lily’s hand in hers to receive the stone.
Even though it appeared to be alive, Lily wasn’t afraid of the stone. She absolutely trusted Sophia. Why wouldn’t she? Between Sam and the three Blue Monkeys, they had a perfect score in saving her life not once, but three times.
Watching Out - E. D. James
Every nerve in Olivias body felt as if it were on plugged consciously into her brain. Her eyes seemed to focus on details near or far in a way far more precise than usual. She could feel thin currents of warm air pass across her arms and legs. The sound of every call of a bird, every whisper of wind through the grasses was magnified to a point that she could feel the vibrating of the birds vocal cords or the quivering of the heavy grains at the tops of the stalks. Her feet in her boots were sweaty, her socks felt rough against her toes. She felt a surge of energy at the base of her spine that ran between her legs and then back up her spine to her brain.
She knew someone was out there watching her. She knew they meant her harm. She knew that if she made one false move, if she gave them a chance, then some violent force would slam into her body and render it useless leaving her only a few precious seconds for her brain to process what the meaning of her life had been. She wasn’t ready for that. She had something to finish. Something here at Arkhara, but also something larger, something that was still ahead. She flattened herself to the ground and found a small trail through the Weeping Pea Shrub and Ginseng plants that populated the bog around here. She slithered on her belly like a garter snake, low to the ground as she could keep herself. She moved as slowly as she could stand and kept going until she felt she would go insane if tried to move another foot forward. She stopped and listened again, imagined her ears standing up from her head and twisting independently trying to find any sounds that were out of place, that were human. There was nothing she could identify. She pushed on her forearms and slowly raised her head above the level of the vegetation that had been her refuge. When her eyes topped the canopy, she carefully swiveled to scan her surroundings. Nothing moved. She wondered if she had become paranoid. Delusional.
She knew someone was out there watching her. She knew they meant her harm. She knew that if she made one false move, if she gave them a chance, then some violent force would slam into her body and render it useless leaving her only a few precious seconds for her brain to process what the meaning of her life had been. She wasn’t ready for that. She had something to finish. Something here at Arkhara, but also something larger, something that was still ahead. She flattened herself to the ground and found a small trail through the Weeping Pea Shrub and Ginseng plants that populated the bog around here. She slithered on her belly like a garter snake, low to the ground as she could keep herself. She moved as slowly as she could stand and kept going until she felt she would go insane if tried to move another foot forward. She stopped and listened again, imagined her ears standing up from her head and twisting independently trying to find any sounds that were out of place, that were human. There was nothing she could identify. She pushed on her forearms and slowly raised her head above the level of the vegetation that had been her refuge. When her eyes topped the canopy, she carefully swiveled to scan her surroundings. Nothing moved. She wondered if she had become paranoid. Delusional.
What She Imagined - Barbara Jordan
The November sun was low, creating shadows across the pool, but it was still warm outside, like it can only be in California that time of year. She walked to the edge of the pool and stuck her toe in, to test the temperature of the water. She was skeptical that this would be a good idea--to squeeze in a swim and shower before picking up the kids, but the water was like glass and no one was swimming at that moment. She stripped off her clothes without even going into the locker room. She wanted the sun on her body that very minute.
She dove in and started swimming, her arms and legs cutting through the water with precision and after the first two laps, she knew that she was in the zone. That "thing" she read about in fitness magazines, which she had only felt a few times - once while doing a marathon and another time while hiking in the Sierras.
The water felt like silk, droplets flying in the air and landing on her face while she back-stroked, another lap doing freestyle, she thought her lungs might explode, but she kept going because she could. She was naked, flying through the water--back and forth, and had lost count of the number of laps.
By the time she pulled herself out of the water, it was dark, the air still warm. The boy behind the sliding glass window of the office gave her a thumbs-up as she wrapped herself in a too-small towel. She had imagined this, but never thought it would happen.
She dove in and started swimming, her arms and legs cutting through the water with precision and after the first two laps, she knew that she was in the zone. That "thing" she read about in fitness magazines, which she had only felt a few times - once while doing a marathon and another time while hiking in the Sierras.
The water felt like silk, droplets flying in the air and landing on her face while she back-stroked, another lap doing freestyle, she thought her lungs might explode, but she kept going because she could. She was naked, flying through the water--back and forth, and had lost count of the number of laps.
By the time she pulled herself out of the water, it was dark, the air still warm. The boy behind the sliding glass window of the office gave her a thumbs-up as she wrapped herself in a too-small towel. She had imagined this, but never thought it would happen.
Leaving - Anna Teeples
The Mac Book sat on the nightstand next to her with a glowing light from the power source pulsing on and off as if a person with it’s own beating heart. Always a reassuring comfort seeing that light. She woke early in the morning before any noises from the outside world stirred her. Bella still snored a low purr and growl that was more inviting than any human snore she had heard. Chance felt her hands ache for the keyboard, her morning ritual.
That night she had dreamt about them both. It was the week before her only son was leaving for college. Jake had merely walked in and announced that he was leaving to. Nothing had prepared her for the double devastation. Her body became an instant frozen state, rigid and emotionless. It would take her months to feel a tear muster enough energy to trickle down her check.
