Friday, August 26, 2011

Dear You

 I ask you to write a letter to whomever about whatever. It must begin with "Dear You" and you cannot use names, only pronouns.
(a chain reaction via Shopgirl)

Dear You,

   You call yourself my friend, but I don't think that's how you really feel. You always delete anything we say to each other on Facebook, like you're afraid somebody will see something crazy there. We don't hang out like we used to, and even when we did, it was always a group thing, never just me and you. I don't know what's in your heart, but I get the feeling you were intimidated by me from the beginning. They were your friends first, and I was intruding on your territory. Maybe you thought I was there to take them away from you. I've always had the feeling that I rubbed you the wrong way.
     (I overheard what you said about me and that drummer.)
    You sugar-coat things nicely, though. You seem to claim me as a friend only because everybody else does. You giggle and tell people you think I'm "sexy cute" but I'm not sexy cute, and that's not what they like about me anyway. So they can tell you are lying when you say those sorts of things. Do you think they'll turn their backs on you, just because you don't like me?
     Are you afraid they'll choose me over you?
     The truth is, if it weren't for this imaginary competition you've created in your own head, I'd like you, and we'd truly be friends.

Sincerely, Me
a chain blog, of sorts passed on by Shopgirl. I invite you to pass it on. It is open invitation, because I never know who will or won't want to do it. I wouldn't want to pressure anyone into it, and I hate to miss out on somebody who would want to do it. 
 I ask you to write a letter to whomever about whatever. It must begin with "Dear You" and you cannot use names, only pronouns.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Meditation is Good for the Soul, Nightmares Not So Much

Sitting is a healthy thing to do. I try to do it as often as possible. Sometimes, I challenge myself and try to stay awake for my entire sitting session. This usually requires me to do something else as I sit to distract my mind from the fact that I am in the sitting position. I might go sit at the movies, or sit in the park and watch a live band, or maybe sit on the couch and read a book. More often than not, for me at least, sitting leads to snoozing, and snoozing leads to dreaming, and dreaming is not always a restful thing to do in the middle of my sitting.

But I do like to sit and think or sit and write, so here I am gracing you with these words at the end of my unfortunately not very unusually busy day. I have been thinking about this moment since my feet hit the floor at five o'clock this morning.

I'm finally sitting for the first time today. Unless you count the two hours I spent at the pediatric dentist's office, which I don't because they kept calling me up to the desk to inform me that my insurance wasn't going to cover the entire cost of Matthew's treatment, or Jacob's one cavity had magically turned into two cavities since they took x-rays just last week. Every time I got up, I would lose my seat and spend ten minutes standing, waiting for another seat to open up, and I was told several times that I couldn't sit in a particular seat because somebody's wayward four-year-old was using that seat even though I knew that the four-year-old in question was actively climbing on top of the water fountain, pushing the button and spraying water all over the people in the back row who were miserable to be wet, but HEY, at least they had a seat!

Actually, I guess I did sit down for lunch. I dined on (fried) shrimp and finished the crossword in less than thirty minutes. The grocery guys snagged my paper as I was returning to work and cheated off me. Trick's on them though. I'm pretty sure I got 11-down wrong.

Does driving count as sitting? I did plenty of that on Bell St in rush hour traffic. Anybody who's ever tried to cross Plains on Bell St. during rush hour knows that you'll probably spend a nervous few minutes with your tail hanging out into the intersection, praying that the opposing traffic doesn't get pissy and knock off your bumper. I got rear-ended there last month by a guy talking on his cell-phone. No damage, but there was a nasty black smear on my otherwise flawless back-side for a while. It made me feel dirty, and not in a fun way.

My brain is already going into shut-down mode, folks. My eyelids are droop droop drooping and it's getting harder to move my fingers across the keys. I keep re-reading things just to be sure I got it right.

