tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76847591495508539862024-03-05T08:49:24.787-08:00Barking at the UniverseEGEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00413356156587831974noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684759149550853986.post-31369153050203753802013-12-11T15:35:00.000-08:002013-12-11T19:06:56.279-08:00Three Sizes, My Ass<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve decided to have some people over
for the first time since I moved to Maine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first</i> first time. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been sitting here in
this little cabin in the woods all by myself for three and a half years, staring
at the dog. Except I kind of have. For three and a half years – whenever I wasn’t
working, shooting pool, or entertaining the Other Dog (on which enough already)
– I kind of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> been sitting here,
staring. Because a. I was licking wounds and going a little feral, and b. he
really is a damn fine-looking dog. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_s_5du0tRZ2h4AzFp7g-EFLaZ6GW2XWOjF3rg-RbJ8QX8F8IQskt4WjQ6SPKDWRuDdcJW1axy6Q2CXWfDs0Fn8Rf8kLiVkeFWTwfSol2n4JTBqjJN5M2nA33O-RcqfJBpPGDENeSlHSM/s1600/photo(8).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_s_5du0tRZ2h4AzFp7g-EFLaZ6GW2XWOjF3rg-RbJ8QX8F8IQskt4WjQ6SPKDWRuDdcJW1axy6Q2CXWfDs0Fn8Rf8kLiVkeFWTwfSol2n4JTBqjJN5M2nA33O-RcqfJBpPGDENeSlHSM/s320/photo(8).JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">that<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> fine-looking. Not like I ever considered
doing anything to him besides stare. The odd walk, maybe. A pat on the head
every so often. But you know, I’m not a </i>weirdo<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Besides, I had the Other Dog for that business, remember?</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Anyway so yeah, I have had the occasional
odd guest once in a while, but I have not had People Over. At first because I
didn’t know any People and then because I didn’t think they’d come, and then
because, well, having People Over means cracking a can of worms I haven’t taken
off the shelf since I was married. The recipes; the cutting board; the everything
that goes in hand with entertaining. All the stuff I used to do when I was a
Different Person, living a Different Life, and I wasn’t sure if That Girl was
still in me anymore – or if she should be. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Plus, you know, people are like mice:
let ‘em in, and they leave holes…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But I’m getting a Christmas tree this
year. And if that ain’t a great big bowl of Different Life then I don’t know
what is. Because see, there was a time I used to be Miss Christmas
– or at least first runner-up. I played the music and jingled the bells and wished
the merry and spread the cheer and wassailed the figgy pudding and all that happy
reindeer-shit, until any reasonable person would want to haul off and sock me
in the sugarplums. My tree was a goddamn liturgy. Plus there were Santas in
every corner, special throw pillows for the couch, china settings for the
dining table we never even used and—</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hell, honeys, what I’m trying to say is:
I’d’ve crapped a fucking Yule log, if I could. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But on December 3, 2009, my mother died.
I came back from the funeral to find that my boss of eleven years had gone off
her antipsychotics and the voices in her head said I was fired. Not too long after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that,
</i>my second boss, from my second job, died in her sleep. And, well, being the
Great Big Grown Up Girl I was and strive to be, I dealt with all of this by
running away from home, developing an eating disorder, and, eventually, getting
my Great Big Grown Up Self arrested. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I didn’t so much notice when it
happened, but somewhere in the midst of all of that, my Yule Log Dispensing
System went on strike.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Moving on…</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It took a while, but all that’s behind
me now. As behind me as it ever can be, anyway. The divorce was final in 2011. The
house sold, finally, in 2012. All that remains of my unfortunate incarceration is
a tiny little skid mark in St. Peter’s book and a lifetime ban from Canada (re.
which: who cares? It’s fucking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canada</i>.
And it ain’t like this girl’s getting into heaven if there is one, anyway). I have
a new home, I have my mom’s fine-looking dog, and I’m three years in to a halfway-decent
job I’m really good at and I abso-freakin’-lutely goddamn love. So, maybe, just
possibly, perhaps… now might be the time to cop a merry squat and see if
I can’t pinch something off.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Bear with me…</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Except, you see, if you were paying
attention in that last paragraph (which if you weren’t, can’t blame you. I do
have a tendency to ramble on. But if you were…) you might be thinking to
yourself “Yo, turd-girl, all of those moving-on things were true <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">last </i>year, as well!” And you’d be right.