That same week she walked in her zombie-state into the Apple store and bought a Mac Book. She did not need her therapist. She did not even want to talk to her sister, her closet confident. She just needed to pour every thought, word, feeling, and memory into a safe place. It had to come out of her in gushes, and heaps, whenever it needed to, all hours and nights. Her Book was always warm on her lap inviting her to say more and feel more. It had started the thaw.
Now she looked at the beat up, smudged on, scratched up white computer and felt the delight building inside her. She was so anxious to share with her latest secrets and experiences, still at her own pace and with the same abandon. She has found home.
That night she had dreamt about them both. It was the week before her only son was leaving for college. Jake had merely walked in and announced that he was leaving to. Nothing had prepared her for the double devastation. Her body became an instant frozen state, rigid and emotionless. It would take her months to feel a tear muster enough energy to trickle down her check.
That same week she walked in her zombie-state into the Apple store and bought a Mac Book. She did not need her therapist. She did not even want to talk to her sister, her closet confident. She just needed to pour every thought, word, feeling, and memory into a safe place. It had to come out of her in gushes, and heaps, whenever it needed to, all hours and nights. Her Book was always warm on her lap inviting her to say more and feel more. It had started the thaw.
Now she looked at the beat up, smudged on, scratched up white computer and felt the delight building inside her. She was so anxious to share with her latest secrets and experiences, still at her own pace and with the same abandon. She has found home.
What Changed - Maria Robinson
You've spent the last decade on Madison Avenue. A woman, bucking the men. You saw the future, rode the dot com boom and came out unscathed. Yet your partner of ten years, Neal, just walked out the door with half of the assets you built together. You head for France, as you always do when you're in need of indulgent leisure. You decide on Marseille as your decompression chamber. It's full of history, hot sun, soulful cooking from the sea and the hills of Provence. And besides, its half the cost of Paris , which means that you can stay for a month.
Ambling in the old quarter, reading the local " journaux",newspapers, spending hours in local cafes and bars, you imagine yourself one of those ex-pat Habitues, that ends up knowing a town better than the resident themselves.
You decide to splurge on drinks at the Sofitel Hotel overlooking Marseille's inner harbor and see an American trying to order a "pastis". His dark curls and humble eyes make you think that something has changed and that you really want to have an affair, but quickly and without strings.
Ambling in the old quarter, reading the local " journaux",newspapers, spending hours in local cafes and bars, you imagine yourself one of those ex-pat Habitues, that ends up knowing a town better than the resident themselves.
You decide to splurge on drinks at the Sofitel Hotel overlooking Marseille's inner harbor and see an American trying to order a "pastis". His dark curls and humble eyes make you think that something has changed and that you really want to have an affair, but quickly and without strings.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Regret - Maria Robinson
You never really wanted to know about his second wife. You were the first and you thought, the only. His Ph.D scientist mother had welcomed you into the family with such humility that you considered her a saint. His research dentist father had taken pictures of you in his rose garden with his new camera. You had all gone cross-country skiing on a blinding Buffalo winter day and then come home to Joan's German hot chocolate. You never wanted to live without these rarefied, if generous parents-in-law. Your parents had been hard and tight, very successful but without the intellectual curiosity that had, at least initially, drawn you to the son of this group.
Then you found out that all of the parent's scientific exploration had been transposed into their son as human experimentation. You were girlfriend, then fiance then just as suddenly, an uninteresting specimen for further observation. You became the first of what was yet to be five wives, all romanced, examined and discarded. You were grateful that you had acceded to his parents' wish for immediate grandchildren. And since you lived on to have a fruitful life, you were grateful not to have any regret concerning the relationship.
Then you found out that all of the parent's scientific exploration had been transposed into their son as human experimentation. You were girlfriend, then fiance then just as suddenly, an uninteresting specimen for further observation. You became the first of what was yet to be five wives, all romanced, examined and discarded. You were grateful that you had acceded to his parents' wish for immediate grandchildren. And since you lived on to have a fruitful life, you were grateful not to have any regret concerning the relationship.
Regret - Kate Bueler
There should be no regret in being a sports fan. No there shouldn’t be. But a few weeks ago when this all started and I donned my bright orange shirt in the mission women’s make. I stood alone. Except a few rogue guys. There is something about the mission that had made its residents think that being monolithic included not caring about sports, but the arts, and fixies, and coffee you pay 4 dollars for, and the next foodie food cart. But the reality is you can rock the mission lifestyle with a giant’s shirt as a female. There shouldn’t be regret in that.
And now now with the change in the climate. I am not alone but in a sea of orange and black. People strangers yell at me go giants and the score without me asking. I am not alone. I stand with the others in the sea of the underdogs. The abyss of my family’s team, the history of the forced games I watched while growing up and dating now by choice. By choice I have sat at a bar by myself to watch. The history of my father sneaking in our very own hot dogs in a thermos to save money but taking us to the worshipped game. And explaining the ins and outs. I still call him to clarify when I am confused. Sometimes I might know more than my male counterpart bar neighbor- only in the mission- only with the band guys.
