The side yard is so ugly it makes me cringe. I don't usually look at that part of the yard because it's such a mess. Huge slate slabs haphazardly placed in odd angles. I can't seem to tell if it was done on purpose or if it's a piece of yard art gone wrong. With that in mind, I look at you and get ready to dig.
We pull up pieces and lay them out. I watch as you dig flat spots in the ground to make a pattern that my mind can easily process. I don't do abstract very well.
The sun-baked slate is hot and heavy in our hands. One by one, a new spot is dug out and the slab is placed in it's new spot. Side by side we work to make this happen.
Very few words are spoken. A few gestures here and there, and a bit of grunting as large, odd-sized items push their weight against our bodies.
Large. Small. Large. Medium. Small. Large.
The pieces start to fill in the puzzle we try to figure out.
The small rocks are difficult to move, but we try our hardest to lay the best foundation for our design. A bridge and a path.
A bridge to go over the bigger rocks. Ones that can turn our ankles if we aren't careful enough. A path to take us easily from one spot to another. Something pretty to look at. I'm tired of tripping over obnoxious thistle in the dark.
We finish our new walkway. It is clean and sparse. but in time, the grass will grow in-between the slate pieces. A softness will envelope the crisp lines and the side yard will look as if somebody cares.
It took all afternoon. We were hot, sweaty, dirty, bruised and dehydrated, but the path was solid. Sometimes that's what it takes to make your own path. Remember to have a friend help you, otherwise you might get lost.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Stinky Peaches...
Her chest was puffed out as far as it could go and her belly was sucked in the best she could. She preened in front of the men sitting around us.
I sat on my chair and stayed in the background. I became extremely aware that I outweighed her by 30 pounds. A fact that was more obvious in our bathing suits.
She posed and primped. Her body screamed, "Look at me!" with every action she made.
A dog whistle from behind me gave her what she needed and she smiled. Her body relaxed a bit and she was able to once again breathe.
She moved slowly and attempted the seductive strut back to her chair. It was interesting to watch until she wobbled.
Her steps were unsteady as she sat down next to me again and reached for her cigarette. As she lit it, I realized how harsh she actually looked. Make-up smeared around her eyes and her lips were twisted up in a grimace. Her hair was a rats nest. Unkempt and fiddled with by her drunken fingers.
She is like a Monet painting. From far away she looks nice, but up close she's a big mess.
I sat on my chair and stayed in the background. I became extremely aware that I outweighed her by 30 pounds. A fact that was more obvious in our bathing suits.
She posed and primped. Her body screamed, "Look at me!" with every action she made.
A dog whistle from behind me gave her what she needed and she smiled. Her body relaxed a bit and she was able to once again breathe.
She moved slowly and attempted the seductive strut back to her chair. It was interesting to watch until she wobbled.
Her steps were unsteady as she sat down next to me again and reached for her cigarette. As she lit it, I realized how harsh she actually looked. Make-up smeared around her eyes and her lips were twisted up in a grimace. Her hair was a rats nest. Unkempt and fiddled with by her drunken fingers.
She is like a Monet painting. From far away she looks nice, but up close she's a big mess.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Loose Lips...
I watch him as he lifts the flared glass to his lips. A smile upon his face appears as he listens to the idiotic conversation.
The liquid he drinks is deceptive. Jolly Rancher in color and flavor hides the high alcohol content.
He sits, watching and listening. His movements are slow and deliberate. He is the picture of sobriety amongst the drunkards.
The others around him are obviously loud and sloppy. Their drinks splash onto the patio as movements get wide.
We beg him into conversation. Alcohol muddles our minds as we sink to a new low of raunchy jokes and crude observations.
He smiles at us and decides to raise the intelligence level.
"I had thebesst dinner. It was lablioli blabstar. Balioli laster. Laster ralioli..."
With that, the laughter roared throughout the once quiet backyard.
Yes, he is now one of us.
Pickled.
