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madwoman (continues…)

After falling on my ass, I saw it; crouched on the seat of the dining room chair (my chair), hackles raised and ready to run.  Through some unexpected burst of adrenaline I caught it by the tail and deposited in into the crate toot sweet.  I brought the crate out to the lake.  Not a deep lake, but deep enough I surmised, to do the job, and tossed it in with all my might.  Quickly I shut the door and returned to the front porch where I calmly smoked a cigarette.  That being done I set about returning the house to some semblance of normalcy, all the while rehearsing and composing the sad sad story of the little black kitten’s unforunate demise.

madwoman

Wow.  All the joy that I was certain was irretrievable- is back.  Don’t be alarmed, there is no unpercieved sarcasm or latent punchline in this (for once).  For so long it had seemed that my life was one long stand up joke without a punchline (think ‘Aristocrats’, but cleaner), and I started to convince myself that death would be the only punchline.  Then…

I found my last demon hiding under the foot of my bed, blinking its yellow eyes slowly, and biting and scratching my ankles each morning that I woke.  It was there all along, cleverly disguised as a harmless black kitten; until I drug it out and thrust it into the sunlight with my weakened right arm- whereupon I saw how easily it could be killed.

I didn’t kill it right away, but took my time making it feel comfortable and at home; devising my admirable plan for vengeance.  After several sleepless pain ridden nights I decided how it would have to be done.  Once the family was safely out of the house, I set off for the hardware store.  When I left it was a sunny cool aesthetically pleasing day in late November:  when I returned the thunder clouds rolled across the sky like a stage curtain, matching my pace, chasing me.  Once in the house I hastened to shut the windows and close the blinds—I wanted no witnesses to the atrocious deed I was being forced to commit.  After quite a lot of banging with hammer and wood, the crate was ready, but the “cat” had disappeared.  I ransacked the house with the determination of a madwoman (which I was, by then) stopping only to speak with my husband on the phone, modulating my voice with faked sanity and practiced contentment, assuring him that everything was A-OK, hunky dory, swell; but perhaps I was coming down with a cold (to explain my failing voice); all the while still turning in agitated circles, ripping my hair out in clumps, losing my balance and injuring myself when my eyes rolled back in my head….

fading fast

forgive me if i wax incoherent; i’ve got about six months of backed up blogging in my head, little elves with machetes trying to hack they’re way out.

what to say?  i’m here avoiding the darling fiber optic providers that have ripped up my dead end street with their ditch witches and humongous trucks and trailers of orange pipe.  i’m here avoiding the paperwork that needs it’s daily shuffling.  since i’ve got about nine bucks to my name, i see no point in shuffling today.

i would be here to talk about my children.  well, perhaps one little anecdote about my little buddy, my favorite all star saving grace, you know him, you ought to love him:  (singing to himself around the house “1,2,3,4,5, once i caught a fish alive, 6,7,8,9,10, then i let him go again” whereupon i rudely interrupted, “why did you let him go?” and he quipped sarcastically before disappearing round the corner to deal with bigger and better things than i, “So he could Fly!”.)  ah, such sarcasm, such wit.  he makes me so damned proud.  he is a straight A student in his third grade class and i have been learning a great deal from his third grade math homework.  out of his sister’s earshot i whispered to him ‘you’re a genius’, and he whispered back ‘keep it a secret’.  yes, he’s definitely mine.  that boy.

in other matters, the ship continues to sink, and it looks as if i’m going down with it.  yes it hurts, hurts to see that For Sale sign next to my favorite ‘majestic oaks’, hurts to sell my possessions for food and gas money, hurts to think i almost had a dream job at a pet shop (yo adrian…) and lost that as well.  hurts to think that i can’t even afford this lifestyle of bitching about my lifestyle.  it hurts all over.  and before i go wallowing, which is the one promise i’ve made to myself….

over and out,G

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.

 

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