But there is a strange sense of community that brews in feeling connected with strangers, with neighbors, with people you might never have high 5ed or picked up or spoke to. Isn’t it strange to believe in a team that dances around dirt and grass and slides and jumps and hits and breaks enough to make us forgot ourselves for a moment and remember we in fact are connected. Connected we always have been. Community in not just the orange and black but everyday, everyday but now we wear our uniforms and say our hellos and I just don’t want it to stop. To have everyone return to looking down at their personal devices or talking loud about nothing or just pretending not to see those next to them. My own fashion has suffered- I have two giants shirt in rotation and wear my shirt clean or not every time they play.
People talk to me. And sometimes there is an edge to their words. Sometimes the go giants especially after a 4 hour game and more beers thrown down their throats slows down and tries to be a come-on. Go giants in this sloppy sultry eyes staring attentively- go giants they say. Those guys outside of the bars. The number one pick up line is go giants. The mixture of winning and belonging and beer makes them want to score too. A man tried to exchange numbers with me through a closed window of my car. Go giants. I have been shocked by the ability for the homeless folks to have giant’s gear and wear it on the right game days. Impressive to say the very least. My city has changed. Maybe only momentarily. But enough for me never to regret wearing dirty shirts to watch baseball games at bars by myself. By myself I won’t be for long.
And now now with the change in the climate. I am not alone but in a sea of orange and black. People strangers yell at me go giants and the score without me asking. I am not alone. I stand with the others in the sea of the underdogs. The abyss of my family’s team, the history of the forced games I watched while growing up and dating now by choice. By choice I have sat at a bar by myself to watch. The history of my father sneaking in our very own hot dogs in a thermos to save money but taking us to the worshipped game. And explaining the ins and outs. I still call him to clarify when I am confused. Sometimes I might know more than my male counterpart bar neighbor- only in the mission- only with the band guys.
But there is a strange sense of community that brews in feeling connected with strangers, with neighbors, with people you might never have high 5ed or picked up or spoke to. Isn’t it strange to believe in a team that dances around dirt and grass and slides and jumps and hits and breaks enough to make us forgot ourselves for a moment and remember we in fact are connected. Connected we always have been. Community in not just the orange and black but everyday, everyday but now we wear our uniforms and say our hellos and I just don’t want it to stop. To have everyone return to looking down at their personal devices or talking loud about nothing or just pretending not to see those next to them. My own fashion has suffered- I have two giants shirt in rotation and wear my shirt clean or not every time they play.
People talk to me. And sometimes there is an edge to their words. Sometimes the go giants especially after a 4 hour game and more beers thrown down their throats slows down and tries to be a come-on. Go giants in this sloppy sultry eyes staring attentively- go giants they say. Those guys outside of the bars. The number one pick up line is go giants. The mixture of winning and belonging and beer makes them want to score too. A man tried to exchange numbers with me through a closed window of my car. Go giants. I have been shocked by the ability for the homeless folks to have giant’s gear and wear it on the right game days. Impressive to say the very least. My city has changed. Maybe only momentarily. But enough for me never to regret wearing dirty shirts to watch baseball games at bars by myself. By myself I won’t be for long.
Laughing Till You Cry - Barbara Jordan
It was the end of a 12-hour shift and Penelope was afraid that if she closed her eyes for a minute, she might fall asleep standing up. Her hair was a tangled mess, which she had pulled back at some point during the day, and her scrubs felt like they were sticking to her skin. She was attempting to listen to the woman sitting in front of her who was disclosing details about her husband's affair, her out of control teenaged daughter with an eating disorder, and some sort of vaginal discomfort that wouldn't go away. In her mind, Penelope was trying to piece the details together so that she could come up with one diagnosis and prescribe one pill that would handle all three problems at the same time. She just couldn't think straight anymore.
She excused herself and walked into the lab where one of the nurses was taking a break. "You look beat", said Leila.
"Yea," replied Penelope, as her back slid down the wall of the lab and she found herself sitting on the floor. "Tell me something, Leila," she continued, "is there a cure for a wandering husband, a skinny daughter, and an itchy vagina? "
Leila took another bite of her sandwich and scrunched up her face, like she was pondering the correct answer. They sat in silence, and Penelope closed her eyes and thought she might start to cry. When she opened them, she looked at Leila who was snickering under her breath. "What's so funny?"
Leila didn't answer. And as if on cue, they both started laughing, loud and hard--so hard that it felt like they would never be able to stop. There were pauses, where they barely caught their breath, but brief eye contact with each other would get them started all over again. Tears ran down her face, and her stomach hurt, but when she finally pulled herself together enough to go back and finish up with her patient, she felt compassion again.
She excused herself and walked into the lab where one of the nurses was taking a break. "You look beat", said Leila.
"Yea," replied Penelope, as her back slid down the wall of the lab and she found herself sitting on the floor. "Tell me something, Leila," she continued, "is there a cure for a wandering husband, a skinny daughter, and an itchy vagina? "
Leila took another bite of her sandwich and scrunched up her face, like she was pondering the correct answer. They sat in silence, and Penelope closed her eyes and thought she might start to cry. When she opened them, she looked at Leila who was snickering under her breath. "What's so funny?"
