That's Her.

Whoa! It's been nine days since I posted here!
That seems impossible, since I have been reading and writing like crazy.
I've been saving all my fiction for my creative writing class this semester.  I feel as if I'm depriving my Blogger friends of  the terrifically horrific "October Specials" I've scrawled in my notebooks, but it is for a good cause, I assure you. ("Good Cause" amounts to me getting an 'A' in writing class, and that's all there is to that.)

You may or may not know that October is the month of my mom. Today is her birthday, and twenty short days from now will be her "deathday." Most of the shorts I've written lately have centered around motherhood, but none of them have been about my mother. I wrote a little bit of a shocking impromptu story in class the other night, and now my entire class probably thinks my mom was some horrible bitch who didn't love me, but that's not true. (She loved me.)

You want to know a little secret about our family? We like purple spiders. They mean love.

When my mom was alive, she would watch that TV show "Crossing Over, with John Edwards." In the intro, he explained that his dead mother would communicate her love for him with white birds. My mom decided our talisman would be purple spiders. (This decision had something to do with her sister and thrift store shopping, but that is another story.) So now, every time I see a purple spider, I think of my mom. (Did she know ahead of time that she would die on Halloween--a time of the year when purple spiders seem to be everywhere?)

I remember when she was in the hospital. Toward the end I was spending all my spare time camped out in her room. She tried to stay awake, but she slept most of the time. For some reason, I felt like I needed to be there for every waking moment. I guess I was trying to hold on to her as much as possible. I knew I'd have to let her go eventually, but I was going to soak up every tidbit of time I could get with her. She was dying, there was no denying that, but I'd be damned if I was going to sit back and wait for a phone call from some disembodied voice of some indifferent doctor. I needed to be there with her.

One day, I went down to the gift shop for a little while to stretch my legs and take in some different scenery. They had a string of the large, scary-looking purple spiders on the clearance rack. I snatched them and took them up to her room. Carefully, while she was sleeping, I arranged them so it seemed the spiders were crawling across her feet.

The nurse accused me of wanting to kill her with a heart attack, but my mom smiled when she opened her eyes and saw them.

"So you like spiders?" the nurse asked, dryly.

"I like purple ones," my mom said with a smile and then slipped back into sleep.

In the months after her passing, we would actively search for the purple spiders. We'd see them, and one of us would shout it out, as if we'd come across some rare artifact never seen before by human eyes. The fact is, there are more of them around than I realized. They're on greeting cards and in cartoons and on posters. For a while, it seemed we couldn't get away from them. Even our friends started bringing them to us in the form of jewelry and hair clips and decorative knick-knacks and what-nots. There was a huge, fuzzy, bendable spider perched in the back dash of my car for about a year. (His name was Hector, and I have no idea where he went. I only know that he's gone.)

Nowadays, we're not so quick to scoop up the spiders when we see them. We just smile to ourselves and move on with life, knowing that my mom is out there, somewhere, still loving us. I like to think it's the completely unexpected sightings that are truly messages from her. The ones that throw me off a little, you know? Like that purple car I saw on Georgia Street, the one called a Spyder.

That's my mom. That's love.

Look Away, Ye Nosy Bosses

It's too bad I can't talk very much about the politics at my job. I'd have a book-length blog-post, and you'd be riveted to the screen, laughing your asses off about the crap I have to put up with most of the time.

I'd tell you how I nearly got fired a couple of weeks ago because a little old lady complained that I was physically aggressive with her (thank Big Brother for video cameras). I'd tell you how the same customer came in a week later and complained to me that one of the other workers was the rudest man she'd ever met (even though he wasn't rude, not even a little bit).

You'd hear all about how one of the assistants was sent home for sleeping in the meat cooler, and later returned with a "doctor's note" stating that he should be excused from remaining in a state of wakefulness while working in the meat market, where we use knives and saws all day.

I'd tell you all about how one assistant manager accused another assistant manager of popping hydros all day, and that's why he was able to work so fast (even though hydros are downers?).

I'd tell you so-and-so's wife calls the store every day to make sure her husband is actually at work, and not somewhere else, messin' around with someone else. (My personal philosophy is that any man who needs to be kept on a leash isn't worth keeping, but to each her own, right?)

I'd tell you how it's best to have an escape plan if you ever find yourself in conversation with a certain someone who is known for talking for forty-five minutes without saying anything of consequence whatsoever.

I'd tell you all the nicknames we give to the regular customers. Rug-man, Juan Valdez, The Red Baron, Nosy Rosie and Spot.

I'd tell you about the guy who kept sending nudie pics of himself to all the girls, even the lesbians, because he was pretty sure he could turn 'em straight.

I'd tell you about the infamous five-dollar-foot-long, and you'd spit coffee through your nose, because that shit is hilarious.

I tell you who does a SPOT ON impression of the big boss, because what kind of boss would he be if we didn't do impressions of him every once in a while?

Maybe I should write the stories anyway. One day, when I've escaped the company, and there's no threat of backlash, I'll publish those embarrassing, revealing, ridiculous sagas, and your sides will ache from all the guffawing, and you'll beg for more, and you'll read them aloud to your friends around the lunch table at your jobs where you wish you could talk about work politics.

But for now, I suppose I'll have to keep them hidden away, and you'll just have to wonder what the hell I meant by "five-dollar-foot-long."

One Table Over: I-HOP

He has his food. He has his food, and he's almost finished eating. That is how long he's had his food.

I got here first, but he got a waitress before I got a waitress. He got his drink
and his food, and, now that I'm looking, he's gotten his check as well!

I got a cup of coffee.

I ordered some chicken strips, but I haven't seen them. Neither have I seen the perky blond waitress who took my order.

