2010: a memory

A few days after, during the regular course of the day, he jokingly said that his idea of The Perfect Woman was one who sneaked out just before sunrise.
And so I said that my idea of The Perfect Man was one who would toss my bra where I could find it in the dark before I sneaked off into the night.

One of us is perfect.

Part of it was a memory.

And the rest of it was just my sick imagination going out of control.
I tend to have anxiety nightmares when I'm sick. I'm worried I won't wake up in time for work or for Thursday/Friday carpool to get the kids to school. I dream about trying to reach that goal, whatever it may be, but I never can quite make it. I wake up frustrasted several times during the night, only to find that I have several more hours before the alarm rings. And then I go back to sleep and dream it all over again.
The same thing happens if I go to bed drunk.
Not today, though. I'm off on Fridays, so I didn't have to go to work. It's Christmas Break, so I didn't have to get kids to school. I don't have to watch the grandkid today, and David doesn't have to work, so I didn't have anything to keep me worried all night.

Instead, I dreamed about violence.
Rape
Torture.
Blistered children's skin.
Chopped up staircases.
Despair.

And it was one of those dreams that lasted forever, and had all the qualities of an actual memory of an actual event. A whisper from the back of my head kept saying, "I remember this place. I remember this thing."

But I woke up. And I've gone over it a couple of times.

I'm pretty sure I don't remember it.
It never happened.
Not to me, anyway.

It was just my fever and my overactive mind creating horror stories without my permission.

I'm not washing anyone's boxers unless it's LOVE

"You better hurry up and get a man. You're not getting any younger. Pretty soon, you're going to be too old."

Meaning what, exactly? That old people can't find love? I'm only thirty-seven. What's the rush?

Or that I should just settle for any man who'll take me...

Because I'm damaged goods? Because I won't be happy without a man? Because I should start seeing things the way everybody around me sees them?

Life's not worth living unless you have a significant other?

I remember what it's like to have a lover and to not actually be inlove. To enjoy one another...to an extent.
(I love ya baby, but you're stinkin' up my bathroom...)

Should I settle for...((shudder))...mediocrity?

And, not to be making excuses for myself, but it's been hard for me to attract a man my own age who doesn't come off as somewhat of a pedophile. Even one of my lovers, J.T. who is just four months younger than I am, told me once that he feels like a pervert every time he looks at me. And I've known him since I was fourteen!
Alot of people have told me over the years that I'm so lucky to look so young, and when I get older, I"ll feel like it's a blessing. But they don't understand that I actually AM older, and still feel CURSED.

And anyway, this plea for my union with a man comes from a self-centered source for a selfish reason. The Meatheads have decided that I'll be in a lot better mood once I'm getting laid pretty regular. And then I'll treat them better.
So I guess I'll try to improve my  attitude on the job.
It'll probably work in my favor to do so, because I have a crush on someone in one of the other departments. And I've heard that a smile makes you more attractive.

And the other was a steamy romance novel.

One of the books I read yesterday stayed with me through the night. It was called Fireflies in December by Jennifer Erin Valent. The story was elegantly told in first person. The main character was a thirteen year-old girl (Jessie) whose father had adopted her best friend (Gemma) after Gemma's parents perished in a house fire. Jessie was a white girl. Gemma was a colored girl. This caused all sorts of problems for the family. In 1932 Backwoods Southern America, coloreds and whites just did not mix. I got the book as a freebie on my Kindle. I will probably hunt it down and pay actual money for a hard copy just so I can loan it out to friends. It is a magnificent story. I could not put it down.

 

Today, however, I think I'll try some oil painting. I was at the craft store last week, Christmas shopping, when a nice couple helped me pick out some paints. The man was the painter and his girlfriend was obviously proud of his talent. They kept me from buying the super expensive stuff, and gave me advice on how to clean the brushes.
The man told me, "I bet you're a great painter. I can usually tell by looking." His girlfriend nodded emphatically behind him. Of course, I'm going to take that as a compliment, unfounded as it may be. A girl just can't get enough compliments, ya know.

Wish me luck.

Three Sons, One Daughter

Blackeyed peas aren't as excellent in chili as actual chili beans. But we have no chili beans. So we make do. Matthew says, "It's all good." I can't believe he's the same kid who used to refuse to eat anything that wasn't a peanut butter sandwich.
Jake is the invisible boy once again. I have no idea if his girlfriend is pregnant. They won't answer their phone. Surely, they would tell me, right?

David's "Christmas present" to me came in the form of a handed down hand-down. It's 3'x4' oil painting of houses upon houses painted on the back of a piece of panelboard and frame-mounted on 1"x2"s. The colors are bold and beautiful, and it fits nicely on the wall above my desk.