Leila didn't answer. And as if on cue, they both started laughing, loud and hard--so hard that it felt like they would never be able to stop. There were pauses, where they barely caught their breath, but brief eye contact with each other would get them started all over again. Tears ran down her face, and her stomach hurt, but when she finally pulled herself together enough to go back and finish up with her patient, she felt compassion again.
Laughing Till You Cry - Melody Cryns
“Mom, what are we going to do with Ratata?”
“What do you mean?” it was the middle of the night and I was getting ready for bed.
“He’s dead, the rat is dead,” said Megan’s friend – I don’t remember his name. He was a cute young guy with dark hair who apparently had a camera. He told Megan he was going to take photos of her. That’s what Megan told me. It wasn’t until later that I found out Megan’s new boyfriend didn’t know about this other guy.
“Mom!” Megan shouted. “Can you please see if Ratatata is okay? Maybe he isn’t dead…maybe he’s all right.”
I didn’t want to look, I dreaded looking. Poor Ratata, the rat whom my daughter Megan had adopted a couple of years ago when the rat’s owners couldn’t keep him anymore. Oh no, not another pet I’d said – we already had a dog and a cat. This reminded me of when Jeremy was young and he had this sort of “Dr. Doolittle” complex. At one point, we had two dogs, a cat, a rabbit and two rats.
But what were we to do? The rat needed a home – he was gray and white, and his hair had been dyed purple – why would anyone do that to a rat? He was already a full-grown rat, quite large – probably the same size as our dog Sydney was as a puppy. I of course had to purchase a decent cage for him to live in along with all the assorted thing one needs, bedding for the cage, rat food, a water bottle. I just couldn’t see keeping the poor thing in a small cooler which is where he lived when Megan brought him home.
Ratatata joined our family when we lived at the Avalon Apartments in Mountain View – I remember the rat hanging out with Megan on the computer desk and how the dogs really didn’t seem to be bothered by Ratatata at Jeremy’s 25th birthday party – Floyd-the-Dog was still around then too…
At first, I was afraid to touch Ratatata, thought perhaps he’d bite me – but it didn’t take long to find out that he was a friendly rat and loved to be petted and held – he was a little afraid of our dog Sydney because she’d go up to him and be all protective, as if he was a puppy, and one time he bit Sydney on the nose. And, it was my understanding that he didn’t like other rats. But he was the only one…he slowly just became a part of the family.
Whenever Megan would spend the night at friends’ houses, she’d text me, “Don’t forget to feed Ratatata!” He was always happy to see me, and he loved it when I gave him strawberries or sunflower seeds.
Ratatata went with us to the funky apartment in Mountain View and then to the house we now live at in San Jose.
So when Megan and I peered into the cage and saw that Ratatata was lying very still on his side, we knew – Ratatata had passed away.
Megan put her hand on her mouth when it finally hit her – she had laughed when her friend had said he thought Ratatata was dead because she didn’t believe him.
Suddenly I felt sad too – for Ratatata, for my daughter, for all the loss and changes in our lives…we both held each other and cried while Megan’s guy friend looked on.
“We need to figure out what to do with him – we should bury him,” Megan’s friend said softly.
“Yes, of course.”
Megan went to find a bag or a box for Ratata while I ran over to the computer because I had to do it – I had to find pictures of him, memories of our beautiful Ratatata who was so friendly – he would lick you on the hand. Megan loved him more than her hamster Medusa because Medusa bit her and didn’t like her, but Ratatata was always there for her. Our dog Sydney could tell something was up and she followed Megan while she looked for something for Ratatata.
Tears rolled down my cheeks and I was surprised because I didn’t realize I would be so sad about losing a rat. As I searched for photos, I remembered my beloved guinea pigs that I had as a kid and how attached I was to them – and how my favorite character in one of the first books I was able to read in its entirety, “Charlotte’s Web,” happened to be Templeton the Rat. He was a fat rat, always grumpy and looking for food – and he’d steal food from the other animals. I always secretly loved Templeton and thought he changed the most because he saved the day for Charlotte in the end and carried the sack with all of Charlotte’s babies in his mouth – and it wasn’t just about the food binge either.
Poor Ratatata, he was our friend – and now he was gone. Why did this have to happen? People come and go, we’ve moved way too many times – and now Ratatata has left us – that was after Megan’s boyfriend broke up with her the day before her 18th birthday. I finally found the photos of Megan with her wonderful pet rat mixed in with Jeremy’s birthday photos from 2009 – what an adorable fat rat he was – Ratatata. And today was also my mother’s birthday – she would have been 78 years old had she lived.
Megan cried softly as we stood outside at 1:00 a.m. and dug a small hole for Ratatata – and carefully placed his body into the hole. Good-bye Ratatata! Good-bye. We will miss you.
“What do you mean?” it was the middle of the night and I was getting ready for bed.
“He’s dead, the rat is dead,” said Megan’s friend – I don’t remember his name. He was a cute young guy with dark hair who apparently had a camera. He told Megan he was going to take photos of her. That’s what Megan told me. It wasn’t until later that I found out Megan’s new boyfriend didn’t know about this other guy.
“Mom!” Megan shouted. “Can you please see if Ratatata is okay? Maybe he isn’t dead…maybe he’s all right.”
