What sound does a dream make when it dies? Is it a weep, a sigh, or nothing at all. It it the sound of footsteps receding, or a breeze over water? Perhaps it depends on the dream itself. Who the dream belonged to, and where the dream existed. Perhaps there is no sound, only silence, booming through the empty place where the dream once was. A reminder of what was lost.
Does the dream put up a fight? Is it aware of the impending doom? Does it struggle to alert the relevant parties, to prepare them for it's departure? Or does it simply fade away? Or perhaps, even, it departs abruptly. A door slamming behind it. It is gone.
As humans we can't know what happens to the dream. We only know that at a certain point it has died. We can no longer deny it's absence. And we have to mourn the loss in the best way we know how. To put to rest, something intangible, that seemed so close and so immediate. To let go of something that we held so dearly.
About Me
- Stara
- I'm Tara. I hail from "The Mouth", good old Plymouth, Massachusetts. I have always loved to write, and talk, and experience people and things in new ways. These days, I am using my writing skills not only to tell my own stories and experiences, but to reflect on some other things I love, like fashion, vintage jewelry, and art. I think accessories make the outfit and are the key to true style! I challenge anyone who doesn't like to talk to find their way out of talking to me. I could talk the paint off a wall, I'd bet. I enjoy meeting new people and love checking them out! Guys, gals, and these days, even pets often have their own sense of style, and personality and sense of style are the cornerstones of what I think about a good portion of the time. Food and drink take up the rest. Especially wine and cheese, and no, I'm not talking whine.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Making the most of it: 2009 and beyond
A friend said that he would dub 2009 "The Year of TM", and I thought that was one of the nicer gifts anyone has ever given me.
For the new year, I wish many things. First and foremost, health and happiness. They do go hand-in-hand in a way, and it seems that with them, all of other things will fall into place.
I also wish that I'll do a better job of finding inner peace. Of not worrying so much about making other people happy. Of standing my ground when I know something isn't right.
I saw the movie Doubt yesterday. It made me realize that everyone in this world has doubts. None of us can really ever know what another person is thinking. And even more than that, no single person is ever truly certain of anything.
A line in the movie said "Certainty is an emotion, not a fact" and I think that is very much true. We choose to believe what we want to believe and can convince ourselves of anything if we try hard enough.
I would like to make 2009 a year of honesty.
For the new year, I wish many things. First and foremost, health and happiness. They do go hand-in-hand in a way, and it seems that with them, all of other things will fall into place.
I also wish that I'll do a better job of finding inner peace. Of not worrying so much about making other people happy. Of standing my ground when I know something isn't right.
I saw the movie Doubt yesterday. It made me realize that everyone in this world has doubts. None of us can really ever know what another person is thinking. And even more than that, no single person is ever truly certain of anything.
A line in the movie said "Certainty is an emotion, not a fact" and I think that is very much true. We choose to believe what we want to believe and can convince ourselves of anything if we try hard enough.
I would like to make 2009 a year of honesty.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The Pooling: Vivian Buchanan
The sun beat down on Jose’s back as he bent above the ivory pool chair. His hair flopped into his eyes, and he could feel the sweat dripping down his face.
“Rub right there Jose.”
“Here, ma’am?”
“Yes, Jose, right there, and while I have you, straighten this towel under my head, will you?”
“Sure ma’am, whatever you like, ma’am.”
“Jose, you rubbed it in well, didn’t you?”
“Yes ma’am, I rubbed it all in, ma’am.”
“What about the spot just below my right shoulder?”
“Here?”
“Yes Jose, I feel a glob of lotion there. Please rub it in.”
Jose began rubbing like crazy. He rubbed back and forth and up and down and in a circular motion. He put more lotion on his hands, and reapplied it to her entire back, but still the bitch wasn’t happy. He hated these country club vixens. They were all rich and spoiled, and had nothing better to do than find ways to make his life a living hell. Jose just wanted to mind his business, and do his work. He wanted to fold his towels, straighten his chairs, and deliver drinks. Make an honest dollar and go home to his wife and his new baby boy. He thought about his son while he rubbed, and tried to forget the wrinkled debutant he was working on.
“Okay, Jose, that’s enough, I think you got everywhere now.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Jose wiped the excess lotion onto his sweat towel, and recapped the lotion. He was determined to smile and maintain his obedience no matter what this woman did to him, as that was the only way to ensure that he would get a decent tip. He had already spent over forty-five minutes of his day working on Vivian Buchanan’s tanning lotion, and he wanted payment for his time. Though she was the most difficult of the women at the club, and she wasn’t the most consistent tipper, it was worth it when she did tip. The key was to keep quiet, and suppress the desire to choke her when you were close enough to do it. She had sent more than ten staff people packing this summer alone, and Jose refused to be her next victim. He had a baby now and he needed his paycheck more than ever.
“Jose!”
“Ma’am?”
“Grab me a gin and diet tonic, will you?”
“Sure ma’am, anything else?”
“No, that will do for now”
Jesus, Jose thought to himself. It’s 9:40 a.m. on a Tuesday, and this woman wants a gin and tonic. It wasn’t unheard of for him to deliver a drink this early in the morning, to be sure, but most of the woman wanted a morning drink, like a bloody mary, or a mimosa. To him, those drinks seemed more reasonable, but a GIN and TONIC, it just didn’t seem right. You might as well paint the words alcoholic across your own forehead before you leave the house in the morning. Jose stopped at the men’s room to wash his hands, and went to the bar for Vivian Buchanan’s drink.
“Hey, Johnny, Toxie wants her morning cocktail.”
They call her Toxie because she has had so much botox injected into her face that she can’t relax it. Popular theory said that 95% of the people she fires get canned because of that face. She is so shot up that she is unable to make a single expression and it’s virtually impossible to figure out what she is thinking at any given moment. The only changes to her facial features that the staff have discovered are the flush that comes over her late in the afternoon (after she reaches the five drink mark), and the twitch that begins in the left corner of her mouth when she is flirting.
“She’s getting started early today, Jose, you better be careful.”
“I will man, don’t worry about me.”
As Jose approaches Vivian Buchanan with her drink, she raises a hand and bellows.
“Joooooose!”
“Yes, Ms. Vivian, right here.”
“Jose, do you have my drink?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Splendid. Now bring it over here and place it in front of me so that I can reach it from my chair.”
Jose steps toward her gingerly, remembering the agony of his hands on her skin a short time ago. The touching was the worst part of the job. He could handle being talked down to, argued with, and even yelled at, but he couldn’t stand having to touch these women. It just didn’t seem right, and he couldn’t wait for the day that he could escape this place. The day that he had saved up enough money to start his own business. Jose’s Taco Palace. He could picture the sign above the door, and the food on the plates. Heaping platters with beans and rice. Margaritas overflowing their glasses. His iguana in a large glass tank in the center of the dining room.
The glass clinks as it touches the cement patio. Before Jose can pull his hand away, Vivian has reached down to retrieve it, and her hand closes over his. She lifts her head from the towel, and looks down into the glass, her hand still secure over his.
“Jose, where is my slice of lime?”
“Lime, ma’am?”
“Yes, Jose, L-I-M-E, lime! A round green fruit, much like a lemon.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know that, ma’am.”
“Well, if you know, than why don’t I see one in my drink?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I will get you one now, ma’am.”
“Jose, you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you put a lime in my drink to begin with?”
“Ma’am, it was just an oversight, a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“Jose, do you know who I am?” she asks, squeezing harder.
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan. Yes, I do. I apologize, Ms. Buchanan. I will get you your lime now.”
“No, Jose, you will not get me my lime now, because I don’t want an incompetent idiot with zero brain cells draining all the energy out of me all day. Get out of my sight. Go inside and tell Mr. Radcliffe that you are a useless, ignorant man, and that I would like someone more appropriate to come out here and wait on me,” she says, pushing her hand away.
“But ma’am, you didn’t ask for a lime in the first place.”
Jose began backing away from the chair, and Vivian Buchanan began to push herself up from her position. Before he could move she charged, pushing him backwards into the pool. In his surprise, Jose began flailing about and kicking, sucking down chlorine water as he struggled to breathe. His head emerged from the water, and he could hear screams cutting through the air.
“Norman!”
“NORMAN!!!”
“Get out here NOW!”
Norman Radcliffe came rushing from inside the club, sweat already pouring down his cheeks from his brow. As a heavyset man, there was a limit to how fast he could move, but in the split second that it took for Jose to pull himself from the pool Norman had already reached the water’s edge. Norman was a nice man, and the staff all knew that he would never treat people the way he did if it weren’t for Vivian. Two years ago she had taken him for everything he had, and she planned to spend the rest of her life reminding him of just how much control she still had. In the blink of an eye she could give her love or take it away, just as she had taken their marriage. Norman looked down at Jose sure of what was to come.
“Norman, look at this wretched little man, he was in our pool, the GUEST pool.”
“Yes, Vivian. I can see that.”
“Well, Norm, from what I know, that is against the rules.”
“Yes, Viv, it is.”
“Well GET-HIM-OUT-OF-HERE!”
“Okay, Vivian, please, just stop causing a scene.”
Vivian’s slid her Gucci’s down to the tip of her nose and glared deep into Norman’s eyes. Norman hung his head sadly and looked away.
“Come on, Jose, let’s go.”
Jose walked three feet behind Norman as they headed for the staff quarters. Both men dropped their shoulders and stared at their feet, Jose dripping from his encounter with the pool, a trail of water left in his wake.
“I am really sorry about this Jose, but my hands are tied.”
“I know Mr. Radcliffe, sir.”
“You have been a good worker, and I would like to help you.”
“Sir?”
“Go to the pro shop and pick out any outfit you would like, then please take free liberty into the men’s locker room, and get yourself cleaned up. Stop by the front desk on your way out. I will leave you a check for two-month’s pay plus your vacation time.”
“Thank you Mr. Radcliffe, sir.”
************************************************
As Jose entered the pro shop Lou Saunders re-cradled the phone and looked up at him sadly. All the staff knew about Jose’s new baby, and his dreams of opening a restaurant. More than anyone else on the staff, the other people at Orchard Hill liked Jose. He was a kind, hard-working man, and he never lost sight of his dreams.
“I’m sorry, Jose.”
“Its okay, Lou. It could happen to any of us.”
“Yes, I know, but the last person we ever expected this to happen to was you.”
“Well, I appreciate that, and I want you to know that you have been a good friend to me Lou. When I was new and didn’t know the ropes, you were always kind, and you helped me to figure things out. I will never forget your generosity. Now, Mr. Radcliffe said I should pick out an outfit.”
“I have chosen the three best suits that we have in your size for you to pick from.”
“Suits?”
“Mr. Radcliffe would like to help you on your way, and he thought a suit might be just the thing you needed to get you started.”
“Oh, I see. I guess it does make sense, but I have never owned a nice suit before.”