The liquid he drinks is deceptive. Jolly Rancher in color and flavor hides the high alcohol content.
He sits, watching and listening. His movements are slow and deliberate. He is the picture of sobriety amongst the drunkards.
The others around him are obviously loud and sloppy. Their drinks splash onto the patio as movements get wide.
We beg him into conversation. Alcohol muddles our minds as we sink to a new low of raunchy jokes and crude observations.
He smiles at us and decides to raise the intelligence level.
"I had thebesst dinner. It was lablioli blabstar. Balioli laster. Laster ralioli..."
With that, the laughter roared throughout the once quiet backyard.
Yes, he is now one of us.
Pickled.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Poodle Head and other tragedies...
She watched me from across the grove and scrutinized my every move. She clearly dislikes me - always has.
She was the cheerleader with an attitude. Some envied her. Some wanted to be her. I wanted her to leave me alone because I thought she was a bitch. I steered clear and let her impress her friends and herself.
We went our separate ways. She did the academia route and I kind of farted around. I'm pleased with how I turned out even though I've gone the path less traveled.
Yet, here we are 20 years later and she's glaring at me. The only thing missing from this picture is the school bus yellow.
Maybe she still dislikes me from days gone by. I might have said something to her that was meant to harm - and it did. Or, maybe I didn't take her shit and she remembers that. Maybe it's because she outweighs me by 50 pounds. I don't know.
Could it be that she really is just angry at the world and I remind her of what she isn't? Could be. But, I tend to think it's because perched atop her snarling head is what looks like a poodle gone bad.
She was the cheerleader with an attitude. Some envied her. Some wanted to be her. I wanted her to leave me alone because I thought she was a bitch. I steered clear and let her impress her friends and herself.
We went our separate ways. She did the academia route and I kind of farted around. I'm pleased with how I turned out even though I've gone the path less traveled.
Yet, here we are 20 years later and she's glaring at me. The only thing missing from this picture is the school bus yellow.
Maybe she still dislikes me from days gone by. I might have said something to her that was meant to harm - and it did. Or, maybe I didn't take her shit and she remembers that. Maybe it's because she outweighs me by 50 pounds. I don't know.
Could it be that she really is just angry at the world and I remind her of what she isn't? Could be. But, I tend to think it's because perched atop her snarling head is what looks like a poodle gone bad.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Out of the mouths of babes...
Untamed words aimed at the tender hearted is the way to start the bricks in the wall.
Fat
Gay
Stupid
Loser
Ugly
Which name hurts the most? I guess it depends on which day it is. Was it used in combination with another hurtful word? Either way it all sucks.
Children are the cruelest. They pick the point of most damage and run with it. The moment they see pain in your eyes, they know they've got you where they want you. They want to be the alpha dogs in this dog eat dog world. They want playground domination.
Whatever it is, what they want the most is deflection of their own insecurities. If you pick on someone else, nobody will see your flaws.
They act as gangs of verbal hoodlums. The leader may not be the loudest, they are the smartest. They know how to go for blood in the least amount of words.
I wish I could tell you it gets better when you get older. It doesn't. The words get cruder but the meaning is the same. It's the same psychos but different ward.
What we all need is thicker skin and the ability to walk away, knowing that their words mean nothing to you or those who know and love you.
Replace the ugly words with ones that are true:
Love
beauty
funny
perfect
monkey
(ok, I just threw monkey in, but who doesn't love the word "monkey?" It's a happy word like "banjo.")
Fat
Gay
Stupid
Loser
Ugly
Which name hurts the most? I guess it depends on which day it is. Was it used in combination with another hurtful word? Either way it all sucks.
Children are the cruelest. They pick the point of most damage and run with it. The moment they see pain in your eyes, they know they've got you where they want you. They want to be the alpha dogs in this dog eat dog world. They want playground domination.
Whatever it is, what they want the most is deflection of their own insecurities. If you pick on someone else, nobody will see your flaws.