They were. And in fact I came to this same conclusion at this same time last
year. And I never did anything about it then because I wasn’t Turd Girl last
year: I was Pussy Galore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Because, you see, the only way I managed
to survive the last three years was by cramming my heart – except for the
little piece of it kept alive by the aforementioned Other Dog – into that box
in the basement, too. And when it came time to let it out, I balked. There are
things in those boxes I am more afraid of than anything I’ve ever had to face
before – and you’re talking to a girl whose job it is to disarm six-foot,
beer-bellied, bald and toothless biker guys named Gus. Things that make me cry
right now just thinking about them. Things my mother made or gave me, things my
husband and I brought home from all over the world. And that home is gone and
that husband is gone and that mother is gone and that world is gone – and all I have in this little
log cabin left to comfort me is my dead mother’s dog. And no dog – not even the
Other One – is fine-looking enough to make up for all of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So last year I moaned about the expense
and the effort and the who’s-even-gonna-see-the-damn-thing-anyway, and pussied
out. I knitted Christmas sweaters for the nieces and I baked the Christmas
pies, but I left all the ghosts in the basement where they belong. And when
shit started rolling around again this year like it always goddamn does, I
resolved to not even pretend. I don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i>
Christmas anymore, I told myself. I’ll put the face on for the family. I won’t
snap at folks who wish me well. But in my black, dead, lonely heart, it’s over.
Finished. Done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And then, when I was at Dad’s for
Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, he asked me to root around the boxes in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> basement and see if I couldn’t find
where Mom had stashed her Christmas Village. And I did. And I found them. And I
tried but he wouldn’t let me help him set them up. And when I left, all by his 70-year-old,
a-fibrillating, half-bionic self, my dad did this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well.</span>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If that man – who was married to her for
42 years and has been lost without her; who raised us all through recessions
and runaways; who’s been in the hospital four or five times since she died, for
myriad adversities, and who keeps coming out each time a little more
discouraged but never giving up; who just keeps getting better, standing up,
and going back to work; who put me on his weak, elderly back and goddamn <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">carried</i> me through my arrest and the ensuing
eighteen months of costs and consequences – if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>man can open those carefully packed boxes, lift out the
porcelain, and plug in the lights, then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>
girl can sack the fuck up and quit shitting herself at the idea of coming face
to face with a slightly-moldy salt-and-flour Jesus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So I’m getting a tree. And I’m having People
Over. Because it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> true that
burying my heart is the only way I managed to survive the last three years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It turns out that, no matter what, the
mice find their way in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>And if there are any Maine mice reading this whom I forgot to invite, please come. You'll find the details under my facebook events. You just have to swear not to do this...</i> </span></div>
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EGEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00413356156587831974noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684759149550853986.post-75491936240185458652011-11-29T12:15:00.001-08:002013-01-15T20:43:25.180-08:00I Don't Garden, Either<br />
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I don’t cook.</div>
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I used to cook. For a few years there I tried to do everything I
imagined a grown-up girl’s supposed to do. I bought a house. I got married. I
cooked. I even watered a goddamn plant once in a while, despite my lifelong aversion
to all things horticult. But the marriage ended in divorce, the house is in
foreclosure, and the plants died anyway. Good thing I never went so far as to
have the goddamn babies.</div>
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Anyway, I didn’t suck at cooking, and people even thought I liked it.