I didn’t want to look, I dreaded looking. Poor Ratata, the rat whom my daughter Megan had adopted a couple of years ago when the rat’s owners couldn’t keep him anymore. Oh no, not another pet I’d said – we already had a dog and a cat. This reminded me of when Jeremy was young and he had this sort of “Dr. Doolittle” complex. At one point, we had two dogs, a cat, a rabbit and two rats.
But what were we to do? The rat needed a home – he was gray and white, and his hair had been dyed purple – why would anyone do that to a rat? He was already a full-grown rat, quite large – probably the same size as our dog Sydney was as a puppy. I of course had to purchase a decent cage for him to live in along with all the assorted thing one needs, bedding for the cage, rat food, a water bottle. I just couldn’t see keeping the poor thing in a small cooler which is where he lived when Megan brought him home.
Ratatata joined our family when we lived at the Avalon Apartments in Mountain View – I remember the rat hanging out with Megan on the computer desk and how the dogs really didn’t seem to be bothered by Ratatata at Jeremy’s 25th birthday party – Floyd-the-Dog was still around then too…
At first, I was afraid to touch Ratatata, thought perhaps he’d bite me – but it didn’t take long to find out that he was a friendly rat and loved to be petted and held – he was a little afraid of our dog Sydney because she’d go up to him and be all protective, as if he was a puppy, and one time he bit Sydney on the nose. And, it was my understanding that he didn’t like other rats. But he was the only one…he slowly just became a part of the family.
Whenever Megan would spend the night at friends’ houses, she’d text me, “Don’t forget to feed Ratatata!” He was always happy to see me, and he loved it when I gave him strawberries or sunflower seeds.
Ratatata went with us to the funky apartment in Mountain View and then to the house we now live at in San Jose.
So when Megan and I peered into the cage and saw that Ratatata was lying very still on his side, we knew – Ratatata had passed away.
Megan put her hand on her mouth when it finally hit her – she had laughed when her friend had said he thought Ratatata was dead because she didn’t believe him.
Suddenly I felt sad too – for Ratatata, for my daughter, for all the loss and changes in our lives…we both held each other and cried while Megan’s guy friend looked on.
“We need to figure out what to do with him – we should bury him,” Megan’s friend said softly.
“Yes, of course.”
Megan went to find a bag or a box for Ratata while I ran over to the computer because I had to do it – I had to find pictures of him, memories of our beautiful Ratatata who was so friendly – he would lick you on the hand. Megan loved him more than her hamster Medusa because Medusa bit her and didn’t like her, but Ratatata was always there for her. Our dog Sydney could tell something was up and she followed Megan while she looked for something for Ratatata.
Tears rolled down my cheeks and I was surprised because I didn’t realize I would be so sad about losing a rat. As I searched for photos, I remembered my beloved guinea pigs that I had as a kid and how attached I was to them – and how my favorite character in one of the first books I was able to read in its entirety, “Charlotte’s Web,” happened to be Templeton the Rat. He was a fat rat, always grumpy and looking for food – and he’d steal food from the other animals. I always secretly loved Templeton and thought he changed the most because he saved the day for Charlotte in the end and carried the sack with all of Charlotte’s babies in his mouth – and it wasn’t just about the food binge either.
Poor Ratatata, he was our friend – and now he was gone. Why did this have to happen? People come and go, we’ve moved way too many times – and now Ratatata has left us – that was after Megan’s boyfriend broke up with her the day before her 18th birthday. I finally found the photos of Megan with her wonderful pet rat mixed in with Jeremy’s birthday photos from 2009 – what an adorable fat rat he was – Ratatata. And today was also my mother’s birthday – she would have been 78 years old had she lived.
Megan cried softly as we stood outside at 1:00 a.m. and dug a small hole for Ratatata – and carefully placed his body into the hole. Good-bye Ratatata! Good-bye. We will miss you.
Laughing Till You Cry - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I love to do that. I yearn to do that. I know it can’t be contrived or sought after. It comes slowly or suddenly, sitting in the kitchen with my friends from second grade, at my expense. I am the one who has nursed a misconception for the three days of our visit. I confess to them my misunderstanding which has led me to look fondly askance at my friend, amazed at the new aspect of her caused by my wrong thinking, and how I have enjoyed my forbearance of her peculiar new characteristic which didn’t, in fact, exist.
I won’t attempt to tell you the details because that would only lead you to shake your head and say with a kind and tolerant smile, ``I guess you had to be there.’’
My friends said, beginning to chuckle, ``You mean you’ve been thinking that all these days? Did you hear that? She’s been thinking…’’ The amusement gathers and coalesces into communal amusement and rises into whooping and howling and holding of bellies that goes up and down into waves.
There is nothing so cleansing and delicious as that laugh so deep in the belly as to threaten the breath and causing one to gasp and gulp and catch the eye of the others who laugh again and sink in the chair, giving in to the rising hilarity that tips over into howls and communal helplessness as the others in the room who are not in on the joke ask crossly, ``What’s so funny?’’ and as we try to explain, the hopelessness of explaining becomes itself funny, causing a recurrence of laughing and also crossness on the part of the outsider who asks again, ``What’s so funny?’’
