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Life’s

a bitch, then your ‘Check Engine’ light comes on.

“How’s the writing coming along?” - my friend

That harmless little question is just enough.  Enough to bring me to the library; a place that used to be wonderfully silent but now, thanks to two rows of internet hookups, is full of ringtones, constant wriggling and surreptitious giggle:  I’m only guilty of one of those offenses (guess), and being that I’m here, I’ll stop bitching about it, ‘cause atleast I have a book beside me.  More of Dorothy Parker’s delightfully grim short stories, and in the car Isabel Allende’s “The Infinite Plan”; the later amazes me by writing the inner thoughts of a man so well that I keep turning to her picture to remind myself that she must be female.  And if I was, at some point, averse to female writers; I’m no longer.  I’m also halfway through another Oates’ book called “FOXFIRE:  Confessions of a Girl Gang”.  Currently (until Dorsey writes a new fl book) there are no male writers holding my attention (except in fleeting glimpses*).

As you can tell, my reading has been much more prolific than my writing as of late.  My real life keeps getting in the way of my imaginary existence (dammit), rudely pushing goliard aside for her salt-of-the-earth gravity based alterego, the mother, the wife, the daughter, the HoH that keeps everyone’s feet on the ground.  And that one, well, her writing is limited to grocery lists and things-to-do lists; which are prolific in and of themselves.  these days.

a little s.o.c. to amuse me

well well, 30 minutes on the clock and after i’ve spent the first half of my alotted hour browsing around impotently trying to catch up with people who i’d like to call friends. 

let me apologize for not having been around in some time.  i owe you more words that i think i can fit into this time slot (even at 80 wpm).  summer has reached its beautiful conclusion and the children are off into the capable and not-so-capable hands of the public school system.  and me with permission to spend a little time for myself.  its too much.

i’ve still been writing, very much so, in my little black mead with my old fashioned ball point pen.  and those are the best writings, when i can put my heart and soul into it and write about the things i really care about, the things that really matter.  the personal stuff.

i haven’t lost my touch for this medium, just my heart.  and when my host lets me linger on gratis...there must be something i can say.  ah, a summer well spent, bowling; roller skating, beaching, video arcading and movie watching with my two favorite people in this world.

ah hell, i miss them already (barely 2 hours later...).  what will i do with myself now?  oh yeah, primarily, i’d like to find a way to make some money.  all this freelance whiteout artistry hasn’t paid off the way i wouldv’e hoped, nope, i must seek out gainful employment again.  probably back to transcription from the comfort of my own home, because i know enough about myself to say that i couldn’t bear to work for anyone else again, ever.  i’ve been a drifter from birth.

born survivor, i usually work alone.

“Ain’t a cryin shame to eat it warm either”, i remind them, setting out the mustard based potato salad.  A time tested generational recipe (one of the few I have possession of) that I could definitely prepare in my sleep.

“What’s in it?” asks a shameless child from the table. 

“mustard, mayo, a half dozen eggs, pickles onion and relish”. 

She sniffs at the mention of pickles, and perhaps decides against it.  I feel the compulsion to qualify the mayo as Hellman’s/Best Foods (I’m not a savage you know) since hearing Tom Robbins read his own piece about a tomato sandwich, a la wonder bread (justifying himself on that choice); but resist explaining myself any further.  Much like my philosophy in every other aspect of life, I say you can take or leave my potato salad (all the sadder for you if the latter be your choice...) and I care not.

My nephew rounds the corner just in time and I exercise my auntie rights by video’ing and snapping as many pictures as possible with my new little LG (look at me, one foot in the twenty first century!) He is at that wonderful age, just short of Two, cruising about unaided and showing a distinct personality with every smile.  He is fluent in sign language apparently, and has limited his speaking to ‘doody’ I gather from our rather short encounter.  Of course, I disagree with the sign language thing (knowing well what smart and consequently lazy creatures children can be) having had it pushed on me much by therapizers past. 

It is father’s day.  I’ve hand written a love letter to my husband, reminiscent of our teenage years passing notes in senior english class.  A few steps away looms my 34th birthday (now just a few days...argh) and I stop to remind myself that it means little, and there is scant justification for my annual agonizing over the day due to the contentedness that radiates through me.  I’m happy with myself, from my outlook on life to my reflection in the mirror.  Though the schaudenfreude that’s brought me to this conclusion is shameful- the things that we’ve witnessed friends and acquaintances have been doing to each other lately; marriages of 15 and 25 years seemingly disintegrating over night, people drinking themselves into the hospital, snorting themselves into living out of their cars, pimping themselves into abandoning this beautiful state and chasing cross country pipe dreams.  Ack, at first I fear the despair may be catching, but moreso it makes me feel successful, to be where I am and who I am, to know that I’m living a high life (despite daily shortages of nothing more important than money) and feeling quite comfortable in my own skin.  Other slightly more innocuous events have contributed:  a 1200 mile car trip for the memorial service of a great-grandfather, expected but nonetheless heart wrenching (I did not know this amazing man as well as I would have liked to yet mourned him via my husband’s heartbreak).  And more recently a day of shared work, laboring next to my love and relishing every minute of it, breaking a much needed (and very rare) sweat in the process. 

We stop to admire a passing breeze through the trees, “Where else could a husband and wife work side by side all day?” and I correct him with “What other husband and wife could work side by side all day?” I am a lucky woman and he is my best friend.  Still.

feelin near as faded as my jeans…

of course, that was a passing line clipped from janis joplin.  at passing glance you might’ve thought i was just riding a wave, a ‘zeitgeist’ from someone else, but seems it was just passing through our heads at the same time at different ends of the world.  with a voice that drips female sexuality so thickly and powerfully from every song; i was really just trying to understand ‘Get It While You Can’ (another tune of hers...):  while i’m all over ‘me and bobby mcgee’, ‘down on me’, ‘ball and chain’, ‘summertime’, ‘move over’, etcetera, i just can’t feel it here.  the 70’s must’ve been great, or i must not be the love child i’ve made myself out as, because on this one simple idea, me and janis, we just can’t agree. 

inspired by boot’s quoting out of context:

”Another close call,” said Serge, feeling his neck.  “I think God is trying to tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“I think I’m going to try going straight.”

“You?” Coleman laughed.  “That’s a hoot!”

“We’ve been staying here a few weeks now, and I’ve been watching Jim over there.  Talk about living on the edge.  Guys like him don’t get any glory.  They’ve just quietly put away childish things and faced the relentless adult responsibility of taking care of others.”

Coleman shook with the willies.  “That’s some scary shit!”

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