People gave me kitchen accoutrements for Christmas, came to my dinner parties,
raved about my mustard-crusted rabbit (which I realize sounds like Urban
Dictionary slang for a venereal disease, but I’m really talking about the
Easter Bunny here). The best part of the process for me, though, was dancing around
the kitchen with the music blaring, drinking beer. I could’ve much more happily
ordered pizza, tapped a keg, and called it done.</div>
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Since I put away adultish things, I’ve quit all that. At some point in
the past two years I did remember just how much I love to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bake</i> – but that’s a different thing completely, and a story for
another time (everyone swears I make the best apple pie they’ve ever tasted and
someday, if you’re good, I’ll tell you how). But as far as cooking real food
goes, I’ve reverted to the Real Me, who thinks of it along the same lines as church: something she
might watch on TV for the bizarro factor, but nothing she’d get off her ass to
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i>. In both cases, these
days, she’d just wind up burning the motherfucker down.</div>
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Which doesn’t mean that I don’t still have strong opinions.</div>
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Anyone who’s seen me watching football or America’s Funniest Home
Videos – or church, for that matter – knows that I can get up on the couch and
shout at the TV with the best of them. Quarterback sneak at the 14-yard line
when you’re up by 25? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">WHY ARE YOU RISKING
HIS <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KNEE</b> AGAIN!?</i> Handing the piñata
stick to the jacked-up four-year-old? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ARE
YOU <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LOOKING </b>TO TAKE IT IN THE NUTS!?</i>
God wants all of us to be millionaires? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BUT</i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DOESN’T THAT MEAN <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JESUS</b> ISN'T GONNA LOVE US ANYMORE!?</i> </div>
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So it was hard for me at Dad’s last week when he was watching Bobby Flay on the Today Show. Bobby
Flay, as far as I’m concerned, is another motherfucker that deserves to be
burned down – but Dad’s been sick, so I was trying to keep my Strong Opinions to myself.
Which was no small feat, because Strong Opinion #1 was that the segment should’ve
been called Bobby Flay Queers Up Thanksgiving Dinner.</div>
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<i>Yes, I know I’m not supposed to
use that word unless it defines </i>me<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. But who's to say it doesn’t? After all, I’m not married
anymore; I’m a grown-up girl and I can say and do whatever I want. That
word meant something else before it got co-opted by bigots</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, and</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what it meant is exactly
what Bobby Flay was doing to that turkey.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No. Not </i><b><i>that.</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></div>
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Now, I know there are different opinions about stuffing. They’re wrong,
but I didn't open that can of worms (it’s
called “stuffing” for a reason and if you want to call it “dressing” you can
pour it over “salad” – there, I'm done). I kept my mouth shut when, instead of carving it up
proper, he took the breast right off the bird and cut it into steak-sized
chunks. I said nothing when he put the dark meat back in the roasting pan and
braised it off (because who needs to serve the whole bird to a hungry crowd at the same time
anyway, right?). I even bit my tongue when he poured some watery ginger-Thai
sauce over the breast chunks instead of gravy (because he is Bobby Flay, after
all: if he knew how to make a proper gravy he wouldn’t be braising off the dark
meat in the roasting pan). But then he started on the side dishes, and that’s
when I stood up on the couch.</div>
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Fresh blackberries in your cranberry sauce? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FUCK YOU!</i></div>
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It’s not about queering up the cranberries, motherfucker, it’s just an
asshole thing to do. Hell, it’s an asshole thing to even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">say</i>. Fresh blackberries are in season for a week and a half in
August. Even then they cost $5 for a half a pint, and – if you buy them in the
grocery store – are just a tease. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some </i>of
us grew up machete-ing our way through a half-acre of brambles that sprouted
when some random bird pooped in our yard. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some
</i>of us remember emerging at the end of those August weeks all sunburnt and
juice-stained, thorn-scratched and mosquito-bit, stuffed with all the berries that
were so verge-of-rotten ripe they squished when you picked ‘em, and looking
forward to a couple months of our mother’s jam and pie. I don’t think I’ve had
blackberry pie in at least twenty-five years, but in our house it was always served
with vanilla ice cream, and the rule was that when it was gone, you were
allowed to pick up your dessert plates and lick them off. </div>
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You don’t come up with a rule like that by buying them in November and fucking
‘em in a pot with goddamn <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cranberries.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next day, over our non-queered-up Thanksgiving dinner – at which I daintily
wolfed down the (non-braised) turkey wing with my grown-up hands – I was still
bitching about Bobby Flay, confident that those who also remember machete-ing
the half-acre, not to mention the jam and the plate-licking, would understand how
Strong my Opinions about blackberries are. I knew they’d get it when I said I
don’t even buy them when they are in season. I just visit them, pat the package, and walk
away. I may be nostalgic and Opinionated, but I’m not dumb enough to
spend $5 a cup on some watered-down imitation of the Truth we used to get out