Sara's apartment has been dubbed "The G Spot." Facebook kept telling me she was there. I secretly thought it was some kind of coffeehouse (or lesbian bar?) until I clicked it and realized the truth.

I'm not a Scrooge, but I hate the Christmas Season.

I think I'm treading that thin line between bravery and stupidity tonight. I have been drinking (tequila), and I'm posting anyway. Luckily, I am not totally snockered. Just a little on the happy side.
Tonight was our Store Christmas Party. I have discovered two things.
 Acapulco's Mexican Restaurant serves a damn good Margarita, and Nune (noonie)
(from the Seafood Department) is a great conversationalist.  I have no idea if I am a good conversationalist, as I have indulged myself just a little too much with Mr. Cuervo.
I didn't win anything in the drawing, as usual.
I came home, and the dog has knocked over the trash can and claimed an empty bottle of eye drops.
I don't know whose eye drops they were, but they belong to the dog now.
Also, Ricky's wife might not love her job as much as she ought to. I would love to work with eight year olds all day, but all she cheered about was the fact that the school year was almost half-way over. (Maybe she's preggo. That always made me cranky.)

I went to the Dentist yesterday on an emergency visit. (Not my favorite thing to do...)

Bit, Bitter, Bitterest

I am a single mom. I work in a grocery store where I have worked full-time for thirteen years. It's Christmastime. The kids' father is $87,602.25 BEHIND in child support payments. I have some debt, but I'm working on it. We're not exactly rolling in money, ya know?


And still, a person thinks it's cool to stand there with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other and ask to  borrow money from me.

Equipped with a real sob story too.
She and her four ADULT roommates have all lost their jobs, boyfriend moved out, car got repossessed, no food in the house, no cable TV (and no kiddos either, I might add). Last pack of smokes.

WAAAHHH!



I could go on and on with this, but what's the point, really?



Here, I'll pay you to go away and leave me alone.



Merry Christmas.
.
.

Bugs in the Brew

An annoying thing happened to me this morning.

I overestimated the amount of coffee grounds I can scoop into the basket.

So naturally, when the basket filled with hot water, the grounds rose to the top of the filter and spilled over. A few lucky ones escaped out the little round hole at the bottom of the basket and landed in the big glass decanter, all unbeknownst to me. 

I cannot wait long for the first cup.

I must have it NOW!

I secretly wish that you could absorb caffeine into your system simply by standing over the coffeepot and inhaling the aroma.

But that doesn't work.

You have to drink it.

So I sneak a cup right away, not allowing those pesky little coffee grounds to settle to the bottom of the pot.

And then I pour my fancy shmancy Amaretto creamer which has been on manager's special for $1.79 for about three months now, into my heavenly nectar.

And then I stir.

It is so disappointing to see the tiny little black grounds swirling around the top of my brew like little bugs enjoying a nice swim.

I want them out of there, but I can't catch the slippery little suckers on my spoon.

I try with the tips of my fingers, but no success.

I pour out a little of the coffee, hoping the black little buggers leap over the rim into the sink, but it seems they enjoy the mug. They swim to the back of the rim, refusing to leave the warmth of my morning java.

I can almost hear them conspiring with one another...against me.

Dare I declare WAR?

yes.

This is War.

Get out of my coffee, you gross little bugs!

I scoop again with my spoon the three of them that I can see and with a loud "HA!" I practically slam them into the sink!

I win!!! I win!!!

And it wasn't even HARD!

Those coffee grounds got nothing on me...

And then three more rose to the surface.

I blink twice and look again disbelievingly

.(Are they mating and reproducing in there?)

So I decide to use the corner of a thick paper towel to capture the remaining critters. These particular ones have no trouble crawling right onto my extra absorbant Viva Big Roll towel.

I have accomplished bug-free brew.

I am very proud.

I drink the entire mug with a smile on my face and a smug sense of victory.

It is a very good cup of coffee.

Probably the best I've ever had.

Until the last sip, that is.

It was then that I realized that, yes, they were mating and reproducing in there. They must have been, because there were about forty or fifty more coffee grounds in the bottom of the cup, jeering and mocking me with their tiny little buggy voices.

So today, I am going to go to the Chocolate Shoppe.

They sell chocolate covered coffee beans in clear cellophane bags with a pretty little bow on top.

I'm going to set my bag right next to the coffee can.

A backlit red canopy, and your smiling face

I had one of those weird real life dreams where you wake up absolutely relieved to learn that it was all a dream because it was ONE CRAZY NIGHT. However, there were parts of it that I would like to have been true.
The red blanket on the bed that somehow became a huge red umbrella to segue into the next scene in traffic, and yet again became a big lit up red tent over that wild heavy metal concert. I don't know who the band was, but I did enjoy my date.
And he enjoyed me as well.
Thoroughly.
But that's not even the part I wish was true.

