The only serious writing I'm going to get done this morning:

A Family Drama, written especially for Lyric Cole:

The house had been declared an official  disaster zone once the infamous Lyric Cole had spent a solid hour in it. Grandma Nessa was frustrated with the situation, but not necessarily intolerant. She was, after all, the grandmother and (luckily for everybody involved) not the mother.

Go Fish cards had been scattered across the living room floor, under the couches, and well into the kitchen. Tiny, green, army men had fortified the reading nook, and bits of an abandoned PB&J were finding comfort in the cozy spaces between bare toes.

Lyric kept asking whether or not Little Cousin Damon was going to show up that day, claiming there was nothing to do. He needed a playmate. Grandma Nessa had a sneaky suspicion that if Damon had dared to make an appearance, Lyric would have found a way to blame that tornadic mess on him.

Dream: There Won't Be Clean Panties in Hell

We knew we were dead. You and I had been standing in line for a hundred and fifty-seven years at the checkpoint where the dead are admitted to the non-living world .  You busied yourself smoking cigarettes, and I busied myself wondering about the children- yours and mine, both.

Some stowaways from the living world were always trying to sneak in, so everybody had to be looked over and checked off the list before they could enjoy one moment of the afterlife. I complained that it seemed to be taking forever, and somebody up ahead warned me against advertising those types of opinions. If the souls in charge heard me, they'd bump me to the back of the line, and I'd have to take you with me, since you were my "afterlife buddy," whatever that meant.

Once we were approved, we began to understand the differences we were facing. We had our bodies and our personalities, but little else. The living would fade in and out. We might see a glimpse of them at the strangest moments, but for the most part, they remained obscure.

I have an eccentricity about clean underwear. I must have them at all times. Even in the living days, I spent far too much money maintaining a certain level of newness in my panty drawer. The problem with the non-living world is that you have to scavenge for the items you want to hold on to. New panties...not easily found.

You followed me around, teasing me about my craziness, but I located a chest of drawers, and the top drawer was chock full of  pressed, white bikinis. I thought I had hit the motherload, but as I pulled them out, I noticed a stain on each and every pair. I tossed each to the side, and when I reached the bottom of the drawer I turned to you and declared that we must be in Hell.

"We're not in Hell," you insisted, your Green Eyes twinkling. "Not if we're together."

My heart started beating in my chest, and I had to look away from you to hide my face and the realization that nobody had ever said anything so sweet to me until just that moment. I collected myself and thanked God that he had stuck me with you for the duration of Eternity, but even in Eternity, I couldn't openly commit to an attachment to you.

"Well then... I must be in Hell," I told you matter-of-factly, pointing to myself. For a half a second, I wanted to retract those words, but you being you, they slid right off. No worries.

"You're so full of shit," you told me as you spun me into your arms. "You know you're loving this."

Ten Pounds

I went to Walmart and bought one of those digital scales so I could weigh myself, get depressed, then eat my weight in ice cream. (Yes, I can spell "counter-intuitive" just fine, thank you.)

Truth be told, I think the scale might be defective. I've been staring at the picture on the box, and there seems to be a discrepancy. The digital display in the picture doesn't match the one on my scale at all.

I need to quit buying cheap shit at Walmart.

I need to quit going there ever.

The last time I went there, I was accosted by the seventy-year-old, one-armed door greeter. I defended myself by shoving him backward and telling him if he touched me again, he was going to draw back a bloody stump. (That's probably how he lost that other arm to begin with. Some people just don't learn.)

side note: I felt like an idiot later, pushing a helpless, little, old man around, but seriously, he needs to keeps his hand off me.

Did you know that Walmart doesn't sell tiramisu? They don't even sell everything to make tiramisu. I had to go to the liquor store and spend twenty bucks on coffee liqueur. (and also vodka, because, let's face it, there's going to be some Kahlua left over, so we might as well make bulldogs, right?)

 Every time I go to the liquor store (and it really doesn't matter which one) I see somebody I know. Every time! It's  awesome how they giggle and snort when I try to convince them I'm just making a cake.

(They know me too well.)

Five minutes earlier...

One glance out the window had me straying outdoors to take in the bold view of the western sky. The afternoon sun cast an ethereal glow across every surface, slipping over puddles and crawling up fences. The varying greens and yellows of trees and grass seemed enhanced and alive. Surreal.

I stepped back into the house just long enough to grab my camera for a quick snapshot of this unbelievably cartoon-like world, but by the time I returned the sky had deepened to a cold slate blue. The clouds upon clouds raced one another across the expanse. Gusts of chilled wind blew me backward, perhaps in warning, but I persevered to the end of my driveway.

The black silhouettes of three small birds above me caught my eye. Their little wings flapped with such intensity against the force of the wind, but they remained stationary. Eventually they gave in and swooped sideways and then back around to return to some safe, dry place nowhere near their intended destination.