of our backyard by the gallon, and for free.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should</i> do,” my
brother said, “is spring for the five bucks, bring ‘em home, and throw ‘em in
the yard.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He was right. I mean, he’d’ve been righter if he’d said “fuck ‘em in
the yard” instead of “throw ‘em,” but my brother has a three-year-old; he has
Strong Opinions about things like diapers, Disney Princesses, and Fuck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But anyway, he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>right, and
it got me thinking: just because they pick ‘em green and ship ‘em cold and by
the time they get to you they taste like ass, that doesn’t mean they aren’t the
same <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seeds</i> on the inside. If I sprung
for the five bucks right now – what with the unseasonably warm weather we’ve
been having (in between equally unseasonable nor’easters) – I might just have my very
first unfruitful, picker-laden bush-sprouts in the spring! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of course, the point of this whole diatribe to begin with was that blackberries
aren’t in season now. So they probably don’t cost five dollars anymore. Plus, I
got laid off on November first and – due to a combination of my being a Good
Daughter and a Little Bit Of A Flake – my unemployment <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> has not<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>kicked in. I
am so turn-pocket poor these days I’m considering bagging out on one of my pool
teams just to save the 1/4 tank of gas it takes for the round trip from the ass-end
of creation where I live to what passes for civilization in these parts. How could
I justify the expense? I mean, I’ve only been living at the ass-end of creation
for eighteen months: nowhere near long enough to make spending $10 on something
I’m gonna fuck in the yard sound like a bargain. It’s not like I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">grew up </i>here, for god’s sake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So last night I was lamenting all of this to my Best Friend In The Whole
Entire World. She lives in Connecticut these days, but it’s not like she grew
up there, either: she’s poor, too (plus she still has a sense of humor, and a
soul), so she understood my predicament completely.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You could<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>eat them first,”
she said, “and spit the seeds out in the yard. That way you would at least get
a treat.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Or </i>I could—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
This girl’s been my best friend since 1990. She knew <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly </i>what I was going to say. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh come on,” I said. “I’ve been living at the ass-end of creation for
eighteen months now. Don’t you think it’s about time I took a shit in the yard?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Go ahead if you want to,” she conceded. “I’m just saying I don’t think
blackberry seeds go through a person like they do a bird. You might want to spit
the seeds out first, then poop on top of them. Just remind me never to eat
blackberries from your house if you do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m still mulling it over. I don’t know, though. I mean, I’d have to
make the long trek to the grocery store, spend too much money on one special ingredient,
do stuff to it, then wait patiently for time and temperature to turn it into something
I can actually eat. And what did I tell you when I started this whole story?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don’t cook.<br />
<br />
</div>EGEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00413356156587831974noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684759149550853986.post-36587052915718857182011-10-02T08:10:00.000-07:002013-01-15T20:43:25.163-08:00The Curse<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">As gal’s go, I’m not what you call Regular. Never have
been. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Yes, my friends, that is a metaphor. But no, I’m not talking about poop. </span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I didn’t even become an official Gal till
I was almost 16 years old, and for five years or so after that it was hit or miss. Mostly
miss, unless I planned a camping trip or something. Or made the mistake of
stepping on an airplane. In which case It would hit me like a ton of bricks.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Fortunately I didn’t start doing the sorts of things that make a gal keep track of calendars
until I was almost 21, so at least I didn’t have to do Lunatic Math.</span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">After that, It would hit me every couple
months. Or I’d skip two, then go two in a row (which always pissed me off), then skip two more. I didn't mind it, but it was hard to plan for. And during what I like to think of as my wild-oats
phase (for which read: most the ‘90s), I pretty much got in the habit of buying pregnancy
tests whenever I bought condoms. Just, you know, so I could get to sleep at
night while waiting for It to hit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Then I got married. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I stopped buying condoms and got one of
those plug-things in my arm. It made me fat, no fun at all, and (after
a year or so) a marginally-Regular Gal at last. All of which pissed me off enough, you can
imagine. But when it killed my sex drive, too, I ripped it out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">After another year or so I was back to
my Irregular old tricks, but by then – well, let’s just say it was like living those first five years of officialdom over again: no pregnancy tests or Lunatic Math necessary. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Just to be extra-double-sure, though, I went
and got myself an IUD. Poor little device. Sat there for years like a kid wearing
a catcher’s mitt in the cheap seats, hoping against hope for a chance to field
a ball. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Then the seventh-inning stretch came,
and I ran.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Single again (for all intents and purposes), I entered Wild Oats Phase Two and fell back into lockstep.