I sure would like for somebody to smile at me like that.

In real life.

Actually...

maybe...

just him...

sigh...

Threes again.

Achievements

1. Woke up breathing once again.
2. Wrote a page of Jess Harper's life.
3. Vacuumed.

Dissapointments

1. Woke up breathing, once again.
2. Only wrote one page.
3. Had to vacuum.

The Day of Three

I have a bad habit of listing things. I think it's because I like to pretend I'm organized and clutter free. Listing things...all things...gives me a false sense of order in my hectic and chaotic life. (This might possibly be an unknown form of Obsesseive/Compulsive Disorder. I should submit it to the Rulers of Psychiatry for further analysis. They'll publish it and I'll go down in Psychology Textbooks everywhere as being the discoverer of 'Order Disorder.' There will be a luncheon in my honor. I'd win an award and give a speech and I could list all the people I'd like to thank and help the caterer list all the people who'd rather have the fish..)

AnyHoo, on with the blog.

There's almost always a list in my pocket. Whether it's a list of things that are going on Ad this week, signs I need to make, my grocery receipt, Facebook on my phone- all lists, bringing a quiet hum of blissfulness into my day. I love it. I'm so very organized.


So I follow this great blog called 3BT, or Three Beautiful Things. It is written by a woman named Clare who believes that no day should pass without being appreciated. She is amazing. She finds beauty in the oddest things sometimes. Everyday. She lists three things. I admire her restraint. Only Three...

And so I think everyday about the things that I find beautiful. It's a hard task, since I am probably the whiniest, bitchiest and most opinionated person you will ever know. I look sweet in my picture, but I assure you, it is farce...

So, Clare, hats off to you. Here's my lists.


BEAUTIES

1. Scott, who is the King of Meat, offered me a rollaway cooler specifically for the dreaded Reduced Section. This will keep me from needing to reset the counter twice a day. All hail The King of Meat.
2. Our house sold to a new landlord who turns out to be quite a cutie and doesn't seem to mind my dog.
3. There are plenty of mint chocolate chip creamcicles to share with Neighbor Kid. One for me, one for Matt and one for Neighbor Kid (Jeremiah? maybe)

UGLIES

1. The dog was left inside all day.
2. Hives.
3. Dirty Laundry.

Ignorance.

We will make such fools of ourselves.
We will trample forward
Fists raised
Mouths twisted in defiance
Blinders firmly in place
Screaming
and demanding
and slashing at everything
in our path
Oblivious to the damage we will cause.

We fools.


.

Thundersnow...

This is the reason I can't (won't) get in my car and go to Wal-Mart and get some Benadryl to soothe my itchy hives. The weather and my hives have both become steadily worse overnight. However, Jacob finally decided to share something with Matthew- a stomach flu. So I may have to get out in the weather anyhow to find some 7-up and crackers. (Poor kid.)

After a while, Crocodile...

I like the little kids, and all the little kids like me. (They think I am one.) I had my share of fun ones in the store today. One little boy couldn't stop saying "BYE" to me. He was all of two or three years old, and he liked the way I looked in my blue smock,  I suppose. His mom worried that I would be annoyed by him, but I rarely am.

 
He sat in his grocery cart and waved, "BYE!"
I waved back, "Bye-bye!"
He grinned and waved again, "BYE! BYE! BYE!"
And I returned it, whispering and slowly waving like a pageant queen in a parade, "bye...bye...bye..."
"BYE!"

and then a passerby decided to get in on the fun. She was a friendly older woman who seemed to be enjoying our little interaction.
"See ya later, alligator!" she said in a little sing-song voice, obviously pleased with herself for coming up with something other than our generic "byes."

And the friendly little boy with the big grin suddenly creased his brow and scowled at her and said in a low, threatening voice..."NOT YOU!"

Another Bit of the Book

note: Previously, I posted an excerpt from the story I'm writing now. Originally, I was writing in first person point of view. I changed it to third person. There were bits of the story that couldn't be told in first person.
At this point in the story, Jess is twenty-seven years old and lives in a tiny apartment in Ft. Worth, TX. She has spent all afternoon on an airplane.


She had forgotten to turn her cellphone on after leaving the airplane. Four voicemails, she noted. Several emails. Oh well, she thought as she tossed the phone back into her purse and emerged again with Mrs. Wheat's money. She wasn't in the mood to take on the world tonight. She was adopting the Titus Harper philosophy and simply shutting out all the unimportant people.


As she rounded the wall into the hallway that led to her front door, keys in her hand, her inner perception flickered. Her stomach turned and her mind sharpened to her surroundings. The darkened apartment suddenly became a very heavy weight around her, like a fog with substance. She'd had this uneasy feeling a few times before, and she had learned to recognize it for what it was. Intuition.