“Well, let’s just have you try them on.”
Jose pulled the jacket from the hanger and put it on over the gleaming white Brooks Brothers shirt Lou had left for him. He stared at his reflection, and couldn’t believe his eyes. He imagined himself as a businessman on Wall Street. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and smiled. He pretended to reach out his hand to shake, and to pull a business card from his pocket. Pleasure to meet you. Joe Jones, Goldman Sachs. But when he blinked, it was only Jose Juarez staring back at him. He wasn’t Joe Jones, and he would never work on Wall Street. Jose shrugged; at least he could sell the suit later if he hadn’t found work by the time the rent was due again.
Jose walked out of the dressing room and tossed his wet clothes into the garbage can.
“Wooey, Jose, look at you. Handsome one you are.”
Jose did a spin, and for a moment both men forgot what all this meant, and broke into laughter. They laughed until they cried. Until Jose’s stomach hurt so bad that it reminded him of the pain of that morning, and he stopped. He reached out to shake Lou’s hand,
“Thanks for the suit…and for everything else.”
“You take good care of yourself Jose.”
“I will Lou, I will.”
**********************************************************
“That’s exactly how I like my drink. I don’t know how you got it right the first time, but I am glad you did. Now, what’s your name boy?”
“Michael, Ms. Buchanan.”
“Michael. Michael. Common name, but its good enough I would guess.”
“I think so Ms. Buchanan.”
“Well Michael, you nailed my drink, now let’s see how you do with the tanning lotion.”
“Ma’am?”
“Right there on the table. You do see it, don’t you?”
“Yes Ms. Buchanan.”
Michael reached out for the bottle of lotion. He was new at the club, and this was the first time that someone had asked him to apply lotion. At the age of seventeen, he had never even rubbed lotion on a girl, let alone a woman older than his mother. It intimidated him and excited him at the same time. He watched Ms. Buchanan’s back rise and fall as her lungs filled with air. She was so thin that her wrinkled skin seemed to hang off her ribcage, but the thought of touching that tan flesh made his heart beat faster.
He took a deep breath and poured out some lotion rubbing his hands together to coat them. As his hands made contact with her back he felt the warmth of her skin flowing up through his palms and into his arms. He rubbed first across then lengthwise, taking care to be gentle. He rubbed until all the lotion was absorbed into her skin and it glowed. He could smell the No. 5 perfume wafting off of her as he knelt close to her skin, and he closed his eyes for a moment to take in the scent. It reminded him of someone, or something, but he couldn’t place exactly what.
“Now, Michael, be a dear and go fetch me another gin and tonic.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“No, that will be all.”
When Michael got up to the bar Johnny had already started making the drink. He wiped his hands on a towel, the scent of Vivian’s perfume still strong in his nose as he pondered the rumors about her.
“Hey, man, how you doing out there” asked Johnny.
“Ok, so far. I think I can handle it.”
“Good thing, bud, I wouldn’t want you to end up like poor Jose.”
“I don’t think that will happen to me, I will just stay out of her way.”
“Easier said than done, bro, seriously.”
“Well, if I get fired I will just go back to valeting. You don’t make as much as you do here, but it’s easier, and I am all about work that doesn’t require much effort.”
“I hear that, now bring Ms. Toxie her drink before she gets cranky.”
Michael squeezed some extra lime into the glass and set off to deliver the drink. As he walked towards Ms. Buchanan, he noticed that all the staff looked away from him. They weren’t friendly, calling out hellos and how-are-yous, and they all had odd expressions and didn’t make direct eye contact with him. Oh well, thought Michael, you can’t expect people to talk to you now when you are working for the most difficult guest at the entire club. I am sure they are just fearful of doing something to distract me and becoming victim of Ms. Buchanan’s wrath.
“Here you are ma’am, your gin and tonic.”
Michael placed the glass down in front of the pool chair silently, noticing that behind the large sunglasses Ms. Buchanan was asleep. He quickly took a breath, hopeful to catch the scent of her perfume before rising. As he stood, he felt something on his leg, and looked down to find her hand on his inner thigh. She had reached up, and put her hand directly up Michael’s shorts. He stood frozen, sweat pouring down his face, unable to breathe. Slowly she reached up, further up, her fingernails barely grazing his manhood. Michael’s shorts felt suddenly tight. His eyes began darting around the patio. He saw the other staff, and families, and mothers lounging by the pool. He saw grandmothers and grandfathers in sport coats sitting at tables under umbrellas. He saw the blue water and the gray patio and the brightness of the sun shining down on him. He wanted to stop her, but he just couldn’t find the words to say.
“You are quite a young man Michael,” Vivian said as she pulled her hand away.
Michael let out a small groan and closed his eyes for a moment. He held his breath and tried to block out the images of everything around him and the feeling that she, this woman, Vivian Buchanan, had just given him. Vivian began reaching into her bag, and pulled out her cell phone.
“Run and get me some fresh towels please.”
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan.”
Michael practically ran from her side. When he reached the pool house he began frantically pulling towels from the shelves, trying to process what had just happened. He curled into a ball on the floor, smothering himself in the pile of towels. He knew that Ms. Buchanan should not have done that to him, yet part of him wanted her to do it again. Michael felt the tightness in his shorts again and was so disgusted with himself that he began to retch.
*********************************************************
When he returned to the pool, Vivian was on the phone chatting with someone. As she saw him approach, she allowed her dark sunglasses to slide down her nose so that he would know she was watching him, but refused to make eye contact. Vivian slowly stood and stepped to the side so that Michael could change the towels. He pulled the old towels from her chair and laid out the new ones quickly and precisely.
“Sophia, I told you to dump that lump of a man, he has done nothing for you. I don’t care about love. Love will let you down every time. Just come over to the pool and we will talk about it here,” she said as she slammed her phone shut.
Michael stood clutching the towels listening to her speak. He knew nothing about love, nothing about sex or the pleasures of being with a woman. He could only imagine what it might be like to experience these things. He couldn’t stop staring at Vivian’s tan body, her slick lotion-covered skin, her large voluptuous breasts. His eyes were stuck on the breasts. They were round and defined, triangles of zebra print fabric barely shielding them from his vision.
“Michael, stop gawking at me like a fool.”
“Oh, uh, sorry Ms. Buchanan.”
“Michael, I have a friend coming to sit with me. I am going to need another gin and tonic, as well as a bloody mary, extra spicy.”
“Ok, Ms. Buchanan.”
“And obviously we are going to need another chair set up for her.”
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan, right away.”
Again, Michael practically ran from her, afraid of another confrontation with her roaming hands. When he arrived at the bar, Johnny could tell right away that something had happened.
“Mike, what happened to you? You look sick, dude.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“No. I don’t believe you. I can tell something happened. You are pale as a ghost, did she yell at you or something?”
“Listen Johnny, I told you that nothing happened, and nothing did, I am just tired, that’s all. Now can you please get me her drink and an extra spicy bloody mary? I need to get back over there before she starts freaking out.”
“Sure, but you listen here, bud, you don’t have to take any crap from her. You can go inside and you can tell Radcliffe that you can’t take it, and you don’t want to work for her anymore.”
“I already lasted three hours with her. It’s only an hour and a half 'til the end of my shift, I am sure I can make it that much longer.”
“Ok, but if you need anything you let me know. I am going to keep my eye on you.”
“Whatever makes you feel good,” Michael said, blushing.
As Michael finished straightening the towels and pulled the chair parallel to Vivian’s his eyes caught on movement across the pool. As the woman neared him, he could see purple bruises protruding from behind her extra large sunglasses, and he grimaced. As she arrived at the chair the woman immediately reached for her bloody mary.
“Sophia, you look like hell, let me see you,” said Vivian.
“Oh Vivian, you know what they look like the first week after the surgery, don’t act like you haven’t seen eyes like this before.”
“Well I don’t really care what I have and haven’t seen before, I want to see you. Let me check things out, make sure they didn’t leave any extra skin flopping around.”
As the woman removed her glasses Michael felt instantly sick. Her eyelids were swollen masses of blue and purple, peppered with dark red veins, and there were black stitches sticking out all over the place. Vivian touched the woman’s face gently, inspecting the handiwork of her surgeon.
“See, Sophia, I told you to see Dr. Roberts. He did beautiful work on you, really, quite exquisite.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course dear. Would I lie to you?”
After replacing her sunglasses and handing her robe to Michael Sophia sat down in the chair and began sipping her drink nervously. In three sips the glass was empty, and Michael ran off to get her another. When he dropped it off, he overheard the conversation of the closed-eyed women.
“What I am telling you, Sophia, is that when I was young my mom and aunties used to tell me to marry for money, not for love. After all—they all did, and now I know that their advice was right. Every one of them is still married to this day, living in mansions with five carat diamond engagement rings on their fingers. Let’s be honest here, do you really think I would have made it this far if they hadn’t shown me the way life could be?”
“Well no Vivian, I don’t, but what I am saying is that I do love Bruce.”
“Dear, what has he done for you lately? When was the last time that fat slob of a man told you that you looked nice, or asked you to go on vacation with him? You work hard trying to keep up your appearance and for what? So that he can ignore you and run around with 18-year-old trollops? You should be glad that you are getting rid of him now, while you are still young enough to get a new man.”
“Vivian, I don’t want a new man, I want Bruce,” she said as tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“Please, stop Sophia. Honestly, you aren’t supposed to cry during your recovery, I told you that and I know they told you at the doctor’s office. Just forget about old Bruce for right now.”
“I am going to go powder my nose,” she said, rushing from Vivian before any more tears could escape her eyes.
“Ok dear, you do that, and then come back and let Vivian finish her story.”
As soon as Sophia had walked away Vivian called Michael over.
“Michael, come over here for a minute, I need to speak to you.”
“Yes ma’am, what do you need?”
“Well, Michael, I will be honest, my friend Mrs. Dusterfeld is not doing very well today. I will need you to bring me a cool washcloth, and a cup of ice, along with another round of drinks.”
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t ask questions Michael; just bring me the things I am asking for.”
“Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am.”
When Michael returned Sophia had resumed her post and Vivian was going off about her theories on life again.
“Oh what lives my aunties have had. I must admit, they trained me well. I learned as a little girl what nice things were, and I have never forgotten. Look at me now. It’s been seven quick marriages to seven bastard men, but I’ve got a truckload of money, three boats, seven homes, five ex-husbands, and I’ve been a widow twice. So you see, my dear, nothing you could do to that poor idiot Bruce is really all that bad. Believe me I have been down EVERY road at least once.”
“But Vivian, I don’t know if I have it in me. Bruce did love me once, and I am sure I can make him love me again. Maybe if I got just a bit more lipo this summer he would come around.”
“Stop kidding yourself. It’s time to take out the garbage or at the very least take the laundry to the cleaners.”