At last, the heaves and gulps grow fewer and farther between, and we mop the tears and lean back in the chairs to savor the vast emptiness in the gut that feels as if we have been having orgasms or sobbing in grief, that cleaned-out satiety that fulfills and calms and subsides except for a few, small left-over hiccups. The only thing that starts it up again briefly is the now-plaintive face of the outsiders who say, quietly, once more, ``What was so funny?’’
I won’t attempt to tell you the details because that would only lead you to shake your head and say with a kind and tolerant smile, ``I guess you had to be there.’’
My friends said, beginning to chuckle, ``You mean you’ve been thinking that all these days? Did you hear that? She’s been thinking…’’ The amusement gathers and coalesces into communal amusement and rises into whooping and howling and holding of bellies that goes up and down into waves.
There is nothing so cleansing and delicious as that laugh so deep in the belly as to threaten the breath and causing one to gasp and gulp and catch the eye of the others who laugh again and sink in the chair, giving in to the rising hilarity that tips over into howls and communal helplessness as the others in the room who are not in on the joke ask crossly, ``What’s so funny?’’ and as we try to explain, the hopelessness of explaining becomes itself funny, causing a recurrence of laughing and also crossness on the part of the outsider who asks again, ``What’s so funny?’’
At last, the heaves and gulps grow fewer and farther between, and we mop the tears and lean back in the chairs to savor the vast emptiness in the gut that feels as if we have been having orgasms or sobbing in grief, that cleaned-out satiety that fulfills and calms and subsides except for a few, small left-over hiccups. The only thing that starts it up again briefly is the now-plaintive face of the outsiders who say, quietly, once more, ``What was so funny?’’
Making Do - Kent Wright
Fortunately for offspring who lack from the beginning the big blue eyes, the magic smile, the star personality, the things that make them “special” to everyone, there are mothers. These mothers of lesser lights believe rabidly, deep in their hearts (yes, I know there are exceptions and that generalizations are a slippery slope) their infants possess a magic that is special too. That magic shines for them with a candlepower equal to landing lights guiding jet liners onto runways.
Some mothers take more than a passive role in laying the groundwork for their unborn. How they attempt to smooth the sheets of fate on their unborn infant’s bed of life varies wildly of course. Norma’s grandmother warned about the consequences to an expectant mother of being startled by a homely animal. If a cat surprised a pregnant mom with an unexpected leap from behind a chair, the baby girl grew whiskers on her upper lip. An awkward one tumbles into the pigpen and her little darling grows a nose that….well, you get the picture.
Norma was far too modern for that sort of nonsense. She paved the way for her only son with the same dedication to order that she lavished on her home where everything was in its place (always) and spotlessly clean. Her grass was perfect, her birdbath sparkled, and her kitchen was a benchmark. She planned for Tony to be perfect too. That would not be easy for him to pull off as his years spun out believe me, but that part of the story comes later. Who wants to drag suicide into things when the little chap is just mastering toilet training?
Norma was not content to keep the recognition of Tony’s uniqueness a private, warm glow in her breast. She wanted to make others, especially mothers, feel it as well. While Tony was still curled in the dark of her womb Norma, a very vocal member of a local evangelical congregation, went to the altar one Sunday in her sixth month, lumbered to her knees and beseeched God loudly for a special son (how she knew it was a boy is anyone’s guess, but she did), a son that would be called to the ministry. Forgive me, I know I promised not to jump ahead, but I can’t resist. Tony would be special all right but it turned out that Norma and God had different ideas. Tony turned out to be gay. We can come back to that if anyone wants more details during the Q & A.
As I said, Norma loved to show other mothers how things were “done”. Tony was always immaculate for example. Never, and I do mean never, did he run about with snot dried on his cheek or grass stains on his knees. Even his toilet training was carried out with special, elevated language. Other children, when the urge struck, ran to their mommies and announced urgently (sometimes too late) “po po mama” or “do do ma”. Not Tony. He was hardly walking when he would rush up to Norma tug at the strings of her crisp apron, look up with his adorable big brown eyes and chirp “Mama, Mama make do”.
Some mothers take more than a passive role in laying the groundwork for their unborn. How they attempt to smooth the sheets of fate on their unborn infant’s bed of life varies wildly of course. Norma’s grandmother warned about the consequences to an expectant mother of being startled by a homely animal. If a cat surprised a pregnant mom with an unexpected leap from behind a chair, the baby girl grew whiskers on her upper lip. An awkward one tumbles into the pigpen and her little darling grows a nose that….well, you get the picture.
Norma was far too modern for that sort of nonsense. She paved the way for her only son with the same dedication to order that she lavished on her home where everything was in its place (always) and spotlessly clean. Her grass was perfect, her birdbath sparkled, and her kitchen was a benchmark. She planned for Tony to be perfect too. That would not be easy for him to pull off as his years spun out believe me, but that part of the story comes later. Who wants to drag suicide into things when the little chap is just mastering toilet training?
