Feeds:
Posts
Comments

By Request- Dialogue with a Butterfly

July 26, 2010 by Julie

This is how my closest friend and I generally talk to each other in emails.

The fact that in her world a butterfly sounds more like a very drunk pirate just means we groove pretty well.

No. Not that way. Gutter dwellers.

I’m all, “Dude. Black and brown flannel? You landed on black and
> brown flannel?” and he’s all, “Ahhh.” *open close. open close* and I
> said, “I’m smoking.” And he’s like, “It’s ok. Ahhhhh.” And I stood
> there awhile and then said, “I’m kind of done and have to go in.”
> and he’s like, “It’s ok. I’ll go with you.” and I said, “You can’t.
> Dog’ll eat you. Go home.” and he’s like, “Five more minutes?” and I
> said, “No. I’ve been out here two minutes longer than normal. Go
> home.” and you know, I poked him. And he’s like, “Not leaving.” so I
> pulled the fabric up and he’s like, “Still not leaving!” and I said,
> “Yes you are.” and I tented the fabric up and he’s hanging onto
> like, 1/4 inch of fabric now. So he’s like, “NOOOOO!!!” and I said,
> “Too bad.” and picked him up and he’s not letting go of my finger.
> So I start shaking my hand over the railing and he went flying.
>
> I think he cussed me out.

>> Actually what he said as he flew off was “SAUCY WENCH! iiiiiiiiii
>> LIKE IT! RAWR BABY RAWR!”

Posted in Seasons, Yard, friends | 1 Comment »

Collagen Shmollagen (Or, a Big Ol’ “Screw It.”)

July 24, 2010 by Julie

If I say, “It’s too fucking hot,” I’m not telling you guys anything new, right?

It’s too fucking hot.

Never let it be said that I won’t beat a dead horse. I won’t beat a live horse, because they’re scary and can kick my ass. Ponies. Ponies are scarier than horses. I love both, but I’ll be damned if I don’t know one of them could take me out in a second.

Anyway, it’s muy caliente here in the Southern US of A, and everywhere, and we’ve been stuck inside for months. Really. Remember how much fun I was having in April when we got an “early summer?” Yesterday a carpenter bee apparently smacked himself into the house, knocked himself out cold, and then fried hisself in the heat.

At this point I’m convinced that a Hell Mouth has opened, and the humidity is the souls of the damned walking among us. I can think of no worse punishment for sins than spending eternity in a state of sogginess. I’ll bet they smell like onions.

Also antiseptic cleaners.

So here’s what’s going on. My face is dry. Winter dry. It amazes me that my skin can be so dry when it’s constantly assaulted by moisture, but what happens is that the heat sucks the water from my skin and adds it to the Damnation Dew, and I brush my teeth and look in the mirror-

And I have wrinkles.

I’m a big fan of wrinkles on people. I love the character they give to features, and one of the things that got me so interested in my husband was the perfectly arranged assortment of crows’ feet around his eyes. Wrinkles convey the fact that you’ve lived your life instead of hiding indoors, covering up with a ski mask upon going outside, or walking around under a parasol so you can’t even hail a cab correctly (mad gesticulations while leaping up and down) lest your sun shade blow away.

The problem is that, well, I wasn’t expecting to see them so soon. They are in fact starting around my eyes. According to commercials for overpriced snake oil these are called “laugh lines” since I’m female, but you know- I know they’re from smoking. The smoke dries out and pollutes my skin, and a smoker has a tendency to squint to keep smoke from entering the eyeballs.

I squint a lot.

I used to be a freak about wearing my sunglasses outside, because macular degeneration scares the piss out of me, but lately unless I’m driving I forget to wear them. Most of the time I end up looking like Dirty Harry.

(Pardon me. I’m out here watching my kid play in the pool, and while I sit on an Igloo cooler and type the Mississippi River of sweat is running down the inside of my shirt. Did I mention it’s too fucking hot? Oh. There it goes down the back of my underpants. Be back in a few)

(Ok, in the past hour I tasked myself with hosing down my husband as he pushed the mower past the deck, ran him bottles of Gatorade, hosed down my kid, hosed down myself, and finally gave in and laid down in her pool with her with my legs and head hanging out because I don’t fit. 108 in the shade at 10am is no way to go through life, Sun. [see what I did there?])