They act as gangs of verbal hoodlums. The leader may not be the loudest, they are the smartest. They know how to go for blood in the least amount of words.
I wish I could tell you it gets better when you get older. It doesn't. The words get cruder but the meaning is the same. It's the same psychos but different ward.
What we all need is thicker skin and the ability to walk away, knowing that their words mean nothing to you or those who know and love you.
Replace the ugly words with ones that are true:
Love
beauty
funny
perfect
monkey
(ok, I just threw monkey in, but who doesn't love the word "monkey?" It's a happy word like "banjo.")
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
No touch...
Do I have a sign on me that says, "please touch"?
Do I look like I want random strangers getting in my personal space? What is it about me that makes people want to pet, touch, or sniff me?
What am I - a petting zoo?
You would think seeing me with my hand outstretched in a "stop" motion and actually saying, "Get the F@$% off me," would be a clear indicator that I really don't want you in my space or on top of me. I stiffen up when people approach me and have been known to stomp on people when they've gotten too close.
I don't know. I think some people are even weirder than me.
Do I look like I want random strangers getting in my personal space? What is it about me that makes people want to pet, touch, or sniff me?
What am I - a petting zoo?
You would think seeing me with my hand outstretched in a "stop" motion and actually saying, "Get the F@$% off me," would be a clear indicator that I really don't want you in my space or on top of me. I stiffen up when people approach me and have been known to stomp on people when they've gotten too close.
I don't know. I think some people are even weirder than me.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Good Morning, sunshine...
My mind slowly wakes up before my eyes open. The trash men are smashing cans together to make the most intrusive sound they are able in the early morning quiet. Damn the trash men.
Remnants of a dream still play in the back recesses of my mind. Something about a monkey.
Slowly, the internal gears start to turn. My eyes open and all I see is the blue on my wall. I am unable to focus, so I stare at calming blue. The fan mounted on the ceiling makes a steady whirring noise and my eyes close once again. My body relaxes and I drift back to sleep.
The radio wakes me for a second time this morning. The droning of the voices relay the news to me. Traffic snarled here, sun glare there, and my favorite - the weather report.
I pull myself out of bed. My nightgown is twisted around my body as if I sumersaulted in my sleep, but my pajama's stayed in place. My back aches today. I woke up curled in a tight ball.
My feet touch the floor and my head grazes the wall. No balance yet. My nose is clogged with cat hair. Damn the cat.
Not all the pistons are firing yet. I stumble to the bathroom, trying to manuever the minefield of discarded shoes, clothes, and cat.
1/2 an hour. I have 1/2 an hour to get my shit in gear and out of the house.
Why do I always do this to myself?
Remnants of a dream still play in the back recesses of my mind. Something about a monkey.
Slowly, the internal gears start to turn. My eyes open and all I see is the blue on my wall. I am unable to focus, so I stare at calming blue. The fan mounted on the ceiling makes a steady whirring noise and my eyes close once again. My body relaxes and I drift back to sleep.
The radio wakes me for a second time this morning. The droning of the voices relay the news to me. Traffic snarled here, sun glare there, and my favorite - the weather report.
I pull myself out of bed. My nightgown is twisted around my body as if I sumersaulted in my sleep, but my pajama's stayed in place. My back aches today. I woke up curled in a tight ball.
My feet touch the floor and my head grazes the wall. No balance yet. My nose is clogged with cat hair. Damn the cat.
Not all the pistons are firing yet. I stumble to the bathroom, trying to manuever the minefield of discarded shoes, clothes, and cat.
1/2 an hour. I have 1/2 an hour to get my shit in gear and out of the house.
Why do I always do this to myself?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Mean Streaking...
A knot in my throat, I hold back the scream of frustration. Soon I will not be able to sit motionless. I will have to move my body. I will have to find a way to vent without getting the police involved.