Vivian let out a horrifying laugh, and then her eyes fell on Michael. She raised up her arm and a long-fingered hand beckoned him to her. As Michael approached, both women began to stare.
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan. My shift is almost over, so I wanted to come by and make sure that you ladies were all set before I went home for the day.”
“You are going home? My dear, I thought you had just gotten here,” she said, twirling her fingers through her long blond hair. Michael couldn’t stop staring at the twitching in the corner of her mouth. He didn’t quite understand why her mouth was twitching so much. He wondered if he should mention in it in case there was something wrong with her face or something, but he thought better of it.
“My shift today was from 10-4 ma’am, I am off in just about ten minutes.”
“My my, how the time flies, doesn’t it Sophia?”
Sophia rolled onto her side, disgusted, and pretended to nap. She couldn’t bear to watch Vivian carrying on this way. She felt horrible for the pool boys here at Orchard Hill, but she felt even worse for Norman Radcliffe. Since Vivian had stolen ownership of the country club five years ago she had spent virtually every single day at the club torturing poor Norman. It was a wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet. Vivian was an interesting woman, and one that you would be foolish to become enemies with, but Sophia really didn’t understand her, and really couldn’t say honestly that she actually liked her. Thinking of this, Sophia bit her tongue, though she wanted desperately to help this poor young man being chewed up by Vivian at the present moment.
“Now Michael,” purred Vivian, “Run off and get us two more drinks, and a cheese and cracker plate, then I think we will be done with you for the day.”
“Right away Ms. Buchanan,” he said, sighing with relief that he had finally reached the end of his day with her.
“Now, that there is a fine boy, don’t you think Sophia?”
“Sure, he seems pleasant enough. Do we know anything about his family?”
“Not a lick. Anyway, it is great that I never had children. Boy that would have been a mistake. A child would eat into all my free time, and I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I love to travel, and that would be really difficult with having to call the nanny back home to check on the little brat all the time. I am sure you feel the same way, what with your Bruce situation, and all. A child would make the whole thing an even bigger mess.”
“Vivian, I can’t believe you would say something like that. You know that Bruce and I wanted a child, and that we tried for years to have one, how could you say that to me? What kind of an insensitive person talks to someone in my situation that way?”
As Michael approached the chairs, he saw Vivian reach over and cup Sophia’s face between her hands. Her glasses slid down her nose as if on cue, and as her glaring eyes made contact with Sophia’s face, she began hissing from between her teeth.
“Do you know who you are talking to? Do you want to stop and think about what you just said to ME? Do you think that I care about your stupid dreams for a bumbling little child? I am quite sure that any child born of that man would have grown up awkward, gangly, and hideous. Why would you want to bring a creature like that into the world? I am the queen of this club. I am the queen of everything around me. This world is my oyster, and mine alone. I have not worked this hard to build my empire so that some ungrateful bitch with body image issues can come and sit around next to me whimpering about the sadness in her big soft heart. Now you get out of here, and you never come back, for if you do I will see to it that very bad things happen to you.”
Michael gingerly set down the tray of food, and the ladies drinks, but Sophia was sobbing loudly now, and as she began grabbing around for her things, she caught her ankle on something, and knocked over the table. Everything crashed to the ground, including Sophia, who landed face-first on the hard concrete patio. Blood began pooling next to her face, and she was unconscious. Michael bent down, and tried to help her, to see if she was breathing. He yelled out for help, for someone to call 911, and the sunlight blazed across his back as he knelt over Sophia’s body. He reached over to the chairs and began grabbing the towels to wrap her head in them. When he looked up a moment later, he saw Vivian smiling. A woman formerly expressionless was now frozen in a sinister grin, staring down at him.
“Michael, leave her be and get me a new drink, as that one seems to have spilled.”
“But Vivian, she is hurt, I can’t get you a drink right now, she may die,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks now, his heart beating fast.
“I have treated you well all day Michael, and if you want your beloved tip you will pull yourself together and do as I say immediately.”
Out of nowhere came Mr. Radcliffe, and the other workers, and the EMT personnel. Michael slowly backed away and sunk to the pavement, clutching himself. He couldn’t stop staring as flipped Sophia over, and began using the shock boards on her chest. The taller medical worker put his cheek just in front of her lips, searching for breath. He felt her neck and her wrists for a pulse, and moments later, the EMT stood up from her body.
“I’m sorry, but she is gone,” he said, looking at Michael.
As they wheeled her body away, Vivian rose from her chair, “I think I’ll just take a quick dip in the pool before my spa appointment. Michael, I will expect my drink when I get out.”
“You bitch! You filthy, rotten, horrible woman! You just killed her. You killed her and I saw you do it. I saw you stick out your foot and trip her. I heard the things you said to her and the way you upset her. She was so sad, and she had no one to talk to, and you pushed her over the edge. You are a wretched creature, and you are the one who should never have been brought into the world! You, Vivian Buchanan, you are the one that doesn’t deserve a place at this country club,” Michael screamed at her, arms flailing about, tears streaming down his face until he felt hands on his back. Mr. Radcliffe and the EMT wrapped Michael in a blanket, and walked him into the club.
Once seated inside, Mr. Radcliffe knelt down in front of Michael, as Michael continued to sob.
“Listen son, I know that what you just saw was a horrible, terrible thing, and I want you to know that nobody blames you. Mrs. Dusterfeld’s death was a tragedy, and a horrible accident. I have called your mom to come and get you, and I plan to pay you for the rest of the month, but please take the time off and relax. Try to do something fun and enjoy yourself, and when you are ready, you can come back to work. I promise you that when you return, Ms. Buchanan will not be here anymore.
“But, Mr. Radcliffe, how….”
“Don’t worry about that part of things, Michael, I will take care of everything. You are a good boy, and you have done a good job.”
“Ok, Mr. Radcliffe, I understand.”
“I knew you would.”
***********************************************************
As Vivian broke through the surface of the water, she noticed a shadow above her. She knew that Michael was a good boy, and he would turn around in the end and bring her the drink she had asked for. After all, she was sure he needed the money, all young boys needed money. When she rose from the water there was Norman, towering above her, arms folded across his chest with four police officers surrounding him.
“Hello Vivian.”
“Norman?”
“Yes, Vivian, these police officers are here to speak with you.”
“With me, but why,” she questioned.
“You and I both know why, so please stop causing a scene and follow them outside.”
As Vivian pushed herself from the water the officers surrounded her on all sides, shielding her from the onlookers around the pool. A man held each arm, and two others followed in front of and behind her as they walked her through the club to the cruisers out front. When they arrived at the car, they pulled Vivian’s hands behind her back. When she heard the click of the handcuffs a single tear trickled down her cheek. Norman Radcliffe watched as the cruiser pulled away from the curb. Finally, Vivian had gone too far, finally, the club was his again. When he was sure the car was gone, he picked up the phone. There were a few good men that he wanted to call, starting with Jose Juarez.
“Rub right there Jose.”
“Here, ma’am?”
“Yes, Jose, right there, and while I have you, straighten this towel under my head, will you?”
“Sure ma’am, whatever you like, ma’am.”
“Jose, you rubbed it in well, didn’t you?”
“Yes ma’am, I rubbed it all in, ma’am.”
“What about the spot just below my right shoulder?”
“Here?”
“Yes Jose, I feel a glob of lotion there. Please rub it in.”
Jose began rubbing like crazy. He rubbed back and forth and up and down and in a circular motion. He put more lotion on his hands, and reapplied it to her entire back, but still the bitch wasn’t happy. He hated these country club vixens. They were all rich and spoiled, and had nothing better to do than find ways to make his life a living hell. Jose just wanted to mind his business, and do his work. He wanted to fold his towels, straighten his chairs, and deliver drinks. Make an honest dollar and go home to his wife and his new baby boy. He thought about his son while he rubbed, and tried to forget the wrinkled debutant he was working on.
“Okay, Jose, that’s enough, I think you got everywhere now.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Jose wiped the excess lotion onto his sweat towel, and recapped the lotion. He was determined to smile and maintain his obedience no matter what this woman did to him, as that was the only way to ensure that he would get a decent tip. He had already spent over forty-five minutes of his day working on Vivian Buchanan’s tanning lotion, and he wanted payment for his time. Though she was the most difficult of the women at the club, and she wasn’t the most consistent tipper, it was worth it when she did tip. The key was to keep quiet, and suppress the desire to choke her when you were close enough to do it. She had sent more than ten staff people packing this summer alone, and Jose refused to be her next victim. He had a baby now and he needed his paycheck more than ever.
“Jose!”
“Ma’am?”
“Grab me a gin and diet tonic, will you?”
“Sure ma’am, anything else?”
“No, that will do for now”
Jesus, Jose thought to himself. It’s 9:40 a.m. on a Tuesday, and this woman wants a gin and tonic. It wasn’t unheard of for him to deliver a drink this early in the morning, to be sure, but most of the woman wanted a morning drink, like a bloody mary, or a mimosa. To him, those drinks seemed more reasonable, but a GIN and TONIC, it just didn’t seem right. You might as well paint the words alcoholic across your own forehead before you leave the house in the morning. Jose stopped at the men’s room to wash his hands, and went to the bar for Vivian Buchanan’s drink.
“Hey, Johnny, Toxie wants her morning cocktail.”
They call her Toxie because she has had so much botox injected into her face that she can’t relax it. Popular theory said that 95% of the people she fires get canned because of that face. She is so shot up that she is unable to make a single expression and it’s virtually impossible to figure out what she is thinking at any given moment. The only changes to her facial features that the staff have discovered are the flush that comes over her late in the afternoon (after she reaches the five drink mark), and the twitch that begins in the left corner of her mouth when she is flirting.
“She’s getting started early today, Jose, you better be careful.”
“I will man, don’t worry about me.”
As Jose approaches Vivian Buchanan with her drink, she raises a hand and bellows.
“Joooooose!”
“Yes, Ms. Vivian, right here.”
“Jose, do you have my drink?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Splendid. Now bring it over here and place it in front of me so that I can reach it from my chair.”
Jose steps toward her gingerly, remembering the agony of his hands on her skin a short time ago. The touching was the worst part of the job. He could handle being talked down to, argued with, and even yelled at, but he couldn’t stand having to touch these women. It just didn’t seem right, and he couldn’t wait for the day that he could escape this place. The day that he had saved up enough money to start his own business. Jose’s Taco Palace. He could picture the sign above the door, and the food on the plates. Heaping platters with beans and rice. Margaritas overflowing their glasses. His iguana in a large glass tank in the center of the dining room.
The glass clinks as it touches the cement patio. Before Jose can pull his hand away, Vivian has reached down to retrieve it, and her hand closes over his. She lifts her head from the towel, and looks down into the glass, her hand still secure over his.
“Jose, where is my slice of lime?”
“Lime, ma’am?”