My menu is still sitting on the edge of the table awaiting removal.

I've checked Facebook and Blogger and started browsing Pinterest, and he's over there trying to decide how much tip to leave.

Do you know what they do at I-HOP? They leave a thermal pitcher full of coffee at your table just in case you drain your cup before you see your waitress again. I've had three cups of coffee.

Oh, yippee. There's my waitress. She's coming up the aisle. She sees me looking, but she avoids my eyes. And there she goes...

He's gone. His table has been cleared and wiped and reseated.

Ah...here she is! With a plate of...(drum roll, please)...somebody else's food! Oh, honey, that's not mine. I ordered chicken strips. (You did?) uh huh...

The new folks over there are passing the time telling lame jokes as they nibble their appetizer.

A three-legged dog walks into a bar and says, "I'm lookin' for the man who shot my paw."

Hahaha! Hilarious.

How does a man on the moon cut his hair? Eclipse it!

Wait. I got one.

Where does a one-legged man work?

I-HOP.

(I crack me up.)

Match the Symbols to Win the Prize

Matthew, Slave #4, moved out, yet again, and I am alone in the house.

Empty nest. (Empty refrigerator, empty closet, empty garage...)

No kids, no grandkids, no roommate, no lover. (Nobody to wash the dishes or mow the lawn either, 'cause you know I ain't doin' that shit.)

All alone (at long last). To celebrate, I hauled all the couch pillows out of the closet and put them back on the couches, just so, and there they have remained, because there are no hoards of teenagers moving things to the side to make room for popcorn and PS3s.

The place is a mess, and it's desperate for some attention, but my priorities are elsewhere. I'm supposed to be writing in my journal for my Creative Writing class. My Dystopian Lit professor wants us to be writing a chapter of "fan-fiction" for Orwell's Animal Farm. I need to read three chapters of U.S. Government, and I need to study for my Spanish test that is taking place today.

On top of that, I need to educate myself about the wonders of dry, aged, prime beef, because my job description may finally be changing at work. I heard a rumor that I might have to buy a knife. (They're going to let me play with the knives, people. Don't try to say you haven't been warned.)

Here's a dilemma. Yesterday, I found some trash on the floor at work. I slipped it into my pocket, because it wasn't nasty, just a slip of paper-like stuff that didn't belong on the floor. Hours later, at home, I pulled it out of my pocket and realized it was a winning scratch-off lottery ticket. FIFTY BUCKS.

 I called the manager to see if anybody had reported it to Lost and Found, but, to his knowledge nobody had. Now I'm stuck here with Bad Karma on my hands, knowing that some poor soul is out fifty bucks because I was too stupid to realize what it was when I saw it lying there on the floor. I need to find a place for it. I need to give it back out to the universe in the form of Good Karma, but I'm not quite sure how to go about it.

Should I give it all to one person? Or should I split it up into two, or maybe five little prizes for the first people I see today? Maybe I'll give it all to the clerk who cashes the ticket for me? Maybe I'll give it as a tip to a waitress somewhere? AUUGGHH!!! There are so many people who would truly benefit if they just had fifty extra bucks in their pocket. (I know the feeling. I used to be one of those people.)

Now I'm on the other side of that fifty bucks, and I have no idea how to behave.

It doesn't matter right now, though, because I have to study for that Spanish test...right after I mow the lawn.


Additional note: $20 to the clerk who cashed the ticket. (I didn't watch her expression. I just walked away.)
 $20 to the guy with a bucket on Bell Street collecting for Human Trafficking Prevention.$10 to St. Jude's Children's Hospital when I ate lunch at Chili's.

If I Can't Have Vonnegut...

Twenty novels, twenty students.

Pick one, she said, and hands started shooting up all over the classroom as students began shouting out their preferences. I wasn't quick enough to get Cat's Cradle or The Giver, so I snagged The Stand.
One of the other students had already scoffed at it, claiming it was too long and wasn't the best Stephen King choice for a Dystopian Lit class. I agreed with him, thinking The Long Walk would have been a wonderful choice, but he countered with The Gunslinger. I still think I'm right, but it doesn't matter because neither of those books are on the list.

He opted for The Stand in the end, not realizing I'd beaten him to it, and I felt a little childish  popping off and saying, "Too late. I already got it, so HA!"

I've already read The Stand about five times, maybe more. I could write a twenty page analytical paper on it right now without ever opening the book or looking up critical research, but those aren't the terms. Dr. Dodson wants four pages, typed, double spaced with at least two outside critical research sources. Darn those college professors with their ethical research and their proper MLA style.

I pulled my old paperback copy off the bookshelf. It's like saying hello to an old friend. I first read this book when I was pregnant with my third child, Jacob. I was a shift manager at McDonald's and I was temporarily separated from the kids' dad. I had that two bedroom apartment with the bright red carpeting and the swamp cooler that had to be manually drenched with a water hose because the pump was broken. I don't know how I found the time to read this enormous brick of a book with a full-time job and two toddlers running around my swollen feet, but I did. And then after that, I found time to read it again and again and again. I guess I liked it.

This copy has been used and abused, and today I have discovered why I shelfed it and forgot about it. It's covered with candle wax on one side, is stained by a coffee spill on about thirty pages near the middle, and the last three pages have been ripped halfway out. The spine is broken; it's dog-eared, full of margin notes, and it smells slightly of oranges. (I don't have an explanation for that last thing. Maybe the candle wax is scented?)

Sadly, I realize I'm going to have to get a new copy. I've opted to get dressed and drive myself to the bookstore rather than to click through Amazon to have one conveniently delivered to my door. As I slide my old friend back into his home on the bookshelf, I understand that he should not be so easily or nonchalantly replaced.

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."