May 17, 2013 · 4:40 PM

Friday Fiction Friends: Sophie sees the light.

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The smell of coffee greeted her as she painfully climbed the stairwell.  Her head felt like it could explode at any moment, deep primal drums thrummed within, temporarily released from their temporal prison. Her stomach still refused to come along willingly, preferring instead to be dragged like a reluctant puppy, occasionally running and jumping ahead.  And her feet. God, her feet. Damaged by blisters, each step turned into an agonizing dance as her foot involuntarily rolled and recoiled from the painful steps: ball, heel, outstep, twist, and push.  She climbed her way to penitence, step by brutal step. When she reached her landing, Sophie swore she would never touch demon vodka again.

She unlocked the door to the apartment she shared with her mother and pushed, but the chain was set, did what it was supposed to do, and stopped the door, sending the force of the push back to Sophie, who, in her rather unbalanced hung-over state, fell on her ass. At least she was off her feet. Still sitting on the floor, she stuck her face in the opening and yelled, “Ma!”

After a few moments her mother’s shadow fell on Sophie, still crumpled on the floor in front of the door. Her mother stood silent, monumental and judgmental, and hungry for Sophie’s energy. She stood there, condemning, sucking every last drop of energy Sophie had left. When Sophie was completely empty, jellied and sobbing against the door, Jerusha opened the door and allowed her to spill into the apartment.

“Sophie Ann,” her mother said evenly. “I was worried sick about you. You’ve just taken years off of my life. Go clean yourself up and then come explain yourself to me.”

Jerusha took her waiflike self to the source of the coffee smell, leaving Sophie where she was. Sophie hauled herself up and stagger danced on nails to the bathroom. After a long hot  shower, a good toothbrushing, and clean clothes, Sophie felt much worse. She barricaded herself in her room, locking the door and putting a chair in front of it for good measure, then spent the next several hours dry heaving bile into a bin.

She needn’t have bothered with the lock and chair. Jerusha knew her daughter would report to her in good time, each moment longer she waited to do so only added to the weight of Sophie’s guilt and coming punishment.  Jerusha sat and drank coffee, thumbing through cookbooks and the Bible until Sophie managed to get into the kitchen.

“Mom, I…” Sophie began. Jerusha wouldn’t look at her. She took a quick disapproving breath, pursed her lips, and began:

“Sophie Ann, never in my life have I been so disappointed. I cannot believe that you didn’t come home from work yesterday. You never even called. You could have been dead for all I knew. Then you have the nerve to come home the next day, dressed like a hooker and smelling like alcohol and cigarettes. I didn’t raise you to be a whore, Sophie.”

“Mom, I…”

“Don’t even try to defend yourself or justify your behavior. I really should have known it would end up like this. All the women in your father’s family are whorish drunks. Your father was a bastard. Did you know that? Your grandmother was the biggest whore of all. Had him when she was 15. Didn’t know who the father was. I don’t know what I saw in him. I didn’t actually know any of this when we married. I was such a little fool. Married into a family of drunks, whores, sex maniacs, criminals…”

Sophie had heard it all before, but her father had been a kind and loving man.  Jerusha had cut him off from his family after they married, said she didn’t want him bringing those unsavory types around her and Sophie. He might have come from poor stock, but Jerusha had loved him, even after he died. He was her world. All these years later and she’d never even looked at another man.

“Mom, I…”

“And now, here you are. Showing your roots, turning into the drunk little whore I was afraid you would become.” Jerusha sighed heavily, still not looking at Sophie. “I’m going to wash my hands of you, Sophie Ann. I refuse to be subjected to this heartache.”

Jerusha went to her own room and shut the door. Sophie sat in dumb silence. Sophie had never really bothered to disobey her mother, always fearing her judgment and disapproval. She’d learned at a young age that her mother was both hammer and anvil, and you never ever wanted her to get caught in between.  Her mother never got angry. She didn’t need to, her judgment and disapproval were feared by all and avoided at all cost.

A good girl, a righteous girl, modest, chaste, prudent never a toe out of line, Sophie had never really messed up before. Any mistakes she made got her mama’s disapproval and never happened again, by the time she was writing cursive, she rarely made mistakes. It wasn’t worth agitating her mother. Sophie sat and thought about it. Her mother had never hit her, yelled at her, or even put her in a corner. Her judgment and disapproval were so heavy and hard she didn’t need to. But what was that? Who was Jerusha to cast such severe disapproval.

Suddenly, without warning, the tenuous hold Jerusha had over Sophie dissolved. The physical pain Sophie felt, like nothing she had ever experienced before, was so real, so present, so tangible, so visible  on her feet that her mother’s judgment and disapproval became no more substantial than a mirage.  Sophie hobbled to her mother’s room and let herself in.  Jerusha’s back straightened. She looked at Sophie. Sophie did not look contrite, fearful, morose, or penitent. Sophie looked angry. Jerusha slumped. She had lost, but she still had her judgment and disapproval.

“Well, just look at you. The perfect little bitch daughter of my husband. I tried to save you. I tried to fix you. I tried to bring you up to be good. “

“Mom, I’ve never done anything like this before, and I never will. I feel awful.”

“You should feel awful, turning into a drunken little harlot.”

“Would you stop that, please? Mom? I’m never going to drink again, and I didn’t do anything. I made a mistake and a friend helped me out. I was too sick to come home last night.”

“Friend?”

“Sam, from grade school.”

“That boy?” Jerusha laughed a sick laugh. “From the same stock, you are. Another drunken whore’s bastard child.”