“Yes, Jose, L-I-M-E, lime! A round green fruit, much like a lemon.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know that, ma’am.”
“Well, if you know, than why don’t I see one in my drink?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I will get you one now, ma’am.”
“Jose, you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you put a lime in my drink to begin with?”
“Ma’am, it was just an oversight, a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“Jose, do you know who I am?” she asks, squeezing harder.
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan. Yes, I do. I apologize, Ms. Buchanan. I will get you your lime now.”
“No, Jose, you will not get me my lime now, because I don’t want an incompetent idiot with zero brain cells draining all the energy out of me all day. Get out of my sight. Go inside and tell Mr. Radcliffe that you are a useless, ignorant man, and that I would like someone more appropriate to come out here and wait on me,” she says, pushing her hand away.
“But ma’am, you didn’t ask for a lime in the first place.”
Jose began backing away from the chair, and Vivian Buchanan began to push herself up from her position. Before he could move she charged, pushing him backwards into the pool. In his surprise, Jose began flailing about and kicking, sucking down chlorine water as he struggled to breathe. His head emerged from the water, and he could hear screams cutting through the air.
“Norman!”
“NORMAN!!!”
“Get out here NOW!”
Norman Radcliffe came rushing from inside the club, sweat already pouring down his cheeks from his brow. As a heavyset man, there was a limit to how fast he could move, but in the split second that it took for Jose to pull himself from the pool Norman had already reached the water’s edge. Norman was a nice man, and the staff all knew that he would never treat people the way he did if it weren’t for Vivian. Two years ago she had taken him for everything he had, and she planned to spend the rest of her life reminding him of just how much control she still had. In the blink of an eye she could give her love or take it away, just as she had taken their marriage. Norman looked down at Jose sure of what was to come.
“Norman, look at this wretched little man, he was in our pool, the GUEST pool.”
“Yes, Vivian. I can see that.”
“Well, Norm, from what I know, that is against the rules.”
“Yes, Viv, it is.”
“Well GET-HIM-OUT-OF-HERE!”
“Okay, Vivian, please, just stop causing a scene.”
Vivian’s slid her Gucci’s down to the tip of her nose and glared deep into Norman’s eyes. Norman hung his head sadly and looked away.
“Come on, Jose, let’s go.”
Jose walked three feet behind Norman as they headed for the staff quarters. Both men dropped their shoulders and stared at their feet, Jose dripping from his encounter with the pool, a trail of water left in his wake.
“I am really sorry about this Jose, but my hands are tied.”
“I know Mr. Radcliffe, sir.”
“You have been a good worker, and I would like to help you.”
“Sir?”
“Go to the pro shop and pick out any outfit you would like, then please take free liberty into the men’s locker room, and get yourself cleaned up. Stop by the front desk on your way out. I will leave you a check for two-month’s pay plus your vacation time.”
“Thank you Mr. Radcliffe, sir.”
************************************************
As Jose entered the pro shop Lou Saunders re-cradled the phone and looked up at him sadly. All the staff knew about Jose’s new baby, and his dreams of opening a restaurant. More than anyone else on the staff, the other people at Orchard Hill liked Jose. He was a kind, hard-working man, and he never lost sight of his dreams.
“I’m sorry, Jose.”
“Its okay, Lou. It could happen to any of us.”
“Yes, I know, but the last person we ever expected this to happen to was you.”
“Well, I appreciate that, and I want you to know that you have been a good friend to me Lou. When I was new and didn’t know the ropes, you were always kind, and you helped me to figure things out. I will never forget your generosity. Now, Mr. Radcliffe said I should pick out an outfit.”
“I have chosen the three best suits that we have in your size for you to pick from.”
“Suits?”
“Mr. Radcliffe would like to help you on your way, and he thought a suit might be just the thing you needed to get you started.”
“Oh, I see. I guess it does make sense, but I have never owned a nice suit before.”
“Well, let’s just have you try them on.”
Jose pulled the jacket from the hanger and put it on over the gleaming white Brooks Brothers shirt Lou had left for him. He stared at his reflection, and couldn’t believe his eyes. He imagined himself as a businessman on Wall Street. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and smiled. He pretended to reach out his hand to shake, and to pull a business card from his pocket. Pleasure to meet you. Joe Jones, Goldman Sachs. But when he blinked, it was only Jose Juarez staring back at him. He wasn’t Joe Jones, and he would never work on Wall Street. Jose shrugged; at least he could sell the suit later if he hadn’t found work by the time the rent was due again.
Jose walked out of the dressing room and tossed his wet clothes into the garbage can.
“Wooey, Jose, look at you. Handsome one you are.”
Jose did a spin, and for a moment both men forgot what all this meant, and broke into laughter. They laughed until they cried. Until Jose’s stomach hurt so bad that it reminded him of the pain of that morning, and he stopped. He reached out to shake Lou’s hand,
“Thanks for the suit…and for everything else.”
“You take good care of yourself Jose.”
“I will Lou, I will.”
**********************************************************
“That’s exactly how I like my drink. I don’t know how you got it right the first time, but I am glad you did. Now, what’s your name boy?”
“Michael, Ms. Buchanan.”
“Michael. Michael. Common name, but its good enough I would guess.”
“I think so Ms. Buchanan.”
“Well Michael, you nailed my drink, now let’s see how you do with the tanning lotion.”
“Ma’am?”
“Right there on the table. You do see it, don’t you?”
“Yes Ms. Buchanan.”
Michael reached out for the bottle of lotion. He was new at the club, and this was the first time that someone had asked him to apply lotion. At the age of seventeen, he had never even rubbed lotion on a girl, let alone a woman older than his mother. It intimidated him and excited him at the same time. He watched Ms. Buchanan’s back rise and fall as her lungs filled with air. She was so thin that her wrinkled skin seemed to hang off her ribcage, but the thought of touching that tan flesh made his heart beat faster.
He took a deep breath and poured out some lotion rubbing his hands together to coat them. As his hands made contact with her back he felt the warmth of her skin flowing up through his palms and into his arms. He rubbed first across then lengthwise, taking care to be gentle. He rubbed until all the lotion was absorbed into her skin and it glowed. He could smell the No. 5 perfume wafting off of her as he knelt close to her skin, and he closed his eyes for a moment to take in the scent. It reminded him of someone, or something, but he couldn’t place exactly what.
“Now, Michael, be a dear and go fetch me another gin and tonic.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“No, that will be all.”
When Michael got up to the bar Johnny had already started making the drink. He wiped his hands on a towel, the scent of Vivian’s perfume still strong in his nose as he pondered the rumors about her.
“Hey, man, how you doing out there” asked Johnny.
“Ok, so far. I think I can handle it.”
“Good thing, bud, I wouldn’t want you to end up like poor Jose.”
“I don’t think that will happen to me, I will just stay out of her way.”
“Easier said than done, bro, seriously.”
“Well, if I get fired I will just go back to valeting. You don’t make as much as you do here, but it’s easier, and I am all about work that doesn’t require much effort.”
“I hear that, now bring Ms. Toxie her drink before she gets cranky.”
Michael squeezed some extra lime into the glass and set off to deliver the drink. As he walked towards Ms. Buchanan, he noticed that all the staff looked away from him. They weren’t friendly, calling out hellos and how-are-yous, and they all had odd expressions and didn’t make direct eye contact with him. Oh well, thought Michael, you can’t expect people to talk to you now when you are working for the most difficult guest at the entire club. I am sure they are just fearful of doing something to distract me and becoming victim of Ms. Buchanan’s wrath.
“Here you are ma’am, your gin and tonic.”
Michael placed the glass down in front of the pool chair silently, noticing that behind the large sunglasses Ms. Buchanan was asleep. He quickly took a breath, hopeful to catch the scent of her perfume before rising. As he stood, he felt something on his leg, and looked down to find her hand on his inner thigh. She had reached up, and put her hand directly up Michael’s shorts. He stood frozen, sweat pouring down his face, unable to breathe. Slowly she reached up, further up, her fingernails barely grazing his manhood. Michael’s shorts felt suddenly tight. His eyes began darting around the patio. He saw the other staff, and families, and mothers lounging by the pool. He saw grandmothers and grandfathers in sport coats sitting at tables under umbrellas. He saw the blue water and the gray patio and the brightness of the sun shining down on him. He wanted to stop her, but he just couldn’t find the words to say.
“You are quite a young man Michael,” Vivian said as she pulled her hand away.
Michael let out a small groan and closed his eyes for a moment. He held his breath and tried to block out the images of everything around him and the feeling that she, this woman, Vivian Buchanan, had just given him. Vivian began reaching into her bag, and pulled out her cell phone.
“Run and get me some fresh towels please.”
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan.”
Michael practically ran from her side. When he reached the pool house he began frantically pulling towels from the shelves, trying to process what had just happened. He curled into a ball on the floor, smothering himself in the pile of towels. He knew that Ms. Buchanan should not have done that to him, yet part of him wanted her to do it again. Michael felt the tightness in his shorts again and was so disgusted with himself that he began to retch.
*********************************************************
When he returned to the pool, Vivian was on the phone chatting with someone. As she saw him approach, she allowed her dark sunglasses to slide down her nose so that he would know she was watching him, but refused to make eye contact. Vivian slowly stood and stepped to the side so that Michael could change the towels. He pulled the old towels from her chair and laid out the new ones quickly and precisely.
“Sophia, I told you to dump that lump of a man, he has done nothing for you. I don’t care about love. Love will let you down every time. Just come over to the pool and we will talk about it here,” she said as she slammed her phone shut.
Michael stood clutching the towels listening to her speak. He knew nothing about love, nothing about sex or the pleasures of being with a woman. He could only imagine what it might be like to experience these things. He couldn’t stop staring at Vivian’s tan body, her slick lotion-covered skin, her large voluptuous breasts. His eyes were stuck on the breasts. They were round and defined, triangles of zebra print fabric barely shielding them from his vision.
“Michael, stop gawking at me like a fool.”
“Oh, uh, sorry Ms. Buchanan.”
“Michael, I have a friend coming to sit with me. I am going to need another gin and tonic, as well as a bloody mary, extra spicy.”
“Ok, Ms. Buchanan.”
“And obviously we are going to need another chair set up for her.”
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan, right away.”
Again, Michael practically ran from her, afraid of another confrontation with her roaming hands. When he arrived at the bar, Johnny could tell right away that something had happened.
“Mike, what happened to you? You look sick, dude.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“No. I don’t believe you. I can tell something happened. You are pale as a ghost, did she yell at you or something?”
“Listen Johnny, I told you that nothing happened, and nothing did, I am just tired, that’s all. Now can you please get me her drink and an extra spicy bloody mary? I need to get back over there before she starts freaking out.”
“Sure, but you listen here, bud, you don’t have to take any crap from her. You can go inside and you can tell Radcliffe that you can’t take it, and you don’t want to work for her anymore.”