Anyway, where I was going is that for a few days, as I brushed my teeth I would notice that the elasticity under my eyes was rapidly disappearing. So, being who I am, I made as many faces as I could at myself to see what shapes I could manipulate the skin into. Unfortunately I then found myself paying attention to Diane Lane every time she started squawking at me to buy Neutrogena so I could look as awesome as she does.

Didn’t buy any, but I did pay attention.

Here’s the deal. I’ve always admired those lines on other people, yet they were making me feel… old.

I’m not old.

I’m 39. Some of those lines are from laughing, and some of them are from sobbing into pillows. Some of them are from anger, and some of them are from spending time outdoors. Some of them are The Badge of Stupidity brought on by cigarettes.

Those are my life. Right there.

So, I think I’m not going to do anything out of the ordinary, here. Wash my face. Use lotion when I remember. Watch my husband’s face when he’s talking to me, loving the lines on it, and realize that I deserve to show my past as well as he does.

I like my face. It’s not spectacular, but it’s mine. And my face deserves to change with me.

Posted in Family, Love, Seasons, skin, smoking | 6 Comments »

“Every single day I wake up and I think of a reason not to do it…”

July 23, 2010 by Julie

I was going to leave this alone. Really. I haven’t been following the situation rabidly or searching out new information on the whole deal. However, I do lie in bed at night reading a book while the 10pm news is on, and when the news ends the channel tosses on one of those ludicrous tabloid shows.

The first “story” every night? William Wallace coming apart at the seams.

I’d been actively ignoring this, to be honest. At the beginning, anyway. Then more tapes were released, and while reading my books I’d hear something.

I’d hear myself.

No, I never behaved quite that badly. I never used the words he’s used, never threatened to remove someone from the equation totally…

What I hear in his voice, as he screams so loudly that the phone line crackles with the force of his rage, is despair.

I hear self hatred.

I hear an overwhelming need to control the situation, the relationship, himself, all of it, that ironically is out of one’s control as soon as the rage takes over in the first place.

I hear fear.

He gave up everything for this, you see. A marriage of many decades that produced his family of children, in the heat of a moment he tossed it aside for The New, and that New didn’t go according to plan. And he hates himself for being that stupid. He hates himself for letting his urges overpower his reason. He hates himself right now, fears what will come of this, and is lashing out in response.

I don’t look at the screen when the tapes run. I put my book on my lap and close my eyes and listen.

I can hear her egging him on, knowing which buttons to push to get what response. For such a short relationship, she’s figured this out well. No, there’s no excuse for his behavior toward her and his child, NONE, but in these tapes I can hear her manipulating the situation into what she needs for the outcome she desires. She’s good. She’s a master, actually. She’s his master, right now, and that’s one of the things that enrages him. Because he can’t control himself.

I listen to him lose his shit, and I can so clearly hear the agony of a Bipolar that I pity him. The things he’s said are dreadful. The words he’s used against people, the aspersions he’s cast against various segments of society… none of that is acceptable.

Me? I’ve been in states where I’ve said things I flat out didn’t mean. Didn’t even FEEL. I can’t believe some of the things I’ve said to people, especially people I love, simply in order to hurt them as much as I hurt at the moment.

So with my eyes closed I listen to him rage, and even though I KNOW I can’t affect the outcome of this, I think to myself, “Don’t go there, man, keep it together. Don’t let this win. Go get help. Go get REAL help. Let someone hospitalize you and get yourself out of this. Chuck the booze. Chuck the drugs. Start smoking again if you have to. This is NOT you. Look what this is doing to you. Look where this has taken you. You’re going to lose everything you have during this episode. Not everyone cares about you. Most people don’t. They’re not invested enough to forgive. You need help. Get it. LET people help you. Even if you lose all of ‘this,’ you’ll keep what’s important. This is NOT YOU.”

But he can’t hear me, and as I said, the outcome is already written.

The other reason I listen to these at night?

Self preservation.

I know, deep down, that his level of rage is somewhere I could easily go. I have a husband who loves me, and when my brain starts to unravel he helpfully points it out to me, but he isn’t always here.

My kids have been terrors lately, and even when I start to get angry, not enraged, I’ve been removing myself from the situation because they don’t deserve it.

Rage isn’t about “them.” It’s about “us.” It’s about perceiving things as threats to our idea of what things should be, how folks should feel about us, and ultimately, how we feel about ourselves.

In my opinion no one who is comfortable in their own skin explodes in that level of rage.

So while I deplore his actions and words, hate the situation he’s created, and do NOT excuse emotional and physical abuse of others…

I understand.