“Sam is good and kind.”

“Just like your father, aren’t you? Always defending the indefensible. Justifying bad behavior. Denying the truth.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just told you, that boy’s family is just as sick as your father’s.”

“But that’s not him. That wasn’t dad. I don’t understand,”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Sophie Ann. That’s why your father died the way that he did.”

“What? Dad died taking those shoes back…”

“Back to his little whore girlfriend. She worked at a bar across from the store where he bought them. He only bought them as an excuse to go see her, to try and hide her from me.”

“But…”

“Oh. You thought it was all about you, Princess Sophie? Daddy’s little girl? The apple of his eye? Thought daddy loved you soooo much he went and bought you a pretty new pair of shoes? Now that you’re turning out just like him, there’s no reason to keep up with the lie. Your father was a drunken skirt chaser. He was glad you hated those shoes. It gave him  a chance to get drunk at the bar with his little whore girlfriend. Then he stumbled into the path of the car trying to cross the road to take back those stupid, ugly shoes.”

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You should also check out my other fiction writing amigas’ current pieces:

DeBie Hive

Grass Oil

Suzanne’s World

World’s Worst Moms

Note: This is the second story about Sophie, the first is here.

This week’s prompt: “Liars need to have good memories” ~Algernon Sidney

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April 1, 2013 · 3:46 PM

A is for Action

I’m revisiting an old story I wrote in college. This is Sophie’s story. She’s been bugging me a lot lately to tell her whole story. Now the A-Z Blogging Challenge has converged with Camp NaNoWriMo and my new venture with Friday Fiction Friends, so I think the time has come.

Sophie’s New Shoes, Or the Day Sophie Lost Her Mind

Did you know that a great pair of shoes can make all the difference in the world? Sophie knew. She knew that no matter how horrible things seemed, a new pair of shoes could make everything all better. At least, that’s what she was thinking as she was hurrying along 5th Avenue, in a belated attempt to get to work on time. That’s when she saw them.

They were beautiful black stilettos with five-inch aluminum heels, the toe was slightly open, with marabou trim, and a beaded blossom accent.  Best of all, attached to the heel back, there was a delicate ankle strap with a jeweled buckle.  They were so sexy, and Sophie had always wanted a pair of sexy heels.  She’d always been the “good girl” but that was just because it was expected.  She really just wanted to cut loose.

What the heck, she thought. I’m already late for work. She went into the boutique and asked for the heels in the window, “Size 8, please.”

The clerk came back several minutes later.  “I’m sorry, we only have 7 ½ and 9.”

Sophie had to have those shoes.  “I’ll take the nines,” she said.

The clerk rang up Sophie’s purchase, and insipidly announced, “That will be two ninety eight thirty two.”

Sophie’s lungs quit working; she tried, but just could not take a breath.  She started to feel dizzy.  That’s a week’s pay!  I didn’t even look at the price!  The clerk looked bored, and avoided looking at Sophie.  A resolve settled into the pit of her stomach.  She had to have those shoes.  Sophie glanced in her check register, saw that it was good, and wrote the check.

“I think I’ll wear them now,” Sophie said in her Most Important Voice.  Then she sat down and put on her new beautiful black stilettos.  They were gorgeous.  Suddenly, Sophie was sophisticated and glamorous and…her skirt was much too long.  Inspired, Sophie hiked up her demure a-line until it was just above mid thigh.  Wow!  I’ve really got great legs!  Critiquing her look, Sophie decided that her blouse was too conservative so she unbuttoned it almost down to her bra.  Tucking her old shoes into the boutique’s bag Sophie sashayed out the door.

Sophie strutted down the sidewalk, one foot in front of the other:  today, she was a fashion model on the catwalk.  She stuck her nose up in the air, assumed a haughty air, and peeked out of the corners of her eyes to check people’s reaction.  Heads turned, men gaped and women glared.   Sophie really was a pretty girl.  She had long brunette hair, pinned up in a chaste bun, green eyes, and very fair skin with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was tall to begin with, but the stilettos put her over 6 feet.  Sophie was on top of the world.

Sophie was a good girl.  She did as she was told, and expected to do, never used harsh words or unpleasant tones, she went to church every Sunday, she helped her mother clean house every Monday afternoon even though Sophie had moved out on her own, a single act of defiance in twenty-two years of life.  Sophie had gone to secretarial school at her mother’s request, very Tennessee Williams Sophie always thought, but figured it would be an alright career, especially if she worked her way up to Executive Secretary for someone in a big company.  Sophie only had one fault—she was always late for work.

“I’m sorry Mr. Zimmerman,” Sophie started apologizing the minute she walked through the door.

“Who was it this time, Sophie?”  Mr. Zimmerman asked, his back turned as he poured a cup of coffee, “What man kept you running late today, uh?  Steinbeck?  Hemmingway?  Shakespeare?

Usually, Sophie had her nose buried so far into a book that she didn’t notice the time, hence the reason she was always, always late for work.  Still busy with his coffee, Mr. Zimmerman, an accountant, had yet to see Sophie’s new look.

“One of these days I’m going to fire your tardy butt, and then where will you be, uh?”

Sophie used in her Most Important Voice again, “First of all Mr. Zimmerman, it’s Sophia, and second, we both know that you couldn’t possible fire me.  You wouldn’t be able to survive Mrs. Zimmerman’s nagging.”  Mrs. Zimmerman and Sophie’s mother were the best of friends since grade school and they got together every Tuesday to gossip, drink mimosas, and give each other manicures.