Condoms, pregnancy test, sleep at night, etc. Because honestly, in the whole time that wee device was suited up on my behalf, it’d only had one quick cup of
coffee in the majors, and I wasn’t about to let the World Series ride on its ability
to play.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">But Phase Two only lasted for a month. Because while I was in the throes of it, I met Some People.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">before long, Some People and I </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">weren’t Meeting any other people</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">. We never Agreed
Upon such a Momentous Thing </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">– </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">because that would be too much like having a Real Conversation, which Some People and I have always refused to do</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> – </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">but I wasn't, and he wasn't. We weren't.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">So I trusted the catcher’s mitt in the
cheap seats to field the flies. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">By this time, of course </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">– </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">since about 2009 or so </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">– </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I'm about as Irregular as a
gal can be and still call herself a Gal. It misses more than It hits me, as a rule. And
even when It does connect, It's more like a drop-bunt than a grand-slam. I chalk it up
to the fact that I work out a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot</i>.
But because I do, I know my body well enough to know that the catcher’s mitt is doing its
job.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> There came a point this summer I got so used to It missing that I
sort of forgot It was even <i>supposed</i> to hit. Until I had a doctor’s appointment recently. And they asked me when it last had. And I did Lunatic Math… </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And figured
out It hadn't hit since early May.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Well, you know, sure. I mean, yeah, big fat gulp and everything. But like I say: I’ve had this body for a while now; I really think I’d be able to tell if it
started sprouting a spare. Besides, I have enough to worry about these days – the
divorce and the house and my impending layoff and Dad in the hospital and writer's block and everything.
So I did a quick scan of the stands, reassured myself that the catcher’s mitt hadn’t
budged from its position, and chalked the whole thing up to I’m-Forty-Fucking-Two-For-God’s-Sake-And-I’ve-Avoided-Slipping-On-This-Particular-Banana-Peel-For-Twenty-Six-Years-So-It’s-Just-Not-Something-That’s-Going-To-Happen-To-Me-<i>Now</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">It never even occurred to me to mention it to Some People. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Not then. And not over the past few
weeks. Not when I spontaneously quit smoking because the idea just started to
seem gross. Or when I gained a little weight (because that’s just the smoking,
right?). Or when I started craving salsa suddenly, on everything (because it’s
okay for a girl to eat something besides apples and chicken breasts once in a
while, dammit!). Or when just smelling the salt in the salsa made my calves swell
up to seven times their size (I figure that’s a normal physical reaction for a gal who hasn’t eaten processed food
since April 2010). Or when the swelling made my knees ache (hey man, I walk seven miles a day when I can, and I work out a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot</i>). Or when I managed to put away three
pounds of chocolate in two hours on that Sunday afternoon (no people – let alone
Some People – need to bear witness to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>). Or even when I finally started going a
little nuts (although, to be fair, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Some People couldn’t help but notice that).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">But then one night I slipped and mentioned the no-hitter. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">By mistake, you understand. I didn’t
Mean To. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I just sort of, kind of,
offhandedly, in passing, did. All I said was “not since May” and changed the subject. <i>La la la... </i>Then two days later I told Some People to
fuck off until they were ready to Talk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Christ.
That poor Kid. I swear to god. Of all the gin joints in all the towns
in all the world, this hot mess had to clomp her boots into his.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Well, to make a long story short, it seems that little mention broke the curse. First, though, I got
even nutsier without ever consciously acknowledging the elephant in the cheap
seats. And while I wouldn’t say Some People came around looking for crazy, they
were certainly there to field it when it fell.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> For a week or two or whatever it was. Until, out of the blue, It finally
hit me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Which, you know, explains the swelling and the craving and the knee-pain and the
nuts. I’m just so out of practice with It, I forgot.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Told.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Everyone</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I hadn’t told anyone about the not-since-May
stuff, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everybody</i> heard about October.