She stopped, turned and peered into the darkness. Something wasn't quite right with the world. Something was happening, or about to happen that wasn't on Jess's approved activity list. Maybe there was somebody in the apartment. An intruder.

She wished she had one of those apartments like you see on TV. You know the ones. They have a doorman and a security guard. Some of them have a buzzer system or a receptionist at the front desk who will call you and announce your visitor. The bottom line was, nobody got in unless somebody on the inside let them in.

Jess Harper did not live in one of those fancy, high security apartment buildings. Her security system consisted of one deadbolt and one Louisville Slugger.

That slugger was under the sofa. She used to keep it in the umbrella stand by the door, but Mrs. Wheat had convinced her to move it. She had pointed out to Jess that any intruder who came through her front door would be closer to the bat than she was. Now what good would that do her? God Bless Mrs. Wheat, but if she had left it in the umbrella stand, she would have felt a whole lot safer just now.

She forced herself to cross her living room, weaving in between her sofa, coffee table and two small conversation chairs to peer carefully down the hall. No intruder jumped out at her from the shadows. No unexpected visitor called her name from the depths of her hallway. No visible ghosts.

Across the living room, she stared hard at the curtains that covered the sliding glass doors that exited onto the deck outside. Were they moving slightly? Did she notice a bit of sway? Had somebody slipped past her and sneaked right out the sliding glass doors, virtually undetected? Or were they waiting there for her behind the curtains, ready to pounce as soon as she came near?

She sucked her fear down her throat and strode purposefully toward the doors. She was no 'fraidy cat. She swept the curtains aside with one hand and peered beyond the glass to her empty deck. The only thing out there was the long dead house plant she had killed with neglect over the summer and her bicycle chained to the railing. She jiggled the doors. Firmly latched. The tension bar that she had wedged there was still in place. Frustrated with herself, she turned away from the sliding doors and headed for her front door.

She guessed she was just being silly. Her nerves were wound up too tight from her quick trip to the nation's capitol. Even the cab ride home had frazzled her. The driver kept talking about his daughter, and how Jess looked like her, green eyes and all. He wanted to take a picture of her, to show his wife, he said, but Jess did not want her picture taken. She just wanted to go home.

She shook her creepy feeling away and took two deep breaths before reaching for the door knob. It was then that she jumped and almost peed her pants!

A heavy, demanding knock resonated through her tiny hallway. Mrs. Wheat sure as heck never knocked that loud, and she wasn't expecting anyone else.

If she stood there quietly, maybe he (and she was sure it was a he) would realize he was at the wrong apartment and go away.

"Jess!" She jumped again when his voice boomed through her nervous silence. Damn! If he knew her name, he probably had the right apartment.. She didn't know of any other Jess-es in the small building. There were only four apartments in this building- two facing each other on the second floor, two more on the first floor. Hers, 2B, was on the top, facing Mrs. Wheat's. The building was actually an old house that had been remodeled and divided into apartments. Most of the old houses on the block had been converted in much the same way. Mrs. Wheat owned this building.

"Who is it?" She called through the door impatiently, so that he would know she was no pushover wuss afraid to answer her own door.

"It's me, Jess. Let me in!" Who? She mentally ran through the very short list of men who would be so bold to knock on her door after sunset without an invitation. She was sure she didn't recognize the voice…wait…oh my god.

She fumbled with the deadbolt, unsure if she should open the door at all.

"Go away," she whispered even as the lock drew back. "Go away, go away."

The door creaked open to reveal a face she had not seen in more than ten years. He was a little bit older, a little bit scruffier, but it was a face she would recognize until the end of time.

"Cash Sawyer, just what the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Translation

I'm having a difficult time translating the visions in my head into the written word today. I have been staring at the computer screen for just over two hours now, and I have written exactly one sentence. And I don't really like that sentence. I know it's not staying there.
I think the problem is that I'm using the laptop, which is connected to the internet. The internet can be handy for many, many things. It is not a cure for writer's block. Just a distraction.
Case and point- I'm blogging right now. I am NOT writing a book.
I should switch over to the desktop, which is not connected to anything but the wall. It's old. The CD ROM drive doesn't even open anymore, so I won't be distracted by Diablo II.
I have only twenty-two hours before I have to go back to work. I need to make the most of my time. Somebody is lurking around in Titus Harper's back yard in the middle of the day on the very day he leaves his body in pursuit of a more eternal existence in the after-life. What the hell are they looking for? (Even I don't know yet...)
The rain has stopped. Bummer. I tend to write more productively when it rains.