And I’m grateful that I now have a perfect example of how NOT to act.

I’m grateful that I have people in my life who love ME. I’m grateful that I’m not so absurdly wealthy that I have no idea who cares about me and who cares about what I can give them. I’m grateful that my husband knows me well enough that he can defuse me with the proper choice of words instead of deliberately pushing my buttons to flip me out. I’m grateful that I have everything a person could ever want, really, even without financial solvency, and I will NOT let some stupid chemical imbalance take that away.

And I don’t often do this, but I’m keeping him in my thoughts. Praying for him, I guess you could say. The anguish in his voice is a horrible thing, and no one should ever feel that way about themselves.

This is Not Him, folks. This is his disease. And it’s winning.

And by the luck of the genetic draw combined with circumstance, your kids could have it too.

Posted in Movies, Pain, crazy, luck | 12 Comments »

My Name is Julie Summerell. You Killed My Garden. Prepare to Die.

July 14, 2010 by Julie

(Or, What I Learned from Dean Winchester)

This will be spoiler free, I promise.

The episode of Supernatural we watched last night? There was a scene where Dean Winchester enters a room in order to do something, and someone turns to him and says, “It’s too late.” His reply?

“I don’t care.”

And then he goes about his task anyway.

Know what will grow in hot sun even when there’s no rain to be found anywhere?

Weeds.

It’s very hard to pull weeds when you have a bad back and the ground is as hard as rock.

The garden? The garden was one large, choked, mass of crabgrass. Nightshade, something I wish I’d known was lurking in the soil before I planted tomatoes, was springing up everywhere. Small trees were gaining footholds. The other evening Rich was looking out over the garden and said, “That’s the ugliest garden I’ve ever seen.” He was right.

See, I’d given up.

There was no water. I couldn’t compete with the rapid weed growth. I just gave up.

Last night while we were finishing up our DVD viewing a wicked storm moved through. The thunder rocked the house, and the wind was blowing the rain sideways. It was pounding the house, and when it finally ended I got up to go check the rain gauge. I knew it wouldn’t be totally accurate due to the sideways rain, but I wanted a rough estimate.

The rain gauge was filled to the three inch mark.

I looked towards the garden, and I saw every single corn stalk but one lying down. I didn’t have it in me to go look. We went to bed.

When I got up this morning I headed out to check them, and I noticed almost all of them were ripped out at the roots. So that’s that then. Everything is gone. Nothing is able to be salvaged. Not even the corn.

Livvie and I went to play outside when Jonas fell asleep this morning, and Livvie wanted to go see the corn. I walked through the deer fencing with her and looked to my right. I saw this:

What. The fuck. My lettuce had struggled for so long, pale yellow, never growing. Weeds surrounded the lettuce plants, there were many, and I bent over and pulled one out.

The ground gave like someone cutting softened butter.

I stood up, and I thought, “Who the fuck ARE you, and what did you do with my will?”

I bent over and pulled another weed.

And then I stood up and looked, really looked at what was going on around me.

And then I got to work.

I started pulling weeds like crazy. My husband will flip the fuck out, because I’d been almost immobile due to back issues for a few days. I didn’t care. I noticed that with the more work I did the less my back hurt. As a matter of fact, I still haven’t taken my next dose of medication.

I don’t need it. Yet.

I bent and pulled, feeling the earth give way easily, thanking whatever listens for the three + inch rainfall to make this possible. I did not wear gloves. I never wear gloves. I don’t give two shits about my fingernails, and hands are washable. Gloves make it impossible to get a feel for the soil and what you’re handling. Gloves disconnect you from your task.

The cicadas were in an uproar, it’s going to be hot again tomorrow, and about 70% of the weeds I pulled launched random bugs at me. The sun was drenching me from head to foot, and every time a river of sweat tickled I’d use my muddy hands to wipe it away. If the soil were blue I’d look like a Pict at this point.

I got three rows done before Livvie got hot enough to request air conditioning. There are six rows left to do.

The thing is, yeah. It’s too late. The beans are obliterated by bean beetles and frying sunlight. The corn was yanked from the dirt last night. Two tomato plants need pulling. Insects devoured every broccoli plant. The radishes all split. The potatoes were lost long ago. All of my onions died shortly after they went into the ground. The pumpkins are gone.

I don’t care.

I put my heart and body into that garden, and I do myself a disservice to let it go. Sitting here watching, thinking “Oh woe is me?”

Fuck that.