There's a cardboard box sitting on the foot of the guest bed just a few feet away. Somebody has scrawled the word "WINTER" across it with a fat red marker. For a moment, I thought to myself, "Who is Winter? And why is she storing her clothes in my guestroom?"

I think I'll go take a nap.

Friday, August 19, 2011

100 Words: Insect Anatomy

There's a bug of some sort in the trash can beside my desk. I can hear it scritch scritching against the thin plastic liner, trying to escape.

It's been there all morning.

The sound is driving me nuts. I can't concentrate on my writing.

My overactive imagination stops me from freeing it.

It probably doesn't have two inch pincers on its mandibles. It probably doesn't excrete flesh eating acid from its thoracic spiracles. It probably isn't plotting to sting me into submission, devour my left eyeball and lay eggs in my eye socket.

Probably not.

But why take the chance?

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Trashy Fiction: Such a Nice Girl

I’m not awake. I’m not.

Aw shit.
I am awake.

It’s not the kind of barely awake when I can pretend I’m dreaming and slip back into unconsciousness as if awake had never happened. My eyes have lost their heaviness and my bladder is screaming for relief. I’m not going back to sleep today.

I am fully, undeniably awake.

The blackbirds are bitching in the eaves outside my window. The triangle of soft light sneaking under the blinds tells me I’ve fallen asleep on the wrong side of the bed. The right side of the bed seems to be blocked by another human being. A man. I’m not sure if I should know him.


Just what I need on top of the alcohol fog left over from last night. I move my head to peer at my new bed buddy. I swear I can hear the slosh as my brain floats around in a skull full of tequila and salt.

He’s still sleeping. Lucky jerk. He is slumbering silently with his back to me. He is hogging most of the bed and all of the blankets.

My territorial self wants to slug him in the shoulder and shove him over, but my hung over, self-loathing, mortified self lets him sleep. No need to poke the bear.

Snippets of last night’s activities are beginning to solidify into an actual memory. I moan and cringe with the realization of what I’ve done.
Flickers of mouth against mouth, flesh against flesh, screams of pleasure and pain. Empty promises.

Geez. What will my neighbors think?

I’ve always been so quiet. I’ve not been known to have such a wild side. I’ve never parked my car halfway in the yard at two in the morning, dragged my drunk ass into the house and had raunchy, loud relations with a man I have known for only one evening. A man whose name I do not know, and cannot, for the life of me, recall right now. I am such a slut.

Gregory? Gilbert?

I am suddenly obsessed with finding out what his name is. I’m thinking back to dinner, before the bar, before the booze, when Sandra introduced us. “This is my friend from work…” Galen? Garth?

I sit up slowly and scan the floor for his pants. Surely he has an I.D. in his wallet, right? I’ll just slip it out and have a look before he wakes up. He’ll never know.

My body is achy with the familiar feeling of having been overly intimate. My thighs are sore, and my breasts are bruised from his excited love bites. I see a friggin’ hickey on the left one, right above the nipple, dammit! What is this? Junior High? Is he marking his territory? Does he think I’m his new girl?

Like HELL!

I hop out of the bed and start sorting through the clothing that has been haphazardly slung in all directions: my panties, my bra, his shirt, a stinky sock (definitely his). I can’t find the pants, and I’m beginning to get pissed that this slumbering, blanket-stealing, bed-hogging, no-named idiot is still in my house stinking up my air with his dirty laundry.

“Hey, Gavin,” I say to him, not bothering to whisper. I just want him to get up, get out and stay gone. I shove his shoulder with my fingertips, but he doesn’t move. “Graham…Grady…” I shove harder and then shake, but the oaf is still non-responsive. “Gordon.” I grab his shoulder now and pull him toward me onto his back.

Somebody is screaming like a maniac. My hand waving in front of me is flinging blood everywhere. I want it off me, but it’s not coming off. A warm gush between my legs lets me know that my bladder has finally been relieved. I won’t have to bother with the bathroom. Apparently, this is just as good a place as any.