I begin to fidgit. At first my fingers start to tap on the desk. They follow no musical path, more like releasing energy as it bursts out my fingertips. My feet ache to kick something. Dammit, I'm wearing flats. They're no good in punching holes in stuff like I need to do today.
My frustration mounts.
Ease off the coffee. No more coffee for me. Put the chocolate away.
My voice gets louder than it should. Not quite yelling, but verging on shrill.
Be a lady. Be a lady. Inside voice. Inside voice.
I feel the need to be mean. Mean as a junkyard dog. Nasty as a kicked hornets nest. Yes, those around me are going to suffer and I will smile as I watch them squirm. This perverse need will only be sated after I've torn through a peaceful afternoon like a tornado leaving a path of destruction in my wake.
I have been provoked. Not that I didn't warn them, but they didn't see the clear signs I was giving.
"No."
"Not good for me."
"Not working out."
"Not what I had planned."
God help the poor soul to happens to start with me today. They may find my size 7 Mary Jane pump sticking out of their forehead and hearing me say, "Do that again and I've got another shoe to match the one sticking out of your head."
I begin to fidgit. At first my fingers start to tap on the desk. They follow no musical path, more like releasing energy as it bursts out my fingertips. My feet ache to kick something. Dammit, I'm wearing flats. They're no good in punching holes in stuff like I need to do today.
My frustration mounts.
Ease off the coffee. No more coffee for me. Put the chocolate away.
My voice gets louder than it should. Not quite yelling, but verging on shrill.
Be a lady. Be a lady. Inside voice. Inside voice.
I feel the need to be mean. Mean as a junkyard dog. Nasty as a kicked hornets nest. Yes, those around me are going to suffer and I will smile as I watch them squirm. This perverse need will only be sated after I've torn through a peaceful afternoon like a tornado leaving a path of destruction in my wake.
I have been provoked. Not that I didn't warn them, but they didn't see the clear signs I was giving.
"No."
"Not good for me."
"Not working out."
"Not what I had planned."
God help the poor soul to happens to start with me today. They may find my size 7 Mary Jane pump sticking out of their forehead and hearing me say, "Do that again and I've got another shoe to match the one sticking out of your head."
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Gallows Humor...
This joke is completely inappropriate on many levels but I can't stop laughing. Welcome to the dark side.
The female blonde mortician asks the deceased's wife how she would like the body dressed. She points out that the man does look good in the black suit he is already wearing.
The widow, however, says that she always thought her husband looked his best in blue, and that she wants him in a blue suit. She gives the blonde mortician a blank check and she says, "I don't care what it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing."
The woman returns the next day for the wake. To her delight, she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe; the suit fits him perfectly.
She says to the mortician, "Whatever this cost, I'm very satisfied. You did an excellent job and I' m very grateful. How much did you spend?" To her astonishment, the blonde mortician presents her with the blank check.
"There's no charge," she says.
"No, really, I must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit!" she says.
"Honestly, ma'am," the blonde says, "it cost nothing. You see, a deceased gentleman of about your husband's size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday, and he was wearing an attractive blue suit. I asked his wife if she minded him going to his grave wearing a black suit instead, and she said it made no difference as long as he looked nice."
"So I just switched the heads."
The female blonde mortician asks the deceased's wife how she would like the body dressed. She points out that the man does look good in the black suit he is already wearing.
The widow, however, says that she always thought her husband looked his best in blue, and that she wants him in a blue suit. She gives the blonde mortician a blank check and she says, "I don't care what it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing."
The woman returns the next day for the wake. To her delight, she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe; the suit fits him perfectly.
She says to the mortician, "Whatever this cost, I'm very satisfied. You did an excellent job and I' m very grateful. How much did you spend?" To her astonishment, the blonde mortician presents her with the blank check.
"There's no charge," she says.
"No, really, I must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit!" she says.