I’d even been making noises about how I was just going to let it go back to grass. Screw it. Plant tomatoes in pots next year and call it good.

Fuck that.

The thing is, the area is ready. Kept maintained, it’s ready for me. Even if all of those plants have been lost, I have more seeds. Beans can still go into the dirt for a late harvest. There are late season plants that can replace the plants that have died. If the weather doesn’t cooperate so be it, but I’m swear fo God fighting this apathy.

I feel better today than I have in weeks.

Fighting back can do that for a person.

Posted in Home, Pain, Seasons, Yard, luck | 12 Comments »

Rain Dance

July 10, 2010 by Julie

For the past month we’ve been watching and waiting. We pull up the radar and watch it light up to our east, to our north, and especially to the south.

Nothing comes.

I’ve gone outside and watched the garden, the one that took so much time and exertion, the one that I waited for for years, the one that I threw my back into literally- die. It was unstoppable. Watering, the measly amount we could do, provided no rescue. The air itself sucked the moisture from the plants. The sun, blazing hotter than any summer in my memory over fifteen years here, fried each leaf. The pumpkins were the first to succumb. Five beautiful, lush pumpkin plants. Dreams of harvesting for Halloween. I walked outside each day and watched them brown and shrivel until there was nothing but crunch.

The corn. The corn had shot to six feet tall. I watched the tassels explode, tiny ears budding along the stalks, and for some reason I connected to the corn more than any plant I’ve ever sunk into the earth. I talked to it. I stroked the leaves. Over the past two weeks I watched those leaves parch and curl. The green faded to beige. No Silver Queen this year.

And over the past week I became desperate for rain. I’d walk outside and beg the sky. I had moments of contemplating walking into the garden itself and slicing open my hand, letting my blood hit the dirt while praying hard to whatever or whoever listens to such things that some water would come. All that work and love meaning nothing. None of my efforts rewarded beyond five green bean harvests, a handful of tomatoes, and about twelve cucumbers.

I am grateful that Tomato the First ripened and provided me with the best tomato sandwich I’ve eaten in my life. A pink variety called “Hillbilly,” I will never not grow these again. The taste was deep and exploded with the sun. It wasn’t very acidic. It was like having those moments in the yard as a kid when I’d walk out to my grandmom’s garden, pull a tomato from a plant, and sink my teeth into it without even making it inside. Jersey tomatoes have long been the quintessential fruit in this country, and for good reason, but this gave them a run for the money.

The day before yesterday I walked outside, and the sky clouded over. The wind snapped. I stood there and four drops hit me. Then- nothing.

It was enough to make a person want to flip the bird at whatever or whoever notices such things.

But I didn’t.

I walked outside last night for a cigarette, and I saw lightning to the northwest in a star-filled sky. I watched the clouds for about five minutes, trying to get a handle on which way the wind was blowing. To the south. Maybe, maybe not. I came inside and flipped open my laptop, pulling up the radar yet again, and saw that the storm I saw was right below Danville, Virginia. Again, maybe, maybe not. Two days ago there had been a beast of a storm one county to our east, and it disintegrated before it reached us.

I went to bed.

I heard a rumble at about midnight. Big deal.

I fell back asleep.

I don’t know what time it was when I heard the rain fall. The house was getting pounded hard enough to wake me up, and I rolled onto my back and opened my eyes. The tension I’ve been feeling for weeks left my muscles, and I grinned like an idiot in the dark. I tried to get up, I wanted to see it, stand in it, open my mouth and taste it. Instead my eyes slammed shut, and I fell asleep again.

When Livvie came to wake us this morning the first thing she said was, “It rained outside!” I said, “I know! I heard it.” I followed her into the living room and saw the windows covered with wet. I started the coffee, and heard Jonas waking up too. I sent Livvie in to tell him I’d be right there, and when I walked in she was standing at his window. She said, “It rained.”

Yes it did.

It was less than a half an inch. I don’t even care. It’s the most welcome rainfall I’ve ever experienced in my life. I got the kids settled and took the camera outside. Everything was wet. Everything was beautiful.

It’s too late for the garden. I’m ok with that now.

Posted in Home, Seasons, Yard, luck | 7 Comments »

In Case You’ve Forgotten

July 4, 2010 by Julie

“The British are coming! The British are coming!“

Now, the ride of Paul Revere
Set the nation on its ear,
And the shot at Lexington heard ’round the world,
When the British fired in the early dawn
The War of Independence had begun,
The die was cast, the rebel flag unfurled.