The white cracks of lightning and simultaneous rumble of thunder reverberated just under my skin. Something omniscient hovered over me in the form of a darkened raincloud. I looked to the sky and thought of demons.

Whether or not they were there, whether or not they intended to have me for a light afternoon snack, I did not know, nor was I about to stick around to find out. I headed straight for the house, calmly, so as not to attract their attention. Strong, insistent gusts pushed me over the threshold. As soon as I slammed the door, they began knocking on the other side.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Or maybe it was just an ordinary, violent, summer storm.

Dream: Heavy

I guess something had happened between us, something had bonded us together. We were spending all our time doing the mundane things with each other, driving through traffic, grocery shopping, eating, reading-- your general passing of life, and dragging the kids along, which somehow made it seem like we were all united as a family.

You, me, and all the kids.

But not really all the kids. Just your kids and my kids crossing over and matching and switching ages. My two boys who have the same names as your two boys were my boys, but they were the same age as your boys, and they were your boys in the dream, not mine. And then my other two were babies again, instead of being grown kiddos like they really are. And for some reason, that made more sense than what goes on in our real lives, because I always feel like I'm just starting out, and I haven't had enough experience to know anything about parenting.

But, then again, do any of us have any experience parenting before we become parents? Of course not.

We're all just kind of "winging it."

So there we were, in the grocery store, moving down the aisle of the store together with the kids in tow. You were holding my hand, and I kept looking down at our joined hands in bewilderment.

Those other girls were flirting with you, the way they always do, and you were dismissing them, the way you always do. You're too cool, or too busy, or too bored for the flirts.

But they're so assertive, and I'm rolling my eyes, because I know these girls are knocking on a firmly bolted door. You smiled at me and whispered, "I'm going to tell them."

And I said, "Tell them what?"

You turned with your hands held up to get their attention and announced to the entire store that we had gotten married.

*@#$%$#$&*^#!!!

I didn't remember getting married, so I tried to deny these horrendous allegations. You looked into my eyes with your bewitching eyes and smiled that mesmerizing little smile, insisting that we were indeed wedded.

The ring on my finger was your proof, and suddenly, I couldn't even lift my hand from the massive weight of a wedding ring on the left finger, right where it really shouldn't have been.

When the hell did that happen? Who put that thing there, and why did I agree to it?

Assuming that I did, that is.

Even in my waking state, even in the clear light of day, I say you must have tricked me into it somehow...

Hip Stir

This was the plan:

I was going to grasp my new found (if only temporary) freedom, jump in the car and go see the fam bam up in Dumas. After a day of surprising folks who might not necessarily want to shift their Sunday plans just for me, I was going to head over to New Mexico and check out some of the scenery there. I've got a couple of friends over there who might've sat with me for a drink or two, and then I was going to go from there in no specific direction-just blow with the breeze, you know?

My school work is all caught up, and I don't have to go back to work for another week. I haven't had two minutes to breathe for a solid year, so I intended to enjoy this particular vacation as if it were the only one I'll ever have.

But of course, as Robbie Grey's always reminding me, if you'd like to make your deity laugh, just make plans.

This is what happened:

I got the call yesterday afternoon. Grandma (the one in Dumas, the one I was planning to visit today) broke her damn hip.
So the hospital there decided to send her here to Amarillo for hip replacement surgery.
So that's what we're doing now.
Waiting for the surgery.

I just live a couple of blocks from here, so I hopped in the car and came right over. Aunt Brenda's here, taking care of things as usual, because she's the one in that immediate family who does those things. She's a real trooper, but she's starting her Pre-K summer school class tomorrow, so somebody else is going to have to step in for the morning shift.

That would be me, because I'm so handy living here, and I'm the one in my immediate family who does those kinds of things. I don't really mind. It's not like I had any plans or anything.

I imagine my Great Aunt Sherry will make it over here some time tomorrow, and my cousin Christy will also make an appearance. She's cool like that. I saw my uncles yesterday in the ER for a few minutes, and my cousin James is the one who let me know which hospital to invade.

I guess I'm getting the family visits after all.

I just wish I had a margarita too.

Obliviate

I think I deleted one picture too many. My photo has disappeared from comments, and therefore, in the sadness of my lonely imagination, I must have disappeared as well. I waved some magic cyber wand, chanted a quiet invisibilty spell, and slipped away without a peep.

Or at least my picture did.

There's a certain anxiety that emerges when I see myself displayed as a blocky negative sign. What does that really mean, anyway? Do I take away instead of giving? Am I losing? I put one of the old photos back up, just in case you folks forgot what I don't actually look like.

Of course, it is me in the pic, but it's misleading. I'm usually make up free, sporting a frumpy mess of a bun and wearing jammies. Glamor Girl, all the way.

I didn't quit my job...yet.