“I already lasted three hours with her. It’s only an hour and a half 'til the end of my shift, I am sure I can make it that much longer.”
“Ok, but if you need anything you let me know. I am going to keep my eye on you.”
“Whatever makes you feel good,” Michael said, blushing.
As Michael finished straightening the towels and pulled the chair parallel to Vivian’s his eyes caught on movement across the pool. As the woman neared him, he could see purple bruises protruding from behind her extra large sunglasses, and he grimaced. As she arrived at the chair the woman immediately reached for her bloody mary.
“Sophia, you look like hell, let me see you,” said Vivian.
“Oh Vivian, you know what they look like the first week after the surgery, don’t act like you haven’t seen eyes like this before.”
“Well I don’t really care what I have and haven’t seen before, I want to see you. Let me check things out, make sure they didn’t leave any extra skin flopping around.”
As the woman removed her glasses Michael felt instantly sick. Her eyelids were swollen masses of blue and purple, peppered with dark red veins, and there were black stitches sticking out all over the place. Vivian touched the woman’s face gently, inspecting the handiwork of her surgeon.
“See, Sophia, I told you to see Dr. Roberts. He did beautiful work on you, really, quite exquisite.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course dear. Would I lie to you?”
After replacing her sunglasses and handing her robe to Michael Sophia sat down in the chair and began sipping her drink nervously. In three sips the glass was empty, and Michael ran off to get her another. When he dropped it off, he overheard the conversation of the closed-eyed women.
“What I am telling you, Sophia, is that when I was young my mom and aunties used to tell me to marry for money, not for love. After all—they all did, and now I know that their advice was right. Every one of them is still married to this day, living in mansions with five carat diamond engagement rings on their fingers. Let’s be honest here, do you really think I would have made it this far if they hadn’t shown me the way life could be?”
“Well no Vivian, I don’t, but what I am saying is that I do love Bruce.”
“Dear, what has he done for you lately? When was the last time that fat slob of a man told you that you looked nice, or asked you to go on vacation with him? You work hard trying to keep up your appearance and for what? So that he can ignore you and run around with 18-year-old trollops? You should be glad that you are getting rid of him now, while you are still young enough to get a new man.”
“Vivian, I don’t want a new man, I want Bruce,” she said as tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“Please, stop Sophia. Honestly, you aren’t supposed to cry during your recovery, I told you that and I know they told you at the doctor’s office. Just forget about old Bruce for right now.”
“I am going to go powder my nose,” she said, rushing from Vivian before any more tears could escape her eyes.
“Ok dear, you do that, and then come back and let Vivian finish her story.”
As soon as Sophia had walked away Vivian called Michael over.
“Michael, come over here for a minute, I need to speak to you.”
“Yes ma’am, what do you need?”
“Well, Michael, I will be honest, my friend Mrs. Dusterfeld is not doing very well today. I will need you to bring me a cool washcloth, and a cup of ice, along with another round of drinks.”
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t ask questions Michael; just bring me the things I am asking for.”
“Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am.”
When Michael returned Sophia had resumed her post and Vivian was going off about her theories on life again.
“Oh what lives my aunties have had. I must admit, they trained me well. I learned as a little girl what nice things were, and I have never forgotten. Look at me now. It’s been seven quick marriages to seven bastard men, but I’ve got a truckload of money, three boats, seven homes, five ex-husbands, and I’ve been a widow twice. So you see, my dear, nothing you could do to that poor idiot Bruce is really all that bad. Believe me I have been down EVERY road at least once.”
“But Vivian, I don’t know if I have it in me. Bruce did love me once, and I am sure I can make him love me again. Maybe if I got just a bit more lipo this summer he would come around.”
“Stop kidding yourself. It’s time to take out the garbage or at the very least take the laundry to the cleaners.”
Vivian let out a horrifying laugh, and then her eyes fell on Michael. She raised up her arm and a long-fingered hand beckoned him to her. As Michael approached, both women began to stare.
“Yes, Ms. Buchanan. My shift is almost over, so I wanted to come by and make sure that you ladies were all set before I went home for the day.”
“You are going home? My dear, I thought you had just gotten here,” she said, twirling her fingers through her long blond hair. Michael couldn’t stop staring at the twitching in the corner of her mouth. He didn’t quite understand why her mouth was twitching so much. He wondered if he should mention in it in case there was something wrong with her face or something, but he thought better of it.
“My shift today was from 10-4 ma’am, I am off in just about ten minutes.”
“My my, how the time flies, doesn’t it Sophia?”
Sophia rolled onto her side, disgusted, and pretended to nap. She couldn’t bear to watch Vivian carrying on this way. She felt horrible for the pool boys here at Orchard Hill, but she felt even worse for Norman Radcliffe. Since Vivian had stolen ownership of the country club five years ago she had spent virtually every single day at the club torturing poor Norman. It was a wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet. Vivian was an interesting woman, and one that you would be foolish to become enemies with, but Sophia really didn’t understand her, and really couldn’t say honestly that she actually liked her. Thinking of this, Sophia bit her tongue, though she wanted desperately to help this poor young man being chewed up by Vivian at the present moment.
“Now Michael,” purred Vivian, “Run off and get us two more drinks, and a cheese and cracker plate, then I think we will be done with you for the day.”
“Right away Ms. Buchanan,” he said, sighing with relief that he had finally reached the end of his day with her.
“Now, that there is a fine boy, don’t you think Sophia?”
“Sure, he seems pleasant enough. Do we know anything about his family?”
“Not a lick. Anyway, it is great that I never had children. Boy that would have been a mistake. A child would eat into all my free time, and I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I love to travel, and that would be really difficult with having to call the nanny back home to check on the little brat all the time. I am sure you feel the same way, what with your Bruce situation, and all. A child would make the whole thing an even bigger mess.”
“Vivian, I can’t believe you would say something like that. You know that Bruce and I wanted a child, and that we tried for years to have one, how could you say that to me? What kind of an insensitive person talks to someone in my situation that way?”
As Michael approached the chairs, he saw Vivian reach over and cup Sophia’s face between her hands. Her glasses slid down her nose as if on cue, and as her glaring eyes made contact with Sophia’s face, she began hissing from between her teeth.
“Do you know who you are talking to? Do you want to stop and think about what you just said to ME? Do you think that I care about your stupid dreams for a bumbling little child? I am quite sure that any child born of that man would have grown up awkward, gangly, and hideous. Why would you want to bring a creature like that into the world? I am the queen of this club. I am the queen of everything around me. This world is my oyster, and mine alone. I have not worked this hard to build my empire so that some ungrateful bitch with body image issues can come and sit around next to me whimpering about the sadness in her big soft heart. Now you get out of here, and you never come back, for if you do I will see to it that very bad things happen to you.”
Michael gingerly set down the tray of food, and the ladies drinks, but Sophia was sobbing loudly now, and as she began grabbing around for her things, she caught her ankle on something, and knocked over the table. Everything crashed to the ground, including Sophia, who landed face-first on the hard concrete patio. Blood began pooling next to her face, and she was unconscious. Michael bent down, and tried to help her, to see if she was breathing. He yelled out for help, for someone to call 911, and the sunlight blazed across his back as he knelt over Sophia’s body. He reached over to the chairs and began grabbing the towels to wrap her head in them. When he looked up a moment later, he saw Vivian smiling. A woman formerly expressionless was now frozen in a sinister grin, staring down at him.
“Michael, leave her be and get me a new drink, as that one seems to have spilled.”
“But Vivian, she is hurt, I can’t get you a drink right now, she may die,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks now, his heart beating fast.
“I have treated you well all day Michael, and if you want your beloved tip you will pull yourself together and do as I say immediately.”
Out of nowhere came Mr. Radcliffe, and the other workers, and the EMT personnel. Michael slowly backed away and sunk to the pavement, clutching himself. He couldn’t stop staring as flipped Sophia over, and began using the shock boards on her chest. The taller medical worker put his cheek just in front of her lips, searching for breath. He felt her neck and her wrists for a pulse, and moments later, the EMT stood up from her body.
“I’m sorry, but she is gone,” he said, looking at Michael.
As they wheeled her body away, Vivian rose from her chair, “I think I’ll just take a quick dip in the pool before my spa appointment. Michael, I will expect my drink when I get out.”
“You bitch! You filthy, rotten, horrible woman! You just killed her. You killed her and I saw you do it. I saw you stick out your foot and trip her. I heard the things you said to her and the way you upset her. She was so sad, and she had no one to talk to, and you pushed her over the edge. You are a wretched creature, and you are the one who should never have been brought into the world! You, Vivian Buchanan, you are the one that doesn’t deserve a place at this country club,” Michael screamed at her, arms flailing about, tears streaming down his face until he felt hands on his back. Mr. Radcliffe and the EMT wrapped Michael in a blanket, and walked him into the club.
Once seated inside, Mr. Radcliffe knelt down in front of Michael, as Michael continued to sob.
“Listen son, I know that what you just saw was a horrible, terrible thing, and I want you to know that nobody blames you. Mrs. Dusterfeld’s death was a tragedy, and a horrible accident. I have called your mom to come and get you, and I plan to pay you for the rest of the month, but please take the time off and relax. Try to do something fun and enjoy yourself, and when you are ready, you can come back to work. I promise you that when you return, Ms. Buchanan will not be here anymore.
“But, Mr. Radcliffe, how….”
“Don’t worry about that part of things, Michael, I will take care of everything. You are a good boy, and you have done a good job.”
“Ok, Mr. Radcliffe, I understand.”
“I knew you would.”
***********************************************************
As Vivian broke through the surface of the water, she noticed a shadow above her. She knew that Michael was a good boy, and he would turn around in the end and bring her the drink she had asked for. After all, she was sure he needed the money, all young boys needed money. When she rose from the water there was Norman, towering above her, arms folded across his chest with four police officers surrounding him.
“Hello Vivian.”
“Norman?”
“Yes, Vivian, these police officers are here to speak with you.”
“With me, but why,” she questioned.
“You and I both know why, so please stop causing a scene and follow them outside.”
As Vivian pushed herself from the water the officers surrounded her on all sides, shielding her from the onlookers around the pool. A man held each arm, and two others followed in front of and behind her as they walked her through the club to the cruisers out front. When they arrived at the car, they pulled Vivian’s hands behind her back. When she heard the click of the handcuffs a single tear trickled down her cheek. Norman Radcliffe watched as the cruiser pulled away from the curb. Finally, Vivian had gone too far, finally, the club was his again. When he was sure the car was gone, he picked up the phone. There were a few good men that he wanted to call, starting with Jose Juarez.
Origins
Interrupting peacefulness, a body
is torn open with crimson violence.
Bursting forth she enters the world
sealing up the empty space before her
burning at the edges for the eyes
that bear witness to her frozen stature.