On a completely different note- following in the footsteps of many successful bloggers before me, I'd like to list my three beautiful things now...these are from yesterday. Today just started, so not much to tell.

1. Big fat rain drops smashing against the metal exhaust cone on my roof, echoing down into the heater on my wall, making crazy music in my bedroom all night.
2. My happy dog, delighted to be indoors for the day, bouncing off my legs in her excitement.
3. Video message from my daughter of a humongous rainbow. Hers was bigger than mine, but mine had eighteen seconds of thunder. I think I totally win.

Deep-Fried Nonsense

Today was my short day at work. I call it that, not because I don't work eight hours, but because I go in an hour earlier on Wednesdays and I don't have to take my lunch. I escape two hours earlier than a normal day. I leave at two instead of four. "Short Day"

So I only get a thirty minute break. Not much time to feed my face and do the crossword, so I decide I'm going to order from the quickie menu. "Gimme a chicken thigh and lump of mac and cheese."

"A lump?" She gives me the hairy eye.

"I mean a scoop."

"Because it doesn't lump. We don't sell lumpy macaroni and cheese."

WhatEVER. Just feed me.

And even as I'm ordering it, I'm thinking that I shouldn't be eating this crap. I'm supposed to be on a diet. I had decided yesterday that I would eat healthier at lunch. Mac n cheese and a deep fried thigh does not a healthy meal make. Even as she's handing it to me across the counter, I want to tell her to put it back and give me the steamed fish. Even as I'm helping myself to a Coke Zero at the self-serve drink fountain , I'm wondering why would I actually spend money on comfort food, yet again...

So I squeeze myself into the already crowded table of meatheads I always eat lunch with, and they make a stink about it, but I know they really love me, and anyway it's their own fault they sat at MY table. I don't care if they got there first. That's MY table. You can tell by all the meatheads sitting there. And I commence to ignore them, eat my lumpy macaroni and fixate on the daily crossword.

The crypto-quote is really my favorite, but the grocery guys and I have a contest every day to see who can finish the crossword first. I only have thirty minutes today, remember? So I skipped the crypto-quote and went straight to the crossword. I can see the grocery guys through the window. They are sitting on the patio, crowded around their newspaper, filling the blanks. It takes three of them and they use the internet. I never use the internet, and the meatheads certainly don't know a seven letter word for 'concession.' I am on my own. Just me and my brain. I'm very competitive. I almost ALWAYS finish the crossword. Even on Short Days.


But not today.


Because I dropped my chicken...on the floor.

And the meatheads made fun of me. I sit there for a second just staring at it, wondering if anybody else knows about the five-second rule. How many seconds had gone by? More than five, for sure, but maybe the meathead can't count....


So I finally accept reality, scoop it up and throw it in the trash. I'm totally disappointed with myself, because I really, really wanted it...

I was so upset, I couldn't even finish the crossword.

Laundry Day

Somebody was knocking.

I ignored it.

The dog wasn't barking, so the culprit was likey one of my children, or friends of my children, or a niece.


They would just open the door and walk in sooner or later...raid my fridge and escape again without so much as a "Hi, Mom!" or "Aunt Nessa, can I run this load through the washer? Thanks!"

But the knocking persisted.


So I dragged myself away from the book I'm supposed to be writing. Was writing. Except for all that knocking. Very rude. Very distracting.

Opened the door. The BACK door. Because that's the one we use. If they had knocked on the front door, I wouldn't have bothered. Nobody important comes to the front door.

And of course, nobody was there.

So I went back to the book.


And then The Daughter (who moved out of this house two years ago) and the A Niece (who is simply CONTRARY) walk in, with three loads of laundry and a grandchild. MY grandchild.


So I guess I won't be writing much today.

Nessa's Rules for Safe Dreaming

1. Never look in the mirror. It looks back.
2. Doorways are escape passages. Should you find yourself once again in the path of the unseen monster with a vicious vibrating growl, turn to the door on your right. Do not choose left. Remember. Right is Right.
3. If somebody touches you, embrace it.
4. If somebody hurts you, the door to the left holds baseball bats, chainsaws, flamethrowers, etc.
5. Your feet are not touching the earth. This does not mean you are flying.
6. If you are flying, try not to think about it. Thinking leads to falling. Falling leads to wakefulness.
7. Can't find your locker? Missed the bus again? Can't seem to get to work on time? Don't worry. Whatever it is you can't seem to accomplish, that back-stabbing bitch you hate already did it for you.
8. If you hear music, go ahead and dance, but try not to drown.
9. If you hear crying, do your best.
10. From time to time, you will see the 'others'. Do not stare at them. Do not distract them. They have their own paths.
11. Give no authority to the voice in your head.
12. You are the best driver in the world. It is not your fault the brakes don't work. This is why we installed the parachute button. Carry on.
13. Pushed to the edge? Jump, my friend. Don't forget to enjoy the view on the way down. It's the last thing you'll see before you...WAKE UP!