People I work with. People I’m friends with. People I barely know. Even – and especially
– Some People. I told Some People It finally hit me just as offhandedly as I'd mentioned the five-month miss. With half-assed apologies for
the pop flies I lobbed in his direction,</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> unexpressed gratitude for the expert (if awkward) fielding, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">and a very clearly spelled-out, keep-it-if-it-kills-me vow to bench the hot mess for a little while. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">After all, considering the wild card I've turned out to be in that particular major-league game… </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">It seems the only Regular thing to do.</span></div>EGEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00413356156587831974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684759149550853986.post-27290111491595921532011-09-29T18:13:00.000-07:002013-01-15T20:43:25.158-08:00How Many Licks?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I smoked a bunch of cigarettes, okay? </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I lasted three and a half weeks. That
isn’t bad. Then I took a cosmic licking and the marshmallow center of my hard
candy shell came out like a pop star in Provincetown on the 4<sup>th</sup> of
July.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Like a vengeance, in other words. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And also n</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">ot much of a surprise.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I don’t think I’ll get into much detail
about the cosmic licking. Let’s just say that filing for divorce after a year
and a half of chasing paperwork takes an anti-climactic five seconds to do,
costs $120 you probably should’ve thought about ahead of time, and elicits
unwelcome congratulations from everyone you tell, even when you’re only telling
by way of an explanation as to why you’re not your usual eat-a-peach, the-world’s-my-oyster
self. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Well, not from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everyone</i> you tell. It doesn't elicit any response at all from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some</i>
people – Some People whom you decided <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
to tell but accidentally included anyway on the “I just finally, officially
filed for divorce” text message that was supposed to only go to out-of-staters. You deserved that deafening silence, though. Because you hadn’t
told Some People anything <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">else </i>about the divorce (or the marriage, or
much of anything else about your past, for that matter) up to this point, anyway, so you
can’t blame them if they don’t know what to say. Come to think of it, they probably deserve credit for at least not offering knee-jerk, clich</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">é</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> congratulations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Also?
Sigmund would probably say that slip was no accident, after all. But what does
he know about texting, anyway? He’s been dead since, like, rotary dialing was cutting
edge.</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And then the bank — </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Let's see. How can I put
this so you’ll understand how frustrating these past few months have been, without
getting into the sordid details of how our quail-size nest-egg got all scrambled...?
</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Aha!</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">A. Bank of America is an elephant. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">B. Everyone who works for them is blind.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
wanted to carry that analogy a little farther. There’s a joke in there about
climbing trees and ropes and walls, I know there is. Plus something about dung
beetles, I’m sure. But I promised myself I’d post this before I went to bed,
and I can’t reach either of them from where I’m sitting at the moment. Not that
anyone would notice if I didn’t. But still. I meant what I said, and I said
what I meant. And, well, you know…</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">So that happened, and then what else?
Oh, yeah. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">By way of distraction, I went out with a
couple friends that night. To the biker bar in Arundel where I work. And found
out that the guy who asked me for my number last week – the guy who was
supposed to at least distract me from the damn Kid for a while – is actually
already dating someone else. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">So I shot him, lit myself a cigarette
from the smoking barrel of my gun, pushed through the double-swinging saloon doors and
strode off in my cowboy boots into the night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">No, no. I'm joking, of course. I don't really wear cowboy boots, sillies. I wear Fryes.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Really, I lasted two whole more days after that.
Two twitchy, weepy, five-(then-six-then-seven)-pounds-overweight days, over which I developed a nasty habit of sending increasingly-crazy-sounding text messages to Some People who still
Did Not Respond until finally I cracked and called him. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Them, I mean. Some People. You know: Them.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">They didn’t answer, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s </i>when I cracked. Skittered
downstairs for the spare pack in the freezer, grabbed the big fireplace lighter
off the counter by the candles, ran out to the front step and smoked before I
had a chance to change my mind.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Six cigarettes. Right in a row.