"Honestly, ma'am," the blonde says, "it cost nothing. You see, a deceased gentleman of about your husband's size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday, and he was wearing an attractive blue suit. I asked his wife if she minded him going to his grave wearing a black suit instead, and she said it made no difference as long as he looked nice."
"So I just switched the heads."
Monday, August 11, 2008
Suck it up...
She slurped her jelly out of the small container with a straw. She actually did it twice.
I don't know if that's proper restaurant etiquette or if I've ever seen that before but it sure gave me a chuckle.
I don't know if that's proper restaurant etiquette or if I've ever seen that before but it sure gave me a chuckle.
Friday, August 8, 2008
1 + 1 = 1
He proudly handed me his child. A baby. She was beautiful. You could see the love in his eyes as he gazed at his daughter in my arms.
For the third time in a week I was asked the same question. Each time by a different person, but the conversation follows the same path as always.
"Aren't you going to have any more?"
The answer in my heart screamed, but my mouth betrayed what I was feeling. A calm, "Nope, I'm done," was the answer.
"Didn't you want any more?"
Again, I remained neutral. "Nope, one is good for me. Why mess with perfection?"
I have been close friends with this person for a long time and I could give him an honest answer, but I chose not to say, "I am unable."
Did I want more children? Yes. It wasn't for the lack of want or trying. The stars didn't align for me as it did for so many others.
So, instead I enjoy watching other peoples' children. I watch them play and discover. I watch the big tears roll down their fat cheeks. I touch their velvety skin and kiss their foreheads while inhaling the baby-smell all babies have.
The pain of never being able to repeat the same miracle became too much to bear so we stopped trying. It was the right decision, but the questions always hit me the same way.
I know it's out of curiosity and not to spear me in the heart. But everytime I am asked these questions, I always wind up wondering, "What if....?"
For the third time in a week I was asked the same question. Each time by a different person, but the conversation follows the same path as always.
"Aren't you going to have any more?"
The answer in my heart screamed, but my mouth betrayed what I was feeling. A calm, "Nope, I'm done," was the answer.
"Didn't you want any more?"
Again, I remained neutral. "Nope, one is good for me. Why mess with perfection?"
I have been close friends with this person for a long time and I could give him an honest answer, but I chose not to say, "I am unable."
Did I want more children? Yes. It wasn't for the lack of want or trying. The stars didn't align for me as it did for so many others.
So, instead I enjoy watching other peoples' children. I watch them play and discover. I watch the big tears roll down their fat cheeks. I touch their velvety skin and kiss their foreheads while inhaling the baby-smell all babies have.
The pain of never being able to repeat the same miracle became too much to bear so we stopped trying. It was the right decision, but the questions always hit me the same way.
I know it's out of curiosity and not to spear me in the heart. But everytime I am asked these questions, I always wind up wondering, "What if....?"
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Pick your poison...
Ever the sucker for some fun, she took the bait and found it had rotted. Her calm exterior belies what’s hidden beneath. The sick feeling overwhelms her and a thin film of perspiration covers her forehead. If you look closely enough, you’ll see the small cracks forming. She quickly hides her frustration by eating a pop tart (chocolate, of course).
With graceful gestures and pleasantries on the outside, she takes the abuse with a smile. Some think she’s a fool and play her for one. Others know the truth. She watches, waits, and learns from other’s mistakes. She keeps a mental tally until one day when she can walk away and not look back.
In the mirror, she peers at her reflection. What is wrong with this picture? The hair is almost right, the tan is good, the Stepford-ish dress is perfection. The shoes on her feet allow painted toenails to peep out. But she knows there is still something missing.
Looking at her face, her eyes flicker and a smile slides onto her face - she knows what is missing.
It is long. It is black. It commands attention.
She reaches up to the post on her bureau that holds her mirror up. Coiled like a snake around the bracket and hidden under a hat, sits her whip. For a moment she giggles. This dresser belonged to her grandparents long ago. Did her grandmother ever own a whip? Probably not. But the thought of a whip-cracking granny makes her laugh.