“So, who was it?  I deserve to know the name of the man you’re cheating on me with,” he said playfully.

“It was a woman actually,” Sophie said coquettishly.

Mr. Zimmerman turned around.  He blushed deep crimson as his eyes unwillingly traveled Sophie’s long lean body up and down, drinking in her décolletage, pausing at her cleavage, tracing her slim waist, hugging the graceful curve of her hips, savoring her long, long legs and stopping, finally, at Sophie’s new shoes.

“Oh, I see you have a new pair of shoes then, eh Sophie.”  Mr. Zimmerman was sweating, and Sophie took a perverse pleasure in his discomfiture.

“Do you like them?”  Sophie asked coyly, looking at him sideways and through her eyelashes. “My new shoes, I mean?”

“Yes, ah, very nice,” clearing his throat added, “I’m not sure your mother would approve.”

“Well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”  Sophie huffed.  Turning on the charm again, Sophie sidled up closer and added, “It can be our little secret.”

With that, Sophie did her runway walk to her desk, and sat down trying to look as long-legged and sexy as she could.  Mr. Zimmerman did an about face and went into his office, slamming the door.  Sophie was ashamed and embarrassed, yet, at the same time, she felt powerful and exhilarated.

Sophie decided to examine the damage done to her bank account.  The rent was paid, the utilities were paid, and she had a few groceries.  She would survive until the next paycheck!  Her stomach rumbled, and she regretted skipping breakfast.  Sophie hoped she would survive until dinner, because with a whopping $11.11 in her checking account, there would be no bagel and fruit cup at Maurice’s for lunch.  She rummaged through her purse and desk and was pleased to find enough change for a honey bun from the vending machine.  If she couldn’t last until dinner on a honey bun, Sophie knew she had bigger problems than blowing her check on shoes.

The day dragged as Sophie paced back and forth across the foyer in front of her desk, her green eyes searching for something interesting to look at.  She had to take her new shoes off, as her feet were sliding around a bit in them and she was starting to get a blister on her little toe.  Mr. Zimmerman had yet to venture out of his office since he’d disappeared several hours before.

Lunch time finally arrived and Mr. Zimmerman walked out of his office, past Sophie, who was sitting on her desk barefooted, legs swinging and skirt inched up indecently high.  Without looking at Sophie, he said, “You can take lunch now,” and he marched out of the office.

Sophie couldn’t wait to strut her stuff some more so she grabbed her 65 cents in nickels and dimes and headed for the vending machine downstairs.  As she was navigating her way down the stairs through the lunch hour traffic, her right foot slid a little in her beautiful black stiletto and sent her tumbling long legs over décolletage down the stairs taking at least three other people down with her.

Mumbling apologies and helping people to their feet and returning scattered belongings, Sophie, with stockings torn, scavenged enough change for the crackers, and limped to the vending machine.  Pride wounded, feelings hurt, right ankle throbbing, tummy rumbling and bank account begging for alms, Sophie bent over to retrieve her crackers.  It was in this rather awkward position, had she been thinking clearly Sophie most definitely would have bent at the knees, that she was caught by the very handsome Jeffery O’Connor.

“Nice shoes,” he said unabashedly eyeing up her rear end, which, since its hitching, was no longer adequately covered by her skirt.

Standing up too quickly, Sophie got a bit lightheaded and stumbled.  Jeffery, still grinning, caught her arm.  Always polite in the hallways, Jeffery’s smile seemed a bit shark-like to Sophie.  Maybe it’s the headrush, she thought to herself.  All teeth, Jeffrey asked Sophie out to lunch.

“Better than crackers,” Sophie said, using her Sophisticated and Worldly Voice, trying to ignore the throbbing in her ankle and hoping he wouldn’t catch on to her act or notice the hole in her hose before she had a chance to change them.  “I just need to run upstairs and grab something.”

“I’ll come with, now that I’ve got you pegged for a date I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”  He said, looking beady-eyed now.

Stop it!  This is the first time you’ve been asked out outside of church since high school.  Thank you shoes!  Sophie headed up the stairs with the beady-eyed shark-toothed Jeffrey O’Connor hot on her heals.  As soon as they stepped in the office, his hands were all over Sophie, grabbing and pulling as he smashed his shark-toothed mouth into hers.

“Stop it!”  Sophie squeaked, so scared she couldn’t get enough air to scream.  She felt like she was in a nightmare and every move she made was as effective as trying to swing a ball bat through molasses.

“Oh, come on, hottie.  You know you want it or you wouldn’t have dressed like such a slut.”

Aluminum-heeled courage shored her up, and finding her voice and her arm Sophie screeched, “Scumbag!” as loud as she could as she landed a pretty fair uppercut on Jeffrey’s chin.

“Bitch!” he screamed and lunged at her just as Mr. Zimmerman flung open the door with half of the floor standing behind him.

“I think you need to leave.” Mr. Zimmerman said, trembling slightly.

Jeffrey rubbed his chin and looked from Mr. Zimmerman to Sophie to the crowd forming behind the accountant, said “bitch” again and pushed his way through the throng.

“Oh, my God, Mr. Zimmerman, I am so sorry” Sophie said, sobbing.

“Sophie, really, I didn’t know you had such a potty mouth.” Mr. Zimmerman tried to redirect, he wasn’t very adept at handling uncomfortable situations.

Sophie hiccupped a small chuckle and blew her nose.  “Well, I’d better finish up that report you asked me to take care of.”

“Right!  Right.”  Mr. Zimmerman was relieved to be free of any more niceties.