My pits stink.

I can tell when a book is coming along well. I haven't bathed in three days, my clothes have been slept in and even the dog has decided not to sleep at my feet.  I know I have deodorant, but its so far away, way over there on my vanity. So far away from the computer.
This computer would be a lot cooler if I could figure out how to get it to brew coffee.

Even now, I think I'm probably wasting my time typing out a blog, but I needed a break. I was asleep, dreaming about Jess Harper and the wall she has built around herself (that I built around her). How do you break it down without hurting the girl inside? (It's an ice wall. Melt it.)

Ha! an epiphany! Of course it's an ice wall! The woman is as cold as they come!

Ok...I'm cutting this blog short.

Ventoso Means Windy

Once, my boss Jerry asked me for something, and I gave him a detailed description of its whereabouts, because I didn't have time to get it for him. He asked, "How do you always know exactly where everything is?"
I replied, "Because that's where I put it."
And that's how it is in Ventoso, Texas.
As usual, I have immersed myself in the world of Ventoso, Texas. This place exists solely in my imagination, but it very real to me. I know exactly where the police station is. I know where the hospital is, and I know where Big Dogs is. (The saloon is very important. I like to indulge in a Nessarita every once in a while, and Big Dogs is the only place in town that makes them.) And I know where these things are because that's where I put them.
The second book is coming along. I changed the point of view to third person. I couldn't tell the whole story in first. I'm disappointed in myself.

Completely off the subject, I have fallen prey to Fishville. I have an insatiable urge to level up again and again and again. I'm too competitive. The guys from work are winning.  It's Adrian's fault. Somebody please murder him in his sleep for me.
I dream in bubbles. (By the way, I need more neighbors. Any takers?)

peaceful

I had the weirdest dream that I was moving back to Alaska to stay there and spend my time watching the ocean slam against the rocky cliffs. I would ponder why it was called the Pacific Ocean, which means "peaceful," when it was clearly angry, violent, even.
I had to sell all my stuff here, for whatever reason...
I had an old Curtis Mathis TV in one of those heavy, wooden cases, and as I was moving it, I found a trinket box that had several locks of hair in it that were labeled "DNA Evidence." And they had my name on them.
 I told my daughter to call the police to ask them if they needed their evidence back. I didn't understand why it was behind my old TV.
The police came to investigate, and they found my dead body stuffed into the back of the old TV. This was mind-boggling to me, as I couldn't remember dying.

This is an excerpt from the book I'm writing now. I'd like to share it because I could certainly use some constructive criticism.  All comments will be welcomed, even if you hate it...especially if you hate it.
Keep in mind that by this point, the reader has learned that Emily and Michael are Dylan Cole's parents and Cash is his older brother.

"Is your dad home?" Dylan Cole asked as he peered around the side of the house. I looked too, and saw that the old powder green Chevy truck was mysteriously absent from its usual resting spot. I shrugged my shoulders.


"I guess not." I wondered where my father might be at this time of night. Often if he had writer's block, he would wander away for a bit. He wasn't much of a drinker, so if he had gone down to Big Dogs Saloon, he was probably just shooting darts or pool. I hoped he would get home early. I would lie awake until I heard the old truck rumble safely into the driveway, which was on "my side" of the house.

We stepped onto the porch, and Dylan Cole slid my pack off my shoulder to rest against the door frame. I stared at it for a moment suddenly aware that we were unexpectedly alone.

"Sit with me, Jessalynn," he said softly as he pulled me onto the porch swing with him. Dylan Cole always called me by my full name, Jessalynn. Everyone else had long since abandoned it for simply Jess or sometimes Jessa, which I thought sounded stupid. Everyone always called him Dylan Cole, using both of his names as if they were one, Dylancole. I pulled my feet up into the seat, and the old chain groaned against our weight. A cool summer breeze pushed its way past us, in a rush to escape the canyon below. Dylan Cole slid his arm around me, and I snuggled close to him.

We were young, alone on a swing on a warm summer night, with nothing between us but our clothes. No amount of decent Christian upbringing could quench the raging hormones of two fifteen year-olds. There were no grownups around to stop what would happen next.

This sort of thing didn't happen often for us. Michael and Emily were very aware that Dylan Cole was in love with me. He told them every day, just as he told me.

Emily had gotten pregnant with Michael's baby when she was just fifteen, and although she miscarried, she and Michael understood that their lives could have carried so much more burden. They had learned their lesson the hard way and weren't about to let Dylan Cole and I go through that sort of heartache.

