Rationalization

It is loud, this wide world.
It is loud, watching the cars, the busy intersections where I now catch my buses.
The cars crowding themselves, like another form of sub-species, lives of their own, different sounds from each. Listen to the big trucks coughing up their lungs. Sputtering as the fit slows down. Don't they sound like the chainsmoker?
Hell, last night, even my kid said people are just not quiet anymore.
And then there are the people at my new Everyday.
2, 000 less people than the town I grew-up in, if you can believe that.
Thousands of sounds circling the never-ending building on a not-so-big lot of land.
To be sure, it has it's moments.
But it does not matter where you are or where you go.
There is always sound.

Except for at my house.
For the first 10 minutes of my day, I get to control sound.
O.K. Usually. Almost. Mostly.
Because my children seldom slip-up. They even encourage each other quietly to be quiet, if the need arises.
They smile encouragingly at me when I look their way.
Both of my kids are nasty buggers first thing in the morning, too.
But all in all, that is pretty much the only quiet I need all day.
Because I can tune out 100 cars. 13, 000 people. The whiniest of voices.
I have mastered the art of ignore. I can create quiet for myself.
But that is not as good as it all sounds, people.
It is often the reason I am THAT girl.
Quietness. Hmm.
I will blame everything on that instead of my hair.
Great. That sounds so much more grown-up.
And not even fun.
I mean how can one make a conversation about quiet interesting?
So much for that theory.
Next!

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To Be Continued

Being In The World

Everything is like steel today, grey and thick in it's undercurrent of cold. Just touching the surface of everything; radiation. The people can feel it coming from the nothing sky. They can feel it from the hydro poles, the sidewalks and the earth, up from the dirt. Soft, cool and grainy between your fingers. How tricked the fingertips get, feeling a wetness that is not there.
Today is the day where you can feel each breath, your nose is alive.
And your bones, they almost tremor, they almost ache because they feel hollow from the chill in the air.
The wind blows heavy, trailing her own fingers up through the trees. Oh, and the leaves shake.
If is was spring, we would smile at their dance!
But when we look now, we notice more gaps between the leaves and branches. We can start to look through and see what lies beyond. More sky.
Look at the death apparent. The green leaves darker, starting to spot with brown, crinkled and curled in edges. Clinging. Wasting. Wasted. Born into death together.
Aren't we always so amazed by that last leaf of autumn? The one who just will not let go of the tree long past the time it should have? How lone it looks, up so high. Like a star, I suppose.
And we feel proud. Amazed by the wonder, the strength, the against-all-odds of this lone, little leaf that chooses to hang on.
We feel proud of the dependent.
We seldom remember the green leaf of July. The one on the ground beneath the tree. The one we just walked right on by, maybe we were too busy being happy with the sun.
But the green leaf was there.
And if we had been paying attention, we would have seen it roll away.
Being in life.

Juner

Morning Recess

I remember this day. I had just started Grade Seven not too long before and I was probably wearing those jeans. The ones that had the white circles and stars all over them.
We were standing in the front of the school. On the little sidewalk that ran beside the brown brick library addition to the clay brick school.
I know there was dew still on the grass, coolness to the air. I can see the sun slicing harsh against the pale blue sky.
And there is June. In front of me. In a red t-shirt. Her light blonde hair, cut short above her chin line.
And she is laughing. Her head thrown slightly back. And her mouth is open so wide. God, everything about her so real and honest.
I hope she knows she's beautiful.

Chik-Lit

I have a real cool friend. His name is Mark. He has the best hair ever. It is this wonderful mass of uncontained curl you want to sink your fingers into. Often.
He provides me with great tunes.
He makes me figure out my own computer problems unless he suspects I might crash. He acted very proud of me when I figured out how to put in a link.
Did I tell you? Mark is a web designer. Of some sort. Or something.
He is really smart.
Went to university for like eight years.
And not just for the pot, man.

Mark calls me Chick-lette. I like that. His play with words.

Mark has a daughter. She is beautiful.
But Mark and I like to hang out when we do not have children. He brings coffee and we talk for hours.
He has spent the night over a few times.
I invite all my friends to at least my couch if they do not feel like traveling home. Most of them have far to go.
Mark is no exception.
Mark has slept in my bed with me.
But the last time he was over, he said Let's go to my place.
And I thought why not? He had moved a few months before hand and I had not been there.
Mark has a really cool computer.
It is an Apple.
And it is pretty.
Everything about it is.
He told me how much it cost.
I then remembered how much I love the computer sitting back in my own home. I did not play with Mark's computer.
We drank Sprite and talked for hours and hours.
He offered me the couch, his bed, whatever.
I asked if we had to have sex.
He said Man, I just want to fucking sleep.
And I said Thank God.
I got to see Mark's bed for the first time.
Five mattresses piled upon each other.
How fucking cool is that?
I felt like The Princess who felt The Pea all night long.
It's been a few years since I was on of those.

I got up in the morning and he offered me the coffee.
That was three years old.
I smiled and said Give me a hug and he did.
I am out of here, buddy, I said.
See you, Chick-lette, he replied.

Teen Dreams

16 Years Old

Tommy flushed the condom down the toilet. He did not care if it went down or not; he turned, heading out of the too purple bathroom. The small space made his head hurt.
Minnie laid, stretched, on the pull-out and it's flimsy matress; back in her red shirt that matched her lips. She had quite a few shirts she could do that with. Tommy thought it was wonderful she even could.
"You wanna watch a movie or something?" she asked.
But Tommy did not want to stay. He was tired. It was after 11.
"I am already grounded. And I am here. I better go," he said to her.
And Minnie shrugged.
"Whatever," she smiled. And he did not know if it was nice.