Norma was not content to keep the recognition of Tony’s uniqueness a private, warm glow in her breast. She wanted to make others, especially mothers, feel it as well. While Tony was still curled in the dark of her womb Norma, a very vocal member of a local evangelical congregation, went to the altar one Sunday in her sixth month, lumbered to her knees and beseeched God loudly for a special son (how she knew it was a boy is anyone’s guess, but she did), a son that would be called to the ministry. Forgive me, I know I promised not to jump ahead, but I can’t resist. Tony would be special all right but it turned out that Norma and God had different ideas. Tony turned out to be gay. We can come back to that if anyone wants more details during the Q & A.
As I said, Norma loved to show other mothers how things were “done”. Tony was always immaculate for example. Never, and I do mean never, did he run about with snot dried on his cheek or grass stains on his knees. Even his toilet training was carried out with special, elevated language. Other children, when the urge struck, ran to their mommies and announced urgently (sometimes too late) “po po mama” or “do do ma”. Not Tony. He was hardly walking when he would rush up to Norma tug at the strings of her crisp apron, look up with his adorable big brown eyes and chirp “Mama, Mama make do”.
Making Do - Anna Teeples
Staring at the blocks and blocks of sugar cubes scattered on the dining room table, Jenna wondered if she would be feeling the grit of broken cubes under her foot for weeks to come. Why did Reese have to pick sugar cubes to construct her Mission project? One more mission and she was done. Dominic had done his required fourth grade California Mission building two years ago in only 5 weeks, Reese was on week 8 and the six foot round wooden dining room table had not been seen for most of that time, buried under green and tan construction paper, sheets of white foam board and various forms for Elmer’s glue that now collected as puddles on the old table top. I wonder if I’ll be able to get it clean before Thanksgiving?
The Merlot warmed the back of her throat as she stood in the kitchen alternating her view from three war zone areas screaming her name. What do other women do after the kids go to bed whose husbands are real men and stick around? She still can feel the pain in her center of her chest when she thought back to Roger politely telling her that he had a new life he wanted to follow, Destiny? Soul mate? My ass. That’s what he thought about us 15 years ago. The next sip of wine brought her back to the crisis all calling her name.
To her left was the darken laundry room; Jenna closed her eyes and saw clearly the three piles of clothes that the kids had collected from their rooms today. Dominic needs his uniform clean for tomorrow’s game. To her right, she heard the hum of the computer whispering her name in a seductive gesture. The online bank statements and bills stood behind the taunting whisper always crushing her into a helpless blubber and filling her with her ever present companions Ms. Uncertainty and Mistress Doubt. Dead ahead were the ten bags of groceries and supplies from the Costco run in between practice and take-out. At least the kids got the frozen and refrig things away already. If I start now I might get it all done before midnight. I’ll set the alarm for five and finish my presentation in the morning. I can do this. Jenna, I know you can do all this! I can do this one more day. I can make this work.
Reese filled her glass of wine and started towards the laundry room.
The Merlot warmed the back of her throat as she stood in the kitchen alternating her view from three war zone areas screaming her name. What do other women do after the kids go to bed whose husbands are real men and stick around? She still can feel the pain in her center of her chest when she thought back to Roger politely telling her that he had a new life he wanted to follow, Destiny? Soul mate? My ass. That’s what he thought about us 15 years ago. The next sip of wine brought her back to the crisis all calling her name.
To her left was the darken laundry room; Jenna closed her eyes and saw clearly the three piles of clothes that the kids had collected from their rooms today. Dominic needs his uniform clean for tomorrow’s game. To her right, she heard the hum of the computer whispering her name in a seductive gesture. The online bank statements and bills stood behind the taunting whisper always crushing her into a helpless blubber and filling her with her ever present companions Ms. Uncertainty and Mistress Doubt. Dead ahead were the ten bags of groceries and supplies from the Costco run in between practice and take-out. At least the kids got the frozen and refrig things away already. If I start now I might get it all done before midnight. I’ll set the alarm for five and finish my presentation in the morning. I can do this. Jenna, I know you can do all this! I can do this one more day. I can make this work.
Reese filled her glass of wine and started towards the laundry room.
Closeted - Jennifer Baljko
She gnaws at my spirit. She chews up my good thoughts, spits on my motivation, beats down my stamina. The critical, cynical me, the dark me I don’t like. The me I can’t keep closeted, shoved to the perimeter of my existence. She stomps through my head, shattering delicate splinters of inspiration.
Victimized far too long by her upper hand, I cower when she shows up. I spin the same self-degrading story, feeding her appetite. I’m not worthy. I’m not enough. I’m not talented. It’s everyone else’s fault. It’s out of my control. She’s out of my control.
My heart is the tough one, the one that pushes back, sends her to the corner, and gives her a time-out. The bully meets her match. Kindness, love, trust, compassion – my heart’s tools, my soul’s resources. Watching the dark me recoil, I regain strength and jump back into the moment. I trudge through the day, holding space for the me I like to wobble onwards.
Victimized far too long by her upper hand, I cower when she shows up. I spin the same self-degrading story, feeding her appetite. I’m not worthy. I’m not enough. I’m not talented. It’s everyone else’s fault. It’s out of my control. She’s out of my control.
My heart is the tough one, the one that pushes back, sends her to the corner, and gives her a time-out. The bully meets her match. Kindness, love, trust, compassion – my heart’s tools, my soul’s resources. Watching the dark me recoil, I regain strength and jump back into the moment. I trudge through the day, holding space for the me I like to wobble onwards.