And so we were constantly supervised. If Emily and Michael were unavailable, Cash, who was only eighteen, was charged with the task. He often lorded over us with an air of superiority and arrogance. I couldn't wait for him to go to college in the fall. His self-righteous attitude was unbearable.

Without the ominous presence of an escort, Dylan Cole and I took advantage. He whispered something against my ear in Spanish, tickling my earlobe with his breath. I smiled as I stared at the golden pothos I had potted and left against the house. I tried to mentally translate his words, but Emily had not taught me as well as her sons.

"What does that mean?" I asked him, thrilled that he would be wooing me in another language.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," he teased. I turned my head toward him to protest, and that's when he kissed me. It was warm, but clumsy and rough. It caught me by surprise, so I forgot to kiss him back. I stared for a few seconds at his perfectly straight, white teeth and his confident smile. He had a scar on his chin where he'd fallen off his riding lawn mower and had to get stitches. I stared at that for a minute and then touched it with my thumb.

"I love you, Jessalynn Harper," he told me for the ten-thousandth time. "I loved you yesterday, and even more today, and even though I'm absolutely sure that nobody could be loved more than I love you right now, I will love you even more tomorrow."

And then I remembered to kiss him back. Absently, I turned my whole body toward him and his strong farm boy hands slid around me to support me.

The kiss was slow and sweet and awkward. Our teeth bumped, and I think I probably giggled. I felt one of his hands leave my back and smooth down to my butt. I may have moaned a little.

Then we were interrupted by the loud clearing of somebody's throat. I was confused at first. I thought it was Dylan Cole until I realized that we'd been caught.

Dylan Cole was looking behind me over my shoulder and turning red with embarrassment. I turned to follow his gaze. My stomach could not have dropped any lower when I saw Cash standing there grinning at us.

I very quickly jumped to my feet and straightened my shirt. Dylan Cole was also on his feet, though I hadn't seen him stand.

"Don't mind me," Cash excused himself. "But when you're done here, Mom and Dad want you back at the house." He grinned even more, proud of the fact that he'd caught us red-handed. He gave us a quick two-fingered salute and jumped off my porch. We watched him cross the yard and the road and climb up the steep embankment on the other side. He quickly disappeared into the trees above.

Once he was out of sight, Dylan Cole grabbed my elbow and turned me around to face him. Our feelings for each other hadn't changed, but there was an awkward silence anyway. He fumbled just a bit as he pulled a ring out of his pocket, and I took a step back from it. He held it between two fingers, and before I could protest or even utter words, he had slipped it onto my left finger.

"It's a promise ring, Jessalynn. It's got a heart-shaped ruby." He held my hand tight, even though I tried to pull away from him. "That's your birthstone," he informed me as his eyebrows scrunched together with worry. "It's just a promise ring." I pulled my hand free.

I stared down at it, afraid that I might lose function of my hand. The ring, though just a delicate golden band with a modest stone, seemed to weigh about five hundred pounds, and although it had slipped on easily enough, it now seemed to be cutting off circulation, threatening to cut my finger completely away.

How did this happen? Five minutes ago I had been clumsily receiving my first kiss from a boy and now I had a ring on my finger that said I was promised to him?

What exactly did that mean?

Dylan Cole must have sensed my tension. He took my hand in his and looked me in the eye. He brushed my long, dark blond hair away from my face and smiled reassuringly.

"You can wear it on a chain, if you want, Jessalynn," he told me. "It's just a promise ring. It just means that I promise to love you until the day I die."

"Yeah?" I uttered and turned my cheek into the palm of his hand. "And what about me?"

What about me? I had never told him once that I loved him. Was I supposed to say it now? Somehow, I couldn't get the words out. My voice box was not working…broken.

Dylan Cole laughed under his breath. Somehow that put me at ease, and I smiled

"I think…" He thought for a moment. "I think that it means you promise not to give your kisses to any other boys."

Okay, I could probably live with that.

He moved his fingers into my hair and kissed me on my lips again. Sweeter. Longer. Thoroughly. I could definitely live with that.

"I gotta go!" He released me and hopped off the porch, much like Cash had done a few minutes before, full of energy. I watched his back as he trotted away from me.

I suddenly felt lonely, almost as if our mere separation had torn something out of me. I didn't want him to leave.

"Dylan Cole!" I cried out to him just as he reached the paved road. He stopped and turned to me with a big cheesy grin on his face. He kept walking backwards into the road.

"Yeah?"

I wanted to call him back to me. I wanted to kiss him again, to tell him I would keep his ring on my finger. To tell him that I loved him too, and that I always would.

I would have told him all those things, except for the sound I heard.