Momma had been having a bad week. She had called home after midnight from Moonshines the night before last, telling him where the money was in her room. How he had to wait up for her to come in the taxi. The guy she had been with had left her and she was paranoid.
Because everyone there was talking about her.
She went back there last night, anyway.
And when Tommy had woke this morning, he found she was still not home. Or so he had thought until he opened the front door, backpack swung on his shoulder, to find Momma.
Laying there on the porch on her side, legs sprawled like the weediness of her skewed hair. The back of her light purple flowered dress was up folded to her waist.
Exposing one buttock, her old white underwear wedged over and in.

Tommy was cutting through the park on his way home. The park with the posted signs that had red lettering. Dawn Until Dusk Only.
The park had no order to the proud pine trees, that stood tall, wherever they pleased.
He came up to the more open space where the playground equipment was.
He saw she was there.
He knew her right away, even in the dark.
She sat, leaned against the wooden railings of the five-person swing set.
He approached her quietly and only announced himself when she looked up.
"Hey," he said, just loud enough.
"Hi," he barely heard her whisper and he knew she was sad.
He came to her, sitting down beside her in the grass.
"It is bad and I do not want to go back," she said, angry, facing her lap. "Can I stay at your house tonight?"
She looked at him then, her blue eyes clear in their pain. Some much hope riding on him.
He thought of how little she really knew.
And then he kissed her.
And she cried as she pulled away, pushing him with hands.
"Tommy, no, I love you, do not," she implored him with her eyes. She felt too much hurt already. She was scared of more.
And he could not help himself.
He grabbed her and kissed her again.

One Good Trick Deserves Another

I have no eyebrows. But it is not my fault.
Well, I should be correct and say that I have half, more or less, of one eyebrow.
The smaller half.
My eyelashes are still lovely though. And I do enjoy their long thickness.

I have become more comfortable through the years with missing eyebrows since, after all, it’s the heart of a person that matters. And sometimes it’s fun too, to put on a sock cap and play tricks on people.
Tell them I am going through Chemo. I watch their eyes get big and wide.
“"REALLY?"” they say.
“"Yah, but not really though,"” I say as I shake my head up and down.
Then they get mad and smack me, but it’s still grand fun.
It stopped being fun as soon as I actually had to go through Chemo.
I did not think I was quite as cute then. Though it still seemed only fair to play a trick since it was a dirty trick that generally has them missing in the first place.

I have this thought see, that people in manufacturing, bored as they might be, like to do things. Little tricks they play on people that buy their stuff.
And then they sit around and laugh and tell jokes. Jokes about what might happen to the people buying them.
People like me.

I think the favorite of these tricks involves the little plus and minus signs on my lighters.
The ones that control the big and the little of the flame.
I say this because any time I buy a fresh one, it always seems to start on the plus.
The big flame.

And so I hold it up to my cigarette. And I flip the button. And I burn my eyebrows off.

Frank just rolls his eyes at me. He says, “"You oughta learn.”"

But I figure he should also learn. Learn to be a little more sympathetic.
I'm always plotting ways to get him good.
This one time after lighting a cigarette, I just started screaming like it was my whole eyeball this time to get burned off. I had a little packet of ketchup I squeezed out between my fingers. I thought it was pretty impressive,and honestly, I think he almost fell for it.
Until the stinging set in.
And then I had to start screaming about ketchup in my eye.

You know what they say about one good trick...

Doug I

He sits in an upright metal chair his wife has put up against the white kitchen wall she has cleared. Sunlight filters in from the balcony door. He is in his hospital gown, provided by members of hospice. He has in his feeding tube. His face is sagging and wrinkling, drooping like tea bags from his cheekbones. The whites have his eyes are a soft shade of grey. He is losing his hair, despite not using chemo. He does not realize he has lost close to a hundred pounds.
She has a video camera.
"Okay, baby, are you ready?"
"Ye-," he clears his throat. "Yeah, I guess."
"Okay, this is going to be good. It will really help kids out there or something."
"Yeah, ok, let's do this."
She nods and gives him a grim-lipped smile. "Alright."
She makes her adjustments and motions for him to begin when she is ready for him.
He is so cold.

Go Figure

When I let my hair out of the towel this morning, I was not expecting miracles. I never do.
I was still living off the wave of a different high. I had started the dryer before bed. And everything had dried.
How often does that happen? You just have to ask yourself that sometimes.
My new Everday is pretty cool. You are allowed comfort. If you want it, that is.
It was great to pull my heaviest, baggiest, most comfortable sweater out of the dryer and not find one spot on it damp.
I had already had my morning miracle.

I try to leave a brush by my front door now. I comb my hair before I go. This morning when I was leaving, I was combing my hair for the first time.
Now you might be lucky. Be one of those people who have lovely hair most days.
I figured out a long time ago, I am not one of those people.
Seems my hair is mostly in various forms of need-to-be-combed.
It's messy. It's limp. It flys-away, I guess.
It's bedhead...
Whatever. I do not worry about it much.
At least my hair gives people something to talk about.
But not today.
Today my hair is perfect. Normal looking. Oh-so-pretty.
This only happens three times a year.
I have nicely combed hair.
And I am in a real comfortable shirt.
I throw on my sneakers, grab my big black shoulder bag and head out.