Sophie and Mr. Zimmerman tried to wait each other out, each wanting to leave last, but at seven o’clock they gave up and headed downstairs together, Sophie in new stockings and Mr. Zimmerman still not looking at her.  Sophie had hiked her skirt up another half-an-inch, unbuttoned her blouse another button, and unpinned her hair.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Zimmerman,” Sophie said without looking at him.  They were getting good at speaking without looking at each other.

“See you tomorrow, Sophie,” he sighed, glad to be rid of her for the day and wishing he had met his wife in kindergarten instead of high school because then he could claim her true allegiance, instead of Sophie’s mother who foisted upon him her dreamy, chronically late daughter who now appeared to be going mad.

Sophie waited until Mr. Zimmerman’s car turned the corner to begin her long walk home, because not only was there no money for lunch, there was no money for a cab home.  It was a warm evening, and Sophie took her jacket off and put it in the boutique bag.  She was not looking forward to the long walk, but perversely she was looking for attention, and she started her runway model impression again.

About ten blocks down the road, Sophie got propositioned by an older man in a Lincoln Towncar.  Really propositioned, as in “How much?” propositioned.  Sophie gave the man her best “I’m a supermodel, not a prostitute” look and sauntered off.  Then it happened again, and again.  It’s just because I’m alone.  Sophie told herself.

Hungry, tired, feet sore, ankle throbbing Sophie stopped for a rest on a bench under a tree.  What I wouldn’t give for a nice screwdriver, she thought giggling a little.  Sophie stood up to continue her trek and realized she was in front of a liquor store.  Good girls don’t drink.  I was only kidding about the screwdriver.  Then again, good girls don’t blow a paycheck on a pair of beautiful black stilettos, humiliate their bosses, get groped during their lunch hour, and get propositioned on an evening stroll.

Fifteen minutes later, Sophie walked out of the liquor store with a bottle of cheap vodka, two 20oz Fantas, a pack of Virginia Slims, a free pack of matches and seven cents to her name.  Sophie dumped a good portion out of each Fanta and replaced it with vodka.  She took a long drink out of one and was instantly in like with vodka.  Grinning, she figured out how to open the cigarettes and managed to get one lit, given how fast the liquor was hitting her unaccustomed and sugar-hungry system.  Sophie tried to take a drag, but ended up coughing so hard she nearly puked up the Fanta screwdriver so she threw away the lit cigarette, satisfied with the experiment but figured for $3.95 she ought to at least give it another try another time.

It only took Sophie about five blocks of stumbling along in her buzz and beautiful black stilettos to guzzle both of her drinks.  It was starting to get dark and the streetlamps were coming on.  Sophie got propositioned again, this time by a balding middle-aged guy in a shiny SUV.

“I am not a hooker,” drunken Sophie screamed at him, throwing her empty Fanta bottle at him, and hitting him square in the face.

“Fucking bitch!” He screamed back and peeled out, leaving angry black snakes of rubber and smoke behind him.

Sophie was determined not to lose.  She had no idea what the game was, she only knew she was playing something, and she refused to lose.  She turned toward home, “forward stagger,” she slurred.

Two more blocks down the road a tall man stepped out of a drycleaner’s, nearly knocking down the incredibly drunk yet still stunning Sophie, carrying an armful of plastic covered clothes.  Sophie fell down anyway, reacting a little too late to the danger that had already passed.

“Sophie Kelly?”  The man asked, helping Sophie to her feet.

Swaying a bit Sophie took a breath and caught it in her cheeks, then let it out with a loud, “p” sound.  “Yep, that’s me.”  She eyed the man, trying to place him.

“Are you drunk?”

“I think so,” Sophie slurred, grabbing the man’s arm for balance. “Do I know you?”

“A long time ago.  We were in Kennedy Elementary together, third grade, Mrs. Peterman’s class?”

After several long seconds of silence, Sophie remembered, “Saaaaaaaaaam!  Sam, it’s good to see you.  I see you are no longer a runt.  Isn’t that what we used to call you?”

“You never did, Sophie, but yes, that’s what they called me.  And as I recall, you were picked on for always wearing those shiny black Mary Jane’s, right?”

Sophie thought back to third grade.  She remembered Sam, she remembered the teasing, but she didn’t remember the shoes.

“What was it you used to say?  There’s nothing like a pair of shoes…”

“No,” Sophie said, not wanting to remember, but unable to stop, “A great pair of shoes can make all the difference in the world.  That’s what my father told me when he gave me those shoes.”

“Yeah!  That’s it.  You know I had the biggest crush on you in third grade.  You were the only person who didn’t torment me for being little,” Sam said. “You look like you could use a lift home.  Can I take you?  You shouldn’t be wandering around out here in the dark, especially not in those heels, those are not walking shoes.  You never know what kind of creeps you might run into.”  Sam looked at the beautiful black stilettos a bit closer, “Great shoes, by the way.  Is it true, what your dad said?”

“Yeah.”  Sophie said quietly, really looking at Sam, “You know, you were the only person who didn’t make fun of my shoes.”

“Didn’t your dad die?”  Sam asked. Sophie’s eyes overflowed and she collapsed into Sam’s arms.

“Yeah, he did,” Sophie said.  “The day after he gave me those shoes, actually.  I hated them.  That was the last thing I ever said to him.  He got hit by a car trying to return the stupid things.  We got the shoes back along with his personal effects.  Mom tried to throw the shoes away, but I wouldn’t let her.  Said I was going to wear them until Daddy came home.”