Some weird slow motion magic takes over my memory at this point. I can see everything clearly in my memory, step by step. The sound of the old Chevy coming around that curve came first. I heard the squeal of the brakes and I saw my father's face through the windshield when he realized that he was going too fast. The look of shock and sorrow on his face when he realized I was there, watching, seeing all this happen will never be erased from my mind.

I saw Dylan Cole's face turn to the oncoming truck, and then he turned to me, almost as if he knew what was going to happen. He had already played it through in his mind, and now he turned to me and spoke to me with those coal black eyes. I heard his unspoken words clearly in my head. I had heard them so many times before. "I love you, Jessalynn Harper. I will love you until the day I die."

And then…he was gone. I called his name, but not only that, some guttural, bestial cry of pain came out of me. It was the only sound I heard over the pumping of my own blood through my veins as I witnessed the death of Dylan Cole Sawyer.

I ran toward him even as the truck slid to the side and rolled over him. My feet did not seem to touch the ground. I could have reached out and touched the fender as it slid past me on the asphalt, rolling once again and sliding into the trees on our side of the road. The woosh-woosh of blood in my ears blocked out the screams that I should have heard from Cash as he emerged yet again from the trees. His face was twisted with fear and horror. No no no no no! He pushed me away from Dylan Coles twisted body, but I refused him.

My childhood was gone in this moment. My life was meaningless. With the realization of his death, and the fact that I had caused it, I knew I would never deserve to be loved again. I would never go back to innocence. As I ran my hands over Dylan's blood-soaked, mangled body, searching frantically for a sign of life… please God please, just a sign…I knew that everything good in me had been ripped away, and I might never, ever get it back.

Nora Roberts? I don't think so.

I don't believe Nora Roberts actually exists. She is a fabrication. An imaginary face to a very real list of books that takes up a chapter just to list. "Other books written by Nora Roberts (insert three pages of listings here)" and then also, "Books by Nora Roberts writing as J.D. Robb (insert additional nineteen pages of listing here)"
I believe there is a group of twenty or thirty writers who are ghostwriting and using the Nora Roberts name to promote their books.
My supporting evidence: Nora Roberts has written something like 14,976 books. (That is possibly an exaggeration...but I think I came pretty close.)
It would take me more time to read all the Nora Roberts books than I have left in my life. Unless she is transporting herself to an alternate universe where time stands still, cloning herself, ripping holes in the time-space continuum, writing books in her sleep...need I go on?

I am thirty-seven years old. I have written TWO books in my lifetime. Neither has been published. The first one I wrote when I was fifteen, and it totally sucked. It was the eighties. Everybody was so self-centered back then, and it showed through my writing style.
The second one I wrote last year. It's pretty good, but it's a thriller/romance, and I'm scared to submit it for publication. Fear of rejection, fear of success...yadda yadda yadda

I know I've been pretty busy raising the stinkmonsters and working full-time. Nora probably had a nanny for her kids, huh? Or does she have kids? (These rotten kids are interfering with my book-writing with all their needy needs! Food, clothes, shelter, BAH!)

Yesterday, I wrote the first two chapters of my next book, and I am feeling pretty confident about it. I cried. the story made me sad. I can't wait to find out what happens next.

I haven't gotten anything else done. The dirty dishes are piling. The mail is unopened. My paintings are still boasting snowstorms. Melina will be so disappointed...


disclaimer: This blog was written with an air of humor. I did not intend to plant the seed of doubt concerning the actual existence of the phenomenal writer Nora Roberts. I am sure she is a very real, very tangible being with an amazing talent and a good sense of humor. Nora Roberts (if that is, in fact, your real name), cheers to you (and your ghostwriters).

Butterfly Farts

I've gotten out of the habit of blogging. I believe the last blogpost on my Myspace page was written in February, and still, somebody is reading it. Myspace lets you know…but most of my blogs there are private, and you can only read what I allow you to read.


I've decided that this blog, "Words from the Wench", will be more public, and so you should be warned that I tend to be very opinionated. Even if you consider yourself my close personal friend, you are not safe here. Be prepared for my brutality. If you are actually my close personal friend (or my unfortunate co-worker), you are expecting it. I am not all rainbows and butterfly farts.

There will never be anything worth reading here, so don't waste your time searching for it. I'm a rambler. My thoughts tend to travel and break off into random tangents. I write more productively when it's raining or if there is something much more important that I should be doing.

Just now, I remembered that I'm supposed to have two paintings finished before Saturday for that art show at the Nat. One is a creepy little mermaid to offset Melina's pretty one. And the other I haven't decided yet. I have an idea for a thought bubble/junk food vomit/girl head, but I'd never finish it by Saturday. Vomit is so time-consuming

So I won't start blogging today.

Come back later. Perhaps you'll discover another name for me, something a little less subtle than "Wench."