I have theories for life. Constructed over my years of living it.
Maybe because of that, I am THAT girl.
You know me. Come on. I know you remember me.
I am the girl who did not notice the light was red when she started crossing the road.
The girl who walked into that parking space just as you were turning into it.
The girl who bumped into you three times in the grocery store. Only once with her cart.
Yeah.
I remember you, too.
But you really cannot blame me. I have these theories, you see?
And one of them is everything stupid or ditzy I have ever done, it can be traced back to the fact I have messy hair.
Yes. You really can blame life on stuff like this.

I arrived at the bus stop early today. I like doing that.
I had my coffee in hand, standing on the sidewalk surveying the stop. No one was there. I get to have first pick. Of where to sit.
I decided close to the edge of the sidewalk in the grass.
I swung my big black shoulder bag off my arm. With some gusto. I was happy to let the heavy thing off my shoulder.
I nailed an unsuspecting jogger with my big black shoulder bag.
In his balls.
Sigh.
So much for THAT theory.

Sunday Thoughts

It was the green circle of trees that caught your eye,
the white fog covering them. There was room
in the midst. You stood and danced
like a fleet nymph on my eyes, legs stomping over
the under haze golden leaves that burned
like a fire. We laughed at turning back.

We felt the skin being pealed away,
one layer, one piece at a time—
and how we danced! to the songs that were never before sung,
to the rhythms of a heart beat,
to the cool mist of an overflowing love.
There was nothing but a green circle of trees
and a white fog and
the whole world watching as we lay in the shade of the sun.
Little circles of leaves covered us, dust swirling above.

Do you remember that sunrise? That cool lavender youth?

Everyday

The sun was too bright, the sky too blue. I had just stepped outside my door on the way to get some groceries.
Except for now I was not. I had stopped on my top step.
I turned back into my house and grabbed my notebook and pen.
It was time for a walk.
I have on my biggest, most comfortable sweater.

The Woods

There is a patch of wooded area behind my son's school.
The air is fresh today; you cannot smell the city.
The day feels like hometown.
And when I walk into the woods, I know I have been to days like this before.
I remember those days, and I find myself smiling.
I was alone.
And I felt like I was 8 years old for a full two minutes.

I walk through the wide, dirt paths. They are damp and alive, but the mud is not sticking to my shoes. Everything is still so green inside of this large canopy of trees.
Oh, the fairies would frolic for sure today.


I spot a log on my walk, up four feet from the ground, trapped by other wood.
There is no stream.
But I think Dirty Dancing and hop up.
I am not so bad at it. I have done this before. So, I get bored and decide to be a boy.
And I have imagination, so I am not Patrick Swazye.
I have other Adventures.

I decide to sit on a lower log and get to some writing. And I do.
Everyday Random Thoughts.
A child and a mother walk by, talking well together.
I smile but do not notice their conversation. I am busy with my own thoughts.

I am finishing up when a couple walks by. 15 years old. Arms locked together.
She wears a tight, hot pink shirt with no sleeves. Make-up.
His jeans are comfortable, a flannel blue shirt undone with his untucked t-shirt poking out.
I see behind blue eyes when he turns to smile at me. He has warmth.
A good kid.
She wears the 'fuck, where are we going to make-out now?' look.
I smile as I stand, ready to walk anyway.
And that is what I do until I am chilled by the almost autumn day.

I am about to step out of the woods, I look around me. For the briefest of moments, I want to stay here forever, wish Everyday could be like this.
But then I realize it has probably been over an hour.
I have told someone I was going to meet up with them, so I step out of the woods.
Into the sun too bright, the sky too blue.
The grass is still green.
So I sit in it, and let the day warm me.

Visit My Little World

Cat Blogging?

I was sitting on my toilet. And boy, was I happy to be there. Sometimes it is worth the pain of holding your bladder for a two hour bus ride to a Government Building and back.
Oh, sure, I could have went to the washroom in the Government Building-but we all know about Them.
But I am losing my train of thought.
I had an enjoyable pee.
Until I realized when I looked down there was nothing on my toilet paper holder.
My toilet paper holder is cute. It holds four rolls. And it is made of wood. Shaped into a Cat. She dons a beautiful green ribbon and her mouth is turned up in such a pretty, little smile.
There was no toilet paper there.
I looked up to see if there was any on my bathroom counter.
Great, I thought when I saw none.
So, I opened the cupboard door for under the sink and reached.
But I already knew.
I could see the bag of toilet paper.
Just barely out of my reach.
So, there I was sitting on the toilet, dripping.
And the thought of waiting for that to end and having some pee...like...drying on me at the same time, grossed me out.
But I knew if got up, I might drip.
Maybe in my jeans as I waddled, crouched, to get the toilet paper.
Or maybe on the toilet seat, and I would only come back to find the little pee splooch hours later.
For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about calling Ian into the bathroom.
I let my eyes wander back towards the bathroom cupboard and I decided to reach again. I was still just a few inches too short.
A few inches that Ian could have reached with ease, though.
Bastard, I thought.
I scootched over as far as I could on the toilet seat and I stretched for all I was worth.
One of my fingers caught plastic.
To make a long story short, I got the toilet paper.
Then I went to have a talk with my roommate.
About Figure Skating. He changed the subject the first time around pretty fast.
Tonight I did not let him.
I even got out my old Winter Olympics tape to pop into the VCR.