And on to Concord marched the foe
To seize the arsenal there you know,
Waking folks searching all around
Till our militia stopped them in their tracks,
At the old North Bridge we turned them back
And chased those Redcoats back to Boston town.

And the shot heard ’round the world
Was the start of the Revolution.
The Minute Men were ready, on the move.
Take your powder, and take your gun.
Report to General Washington.
Hurry men, there’s not an hour to lose!

Now, at famous Bunker Hill,
Even though we lost, it was quite a thrill,
The rebel Colonel Prescott proved he was wise;
Outnumbered and low on ammunition
As the British stormed his position
He said, “Hold your fire till you see the whites of their eyes!”

Though the next few years were rough,
General Washington’s men proved they were tough,
Those hungry, ragged boys would not be beat.
One night they crossed the Delaware,
Surprised the Hessians in their lair,
And at Valley Forge they just bundled up their feet!

And the shot heard ’round the world
Was the start of the Revolution.
The Minute Men were ready, on the move.
Take your blanket, and take your son.
Report to General Washington.
We’ve got our rights and now it’s time to prove.

Well, they showed such determination
That they won the admiration
Of countries across the sea like France and Spain,
Who loaned the colonies ships and guns
And put the British on the run
And the Continental Army on its feet again.

And though they lost some battles too,
The Americans swore they’d see it through,
Their raiding parties kept up, hit and run.
At Yorktown the British could not retreat,
Bottled up by Washington and the French Fleet,
Cornwallis surrendered and finally we had won!

The winner!

Hurray!

From the shot heard ’round the world
To the end of the Revolution
The continental rabble took the day
And the father of our country
Beat the British there at Yorktown
And brought freedom to you and me and the U.S.A.!

God bless America, Let Freedom Ring!

Happy Independence Day folks. Stay safe. :)

Posted in Random Crap I Never Categorized | 2 Comments »

Ten Seconds

July 2, 2010 by Julie

“What were you thinking? You KNOW better than that. I swear to God I am going to FREAKING call freaking John Walsh and have him come talk to you. You won’t listen to ME about this. Maybe HE can get through to you.”

Sometimes I’m That Mom out in public.

Awhile back Livvie and Ginny and I were playing out front, and I called Ginny because it was time to go back in. She didn’t come. I called again. Nothing. So I told Livvie to follow me, and I walked around the back of the house, calling Ginny loudly in the “I mean this shit, dog. Get back here right NOW,” voice, and Livvie was starting to cry. I walked through the woods, looking for her on the ground in case she’d been snake bitten, and I finally heard breathing to my left. I looked over to find that she’d jumped the back stock fence and couldn’t figure out how to get back over.

I went over the fence, picked her up, placed her over, and then perp walked her back into the house by the back of the neck.

When she didn’t come my stomach sank. She’s microchipped, but she wasn’t wearing her collar. She’s no longer all that street smart, which is odd because she’d survived for so long with her litter running loose in the world before she was found.

It was an awful feeling.

Today was worse.

Livvie is generally good in public. She knows, “Stay where I can see you,” and “Don’t move. I’m looking at this really quick.”

But today I was in the infant/toddler clothing department in Target, trying once more to find something for my son to wear as pajamas, and I saw a shirt hanging. I stopped the cart, flipped for two seconds through the hangers to see if they had his size, and glanced up.

My daughter was gone.

The first thing you feel is a gut kick.

Then you call.

“Livvie!”

Nothing.

The next thing you feel is your bowels start to twist. Concurrent with that is the hair on your neck standing up.

You call again.

“Livvie!” <insert Voice of Doom> “GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW.”

And then you see your kid come around from behind a rack of clothing five racks away. And that’s when you lose your shit.

So after I finished with the diatribe at the beginning of this post I walked her ass over into the baby aisles. I grabbed a pink puppy harness off of the shelf and ripped it from its packaging. I tossed the empty box in the cart.

“You have NO idea. NO IDEA. This is NOT 1978, Livvie. Two seconds. IT ONLY TAKES TWO SECONDS.”

I pulled the harness from its twisty ties and fastened it to her.

“You are wearing this until you’re thirty, Livvie. And you just blew your chance at a new bottle of bubbles. You can forget the bubbles. The deal was you had to behave.”

I led her around by the pink tail of the puppy until I finished finding everything I needed, and then I got in a checkout lane. When it was our turn I pointed to the empty box on the conveyer and said, “She’s wearing that. For the rest of her life.”