Gunther is lying in his back staring into nothing, and the blood is everywhere. I don’t know how I didn’t smell it before. I need to vomit. His neck is just a massive black hole. Somebody has slashed it. I don't think it was me. My stomach heaves and I retch onto the floor, not onto Griff. He’s suffered enough. No need to add vomit to his list of woes.

“You WHORE!” That hiss comes from the corner of the room. One of my Grandma Hazel’s upholstered conversation chairs sits in that corner. I usually toss my jacket and my briefcase there after a long workday, just before I kick off my shoes. Right now, there’s a woman sitting there with a shotgun pointed right at me.

“You think you meant anything to my Gabriel?” she whispers. I don’t know why she’s whispering.

“Who's Gabriel?” I ask, confused. I've never met a Gabriel in my life. What the fuck is she talking about?


I’m not dead. I’m not.

Aw shit. I am dead.

It’s not the kind of dead that you can come back from either. My chest is stinging on the ragged edges of the hole that used to be my heart. Crimson red seems to be the new black. I won’t be slinking back into life anytime today.

I am fully, undeniably dead.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Moving On

We're not that close these days. You ran off to New Mexico, and now you're on the verge of getting married to a girl I've never met, but I'll probably like. Or maybe you're already married. If so, I guess we really have grown apart.

I can't even remember if you called to wish me a happy birthday. You haven't missed one yet since we split up, not even when you were in Fallujah. For some reason, though, you just weren't at the top of the list of people I wanted to hear from.

To dream about you now seems ridiculous. I'm not at a point in my life where I need a friend who really understands me. I'm not missing you lately, and I haven't met anyone who reminds me of you.

But there you were in my dream, smiling, teasing me with your empty promises.

Your mother was there, in the dream, and she was pissed at me. She's been pissed at me for this entire time, I think. She always wanted to be my friend, but I couldn't bring myself to do much more than tolerate her. So into the dream she goes.

My hysterectomy was in the dream, and the kids were there, waving from the side of that crazy cruise ship with the wings flapping. What was that all about?

I stood on the dock, half-way waving goodbye to the kids with one hand, clutching an I.V. stand with the other. I wondered for a second Where are the babies? My grandsons? And then reminded myself they hadn't been born yet. After all, the kids on the ship were only small children themselves.

And then we were back at the resort.

He was waiting for me in the lobby. In the dream I knew he wasn't real, but he could be real, if I could learn to open up, give myself over to him completely. His smile lit me up. His tender touch ignited me in a way you never had. As much as I loved you back then, I never gave myself to you fully. I always kept part of my heart in that safe place, scared you would stomp it to death.

And you would have. I was right to guard my heart from you.

I climbed those stairs to your room and laid on the bed beside you. I watched you snore and wondered where you'd been, what you'd been up to. Why don't I know? Weren't we supposed to still be friends? Isn't that a promise we made to each other?

You opened your eyes and looked right into me, and I knew then, that yes, we'll always be friends.

But you won't always call to wish me a happy birthday.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Like a Rockstar!


I'm tired.
I partied like I was in high school all weekend and worked three shifts at work in between. I'm not as young as I used to be, but I held up okay. I slept during red lights. (A girl needs all the beauty rest she can get.)
My 20 year high school reunion kicked off Friday evening and kept right on going, it seems, through Monday.
I had a new grandson just before that.
I gained a few pounds.
Other things happened.
This is the first time I've sat down for any length of time in a few days.
I'd rather be reading, but I'm barely able to keep my eyes open as it is.
I noticed a major spike in my blog stats recently, so I suppose some of my old high school buddies are reading. I think that's pretty cool, but I also think how sad...
I haven't written anything very good or interesting lately...
This photo was taken by Annette Bustillo Watts of the 1991 Tascosa Rebels.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Five Minutes After Midnight

I found this little guy wandering around the hospital, looking for a grandma, so I claimed him.
Damon Ashton
Born August 3, 2011
Five Minutes After Midnight