The Other Side Of The Mirror

Eight Years Old

Billy-Boy's desk was beside Mrs. Livingston's at the back of the classroom. Sometimes Billy-Boy sang. Sometimes he swore. He always laughed.
Minnie sat near the back of the classroom, too.
She would watch Billy-Boy. His nostrils were big, naturally, and she was certain he was doing no good for himself picking his nose all the time.
He had a lot of boogers and they were usually big.
He would look at them, study them. Sometimes reaching back up to catch more.
He would smile suddenly, looking at his finger, then start rolling the snot between his fingers, sometimes for minutes.
Minnie would watch Billy-Boy take aim and flick his boogers at some of the other kids.
Mostly the boys who beat him up at recess.
Billy-Boy seldom missed his target.

Billy-Boy loved playing baseball.
He was glad for gym class.
The teacher had picked two people to make up the teams. Billy-Boy did not even look to see who the captains were.
It mattered little to him they would groan, whichever team got him.
He stood at the back of the small crowd of excited laughter.
"Billy-Boy, I'll take him," Minnie said loudly.
There was suddenly no sound and everyone turned.
And Billy-Boy stood still for a moment, with the long stares burning into him. He felt his face redden. He breathed deep, head down and started walking to the front of the crowd. He took his place beside Minnie.
"I'll take Alex," Cory said and there was sound again.
The teams were made and they started outside for the ball diamond.
Minnie walked beside Billy-Boy. So, no one walked beside her.
"I do not mind being last," Billy-Boy said to Minnie, looking at her, hoping she loved him.
"Sometimes, it is nice to be first," she replied.

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To Be Continued

Don't Waste Your Breath

I did some laundry on Sunday.
I hate doing laundry.
But the whole house was out of towels. And blankets.
Hell, the kids were gonna be out of underwear, too.
I noticed when I was folding everything, I had put in The Blanket.
The Cat Birth Blanket.

Sometimes, I try to make laundry fun.
So, sometimes something I would normally throw in the garbage, I will wash. The Blanket was a beautiful yellow sheet I had used in haste when Stray Cat went into labour a few years back.
It ended up being a pretty awesome mess.
I wanted to know if it could be cleaned.
I found out it could be.
You would never know a Stray Cat had babies on it.
Except, there is this patch of faded blood on the one corner.
The Blanket was such a sunny shade of colour, I decided to keep it anyway.

Monday evening, I decided to have a bath. I often decide to do this. But tonight I wanted it out of the way before Cindy came back. Tuesdays are my early days. My way too early days. Cindy now spends the night on Mondays.
I had a glorious bathtime.
I put my favorite smelling bubble bath of the moment into the rushing water. My favorite towel was clean and I laid it out for myself. I got out my sexiest bedtime clothing I could get away with without poor Ian thinking I was hitting on him...The water was actually the perfect temperature, for once.
I read Plato.
I shaved my legs.
I got to wrap myself in fluffy white softness.
I tossed Plato on my bed after I was done and I admired how sexy and how not sexy I looked in the my wooden oval mirror.
And then I turned to get Plato, I was not done with him.
That is when I saw Them.
Cindy's Dirty Underwear.
Beside My Pillow.
"Ian!" I cried like a girl.
And Ian came running down the hallway.
But Ian did not care if I cried like a girl.
Ian said no.
I had to move the Dirty Underwear by myself.
While I thought of all the reasons my employee might want to take off her Dirty Underwear in my room; I went and made her bed for the night with The Blanket.
I could hear The Voice grinning at me.
Don't Waste Your Breath, I warned him.

Scatter Ass

I am telling myself that I am not an idiot when Frank comes over. If I could find my keys I would already be gone.
Frank though, he just walks in and heads directly to test the fridge, feeling at home.
I think somehow it must be my fault he feels that way.
At some point, I'll have to correct that, but for now the crevices of the couch look like they might be a good hiding place.
I eye Frank wondering if he might be strong enough to turn it over and shake--
I'm not about to put my hand down there.
“Why is the pint of milk in your microwave?” Frank asks looking at me like I might have lost my mind.
I try to think if I had, in truth, misplaced it. Maybe left it on the porch?
The birds would no doubt be pecking at it, taking little nibbles of my precious thoughts. I made a mental note to check there later, and gave Frank one of those looks that said he was a moron for even asking why.
“Because my cup of coffee is in the refrigerator,” I said mater of factly.
He went back over to the fridge to check.
I picked my coffee up from the table and had a sip.
He caught me as he opened the door, then glanced down, pissed that he fell for it.
Then his eyes got wide and bright.
“Ahhh, that would explain at least why your keys are in the trash can,” Frank quipped.
Smartass, I thought.
He was holding a dry bowl of “Healty Grain Flakes” in one hand and the warm milk loosely in the other.
He stared back into the fridge hoping to will some milk into existance. Realy, he looked lost.
I walked over and settled into the comfy couch, knowing Frank would be here for a while. And besides, Dr. Phil was on.
“My sister is allergic to milk,” I announce over the growing racket from the weed-eater outside. “She likes to eat it with water.”
I hear the faucet turn on. I turn up the tv and twist my head towards the window so he can’t see me giggle.
I notice how the flying grass almost makes the shirtless boy look magical on the evening lawn. A rip out of time.
I smile wider.
"It's a good day to weed-eat," I say.
"Gross," Frank says and looks up at me disgusted and crunching.
I raise my eyebrows in mock astonishment.
I probably should have told him to put some pepper on it, too.