Livvie likes her puppy a lot. She’s named it Bella. When we got home she pretended to take it out to pee.

And I sat here trying to figure out how to get through to her. How can I make her understand how important this is? She wasn’t there in 1981. She doesn’t pay attention to the news now, and even if she did it wouldn’t make sense.

I’ve respected the Walshes greatly my whole life, but today-

She was gone for ten seconds total.

How do people live when it’s forever?

Posted in Family, Livvie, Love | 17 Comments »

Pardon Me While I Do Balki’s Dance of Joy

June 29, 2010 by Julie

A little while ago I launched myself into a Flash Fiction Contest run by Needle Magazine so I could win a T-Shirt and look awesome while advertising their rag as I ran errands to pick up dog food and buy groceries.

Because, you know, that’s kind of what I do.

I didn’t get my name selected for the T-Shirt. That was sort of disappointing, because it’s a cool T-Shirt, and I like free clothing.

But then one day I get this message from Steve Weddle, the editor of said rag and one of my favorite Twitter pals, and he’s asking me if they could run my entry in the Summer issue of Needle.

And after I gasped so loudly my kids both almost burst into tears, I replied, very calmly, yes you can.

And now that the Summer issue is being announced I’m going to jump up and down in front of you all and shout, “LOOK!!!! I did it!!!”

While I do not know why my entry was chosen for the issue, I’m awfully glad it was. I love the online fiction magazines, and they’re nice to read while lying in bed in the dark because all I need is the light from the screen so I don’t keep Rich up with the overhead light.

But for some reason having my very first published piece ever in a solid, hold it in your hands, real honest to God print magazine is exciting beyond belief.

Exciting enough to choke me up occasionally.

And for that I want to thank Steve and the good folks who work on Needle from the bottom of my heart.

The issue is coming out in a couple of weeks, and I’d love it if you’d purchase a copy. I edited my entry and rewrote it in the third person, and if you clicked the link above you noticed the story has been removed from that post. The title has been tweaked a bit as well. The story, “Under the Rug,” begins-

“How’d you say you got this again?” Sally fired up her lighter. “And this time, breathe.”

Jessie was parked on Sally’s kitchen chair with her ass on the edge. Forehead on the table, her eyes were watering with that agony specific to puncture wounds.

“He was on Owen’s bed when I got up to pee. I walked past the door and saw him.” She lifted her head for a moment. Sally held the tip of the embroidery needle in the flame of her lighter, and as Jessie watched it began to glow. Her stomach swiveled.

For the rest of it, and for other stories by some truly awesome writers (right now I feel like that person who walks into a party and stands, shuffling their feet, while everyone who knows one another laughs and chats with ease) go on over to Needle’s website and order your copy in a couple weeks.

To paraphrase-

My mother thanks you. My father thanks you… and I thank you.

And thank you Chuck, because if you hadn’t forced me to come out of my shell I’d have never seen my name in print.

Posted in Dreams, Fiction, luck, writing | 27 Comments »

I’d Ask You to Hold My Hair If I Had Any

June 28, 2010 by Julie

I have a few updates for all of you nice folks, and because I have my first hangover in many a year they’ll be brief.

(Shut up. I only drank four beers. But I hadn’t really had any beer in quite awhile. And I don’t have to explain myself to you)

(It was hot)

(I was thirsty)

(They were there)

(And I’m hoarding bottled water to make coffee and tea and Jonas formula due to well sediment again)

Cross Thy Fingers Please

Tomorrow at 130pm I am to present myself to one of the best spine surgeons in the area for evaluation to see if my back injury is operable. I’m in misery, I’m having to take too much medication, and I’m having neurological issues with my legs. I need good thoughts, people. First I’m terrified that I won’t be a candidate for surgery, and I’ll be stuck like this forever. Second I’m terrified that I will be a candidate for surgery, and that means general anesthesia and someone knifing around near my spinal cord.

So I’m kind of ascared.

And I could use as many good thoughts and well wishes and prayers to your higher power as possible.

Thank ye.

Problem Solving Skillz. I Has Dem.

Yesterday I was eaten by a lawn chair while watching Livvie play in her pool.

It had nothing to do with the beer, and everything to do with the age of and weather damage to the seat of the chair.

Swear.

I was sitting with my laptop in my, um, lap, and the seat tore next to my left hip. Ok, maybe if I hadn’t had the beer I’d have gotten up immediately, but I didn’t, and then the entire left half of the seat tore under my ass and I got wedged into the frame with my legs dangling out.