She takes the whip down. The leather is still taut. It has been unused until this moment. She glances at her reflection. A mix of suburban housewife and dominatrix flash before her eyes. She looks forward to hearing the crack of the whip and seeing the damage being done to her target.
Yes, this is the look she was going for. Pleased with her new look, she heads out of the safety of her room. Ready for whatever comes down the line.
Hopefully, whatever is down the line is ready for her.
With graceful gestures and pleasantries on the outside, she takes the abuse with a smile. Some think she’s a fool and play her for one. Others know the truth. She watches, waits, and learns from other’s mistakes. She keeps a mental tally until one day when she can walk away and not look back.
In the mirror, she peers at her reflection. What is wrong with this picture? The hair is almost right, the tan is good, the Stepford-ish dress is perfection. The shoes on her feet allow painted toenails to peep out. But she knows there is still something missing.
Looking at her face, her eyes flicker and a smile slides onto her face - she knows what is missing.
It is long. It is black. It commands attention.
She reaches up to the post on her bureau that holds her mirror up. Coiled like a snake around the bracket and hidden under a hat, sits her whip. For a moment she giggles. This dresser belonged to her grandparents long ago. Did her grandmother ever own a whip? Probably not. But the thought of a whip-cracking granny makes her laugh.
She takes the whip down. The leather is still taut. It has been unused until this moment. She glances at her reflection. A mix of suburban housewife and dominatrix flash before her eyes. She looks forward to hearing the crack of the whip and seeing the damage being done to her target.
Yes, this is the look she was going for. Pleased with her new look, she heads out of the safety of her room. Ready for whatever comes down the line.
Hopefully, whatever is down the line is ready for her.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Tommy boy...
I've been thinking of him lately. It's been a while since his name popped into my head. A stroll through the local mall, brushing up against a stranger, I inhaled his cologne. It's not a popular smell now, so I noticed it right away. Although, the guys who wear this scent tend to bathe in it. I thought of him.
The smell stuck in my nose for the rest of the day and I thought of him. My memory is now but a wisp. His edges are faded. I can't quite recall the color of his eyes even though a million years ago I looked deep into them hoping I was "the one." I wasn't and it's ok. Things turned out well for me.
The dreams had stopped long ago. But while I was having them, he was solid. I could still hear his wicked laughter and see the glint in his eyes. He was always up to something and it was usually trouble.
It's been 10 years. 10 years since I've seen his smiling face. At times I can't believe it's only been that long. Other times, it's a world away. 10 years ago I had a toddler and was a newlywed. I was responsible. 10 years ago he had found love finally. Found a woman to tame his inner demons. He was happy and irresponsible.
My life has continued. My hair grew long, I raised a family. I've moved on and lived life.
He has not. He's the same as he was when I last saw him. Only now his broken body, a shell of what he had been, is six feet under. He will never change, never marry, never have children, never laugh wickedly at me again.
And, I miss that. I miss him. I still do.
The smell stuck in my nose for the rest of the day and I thought of him. My memory is now but a wisp. His edges are faded. I can't quite recall the color of his eyes even though a million years ago I looked deep into them hoping I was "the one." I wasn't and it's ok. Things turned out well for me.
The dreams had stopped long ago. But while I was having them, he was solid. I could still hear his wicked laughter and see the glint in his eyes. He was always up to something and it was usually trouble.
It's been 10 years. 10 years since I've seen his smiling face. At times I can't believe it's only been that long. Other times, it's a world away. 10 years ago I had a toddler and was a newlywed. I was responsible. 10 years ago he had found love finally. Found a woman to tame his inner demons. He was happy and irresponsible.
My life has continued. My hair grew long, I raised a family. I've moved on and lived life.
He has not. He's the same as he was when I last saw him. Only now his broken body, a shell of what he had been, is six feet under. He will never change, never marry, never have children, never laugh wickedly at me again.
And, I miss that. I miss him. I still do.
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