A Porch Over

Church Lady is nutty. Church Lady lives next door to me. She has five teenagers, six cats and two big dogs.
A friend of mine met one of Church Lady's dogs recently. Of course, if he had not been sleeping in my backyard at eight o'clock in the morning, he might not have.

"I must talk to you!" Ian swore she said it, swore again she had her finger in the air.
Poor Ian. Hulk with the hairy back in his blue shorts, his eyes only open for an hour. I had made him answer the door.
And I guess he just stood there trying to focus on her broken English. I can see him trying to shake the dumb out of his head and it makes me giggle.
"There is a lady and something about church and kids and she has a weird nose," Ian pointed to the door, when he came to tell me, slightly scared.
"Of course, it is Saturday," I grinned at him, heading to the front door.

"Ahh, hello," Church Lady smiled her best smile at me.
"Hello," I said back, sitting down on my step and offering her a seat, too, with my hand.
"I am so very excited!" she exclaimed as she remained standing. Oh, she can open her arms wide well.
"I do believe you," I said, nodding.
"You are finally allowing your daughter to come to our church! She will have a good time. She will like it with us. Bless your heart."
And then Church Lady bent down surrounding my body with her thick arms attached to football shoulders and squeezed me hard.
And then kissed my forehead.
"Ah-we are all about our own choices in this house and I uh..I am gonna make one now...I am gonna go in and close the door now...so yeah, see you next Saturday." I said, pushing myself to standing.
"But do you not want to know who will be her Sunday School Teacher? Me! Is dat not lovely! I will teach your daughter about God!"
Great, I thought.
"Great," I said.
"I can teach you, too!"
"I am going in," I replied.

My daughter and I waited tonight, for her friend's mother to pick her up. She is spending a night out and that is why she will be going to church tomorrow.
And she was genuinely excited about it. She loves visiting different churches. And enjoys her healthy fear of God.
"I am glad she will be my Sunday School Teacher," she told me.
I briefly thought my child was nuts, but I asked why.
"She hands out candy fizzes. Sour ones. Aquaella told me so."
Great, I thought.
"Great," I said.
And then I sighed.
"She kissed me today," I said to my daughter.
She rolled her eyes.
"She kissed me, too," she replied.

Growing Pains

He would watch sometimes from the backyard, sitting on the picnic bench, cigarette in hand. She would watch the thin wisps of smoke out of the corners of her eyes from two stories up.
And sometimes when he watched, he was nothing more than shadow separating shadow in the hallway outside the bedroom door.
She would take her time, moving around, preparing herself.
She had always prolonged dressing for him, finding ways to slow herself down.
But now he was home so seldom. It tortured her how much slower she had to become, learning to make it better for him.
Her body constantly ached, waiting for the night. Waiting for more than his eyes. She wanted his hands on her.
And now the night was here.
And he was in the hallway.

She had her coloured underwear on when she turned from brushing her hair in the mirror. She turned to face the open door and she said his name, hushed on the waves of darkness.
And he came to stand before her in his blue jeans; his fingers outstretched and taut on loose arms by his side.
And because he had come to her, she laid herself upon the bed.
He found himself beside her, his hands finally on her breasts and she could barley sigh.
"Jane," he spoke, as he buried his face into her hair; softer than the pillow.
She touched his face with shyness and brought their lips together.

His lips found her breasts and she could not contain any sounds any longer. His hands slid down her body, slipping into her underwear, sliding over her, a finger into her warmth.
She rocked against his hand.

He pulled her hand close to him and then lower.
He had taken off his pants and she did not know when.
He showed her how and she enjoyed the sleekness of him as she moved her hand up and down.

He pushed her legs further apart, gentle. And she spread them further for him, herself.
He was above her, looking down at her and she let her gaze hold his.
The front door opened.
"Kids, I am home," the voice filtered up.
And the same blue eyes stayed locked together.
"Coming," he yelled.
He slid himself deep inside of her and then back out, reaching for his jeans.

Tests and Signs

Today’s room was the worst possible room to give a test.
The seats, they stretched up like ones you might find in a theater, only closer front-to-back.
Paul walked in with a goofy, innocent grin on his face.
He turned towards me and smiled. He was the first one there.
“Hi, I’m Paul,” he said.
I stared at him briefly, wondering.
“Hi Paul,” I told him. “Have a seat and we’ll start soon.”
The rest came in slow, and without introductions.
The last girl had to labor to reach the remaining empty seat. It was the one halfway up and in the center. I was sorry she had to squeeze.
At last though, they were all settled, cozy, and desperate.

As a student myself, I knew how they feel. It was nice for a change, to watch them cringe and see them looking up at me, hoping one day they would be there.
It was nice, too, knowing that tomorrow I wouldn’t have to be.
“Turn your tests over and begin,” I announced.

The first question was easy.
And it came quick.
“On number one, the fist choice, ‘a,’ says both options ‘a’ and ‘e’?”
“You are right,” I said. “That might be a typo, or not. You should do the best you can.”
The right answer was both “d” and “e”. That wasn't one of the choices.
They did not need to know that. I made a note to tell my advisor about that one.

I wrote on the white board, in big black letters, that they should write their names on both the score card and the test. I interrupted their panic to tell them so. They did need to know this.