So I tweeted for help, and none came.

I couldn’t ask Livvie for help, because she was soaking wet and would ruin my laptop.

Rich was inside (I now want walkie talkies).

So I eventually put my computer on the ground, rocked sideways, tipped over, and crawled out. While I was trapped I became a feast for the mosquito population, and today I am muy itchy and want nothing more than an oatmeal bath and calamine.

But I got out.

Satan’s Laughtop

Any mom of small children will tell you that when the batteries start to go in any of the thousand and forty-two battery operated toys in the house the voices and/or music will start to slow down until what you hear is a disturbing combination of “I buried Paul (cranberry sauce)” and “Eat Mor Batz.”

But what about when the batteries are fresh, and for some reason the toy simply turns itself on at random?

And only in the middle of the night?

We’d been having trouble with an old See n’ Say Baby that Coyote’s mom gave Livvie at her first Christmas. Often in the middle of the night it would suddenly begin tinkling “Mary Had a Little Lamb” or one of the other songs, and this almost always happened right after I had gotten Jonas back to sleep.

Now the Fisher Price Laughtop has gotten in on the action.

I was lying in bed last night around 1am, and I could have sworn I heard a faint, “Welcome to your tune maker! THANKS for logging on!”

I ignored it, because I thought I was drunk and hearing things.

I was drunk, but I wasn’t hearing things.

I continued to hear music. I tossed the covers aside and walked to the family room where a green glow was coming from the floor.

The toy was on. It was in the middle of playing a letter game by that point, which made no sense because it had just piped up about the “Tune Maker” option being set, and I leaned over and picked it up.

The dog was asleep in our room. Not the culprit.

I switched off the toy and looked in on Livvie. Out cold.

So I shut the damn thing and got back in bed, and I shut my eyes and pretended none of it had ever happened.

In Case You Missed It

I posted a short story yesterday.

I’m still working on the demon scarecrow story.

And now I leave you to pray to my porcelain God.

Later.

Posted in Home, Pain, booze, drinking, sleep, writing | 13 Comments »

Sunday Free Fiction

June 27, 2010 by Julie

I screwed around with this for a couple of months, saving drafts, and in the end I’ve decided to come back to the fourth draft of this. It’s the one that seems to fit best.

I’d like to thank Chuck Wendig for taking a look at the first couple of drafts and making suggestions that made this flow better and wind up more organic.

Fiction. It’s Free Range!

(In case you’re not from an area in the Northeast with beaches, a “Shoebee” is a person who day trips to the shore (beach for you folks not from NJ). It comes from the time when visitors packed lunches in shoeboxes so they wouldn’t have to spend money on meals)

Shoebees

“You know, the movies make it out to be a lot more dramatic than it really is.”

I removed my glasses and looked at Allison. “In what way?”

Allison pulled a Wet One from the plastic pouch in her pocket and cleaned her hands with it. “Well, it’s louder, for one. Also, they seem to make more of a mess in the movies.”

I was using seawater to wash the blood from my naked chest and arms. My glasses, too. “You don’t call this messy?”

Allison said, “Point taken. I guess the waves already took care of some of it. Tide’s coming in.”

It had been easy enough to get him to the beach. The benefits of being “unforgettable.” Oh sure, he knew I was married now and had a few kids at home, but when I walked into his restaurant near closing time and leaned over his counter, sobbing about how the sex just never managed to measure up, and it was a nightmare being so frustrated, well…

All I had to do was hand him a slip of paper with directions to a particular beach and a time and day written on the back.

Allison looked at me closely. “What the fuck is that glitter in your hair?”

I ran my hand through my hair, and when I removed it my hand sparkled. “I think it’s his brains.” She bolted for the surf, jeans-clad legs becoming soaked, and retched until her eyes watered. Not far behind her, I ran past the breakers, stuck my head in, and scrubbed until my scalp felt like it was bleeding. We staggered back out through the undertow and sat down on the sand.

“You positive you want to help out today?” I said.

Allison turned her head to follow a pelican, and then she looked at the sand. “Yeah. I want this done.” We pushed ourselves up.

She helped me wrangle him onto the thrift store blanket where he’d found me, lying naked, when he made his way to the hidden beach. “He really played video games while you miscarried?” She dropped him hard onto what used to be his face.

“Yep. All I heard while I crawled to the bathroom was ‘pew pew’ sounds. Didn’t even bring me the phone when I needed to call the doctor.”