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March 29, 2013 · 11:55 PM

Jane and Max Learn to Dance

Our prompt this week was “In like a lion and out like a lamb.” We were instructed to write a piece of flash fiction with no dialog, showing how a character becomes humbled. I started with Jane. I named her that because, for whatever reason, people associate that name with a strong woman. I’m not really happy with this. I feel that it is missing a lot of narrative elements, but hopefully I’ll have time to rewrite it a bit and make it better. I didn’t plan on writing romance. I guess I’m just not that creative. I was about to give up on Jane and Max stepped out from the shadows, highly amused by my shallow little Jane and seeing much more in her than I.

Jane walked heavy on the left foot. Always on the left foot. A left, a left, a left-right. She marched everywhere she went. Hips forward, shoulders back, spine rigid, eyes straight. Heavy on the left foot. Always on the left foot. Punishing the world with her left foot, disdaining it with her right.

The world held its breath and refused to move when Jane marched, like silly putty under her heel; soft until the edge of her heel made contact, then rigid with pain from her sharp, angry left foot. She exuded an aura of “get out of my way immediately.” Wide-eyed people jumped, twisted and contorted to avoid her path, straight-lined from A to B.

Until Max, harder than Jane and tinged with raw elemental energy, a steel spring wound to breaking ready to be released in a frenzy of masculine energy, wound up in her path. Her left, right, left didn’t phase him. Instead, it put a rare glimmer of humor in his steel-grey eyes. Usually flat and devoid of emotion, for Jane and her angry left foot, they sparkled.

Max only wore one of two faces: poker face or war face. Most people saw poker face. You didn’t want to see war face. War face meant imminent death. Jane would have ignored poker face, devoid of humanity. She would have respected war face, possibly even deferred to it out of respect, but Jane saw neither. She saw an amused face.

Max’s amused face could have graced GQ or a Hollywood blockbuster poster. That face could leave a million women in a swoon begging to be taken and ravished. It suited him. Somehow the pressure in his chest lightened a bit. The smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth relaxed his body ever so slightly, and Max, who frightened the world with his rage just as much as Jane’s angry march, grinned mightily.

Jane ignored Max’s amused face, unimpressed by it’s A-list quality, and did not grin back. She stood her ground, on her line etched from A to B, and with her eyes and an imperious tilt to her chin, demanded he move. Max sized up the angry Jane and couldn’t help himself. He laughed. He threw his head back and roared, startling a flock of doves.

Jane took a quick breath. She tightened her lips and sized up her impediment. He gave her a slight shake of his head, refusing to move. After another quick breath, Jane did the unthinkable. Assessing the situation, and deciding the reward did not merit the effort, she took a step to the left to go around Max.

anticipating her move, Max stepped to the right. Jane stepped right, as did Max. Jane tried one more step to the left, matched by Max. Jane stomped the ground with her right foot. The ground found this whole situation incredibly amusing and did not find a right foot stomp nearly as terrifying as a left-foot-heavy march. Instead of tensing in anticipation, the ground yielded slightly, and Jane’s foot hit the ground with a soft thud, lacking entirely the satisfying crack she craved.

Thwarted twice, once by Max and again by the treacherous ground, Jane tried again to duck around Max. Knowing her as he did, because she was the yin to his yang even though she didn’t know it yet, he grabbed her mid-step and twirled her in a circle. He danced her through the courtyard, with a hard left, right, left, under the watchful eyes of the doves, now settled amid the blossoms of a cherry tree.

She struggled briefly. Part of her wanted the fight. She slapped him hard. Again he laughed. He held her lightly by the wrist, shaking his head “no” again, and pulled her close, grabbed her other wrist and gently held both behind his neck, and like a child, her toes rested on his toes, her head just under his chin, and they stood and felt each other’s presence. He held her until he knew she felt it, too.

Neither would he yield, nor let her yield, nor let her go. And she didn’t want him to.

Here’s this weeks other participants. Give them a look-see, won’t you, Lieblings?

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March 25, 2013 · 8:45 PM

Friday Fiction Friends

I’m super excited to announce that I am now part of the Friday Fiction Friends group of writers, formerly known as the Friday Fiction Femmes Fatales. So that means I’ll be publishing a work of fiction every Friday. Squeeeeee. I’m really excited. Did I already say that? This incompetent hausfrau really needs a task manager master to keep her on track.

I’ve actually been so overwhelmed by messes in my home that I’ve wandered from room to room for hours. I’ve actually called my husband and asked him to tell me what to do. He did and I did, wheeeee! I dislike this aspect of myself.

It only exists in my personal life. When I’m out in the world, like at a, what are those things called? Oh yes, a job that I can’t seem to get anymore, I excel at putting on a professional hat and keeping it on. I drop my baggage outside the door and go to town. I’m super organized and multitask like no one’s business.

At home I’m pulled in a different direction by each member of my little family and I can’t seem to pull it all together. So it also goes for writing. As much as I want to, and even though I have so many ideas and projects going, I’m not really getting anywhere. I’m sure that I can change if I can cultivate the daily habit of writing. It seems there aren’t enough hours in a day, though, so I’m still trying to figure out when to do it. I also need to know where to do it.

I’m in the process of rearanging my home to fit six people into our 1200 square feet. That is an undertaking. Refer back to paragraph two. We have a master bedroom, a kids’ bedroom, a playroom, an office, a livingroom and an eat-in kitchen. We really could use another 250 square feet, but that must wait.