A tiny squeal signals her entry from
the womb and then a meaningful silence.
We rush ahead to bear witness to her
but retreat when her stillness becomes clear.
A tiny miracle. A third from two.
Alive than no more. So what’s it all for?
is torn open with crimson violence.
Bursting forth she enters the world
sealing up the empty space before her
burning at the edges for the eyes
that bear witness to her frozen stature.
A tiny squeal signals her entry from
the womb and then a meaningful silence.
We rush ahead to bear witness to her
but retreat when her stillness becomes clear.
A tiny miracle. A third from two.
Alive than no more. So what’s it all for?
Three Women Made of Dreams
Little girl
With two parents
Each a little
Bit
Peculiar
Little lady
Who wanted more
Than her sickness
Could
Afford her
Little Princess
Mini beauty
Swathed in dreams
Of
Fantasy
Little vixen
Knew her strength
Was not found
In
Reality
So there she was
This virgin beaut
Alone in chains
Of
Destiny
And as she grew
Into her own
She was not
Made
Like you and me
Or was she?
What life did she
This little miss
Offer to
The
Men she met
But one of truth
Beguiling bliss
And promise
Of
Blue Wonderment
Left to roam
The world alone
After mum
Went
To the graveyard
Amelie
Was by herself
Yet only
When
Forced to Face Them
The people
That would never
Understand
What
Lie deep within her
This woman
Alone in her
Perfect world
Her
Daddy by her side
Young woman
Emerging to
The world of
Death
And ugly crime
Wants only
To be given
The same chance
As
Other children
She wants to
Make sure they are
Given the chance
That
She never had
Unfortunate
Souls of the world
She will rescue
You
With her charms
If only
To show that she’s
More than the
Girl
Her surface implies
Three women
So different yet
So much the same
Born
Into cruel worlds
Snow white and
Cinderella and
Amelie were
Girls
Trapped by what was
Seen of them
On the surface
While hoping
For
An opportunity
To break free
To shatter the
Façade of
Girl
In femininity
To kill off
The damsels in
Distress then
Sigh
And just to be.
With two parents
Each a little
Bit
Peculiar
Little lady
Who wanted more
Than her sickness
Could
Afford her
Little Princess
Mini beauty
Swathed in dreams
Of
Fantasy
Little vixen
Knew her strength
Was not found
In
Reality
So there she was
This virgin beaut
Alone in chains
Of
Destiny
And as she grew
Into her own
She was not
Made
Like you and me
Or was she?
What life did she
This little miss
Offer to
The
Men she met
But one of truth
Beguiling bliss
And promise
Of
Blue Wonderment
Left to roam
The world alone
After mum
Went
To the graveyard
Amelie
Was by herself
Yet only
When
Forced to Face Them
The people
That would never
Understand
What
Lie deep within her
This woman
Alone in her
Perfect world
Her
Daddy by her side
Young woman
Emerging to
The world of
Death
And ugly crime
Wants only
To be given
The same chance
As
Other children
She wants to
Make sure they are
Given the chance
That
She never had
Unfortunate
Souls of the world
She will rescue
You
With her charms
If only
To show that she’s
More than the
Girl
Her surface implies
Three women
So different yet
So much the same
Born
Into cruel worlds
Snow white and
Cinderella and
Amelie were
Girls
Trapped by what was
Seen of them
On the surface
While hoping
For
An opportunity
To break free
To shatter the
Façade of
Girl
In femininity
To kill off
The damsels in
Distress then
Sigh
And just to be.
Trauma Post
When will I find myself? After the pain?
I hope for better days, after the pain.
Grieving in darkness, I seek out your hand,
A warm embrace in bed, after the pain.
When your hand struck a shadow on my face
My heart was drenched in ice, after the pain.
Blue light in the distance (perhaps partners
red). I dream of you still, after the pain.
Who am I now, in light of all these things?
What you made me, and more. After the pain.
I hope for better days, after the pain.
Grieving in darkness, I seek out your hand,
A warm embrace in bed, after the pain.
When your hand struck a shadow on my face
My heart was drenched in ice, after the pain.
Blue light in the distance (perhaps partners
red). I dream of you still, after the pain.
Who am I now, in light of all these things?
What you made me, and more. After the pain.
Interrupted Flow
Interrupted Flow
Set me free, I pray
empty. You will not go
forth and leave me today.
Solemn, sick, and frail,
my emotions flow…
still I’m without a way
to push you from me.
The sun it grows low
above us not a ray
shines forth to break the gray
day. What we both know
continues to weigh
on minds that don’t say
what our eyes clearly show.
Yet we struggle with frays
holding others at bay
with false smiles. We pay
in time, launching blows.
Still you won’t go.
Coming In & Getting Off
I am a simple man. Always have been. I put my pants on one leg at a time. I wear a hat when it’s cold. I eat a well-balanced diet and I don’t play contact sports. I lived with my mom until I was thirty-five, when my wife and I got together. We got married in my uncle’s backyard beneath the big old weeping willow six months after we first met.
One day, I was working at the Winn Dixie in
“That’ll be $4.53,” I said, handing her the bag.
She smiled and pulled the money out of her pocket. It was two one-dollar bills and a big pile of change. After dropping it on my counter she began ruffling through it, looking puzzled. I pulled out the quarters first, then the dimes and nickels, and brought us up to $4.40, but when I counted out the pennies there were only eleven.
“Two cents short,” I told her, pushing the change off the counter and into my hand.
She looked around the store a bit shyly and leaned into me real close. I could smell the coconut shampoo in her hair, and the mint of her chewing gum.
“Well, that seems to be all I got,” she said, twirling her hair on her finger.
“Any chance you might wanna lend me two pennies, I sure would be grateful,” she smiled.
I smiled back at her, suddenly feeling warm and even more nervous. Well I certainly could see that this pretty lady was in need of those Tampax, and I sure would have hated to be the one that denied her, so I told her it was no problemo, I sure could throw in a couple of spare cents for her.
Before I could say anything she threw her lean legs over the counter and was standing behind the register with me. She wrapped her arms around me, and I would be lying if I told you that with those round bosoms pushed against my chest I didn’t feel a bit of excitement down below. She asked me my name, and when I told her it was Joe Lewis she seemed pleased.
“Well Joe Lewis, I am gonna marry you,” she whispered, “What do you think about that?” I just never found a compelling reason to tell her no.
So, Marly Jo and I got married under that big old weeping willow in my Uncle Charlie’s yard and then she took me back to her parents place to consummate the event. They were out of town visiting her brother, so we had the place to ourselves. I’m telling you, she did things to me that afternoon changed my life. After Marly Jo and I got together I realized that there was something more for me and I stopped working at Winn Dixie.
Marly Jo and I bought a little trailer and moved down to the trailer park. She didn’t want to stay there, she wanted a proper house, but for a time it was all we could afford. She bought tulips to plant out front, and I found a new job at the sperm bank. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it was interesting, and it paid much better than Winn Dixie.
Marly Jo wasn’t excited about me working down at the sperm bank. She worried that the lonely wives would flirt with me while their husbands were out back trying to make a squirt, but when she saw how big my paycheck was she decided it was all right. Soon Marly Jo and I were going strong, we expanded our trailer, and it looked like a proper ranch home. We also started expanding the size of our family, as Marly Jo’s belly swelled and our first baby came into the world.
All the while I worked hard down at the sperm bank. I gave people their forms to fill out when they came in. I reviewed their paperwork and filed it. I took them into the donor rooms and got them set up with everything they needed. Some guys needed movies and magazines, or music. Others wanted complete silence. Others still wanted something to eat, certain brands of lotion, or warm towels. All of these things I gave them or let them have.
The remaining few wanted to bring their wives in with them.
Though you might think that couples would be the exception at a sperm bank, it was actually pretty common to have them there. I can’t imagine their difficulties because Marly Jo and I never had struggles with this at all, but some couples want a baby and just can’t seem to make one on their own. These couples would come into the bank and he would give the sperm to us, then, later, after we tested them to make sure they were a-o-k for making a baby, the doctor would bring in the wife and put the sperm inside of her. It was her own husband’s sperm; we were just helping the little crawlers along is all.
Over my years at the clinic I watched them all coming in. These couples, hesitant and hopeful, nervous and expectant. In through the door, and out to the back to begin the process of getting off. In the beginning, I was nice to all them couples, but I tried hard not to think about why they were there, or what they were doing behind the solid white door that separated me from them. Later though, I began to imagine what they were doing back there.
I want to make clear that I didn’t imagine those men that were alone, I only imagined the couples, and what it must be like trying to get off in that sterile room. Knowing other people had been in there only 30 minutes ago, doing the same thing in a different way, but with the same goal in sight. When I thought about it I used to get a little warm below the belt, almost the way Marly Jo made me feel when she came close, stroking the back of my neck with those manicured nails the way she did when she wanted to make love.
The same day our own child came, a couple I knew well found out that they were finally pregnant. They had been coming into the clinic for a few years, and hadn’t been blessed with any luck up until this point. I remember this specifically because they were a couple who argued frequently in my lobby, and I often had to put them into a room just to keep them from alarming the other guests. There was always a bit of an argument about whose fault it was that they couldn’t get pregnant, he believing his sperm was fine, and her believing her own eggs ripe for the picking.
In the end they would go back into that room and do what needed to be done, her coming back the following week to have the sperm inserted. It still baffles to me this day that between the two of them they couldn’t just get the sperm inserted themselves, but I am not in the business of judging other people.
I guess what really gets me about their situation is that the following week after their last big argument she came in on her own. She was in with the doctor for a full hour and when she brought me her invoice it was for an “insemination procedure.” She paid and left, only to return the following day with her husband. Upon leaving, she handed me an invoice identical to the one she had given me the following day.
I didn’t ask any questions, but I looked her up and down with curiosity. I knew full-well that the husband only had one tub of sperm on file, and there was no way they got two inseminations out of it. Later, when my little Betty was born and this couple came out all smiles about their pregnancy I didn’t have the heart to ruin their happiness no matter how bad the rat smelled. I was happy, so why shouldn’t this couple be happy too? But happiness never lasts as long as we think it will.
A few months later (four months to be exact) Marly Jo and I realized that something was wrong with our little Betty. She had stopped advancing. She should have been sitting up on her own, but she only lay there, stumbling over her self whenever she tried to move. We took her to Doctor Robbins, and he told us that Betty might only live another week due to an unusual illness that cause infant death.
We buried Betty under the old weeping willow. The life went out of Marly Jo that day, and her golden hair turned a dull gray. Where she used to whisper and laugh with me, she only stared blankly around the house and sat silently smoking cigarette after cigarette until the sun went down and she could go back to bed. I kept up my job at the sperm bank, but never wanted to think about sex, or having children, or getting off at all.