Allison was along to help me with the heavy lifting. I had met her on the internet on a message board for local moms, and we’d progressed to telephone chats. She was a single mom with three kids at home herself. Her baby daddy had run off while she was pregnant with number three, talking about his need to spread his wings and find himself. Said he couldn’t handle another kid, he’d never wanted the first two, he was too young to have to be home every night to put kids to bed and clean up more vomit and piss… According to Allison, he’d never once touched a paper towel for either of those tasks in the first place. Putting kids to bed was a joke. He’d dick around on his laptop looking for free porn and online personals and grunt goodnights to them as she carried them to their rooms.

A joke became a pact, and a pact became a Tuesday at the beach.

Mine was easier. He and I had gone through the rigamarole of dating and breaking up so many times in the past that the very notion of screwing me occasionally while I was married to someone else and couldn’t ask for commitment was too much to resist. I had no worries that he’d told anyone where he was going or whom he was meeting. I’d never gotten beyond the designation “friend” in any introduction over the years.

I emptied his pockets of everything, including the directions to the beach, and Allison helped me place his blanket-wrapped hulk into two plastic lawn bags, one on each end. I hadn’t taken a single moment to say anything to him. When he had started undressing I waited for him to bend to remove his pants, lifted the gun from behind my back, and put two in his face.

It would have been nice if he’d landed on the blanket himself, but you can’t have everything.

I felt a flash of remorse for his family. They‘d been very nice to me the day we‘d run into them at his restaurant. Then I remembered collapsing in the bathroom. I pulled out the gun, aimed it at the plastic-covered vicinity of his crotch, and shot one more time. Pew.

Allison had gone to the car for the tarp we brought along to drag him to the boat we had beached nearby. I double-checked the boat to make sure the dive weights were in there, and I looked over my shoulder to find Allison on her way back already. She grimaced. “You know, this is where the cultural taboos against eating shellfish developed. Nasty little scavengers. Look like giant bugs anyway.” We unfolded the tarp and rolled him onto it.

I stared at him a moment. He had hated crabs. Wouldn’t even go near them in stuffed mushrooms.

“Got all your I’s crossed and T’s dotted?”

“Yep.” I pointed to the used laptop I had purchased to contact her ex through the “Missed Connections” section of the personals.

“Good deal. We need to get a move on. You told Pete you’d meet him at the marina at noon.” Her ex was living on his boat these days because he’d left his job in the technical field in order to work for a big box hardware chain and avoid hefty alimony payments. Our respective moms were watching our kids for the day so we could have a girls’ day out of brunch and shopping. We figured a five hour window was good enough.

My kids.

Brody for sure was going to know something was up. He doesn’t miss a thing. The other two I might be able to fake out. It might be months before I could look my oldest in the eye again, though.

We heaved the asshole into the stern of the rented jon boat, and then I gave it a running push and jumped inside. As we approached the area that the channel map I had purchased indicated was deep enough to make accidental discovery by random fishermen unlikely I strapped the dive weights onto him, attached another to the laptop with some 20 pound test, and we tossed both overboard.

I scratched my scalp, and Allison watched me watch him sink.

“Are you feeling any better?”

I was irritated. Angry. Satisfied? Tired. Really frigging tired.

I shrugged. “I’m tired. I’m hungry. Let’s get to the marina and get this done. I need protein. I haven‘t eaten since dinner last night.”

We putted back to the beach, and I dropped her off so she could hop in the car and drive to the marina and park. Her own car was parked at the mall. I turned the boat around and headed in the direction of the cheapest marina in the area and her ex. The email I had printed at the library directed me to a sad looking thirty-foot 1977 Tartan, blue with white trim. I looked at my watch. 11:57am. I glanced at the parking lot and saw my white Toyota 4Runner pull into a spot toward the back of the lot. I could see the yellow “Baby on Board” decal from the water.

I was pretty sure that after I left Allison at the mall I’d never see her again.

I adjusted my bikini top and my blonde wig, tucked the silenced pistol into the back of my shorts, and motored over alongside the dock. It was deserted on a weekday morning. Pete was pacing the deck of his home, stopping to squint into the horizon every once in awhile.

“Hey there! Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

He jumped and turned in my direction.

“Wow! Are you Emily?”

I took a deep breath and then pasted the smile that I used for PTA meetings on my face.

“Who else would I be?”

Posted in Fiction, writing | 4 Comments »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »