How Many Licks?

I smoked a bunch of cigarettes, okay?

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^th of July.

Like a vengeance, in other words.

And also not much of a surprise.

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.

Well, not from everyone you tell. It doesn't elicit any response at all from some people – Some People whom you decided not 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 else 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, cliché congratulations.

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.

And then the bank — 

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...? Aha! 

A. Bank of America is an elephant.

B. Everyone who works for them is blind.

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…

So that happened, and then what else? Oh, yeah.

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.

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.

No, no. I'm joking, of course. I don't really wear cowboy boots, sillies. I wear Fryes.

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.

Them, I mean. Some People. You know: Them.

They didn’t answer, and that’s 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.

Six cigarettes. Right in a row. Onetwothreefourfivesix just like that.

And then?

Some People called.

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.

Just like the cough I had to put up with all over again for the next few days.

Sometimes They Come Back

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 that 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?

No? Well, jeez, what have you-all been up to since I left? And where are all your finished fucking books already?

Hey! Hi there! Did you miss me?

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—

Oh my god wait! Hang on! You know This Boss! Some of you do, anyway! Those of you who knew me a thousand years ago, back when I was still Jennifer Walters***. Remember this sad story with a happy ending? 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?

Sigh.

Anyway, where was I? Oh. Right. So I’m bored and bitching (which I know doesn’t sound like me at all, 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.

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 Real Dorothy in my current cast of characters – although Dorothy does not 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. 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 midnight knuckle sandwich here for anyone who’s got a mind to do ’em wrong.

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.

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’ fly 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.

Okay, now.

Seriously.

Where was I?

*Technically, they’re called Byer’s Choice, 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).

**New plural for Jesus. I made it up. It’s my blog, I can do what I want. Besides...

***…I’m She-Hulk now. Who’s gonna fuck with me?

****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 Maine, 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 tag him, for god’s sake.