Closeted - E. D. James
Alexis Moiseyev leaned on the starboard rail with a cigarette in his right hand. Olivia was not totally surprised that he was the one waiting for her. He was on her list of candidates that she had developed as she lay in the early morning darkness. His thin body carried a nervous energy that radiated even as he stood still. It was this nervous energy that had made Olivia put him on her list. He always seemed to have a separate agenda in the team meetings. It was subtle. His questions and his thoughts were just slightly off, but it was enough that Olivia had suspected that he was working on something he wasn’t completely sharing. His gaze was focused on the rolling forested hills on the Russian side of the Amur.
Alexis looked over at her as she stood next him. “Those hills look virginal, but they can tell many tales.”
Olivia pulled her hair back so that the breeze wouldn’t push it into her face as she turned to him, “I’m listening.”
“How much do you know about the gulag?”
“I’ve read Solzhenitsyn.”
“It is difficult to understand until you open the closets and start to count the members of your family or your friends families who disappeared into those hills,” he said gesturing with his cigarette.
“I have nothing to compare it to in my life.”
“Only the Jews have any understanding in America. But for us it is different, because it was part of family. We did it to ourselves.”
“I’ve never understood why Stalin was allowed to get away with it.”
“He saved us from the Nazis, but in the end they may have been the better bargain.”
“The notes in the materials you gave me have something to do with Arkhara?”
“I believe they have everything to do with the evil we are investigating.”
“Why haven’t you brought this up in our group meetings?”
“The others will think that I am crazy.”
“Why am I different?”
“You seek truth, not victory.”
“And what truth was in the papers you slid under my door at three in the morning.”
“There was a lab involved in nuclear research at the gulag camp at Arkahara.”
Olivia turned her head and locked eyes with Alexis. “And how do you know this?”
“I believe my father worked in that lab.”
Alexis looked over at her as she stood next him. “Those hills look virginal, but they can tell many tales.”
Olivia pulled her hair back so that the breeze wouldn’t push it into her face as she turned to him, “I’m listening.”
“How much do you know about the gulag?”
“I’ve read Solzhenitsyn.”
“It is difficult to understand until you open the closets and start to count the members of your family or your friends families who disappeared into those hills,” he said gesturing with his cigarette.
“I have nothing to compare it to in my life.”
“Only the Jews have any understanding in America. But for us it is different, because it was part of family. We did it to ourselves.”
“I’ve never understood why Stalin was allowed to get away with it.”
“He saved us from the Nazis, but in the end they may have been the better bargain.”
“The notes in the materials you gave me have something to do with Arkhara?”
“I believe they have everything to do with the evil we are investigating.”
“Why haven’t you brought this up in our group meetings?”
“The others will think that I am crazy.”
“Why am I different?”
“You seek truth, not victory.”
“And what truth was in the papers you slid under my door at three in the morning.”
“There was a lab involved in nuclear research at the gulag camp at Arkahara.”
Olivia turned her head and locked eyes with Alexis. “And how do you know this?”
“I believe my father worked in that lab.”
A Big Mistake - Judy Albietz
I’m no hero, Lily thought. She knew she needed to quit crying and pull herself together. She’d tried to stop. But every time she’d looked out at the strange landscape of this alien future world, the tears would start all over again. Slowly she was realizing that it was true—she really was very very far from her home. Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft growly voice of Sam, the not-normal sweet telepathic dog who saved her life. “Lily, I am so sorry that you are so sad. I will keep you safe. I will try to find a way to get you back home.”
Lily wanted to bury her head in the thick fur of this enormous hairy dog. She wanted to believe that Sam would take care of everything. He would have to, since there wasn’t anyone else around to help. Only the two of them stuck on a rocky ledge. She lifted her head and stared at the steep granite cliff behind them. Yes, that’s the trouble right there. There’s no way I’m gonna climb up the face of those rocks. I’m definitely not a rock climber, never will be. I have no survival skills. She started to cry again. Sam wouldn’t be able to carry me, either, unless for some reason he could fly. That thought made her laugh out loud in between her gulping sobs. Sam gave her a questioning look, cocking his head to the side.
I didn’t sign up for this, she thought, now angry. Yes, that’s the problem, they picked the wrong girl. Sam said this all has to do with a broken time machine. Like I’m going to know how to fix something like that.
Lily wanted to bury her head in the thick fur of this enormous hairy dog. She wanted to believe that Sam would take care of everything. He would have to, since there wasn’t anyone else around to help. Only the two of them stuck on a rocky ledge. She lifted her head and stared at the steep granite cliff behind them. Yes, that’s the trouble right there. There’s no way I’m gonna climb up the face of those rocks. I’m definitely not a rock climber, never will be. I have no survival skills. She started to cry again. Sam wouldn’t be able to carry me, either, unless for some reason he could fly. That thought made her laugh out loud in between her gulping sobs. Sam gave her a questioning look, cocking his head to the side.
I didn’t sign up for this, she thought, now angry. Yes, that’s the problem, they picked the wrong girl. Sam said this all has to do with a broken time machine. Like I’m going to know how to fix something like that.
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