So back to writing, I will put my butt in the chair, smack in the middle of the half-rearranged and perpetually messy-tumbly-packed rooms for two things: money and personal satisfaction. I will, on rare occassion, write for Helium. They pay in pennies, if you didn’t know, and occassionally a dollar or two, or, if you’re good, up to $20 for the winner of a contest. I’m still figuring out the contest aspect. It seems that to dive in and be the first to write on a subject is NOT to your advantage at all. I shall put that to the test one of these days.

To date, my writing there has paid me $1.76. I really want that first dollar so I can frame it and put it on the wall, but first I have to earn $25 to actually get paid. Oy vey. I applied and was accepted to write for Stack Media, but the target audience is male high school athletes. Boobies, beer, and cars: That’s what I know about teenage boys. Or maybe: don’t rape girls when they get drunk and pass out at parties or I’ll hunt you down and beat the shit out of you. Yeah. I’m not meant to write for them.

Most of my writing has been to satisfy an itch. I wrote a lot last April for the A to Z Challenge (which I plan to do again this year) that was a manageable goal, 26 blog posts in a month was not that difficult. I tried NaNoWriMo, but without being in a habit of daily writing, I didn’t get very far. I considered typing word word word word for 50,000 words or until inspiration struck, but I couldn’t bring myself to waste that kind of time. Maybe next time. I also get on my soapbox a lot. Sorry. Soapboxes are NOT funny, but they are satisfying.

It’s also exciting taking this journey with others. I’m looking forward to being part of a community of writers. I don’t really have that kind of support in my circle of friends. We stitch and bitch; we are vocal and concrete. I’ve noticed that many people can write, but that doesn’t make them writers. I also know writers with a really poor grasp of writing rules, and they can drum out 500 pages, but it’s unpleasant to get through. It’s kind of interesting, when you think about it. Hopefully, I don’t fall into either of those categories.

All that just to say: be on the lookout for Friday Fiction Friends posts. :D Namaste!

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March 17, 2013 · 5:55 PM

I am such a jerk, #42

Crazy Dumbsaint of the Mind blogged about how this video made her cry. Go on. Watch it. All of it.

It made me cry, too. It really puts your problems into perspective, doesn’t it?

Well, it made me feel like a giant asshole. See, I’ve been operating for years under this umbrella assumption that is a lie and harmful and I imagine that I am not the only person living under it.

Here we go, feel free to hate me a little for this.

For many years, beginning long before my advent into parenthood, I’ve lived with the belief/assumption/ethnocentric perspective that there are soooo many unwanted children in Africa, and that there are all of these babies and children with no one to love them. In part that is true, but mostly, I’m just a fucking idiot.

I haven’t had too much time since becoming a mother to worry about those children. I’ve been rather busy tending my own brood. But when I did, my mind has failed to insert their mothers into the picture. These sad and sick babies dying is dreadful, but this video did what my imagination has failed to do. It showed me families. It showed me the desperate faces of parents who love their children and would do anything under the sun to help them.

People talk about saving the children, but all those efforts seem to flop or flounder. I think I understand now why that is. We need to save the families. We need to provide for the all of them so they can all survive together. Parents need their children as much as the children need their parents. We of the first world have made some false assumptions, I think, about the parents and have written them off, forgetting that they are children of the earth as much as their babies, and we all have a responsibility to each other.

Part of me has always wanted to adopt one of those children, to give them a chance they wouldn’t otherwise have. But seeing the faces of the mothers is a cold dousing of reality. We don’t need to adopt those babies and bring them here. How much more good could we accomplish by helping those families over there? How many crops would the airfare alone plant? How many wells could we dig with all of the costs associated with foreign adoption? It should be general knowledge that $1 can buy more elsewhere in the world, and we could collectively do so damn much good if we weren’t such a selfish lot overly preoccupied with material possessions.

I’d better stop before I get any higher on my soapbox. This post was just to say I’m an asshole, and though they have no idea, and I don’t understand fully why, I have discounted the parents of the world. But I’m so, so sorry. You matter, too. Namaste.

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March 9, 2013 · 3:49 PM

(Gr)Attitude: Broken Dreams

30 Days of Gratitude- Day 12 (5168765943)

Thankful Thursday is now (Gr)Attitude.  Thursdays are just too darn busy for me to write, much less focus my attention on finding things for which to be thankful.  So it’s going to be about being grateful, which is so very important to a healthy perspective.  I struggle mightily with perspective.  I am by nature a moremoremore kind of person.  When you want moremoremore it’s hard to be grateful for what you do have and your attitude suffers.  So (Gr)Attitude it shall be as a reminder to myself what is truly important.

***

Why am I grateful for broken dreams?  I am but one of the many people with big failed dreams. And I’m supremely grateful for it. Some of the things I wanted, or thought I wanted:

DiscoveryBaySanJuansSunset

*I wanted to be a cetologist and study orca in the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  It was a beautiful dream.  But in my dreams I was always alone. There was no room for a family in that scenario. I would need to dedicate myself to a  level of study that precluded spouse or children.  As I got older my beautiful dream turned gray and lonely. It wasn’t what I wanted.

F-14D VF-2 Coastal Mountain Fly By

* I wanted to be a fighter pilot.  My parents trashed this dream. They tore it down at every step. First they told me I couldn’t because I was a girl and girls weren’t allowed to fly fighter jets.  Then it opened up to women. Then they told me it was impossible unless you got an appointment to a military academy.  Then I said I wanted to try to get a scholarship to one and they laughed and said, “what? With your grades.” It turns out I couldn’t have the life I have now if I had gone that route.  So that’s okay.  And I’m married to a pilot, not a military one, but a pilot nonetheless.  I gave all my passion for flying to him.  It took a number of years, but I ponied every bit of it up, and with it went the bitterness, regret, and longing for what did not happen.