<i>Onetwothreefourfivesix</i> just like that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And then?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Some People called.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I don’t think I’ll get into much detail
about the conversation. Except to say that it was very wet, satisfyingly productive, and it cured the crazy nasty habit for a while.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Just like the cough I had to put up with all over again </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">for the next few days.</span></div>EGEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00413356156587831974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684759149550853986.post-50886053117206965582011-04-27T04:51:00.000-07:002013-01-15T20:43:25.170-08:00Sometimes They Come Back<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:ApplyBreakingRules/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Did you ever have one of those years where your boss goes literally psychotic and while you’re trying to get her re-medicated and hospitalized your mother dies, and in the week between <i>that</i> and the funeral you have all four of your wisdom teeth pulled, then when you come back to work your still-crazy boss accuses you of having her committed against her will and fires you, then your backup-boss dies, then you figure what the hell, might as well go all-in, so you leave your husband of fourteen years and move to your mother’s empty house in rural Maine, where you meet a Kid and learn to ride a motorcycle and scrape fourteen years of rust off of your pool game, then get drunk one too many times and roll your car and get arrested and lose your driver’s license for a little while, run out of money hard as soon as you get it back, miraculously land two jobs that are each an hour from your house in opposite directions, and all everybody wants to know is why haven’t you finished writing the goddamn book yet?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No? Well, jeez, what <i>have </i>you-all been up to since I left? And where are all <i>your </i>finished fucking books already?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey! Hi there! Did you miss me?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, if you did, you can thank good old Dr. One Friend for my resurrection, such as it is. (And if you didn’t, you can just about suck it as far as I’m concerned). I was at one of those aforementioned-jobs, see, and bitching to her by text message about the fact that there are no customers in a Christmas Store on a rainy Tuesday in late April, and although I have permission from This Boss to work on the goddamn book in such solipsistic situations, it is not a very Conducive Atmosphere to Getting Work Done, what with all the Elves and Blow Job Dolls* and Baby Jeses** staring at me. So—</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh my god wait! Hang on! You <i>know </i>This Boss! Some of you do, anyway! Those of you who knew me a thousand years ago, back when I was still <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She-Hulk">Jennifer Walters</a>***. Remember <a href="http://thehouseandi.blogspot.com/2008/12/faithful-friends.html">this sad story with a happy ending</a>? Well, that’s him! He! Whatever! This Boss lives in New Hampshire now and owns a couple of stores and I work for him in one of them in Ogunquit, Maine. Ain’t it grand how life works out sometimes? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sigh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, where was I? Oh. Right. So I’m bored and bitching (which I know doesn’t sound like me at <i>all</i>, but there you go) and Dr. One Friend (who’s doing just fine these days, thanks for asking; no arrests or spontaneous Kids or anything on her record) says to me “Start a new blog,” and in two shakes of a moose’s tail**** I’m groaning through my rusty lips and asking Dorothy to pass the oil can.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>That’s an imaginary Dorothy, by the way. In this particular instance, at least, she’s just a metaphor. I felt I should point that out because it so happens there is a </i>Real<i> Dorothy in my current cast of characters – although Dorothy does </i>not<i> so-happen to be her Real Name. You’ll meet her later, when you meet the rest of my new crew. Gradually, I think, is the best way to introduce you to that buncha roustabouts. They’re a harlequin herd of horses, I tell you what, but I think you’ll like ’em fine.</i> <i>And if you don’t, I’ll thank you keep it to yourself. Because their collective charms have made me really, truly, genuinely Happy for the first time since I-don’t-really-want-to-think-about-it, and I’ve got a </i><i>midnight</i><i> knuckle sandwich here for anyone who’s got a mind to do ’em wrong.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I lost my place again. Tits. Well, at least you know it’s still the same old me behind this curtain, even if I’m on a different stage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>See what I did there? I mixed my metaphors. It was an Oz thing and I turned it into Theatah. That’s because I’m quick like that and I don’t follow Rules. The punches frickin’ </i>fly <i>around this place, I tell you what, but don’t you new folks fret. Stick with me and you’ll be rolling with ‘em before you know what hit you.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Seriously. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where <i>was</i> I?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">*<i>Technically, they’re called <a href="http://www.byerschoice.com/">Byer’s Choice</a>, but come on. It’s not like you never thought about it. Unless you never heard of them. In which case, follow that link. Then come back and say it with me: Blow. Job. Dolls. Disturbing, isn’t it? I try not to let ‘em get too close to the noses on the Galerie II dolls (but apparently you have to be a vendor to get into their website, so you'll have to just trust me on their inherent phallicity).</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">**<i>New plural for Jesus. I made it up. It’s my blog, I can do what I want. Besides... </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***…<i>I’m She-Hulk now. Who’s gonna fuck with me?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">****<i>You’ll forgive the stupid Maine joke, but when I somehow took a wrong turn on my way to work this morning and had to ask this random surveyor I happened to drive by how to get to Perkin’s Cove, he actually said “You can’t get theah from heah” before shutting the phony accent off and giving me real directions. So I shot him. Which is fine. You know. This is </i><i>Maine</i><i>, after all. We like our guns here. And it turned out I was only about an inch and a half from where I was trying to get to, anyway. So what’s one random surveyor, more or less? It’s not like I didn’t </i>tag <i>him, for god’s sake.</i></div>EGEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00413356156587831974noreply@blogger.com10