Through most of the test, Paul looked like he was about to piss himself.
Finally, to my relief as well as his, he got up and marched in.
I watched his nameless test approach me.
Paul placed it and his score card on the table I was leaning on.
“Uhhh… you need to write your name on that,” I said glaring at him suspiciously.
He looked up at up me like I was crazed and said, “My test?”
“Your test,” I repeated. “I need you to put your name on it.”
“My, my test?” Paul stammered.
“Yes, put your name on it.” This was not a fun game.
“Why?” he asked and seriously looked like he wanted to know.
“Because!” I said, and imagined stamping my foot a little. “Write your name on the test.”
The rest of the class was no longer taking theirs.
“Well I didn’t write in it.” he declared. He was growing too bold.
He picked up his test and dramatically leafed through it to prove his point, then looked up at me. It was like a stare down I might have had with a cat.
I am good at those.
I always win.

“Dumb ass,” I thought, as he marched off indignant.
I turned back towards the class. They made like they had not seen a thing.
I looked down.
I was holding a test. It was signed. And I have no idea why.

First Day On The Job

Grade One

Beyblade was on TV, when I walked in the door. My son was quick to wrap his arms around me, he offered me his lips and I kissed him quick.
Sadly, my son seems to always have wet lips.
He moved fast away from me, eyes back on the show.
"Hey!" I said.
And he ignored me.
I tried his name, maybe I was too hopeful?
"I don't want to talk," he said, so firm.
"Nope, it does not work that way on the first day of grade one!" Happy Mommy said. "What was the best part of your day?"
"Songs," he said.
And I smiled. He has just started wanting to listen to music. I have been proud of his taste so far. I like to think he tasted the music I played daily like someone should pick fine wine, slow and with care. He has heard so much over the years.
"And what was the worst part?" I asked next.
He was fully turned to me now. He cocked his head.
"Listening," he said.
He was honest.
So I should have just shut-up for the time being.
Nope, I had to go get all Super Mom On A Rant.
"Blah, blah, blah,...You have to listen to your teacher!...blah, blah, blah...your teacher." *
He whined for a minute, looking not so guilty, then pretended to listen to me while he turned himself slowly back towards his favorite show.
You know, my kid is always quiet during Jeopardy, I thought and went to take off the heeled shoes I had been wearing all day.

Grade Four

When I called for my daughter, her Father said she was playing far down the street with friends.
"Leave her be," I said to him.

But soon I received a phone call, a child asleep on her father's knee and a voice quiet into the telephone.
She was so upset at lunch, he let me know. She had been put into a class with a teacher she did not like and not the teacher she was hoping for.
But there was a mix-up.
And many children were re-arranged in the afternoon.
My daughter got her back-to-school wish. The teacher she wanted.
I have a feeling this will be a very important year for my daughter.
I hope she lives it.

Making The Grade

"Can I see two pieces of Government Issued ID?"
"Well, the thing is, I have lost it all," I replied to the lady with short red hair and a smile as wide as Julia's.
"Well, ma'am, I am sorry-"
I cut her off with a large smile. "I have been standing in this line for over an hour; lets see if we can work this out. You do not mind humoring me while I show you what I have brought with me?"
"An hour is a long time," she smiled.
I did not have to show her anything.
The woman after the next hour long line-up though; she was a bit tougher.

* So just so you all know, that does not work.

The Village Itself

Across the road from my home is an apartment building. It is made of brown brick and has three stories.
It also has plenty of windows I often forget about while I go about my daily and nightly routines.
I also forget my curtains are white, lacey and see-through scraps purchased from an aisle in Wal-Mart.
Fifteen apartments. That may all house people with binoculars.

It was the muggiest night this past summer had owned.
Brenda was down for a visit and when she comes, it usually means a night spent over on my couch for her. Brenda lives in another town.
It was one in the morning, no sleep to be found between the two us. We sat slouched on my front porch trying to capture the occasional breeze offered, sucking it deep into our lungs, praying it would cool us down.
Our glasses of Pepsi sweated warning us how warm the drink would taste in our mouths.
"Tilly! Tilly!" the shout sat our spines straight as we looked across the street to the where the sound was coming from.
"Here kitty, kitty, kitty...Tilly."
We watched the man turn and close his patio door as he walked back in his apartment.

10 Minutes Later

"Tilly! Kitty, kitty, kitty! Tilly! Come here, Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty........kitty?"

10 Minutes After That

"Tilly! Tilly! Kitty, kitty, kitty....where are you, Tilly...Jesus Christ....Tilly?"
I looked at Brenda and rolled my eyes.
"If it was not so hot in the house, he is enough to annoy me enough to go in," she grumbled.
I looked across the road, nodding my head.
Watching the man as he walked from his patio door onto the grass. Then down the sloping hill onto the sidewalk. He started to cross the road.
"Is he coming here?" I asked Brenda, bewildered.
We watched him hop up on to the curb, cross the sidewalk and onto my lawn.
"I guess so," Brenda laughed. Loud.
And I wanted to, too.
Because the man from across the road was wearing dark brown shorts and a hot pink button-up shirt unbuttoned. He had a green and white hat that said 'Bob's Tractor Supply' in yellow lettering on his head. His long dirty blonde hair was a mess beneath it.
He wore blue flip flops on his feet.
He wore motorcycle sunglasses. He took them off when he reached the bottom of my steps.
"Hi," he said. "I live across the road."
"I heard ya," I replied.
"Have you seen my cat?"
I arched my eyebrow.
"I do not know what your cat looks like," I said.
"Oh, nevermind! You would knooooow if you had seen my cat," he said.
"Oh?" I replied, watching Brenda cover her mouth.
"Oh, yes!" the man exclaimed, opening his arms wide. "She is HUGE! Like this big!"
"Oh?" I open my eyes large for him; he made me think of men and fish stories.
"Yep, bigger than Garfield," he replied, nodding his wide eyes at me.
I watched Brenda's shoulders shake.
"But she does this all the time, takes off, fucking retarded thing. And I am the one who has to come and look for her. Heaven forbid the wife come find her. Nope, instead she nags and nags and doesn't sleep until I do."
"Oh," I nodded. "Well, if I see her, I will send her straight home." I acted very serious.
"Fuck that. Who cares about some fat-ass cat, anyway?" he grumbled as he turned, heading back for home.
And then, Brenda laughed. Loud.
"There is no way his cat is that big," I said.
"That guy is mental," Brenda gasped.
The humidity might have been getting to her head.

10 Minutes Later

"Tilly...Kitty, kitty, kitty, are you hungry, kitty. Who wants a treat?"
Magic Words.
Because this very fat cat, in fact, bigger than he let on, came running along the side of the brown apartment building.
"There you are you stupid bitch. Get your ass in the fucking house," he cursed the cat.
Then he looked across the road.
He waved.
"I got her!" he yelled.
And we waved back.
He turned around and gave Tilly a little push in the apartment with his foot. "Stupid cat," he swore again, stepping in and closing his door.
His lights were on.
We watched the man pick Tilly up under her arms.
He kissed her on the top of her head.
Then he hugged her. And put his head to hers.
"Mental," Brenda was almost crying. Loudly.
And I looked at the windows of his apartment, covered in tinfoil and figured it probably had more to do with the pot plants he was growing in his bedrooms.

Conversations With The Roommate

Opinions On Opinions

I inform Ian, loudly, so he could hear me in the living room, that I rather enjoy Ice In A Bag.
"Have a drink of the Jack," he replies, coming out. "I think I will have one, too."
I make a pretty good rye and coke, I gotta say, but I am always wondering if other people are any good at it.
One time, I let Amber make me a drink. I thought my nose was going to bleed when I took my first swallow.
Because I am stupid. While I always want to know how other people make their drinks, I figure they also know how to make their drinks.
Amber did not. I feel bad for her, really.
"You make it, I do not know how much to put in. I am a girl," I say to Ian.
"I will teach you," he says, and he is smiling.
"I got the Ice already," I say to him, holding it up and he rolls his eyes at me.
"Yeah, I am glad Amber left it. Don't you own Ice Cube Trays?"
I looked at him, my eyes round with shock. "Yes."
"Do you use them?" Ian asks, reaching into the top cupboard.
"No, hardly ever," I admit, with a sigh. "Sometimes I buy Ice In A Bag, I like Ice. I am just, well, I like Ice. But only in a bag. I make Ice Cubes. I really do. Just only sometimes. I use them fast. Then the trays are empty. But in a bag? Wow, it is like reaching into an endless supply."
"You could try filling your Ice Cube Trays when you are done,"he arches an eyebrow as he motioning me over to him.
As I walk over, I say,"I hate making Ice. I spill it walking from the tap to the freezer."
Ian looks at me like I am retarded, but fuck him, I think to myself. Everybody does that.
And it is never enough water to even be pleasant on the toes.
Making Ice is not fun.
"I never measure", Ian informs me, as he gallantly unscrews the top off the black labeled bottle.
I watch his prepwork.
I watch the weird flick he does with his wrist as he pours the liquid into the glass.
"I just like the fact Ice is in a bag," I say to him.
"Make it and put it in a bag," he rolls his eyes at me again.
And in that moment, Ian is a genius in my head.
Until....
"But I like how some pieces are big and some are small in a bag," I say, disappointment washing over me. More-so, when I think of all the Ice I would have to make to fill a bag.
Ian is dumb.
"Listen," he says. "You look in your freezer tomorrow. I will make your Ice the way you like it."
"With what? How?" I demand.
But Ian, he is a boy all about secrets. And he wants to watch the movie on TV right now. If I had known it was on and noticed it right from the beginning, I would have been watching it, too.
And I am sad about that movie. It never got the acclaim it deserved. Thank God, TBS has started to play it. It means they will often. But I had already told Ian this on the previous commercial break. He looked at me like I was retarded then, too.
I take my drink and sit in front of the computer screen.
And wonder how Ian is going to make my Ice.
I turn around and look at Ian lounged on the couch.
"I do not have an Ice Pick? Do we need one?"
He sighs at me.
"I got it under control, He says, ever the man.
And I think of Basic Instinct. Then I think it would be fun to have an Ice Pick.
Because you got to know, women who own Ice Picks have got to pretend they are Sharon Stone once in awhile.
And that would be fun.
I take a swallow of the drink Ian made me.
It is in my opinion, Ian makes a good drink.
But I knew that as soon as he said he did not measure.
Of course, I do not think Amber did either.
"Ian," I say.
"What?" he asks, not looking up.
"Thanks for the drink," I say.
He looks up, winks and turns back to the TV.

Phoebe Moons

Tommy was excited. He had never been to a Drive-In before.
And he was getting out of this house for awhile.
He had been at Dave and Barbara's house for almost a month now. They were nice people, but they lied to him all the time.
She was the only one who told him the truth. He waited for her, his earnest face pressed against the wooden screen door watching dusk settle on the front lawn.
When her car pulled up, he yelled, not looking behind him.
"She is here!"
He ran outside and slid his lean body into the passenger seat of the car, looking up to a warm smile.
"Hey, Kiddo, ready to go see Gremlins?" she asked.
He nodded his head, turning it then to wave at Barbara standing on the porch as the car pulled out of the driveway.

Tommy was quiet as they rode through the streets on the way out of town; but she was used to it.
Tommy was still hard to get talking and she knew better than to say much. She was not surprised when he did speak. He always asked the same question first.
"Have you seen Momma?"
"Yesterday," she replied, keeping her eyes on the road.
Tommy felt the jealousy, slick, sliding down his throat. He could not find words.
"One more month, Tommy," she sighed. "Just one more."
He bit at his fingernails, pulling off a chunk with his teeth.
"Is she getting better?" he asked, hopeful.
"Yes, Tommy, she is."
"Is she still in that big building like the one I was in?"
"Yes."

It was dark when they pulled into a long driveway. As it took them around a corner, Tommy saw the huge green and blue sign flashing.
"Phoebe Moons Drive-In," he sounded out. "Hey! I bet you like to come here, hey, Phoebe?"
"I am partial to the name," Phoebe smiled back.

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To Be Continued

Swallow Everything

I have an unexpected roommate for awhile. I am a good enough person to help someone. I am also a good enough person to know how long I can force my good temper. I am glad that when I say 'Shut-up now', this person feels comfortable enough in my home to find something else to occupy himself with. He can buy more time for that. Plus, Ian buys me coffee. And he brought his remote control fan.

It happened on Sunday, my Alarm Clock went off by itself.
Ian's head snapped toward me.
"What is that," his eyes wide.
"My Alarm Clock," I said puzzled and went to shut it off. It was 3:38 p.m.

On Monday, I was home alone listening to music loud, sweeping the floor. I could hear the phone ring and when I turned down the music, I heard my Alarm Clock going off.
"Hold on," I said into the phone.
And went to shut it off.
It was 5:58 p.m.
"What the hell is the matter with you," I seethed, as I clicked the off button.

It was 9:23 p.m. when the Alarm Clock screeched it's sound again.
And that was it. I could not take it anymore.
I unplugged the fucking thing.

So, Ian's Alarm Clock took over the next day and went off at 3:16 p.m.
I just stood in the middle of my kitchen it utter disbelief.
I started to get creeped out.
Then I thought it was a conspiracy.
"Fucking Ian," I muttered as I went and unplugged his alarm clock, too.

I heard the sound and tried to fit it in my dream, but it did not work. My eyes snapped open and I looked at my plugged back in Alarm Clock. 4:44 a.m.
But the sound was not coming from the Alarm Clock.
It was my Smoke Detectors.

Ian and I met in the hallway.
Just as the loud beeping stopped.
"What the hell," I said.
Ian shrugged and the Smoke Detectors went off again.
So, Ian and I looked everywhere for fire and than smoke, as the Smoke Detectors continued in it's off and then on again ways.
I even made Ian check the breakers.
He was the last one to screw with them.

After about five minutes, the Smoke Detectors gave up.
Ian and I sat on the couch for five minutes more, before going back to our bedrooms.
And I was laying comfortable in mine.
When I figured it out.
Sometimes, I am slow.
The Voice.
He has been doing this.
Making things make loud noises in my house.
You see, The Voice has been awful quiet lately.
And I have had to Swallow Everything I have wanted to say to him, too.
We do not need Ian thinking I am crazy.

One Fish Up, One Fish Down

I had a goldfish once.
I won him at the fair.
I remember walking passed the booth three times before I got up enough nerve to ask if I could try to win one.
I thought all the fish in their clear bowls looked like marvelous fun.
"These games are rigged," warned Aunt Sue.
I did not believe her and I believed her less, when the third ball I threw landed in one of the bowls.
I was a little mad when the lady put my prize in a freezer bag. I wanted the bowl the he was in, too.
"It will be dead by tomorrow," warned my Mother, shaking her head.
I rolled my eyes and said hi to Sam.

Sam was a good fish and I learned within three days, Sam did not care if I paid attention to him or not.
Soon I forgot I even had a fish.

I remember coming home from a weekend away.
Two years later.
"I have bad news," my Mother said.
She showed me Sam.
She had saved him on a paper towel on the kitchen counter. The whole weekend.
"Mom!" I said. "That's gross."
Then we flushed Sam down the toilet.

Awhile back, the kids got some goldfish. I present from their Aunt.
And not one I enjoyed.
"I do not want to clean out the bowl," I whined at Cindy.
"Good thing I work here, then," she replied.
My kids went to bed, still deciding on names.

I noticed right away when I walked into the living room the next morning.
"Did you come up with a name for your fish yet?" I called out to my daughter.
She came up to stand beside me, looking at the fish bowl.
And the dead fish floating on top. Part of his fins had been ate. Her brother's still swimming, mindlessly.
"That's gross," my daughter said.
"I hope Aunt Cindy gets here soon," I sighed.

An old friend was over the next night.
I told him the tale of fish; then he went to the washroom.
That is when I noticed.
And when he came out, I let him know.
It was pretty funny to be talking about dead fish, only to see my son's fish was now in the same predicament. Floating, starting to bloat on the surface of the water.
And I was really happy my friend was over.
I do not like touching Dead Things.