Ansel Adams - National Archives 79-AA-Q01 restored

*I wanted to be a photojournalist and travel the world.  Win a Nobel.  Become the next Ansel Adams.  This dream was a lot like the first: beautiful but lonely.  When would I have time for family? Maybe along these paths I would have found a mate that would take such adventures with me.  That was a lovely dream, too.  But it’s not what I needed.

Free bubbles

A person like me, so flighty and flitty and unfettered, shouldn’t try to pair with a similar creature.  We’d struggle to bring our weightless selves together, much less ground ourselves for the sake of a family.  That is what I wanted most.  Denied my own family by my mother (she cut everyone off), my biological father (who didn’t fight for me at all), my step-father (who also cut everyone off), and as an only child, what I always desperately wanted was a family.  Connections. Branches.

Autumn Oak with Sheep - geograph.org.uk - 1054291

Now I have it.  I have a husband who grounds me, even as he longs to be in his “office.”  I have four wonderful children who look at me with such love it humbles me mightily and makes me want to be better.  I have a family that I wouldn’t have had if any of those or other dreams happened.  If I try to imagine myself in any of those places, my children don’t follow.  Not even in my head can I drag them to the Serengeti to shoot lions.  They aren’t waiting for me to land my F-16 and come home.  They aren’t camped out on the beach with me in the Pacific Northwest.  They are here, they are real, and so am I. How could I feel anything other than gratitude for that?

Note: All photographs are licensed under Creative Commons and linked to their creators on Wikimedia.

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March 4, 2013 · 11:43 PM

Pet Peeve: What to call the lady bits

I have a pet peeve.  It irritates me to know end when people teach their little girls to refer to their little lady bits as “vaginas.”  It’s not just a vagina down there.

ans7_vulva

Just look at all those parts!  And that’s just on the outside!

mcdc7_reproductive_female

Ohmigah there’s stuff inside, too!

I totally get wanting to empower our girls and teach them to love their bodies and gender and to embrace their sexuality (eventually), but teaching them that those parts collectively are called “vagina” just seems wrong to me.  My mom taught me to call it a “toogie,” but my girls call it a “soo.”  It’s kind of a collective part as most of them are too young to differentiate their bits anyway.

I don’t see the harm in giving genitalia cutesy names.  For wee ones, it’s an easy word to say that helps them talk about an important part of their lives.  For older kids and teens it can be an easy word to say that helps them talk about an important part of their lives.  The older kids will revert to the baby word because it is not as scary.

They’ll learn all the parts and may call them by whatever they like, as far as I’m concerned.  If someday one of my teenage daughters is too embarrassed to come to me and say, “my vagina itches,” I have no doubt that the words they uttered many times as a wee one will be easier, “Mommy, my soo hurts.”

So I cringe when I hear a toddler tell her mama, “My fachina itches.”  Really?  I doubt that.  It’s probably irritation on the labia from all the sweating, rolling around in the sand, and running she’s been doing at the park.  I doubt that she’s having unpleasant discharge causing itching and burning.  How about, “I hurt my vagina!” after a crazy jump goes wrong and she lands astraddle a steel bar.  It hurts like hell, but “crotch” would be a more apt term, or, “ouchie, my sooooooooooooo!”

Little boys know they have a penis and testicles.  They usually even call them balls.  They’re not balls, they’re testicles.  How come boys can have cutesy names for their mating tackle, but for girls to do so is unempowering? Is that a word?  Regardless, I call bullshit!  Or vagina.  Or maybe labia, vulva, or pubic bone!

There’s really no harm in any of it vagina, soo, penis, peepee…I think we can all agree it’s better to be open and allow communication about our naughty bits that is truly healthy, and not what we choose to call it.

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March 2, 2013 · 12:47 AM

It’s Donna Day: Hope, Love, and Light to You

I’ll never forget Donna.   She was a beautiful little girl full of light, and she changed my life.  I started reading her story when I was in the midst of a severe depression.  I was a horrible balled-up mess.  To top it off, I was feeling sorry for myself and had my priorities all fouled up.  I knew this, and I tried daily to make it all better.  I prayed, meditated, cried, beat myself up, chided, and shamed myself, but I just couldn’t shake the poor me-s.

I started reading Donna’s story.  Day after day I confronted one of my greatest fears: childhood cancer.   When I was a little girl my best friend had leukemia and I watched her lose her beautiful auburn curls, her balance, her bodily integrity, I missed her when she was out sick for spinal taps, radiation, and chemo, and I cried with her when she raged against the unfairness of what was happening to her.  After fighting for nearly 16 years, she succumbed, as much to the treatments as to the disease.  There was nothing left of her to save and she died, just 21.  The thought of that getting my children puts a knot of pain in my stomach.

I kept reading Donna’s story.  A few days into it, I even hoped that I’d totally misunderstood how the story would end, but I hadn’t.  Even though I knew what was coming I fell a little more in love with her every day.  Her story isn’t just a sad commentary of a child whose light burned too quickly, it’s a story full of hope.  You see, even on the worst days we cannot know the outcome and we have to make a choice between light and dark.  We can choose the dark, to give up and wait for the inevitable; or we can choose light and hope, that there is more, that miracles can happen, and that lives can change for the better.

Donna’s story was hard to read, but I did it, and it changed my life.  It was the first step and much-needed slap in the face that helped me get my priorities straight and get my life back on track.  I’d tried reasoning with myself about all the ways I could have it worse, of all the people who suffered or didn’t have even what I had, but that was all too abstract or remote, I guess.  Donna’s story was tangible in a way I will never understand.

I will never understand how I came to love someone I never met, or how I think of her often, and though I wish her story had ended differently, I remain ever grateful that in some mystical way through the power of the interwebs I came to know her.  I thanked her mother every day for sharing her with us, and I say again, “Thank you Mary Tyler Mom for sharing her with us.”  If you haven’t read her story, read it.  If you are afraid to read her story, read it anyway.  She has changed so many lives, I’m sure she has something to say to you.

***

If you can spare it, consider donating to childhood cancer research.  I’ll leave it to you to decide what to do with your money.  If you need an idea, here is a St. Baldrick’s event held in Donna’s name.

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February 25, 2013 · 6:55 PM

Healthcare: Use it Responsibly

I have a huge pet peeve. Massive. The kind that makes my stomach knot up and makes me want to use words that are not for polite company. It’s the misuse and abuse of our healthcare system.  I’m not going to point fingers and I certainly don’t begrudge anyone access to affordable healthcare, but many people must be more responsible with it.

Emergency Rooms

My emergency room copay is $250! That is a lot of groceries. I have friends whose copays are $0.  So, without thinking, they just go. For everything. A cough, a fever, a poked eye.  “Well, it’s free so why shouldn’t I go?”  This is bad, people.  It is just plain irresponsible.  It’s not free, someone is paying for it.  Going to the ER when you don’t need to clogs up the system, makes the wait longer for people who need to be there, and drives up healthcare costs by $4.4 billion dollars.

I am not saying that medical care isn’t needed for that cough, fever, or eye, I’m saying it doesn’t warrant a trip to the ER. Seriously. Please ask yourself if it is an emergency.  If it isn’t, go to an urgent care clinic, your primary care physician, or other appropriate doctor.

ER

14 Reasons to Visit the ER

Primary Care

“Little Joey has a cough so we’re going to the doctor.”  Wait, what? Do you really need to visit the doctor?  Just because you have a cough, a stomach ache, an earache, or a temperature doesn’t mean you need to have a doctor look at you!  Unless you have a compromised immune system, your body is more than capable of healing itself.  To compound the matter, going to the doctor exposes you to other illnesses!

If you are unsure, of course you should visit a doctor, but remember that not every cough or fever needs an antibiotic, not every twisted ankle or jammed finger is broken, and most tummy troubles will resolve themselves within 24 hours.  I’m not trying to offer medical advice, it really is, or should be, common knowledge.  Not taking your kids to the doctor for every ailment does not make you a bad mother and taking them for everything doesn’t make you a good one.

Just be a responsible patient and parent.  Make sure you and your loved ones get annual physicals, twice annual dental cleanings, and regular vision and hearing checks.  And when in doubt, ask a healthcare professional.  The ER will gladly let you ask a nurse rather than have you come in and get triaged into ER waiting room hell, and most insurance carriers provide nurse advice lines you can call and ask for free.

With the dawning of The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, doctors are going to be spread even thinner.  At a recent visit to an urgent care clinic, our doctor told us the wait time would easily “double under Obamacare.”  Don’t mistake my words, it is a good thing for people to have access to medical care when it’s needed.  I urge you to make certain a doctor’s visit is warranted before you go.

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February 15, 2013 · 5:51 PM

Breaking Up With Cookies, Girl Scout Cookies That Is

Girl Scout cookies, this is for you.

Hi. My name is E_____, and I’m a four-time veteran of Girl Scout cookie sales. It comes every January, but I feel the doom begin to descend every December. G-1 forms, pep rallies, goal setting, training sessions: the work-up is intense.

Then, one Saturday early in January, it begins and hordes of hopeful little girls descend upon the community with beatific smiles and goals as high as the sky: 225 boxes, 500 boxes, 1000 boxes. Loving, benevolent parents promise to help them meet their goals. It would be awful to let them fail. It’s just cookies.

One box costs $3.50. The baker gets about 90 cents, our troop gets 55 cents, our council gets about $1.90, and 35 cents goes towards those kitschy incentive prizes, or if your girl is really motivated and sells 1,000 boxes or more, a Best Buy gift card.

This process of selling door-to-door; harassing friends, family, and coworkers; and cookie booths takes over millions of lives for about 6 weeks every year, one-tenth of a year, a tithe of time to GSUSA. For 55 cents a box. If a girl wants to raise about $100 for her troop, she needs to sell about 180 boxes.

I have two Girl Scouts. It took three hours of knocking on doors and one 30 minutes each way drive to sell 60 boxes between them. I used about a half a tank of gas because we live in rural suburbia and nothing is within walking distance and there are SO MANY Girl Scouts in our area, the place has been razed like locusts descending upon a field of fresh green corn so we had to drive TO ANOTHER TOWN. All of that raised about $33 to split between their troops.

Last fall, for about 3 hours of work, I helped my girl’s soccer team raise $2000 dollars. Tell me cookie sales is worthwhile ONE MORE TIME. Please, I want to go angry elf on someone over this. It’s a racket. It’s a multinational corporation exploiting little girls and their families and communities. And I’m breaking up with it. It’s not all bad, it’s just really inefficient. Next year, we’ll probably buy a few, supply a few suckers for their Thin Mint fix, and do some cookie booths. BUT THAT’S IT.

We are NEVER getting back together. Like ever.

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