About a year after Betty died I sat down at the table to read the paper and drink my coffee. Under the community section, there were the death notices. Marly Jo used to yell at me for reading them, she thinking it wasn’t right to be so fascinated with death, but she had given up on that after our baby went to rest. The first notice was that of a three month old who died suddenly of a rare disease. In reading the notice, it came clear to me that this was the baby of the very couple who had gotten pregnant on my daughter’s birth day.
Now I am not trying to be coy here, but there was something unsettling about that report. A baby, died of the very same rare disease as my baby, and the parents having made that baby at my very own sperm bank. I walked out into the den where Marly Jo sat smoking and held the paper out to her. After reading it, a look of fear came over her face and a tear came down her cheek. I never saw Marly Jo cry, not even when little Betty died. Not even when we got married, or when she cut her hand on a broken glass. But this time she cried. It was a downright sob, but I didn’t have the heart to hold her no more.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
A Bleb Once Told Me That People Like to Talk About Themselves
I guess this explains why I started a blog.
This is a community, isn't it everyone's snow?
I love New England. As much as I love the sun & the beach, I've been in Massachusetts my entire life, and I love it here. The spring, the fall, the summer, and even the....gulp....winter (sort of).
What I love about spring, summer, and fall are probably obvious. Flowers, and sunshine, the beach and the ocean, the foliage. What I love about the winter is less so. Sure, there's the first snowfall, there is hot cocoa, and there are adorable activities like snow angels and sledding. There's skiing, and there's tubing. There are cozy days by the fire, during which you don't need to feel bad when you do nothing but snuggle under a blanket all day long.
There are a fair amount of wonderful things about every season in my locale, but, when you live in New England, there are a fair amount of things not to enjoy about the winter.
First off, there are the resident "massholes" who take to extreme and obnoxious behavior. This is a year-round thing, but seems to intensify during the winter months. I notice this more than some others might, for in addition to driving to work, I have a dog that I walk the Cambridge Streets.
It begins when the cold arrives, and folks need to bundle up excessively just to walk down the road. The wind is brisk, and there is a chill down to the bone. Once folks break out the full winter gear, hat, scarves, gloves, hoods, parkas, etc, they reach a new level of rude. Perhaps this is due to the fact that with all that gear they feel more like knights or soldiers. So, they decide it's a good idea to throw everything they have ever been taught about manners out the window.
These cold-weather-crusaders take it upon themselves to cut other people off on the sidewalk, and to cut cars off so they can cross the street. They put their heads down and mumble insults at one another. Joe criticizes Bob for being in too much of a rush, failing to notice that his clothes are wet and he's freezing. Jane criticizes Nancy for not dressing her three-year-old warmly enough when walking him to daycare. Everyone becomes a critic, a comic, and a downright masshole. I don't love this element of winter.
As the days grow shorter, and the cold more intense, so do the knights of winter grow more gnarly, hateful, and bold. They become pale, and chapped, and tired looking.
And then comes snow.
We just had our first major snows last week, and I'll say, I love to see the snow falling for the first time every year. It's lovely to watch, and exciting. And it reminds me that I do love all the seasons, even if I am only able to love winter for a few fleeting moments. But once I head to the streets for the shoveling, this all fades away.
First off, I live on a street where parking is at a premium, even during the nicest weather months. Not only this, but the city has refused to see the light and make my road a one-way. This means that when there are cars parked on both sides of the street there is only one lane left in the middle, and I have witnessed many a standoff where two drivers sat bumper-to-bumper, both refusing to back up and let the other pass. Reminder: this is even during the nice-weather months!
The snow falls, and people go haywire. They start driving excessively slow, almost wrecklessly. They head outside to shovel their cars out, and it becomes a war over where to put the snow. Number 47 doesnt want you throwing it in his yard. Number 34 doesn't want it piled to close to his driveway. Number 65 throws his back in the street (which there are laws against, by the way). There are tiny, inept folks shoveling out their cars and sidewalks incessantly, while lookers-by care only about their own snow issues.
You'd think though, this is a community, isn't it everyone's snow?
Think again.
People begin to pull their cars out of spots to leave for greener pastures. Others move their cars further from the snowbanks on the sidewalks. Others just never pulled in correctly in the first place. And the plows can't fit down that skinny lane. And people don't understand why. And the panic sets in. And it all becomes mayhem.
Folks start acting crazy. They put chairs, and recycling bins in their parking spots to ensure that noone else parks in them while they are at the market. Folks move them, and park, with no other options, and return to their cars to find nasty notes, key marks on their paint, or to find that someone was so angry that they paid a person with a plow to snow them in all over again.
Everyone starts looking at everyone else as the person who marginalized or victimized them. Noone will talk to anyone else. The hi's and good mornings have ceased to exist. People watch others try to back into or out of parking spots, and get stuck, and they ignore it. They listen to the wheels spin, and the rubber burn, and they look the other way.
I sit there, wheels spinning. I've stuck cardboard, and pieces of wood under my tires, but I can't get traction. My undercarriage is stuck on a patch of ice that was too thick to break away. I'm a 5'4'' woman. I only have two arms, and two legs. I can't possibly cut the wheel, press the gas pedal, and push my own rear bumper. There are knights walking the streets. Their kamik boots crunching in the snow. Their north face jackets rustling. And they soldier by. Marching in perfect formation.
I am on an island.
This is winter in New England.
This makes me question my continued ability to love, the place I love.
What I love about spring, summer, and fall are probably obvious. Flowers, and sunshine, the beach and the ocean, the foliage. What I love about the winter is less so. Sure, there's the first snowfall, there is hot cocoa, and there are adorable activities like snow angels and sledding. There's skiing, and there's tubing. There are cozy days by the fire, during which you don't need to feel bad when you do nothing but snuggle under a blanket all day long.
There are a fair amount of wonderful things about every season in my locale, but, when you live in New England, there are a fair amount of things not to enjoy about the winter.
First off, there are the resident "massholes" who take to extreme and obnoxious behavior. This is a year-round thing, but seems to intensify during the winter months. I notice this more than some others might, for in addition to driving to work, I have a dog that I walk the Cambridge Streets.
It begins when the cold arrives, and folks need to bundle up excessively just to walk down the road. The wind is brisk, and there is a chill down to the bone. Once folks break out the full winter gear, hat, scarves, gloves, hoods, parkas, etc, they reach a new level of rude. Perhaps this is due to the fact that with all that gear they feel more like knights or soldiers. So, they decide it's a good idea to throw everything they have ever been taught about manners out the window.
These cold-weather-crusaders take it upon themselves to cut other people off on the sidewalk, and to cut cars off so they can cross the street. They put their heads down and mumble insults at one another. Joe criticizes Bob for being in too much of a rush, failing to notice that his clothes are wet and he's freezing. Jane criticizes Nancy for not dressing her three-year-old warmly enough when walking him to daycare. Everyone becomes a critic, a comic, and a downright masshole. I don't love this element of winter.
As the days grow shorter, and the cold more intense, so do the knights of winter grow more gnarly, hateful, and bold. They become pale, and chapped, and tired looking.
And then comes snow.
We just had our first major snows last week, and I'll say, I love to see the snow falling for the first time every year. It's lovely to watch, and exciting. And it reminds me that I do love all the seasons, even if I am only able to love winter for a few fleeting moments. But once I head to the streets for the shoveling, this all fades away.
First off, I live on a street where parking is at a premium, even during the nicest weather months. Not only this, but the city has refused to see the light and make my road a one-way. This means that when there are cars parked on both sides of the street there is only one lane left in the middle, and I have witnessed many a standoff where two drivers sat bumper-to-bumper, both refusing to back up and let the other pass. Reminder: this is even during the nice-weather months!
The snow falls, and people go haywire. They start driving excessively slow, almost wrecklessly. They head outside to shovel their cars out, and it becomes a war over where to put the snow. Number 47 doesnt want you throwing it in his yard. Number 34 doesn't want it piled to close to his driveway. Number 65 throws his back in the street (which there are laws against, by the way). There are tiny, inept folks shoveling out their cars and sidewalks incessantly, while lookers-by care only about their own snow issues.
You'd think though, this is a community, isn't it everyone's snow?
Think again.
People begin to pull their cars out of spots to leave for greener pastures. Others move their cars further from the snowbanks on the sidewalks. Others just never pulled in correctly in the first place. And the plows can't fit down that skinny lane. And people don't understand why. And the panic sets in. And it all becomes mayhem.
Folks start acting crazy. They put chairs, and recycling bins in their parking spots to ensure that noone else parks in them while they are at the market. Folks move them, and park, with no other options, and return to their cars to find nasty notes, key marks on their paint, or to find that someone was so angry that they paid a person with a plow to snow them in all over again.
Everyone starts looking at everyone else as the person who marginalized or victimized them. Noone will talk to anyone else. The hi's and good mornings have ceased to exist. People watch others try to back into or out of parking spots, and get stuck, and they ignore it. They listen to the wheels spin, and the rubber burn, and they look the other way.
I sit there, wheels spinning. I've stuck cardboard, and pieces of wood under my tires, but I can't get traction. My undercarriage is stuck on a patch of ice that was too thick to break away. I'm a 5'4'' woman. I only have two arms, and two legs. I can't possibly cut the wheel, press the gas pedal, and push my own rear bumper. There are knights walking the streets. Their kamik boots crunching in the snow. Their north face jackets rustling. And they soldier by. Marching in perfect formation.
I am on an island.
This is winter in New England.
This makes me question my continued ability to love, the place I love.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
COMING SOON!
-The Morning Big Mac!
-The RUSH to make a left!
-Fresh City & Express Clothing!
-My dog is a lesbian!
-The RUSH to make a left!
-Fresh City & Express Clothing!
-My dog is a lesbian!
The Leather Backpack
There are some inventions, that when you think about them, you say "I'd like to shake that guys hand" about the person who came up with it. For example, the guy who invented the nacho, and the woman who invented gloves and shoes. There are others that give you a less-positive reaction. The leather backpack is one of those.
I'd like to start off by saying that I didnt feel it would be fair for me to call out the leather backpack for it's lack of coolness without first looking it up on the wikipedia so that I knew a bit more about it's origins. Amazingly enough, I discovered that there is a lot more air time for the regular backpack then for the leather one, and there is some irony to that.
First, the wikipedia describes a backpack as "a handbag for carrying heavy loads" and then goes on to explain that in ancient times, the backpack was first used to carry a hunters larger game and prey. Therein lies the irony of the leather backpack: It's SICK to use the skin of one animal to carry another, no? I mean, in ancient times they had to make due with what they had but still...as my main squeeze would say, it's similar to the idea of making a chicken omelet.
Okay, so anyway, aside from the history, and the irony, my strong dislike of the leather backpack truly stems from both a) it's ugly appearance and b) the likelihood that it is too small to really hold much weight and c) the fact that functionally, our arms don't go that way, and its crazy to carry your valuables on your back where thieves can reach them and you can't!
So, while I can understand that hunters might have found it convenient to carry heavy game on their backs, it seems that carrying prey on their backs likely caused an unsubstantiated number of ancient hunter deaths when tigers pounced upon them to grab the deer in their backpacks. But whatever...I would like to think we've evolved since then, right? Like, we're smarter. Oh wait, except, we aren't, because we still use backbacks unnecessarily.
Guess what? If you are carrying a leather backpack, and it's smaller than the purses of most of the women in your general vicinity, then you are making a serious mistake. Not only is it a fashion faux-pas, but it's also generally retarded. And no, I don't care if it's a Louis Vuitton. Spending a thousand bucks on a tiny leather backpack that can't hold much of anything just so you can show off the label to predators is like tattooing a target on your own forehead. For real.
At this point I guess this has become more of a rant than a blog. But it is food for thought. There are MANY inventions, and inventors that deserve props. I can appreciate the backpack for the hunter, the gatherer, and the nomad. I can even appreciate the backpack for the hiker, and the student. You know, the type of person who is actually carrying heavy stuff that requires the use of the strongest muscles in the body (the back and legs, in case you didnt know). But I absolutely cannot, ever, condone the use of a backpack, and a leather one at that, for carrying lip gloss and car keys. Sure, is the thought of not having to use my hands to carry a purse slightly appealing, yes. But guess what? If I've only got lip gloss and keys I can probably get my boyfriend to put them in his coat pocket. And if I've got a few more things, well, I'd likely go for a wristlet, or a clutch. The over-sized clutch is in style right now anyway.
I'd like to start off by saying that I didnt feel it would be fair for me to call out the leather backpack for it's lack of coolness without first looking it up on the wikipedia so that I knew a bit more about it's origins. Amazingly enough, I discovered that there is a lot more air time for the regular backpack then for the leather one, and there is some irony to that.
First, the wikipedia describes a backpack as "a handbag for carrying heavy loads" and then goes on to explain that in ancient times, the backpack was first used to carry a hunters larger game and prey. Therein lies the irony of the leather backpack: It's SICK to use the skin of one animal to carry another, no? I mean, in ancient times they had to make due with what they had but still...as my main squeeze would say, it's similar to the idea of making a chicken omelet.
Okay, so anyway, aside from the history, and the irony, my strong dislike of the leather backpack truly stems from both a) it's ugly appearance and b) the likelihood that it is too small to really hold much weight and c) the fact that functionally, our arms don't go that way, and its crazy to carry your valuables on your back where thieves can reach them and you can't!
So, while I can understand that hunters might have found it convenient to carry heavy game on their backs, it seems that carrying prey on their backs likely caused an unsubstantiated number of ancient hunter deaths when tigers pounced upon them to grab the deer in their backpacks. But whatever...I would like to think we've evolved since then, right? Like, we're smarter. Oh wait, except, we aren't, because we still use backbacks unnecessarily.
Guess what? If you are carrying a leather backpack, and it's smaller than the purses of most of the women in your general vicinity, then you are making a serious mistake. Not only is it a fashion faux-pas, but it's also generally retarded. And no, I don't care if it's a Louis Vuitton. Spending a thousand bucks on a tiny leather backpack that can't hold much of anything just so you can show off the label to predators is like tattooing a target on your own forehead. For real.
At this point I guess this has become more of a rant than a blog. But it is food for thought. There are MANY inventions, and inventors that deserve props. I can appreciate the backpack for the hunter, the gatherer, and the nomad. I can even appreciate the backpack for the hiker, and the student. You know, the type of person who is actually carrying heavy stuff that requires the use of the strongest muscles in the body (the back and legs, in case you didnt know). But I absolutely cannot, ever, condone the use of a backpack, and a leather one at that, for carrying lip gloss and car keys. Sure, is the thought of not having to use my hands to carry a purse slightly appealing, yes. But guess what? If I've only got lip gloss and keys I can probably get my boyfriend to put them in his coat pocket. And if I've got a few more things, well, I'd likely go for a wristlet, or a clutch. The over-sized clutch is in style right now anyway.
Monday, November 24, 2008
A Vat of Stuffing
I am dreaming about making a giant vat of stuffing.
Crawling into it.
And not emerging until it's empty.
The difficulty in this?
I do not have a turkey or an oven large enough.
To hold the massive amounts of stuffing that I am envisioning.
So here I sit.
Dreaming of stuffing.
Wondering why I always must wait.
To have it only for a week out of every year.
Thinking it sick, where we stick it.
But I still love to eat it when it comes out.
You cant say that about much.
Ahhh. Stuffing.
The Good Stuff.
Enough.
Crawling into it.
And not emerging until it's empty.
The difficulty in this?
I do not have a turkey or an oven large enough.
To hold the massive amounts of stuffing that I am envisioning.
So here I sit.
Dreaming of stuffing.
Wondering why I always must wait.
To have it only for a week out of every year.
Thinking it sick, where we stick it.
But I still love to eat it when it comes out.
You cant say that about much.
Ahhh. Stuffing.
The Good Stuff.
Enough.
A burnt english muffin is no way to start the week...
I woke up way too early this morning. This is my own fault, as I fell asleep way too early last night, after an afternoon of wine and art and cheese. At any rate.
I got out of bed and turned on the computer, figuring with a little extra time this morning I might as well give my little 'ole blog a bit of attention. So, I made some coffee, took my multivitamin, and put an english muffin on to toast. Unfortunately, I got involved in a little game of fashion wars on facebook, and unfortunately my muffin got a bit too toasty.
After realizing that the smell of burnt whole wheat english muffin was wafting through my house, I also realized that I was NAUSEOUS. Not from the over-cooked muffin, but from the multivitamin. Those damn things always make me sick if I take them on an empty stomach, and even more so on occasions when I start drinking my coffee before eating something. I guess I should consider that crystal light, coffee, and a multivitamin MIGHT make me sick, but when it's early and I'm a bit groggy I dont always think of this stuff.
Ok, so I take my well-done english muffin out of the toaster (by the way, the package tells me that the whole wheat variety I bought will supply me with 1/3 of my total fiber for the day), and begin pacing the kitchen, wondering what condiment will best disguise the taste of burnt fiber so that I can still eat it in order to make myself feel less pukey. Of course, these things only happen when it's the last english muffin in the pack, which of course this was, and when I really need to eat something, which I did.
I consider my options. Butter, jelly, cream cheese. Any of them could work, I suppose. But I'm kind of having trouble thinking still because I only had a few sips of coffee, and I feel so sick that it's hard to think of anything except my nausea. I settle on peanut butter, figuring that even if it still doesnt taste good, I can be pretty sure that by putting enough on it will be sufficient to coat my stomach long enough to digest the multivitamin so that I don't barf it up.
Well, this tactic worked. I had to fight my dog off while eating it, as she LOVES peanut butter (she takes after her mom), and to eat it as fast as possible the whole time willing it to hurry on it's merry way down to my stomach where it can work it's magic. Finally, 10-15 minutes later I felt better.
So, here I am. It's Monday morning. It's a short workweek, and will be a big week of eating all of my favorite foods for thanksgiving. Which is the bright side of a dark beginning. I still question why I want to take the magic 'multivitamin', which is supposed to help my overall health, but only ever seems to succeed in making me nauseous, or changing the color of my pee. Sometimes I think I should go back to the old days when people didnt rely on things like vitamins, and aspirin to heal their pains, and protect them. They simply worked, and ate, and were thankful for whatever they had.
I got out of bed and turned on the computer, figuring with a little extra time this morning I might as well give my little 'ole blog a bit of attention. So, I made some coffee, took my multivitamin, and put an english muffin on to toast. Unfortunately, I got involved in a little game of fashion wars on facebook, and unfortunately my muffin got a bit too toasty.
After realizing that the smell of burnt whole wheat english muffin was wafting through my house, I also realized that I was NAUSEOUS. Not from the over-cooked muffin, but from the multivitamin. Those damn things always make me sick if I take them on an empty stomach, and even more so on occasions when I start drinking my coffee before eating something. I guess I should consider that crystal light, coffee, and a multivitamin MIGHT make me sick, but when it's early and I'm a bit groggy I dont always think of this stuff.
Ok, so I take my well-done english muffin out of the toaster (by the way, the package tells me that the whole wheat variety I bought will supply me with 1/3 of my total fiber for the day), and begin pacing the kitchen, wondering what condiment will best disguise the taste of burnt fiber so that I can still eat it in order to make myself feel less pukey. Of course, these things only happen when it's the last english muffin in the pack, which of course this was, and when I really need to eat something, which I did.
I consider my options. Butter, jelly, cream cheese. Any of them could work, I suppose. But I'm kind of having trouble thinking still because I only had a few sips of coffee, and I feel so sick that it's hard to think of anything except my nausea. I settle on peanut butter, figuring that even if it still doesnt taste good, I can be pretty sure that by putting enough on it will be sufficient to coat my stomach long enough to digest the multivitamin so that I don't barf it up.
Well, this tactic worked. I had to fight my dog off while eating it, as she LOVES peanut butter (she takes after her mom), and to eat it as fast as possible the whole time willing it to hurry on it's merry way down to my stomach where it can work it's magic. Finally, 10-15 minutes later I felt better.
So, here I am. It's Monday morning. It's a short workweek, and will be a big week of eating all of my favorite foods for thanksgiving. Which is the bright side of a dark beginning. I still question why I want to take the magic 'multivitamin', which is supposed to help my overall health, but only ever seems to succeed in making me nauseous, or changing the color of my pee. Sometimes I think I should go back to the old days when people didnt rely on things like vitamins, and aspirin to heal their pains, and protect them. They simply worked, and ate, and were thankful for whatever they had.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Bright Sunshiny Day
Today I wasted a bit of time on a little social networking site called Facebook. Okay, it was more than a little time, and the sites kind of big, I admit.
At any rate, a friend of mine joined a group of people who are "fans of the sun". I am a fan of the sun, that's for sure. But this made me think, do people exist who aren't fans of the sun (I mean, other than albinos and people who work nights?)? It also made me think about this new phenomenon of Seasonal Affective Disorder. All of this seems very timely considering that it's 4:00 PM and the sun is already headed to bed for today.
First things first. You need to understand that I LOVE the sun. I would even say that I love it to a point that borders on addiction. I am the granddaughter of a woman who was known to partake in visits to electric beach, even after having chunks of skin removed for melanoma, and while I hesitate to say that its "hereditary" I do think that there is something in my genes that makes me NEED the sun in a way that some others don't.
I have been tanning since I was a babe. My mother used to take me to the beach with her friends and they would slather themselves in baby oil & lay out to bake. My grandmother, her sister, and my great-grandmother all always loved the beach too. And today, my sister and I both love it. We meet in the summers to "lay out"-which is a favorite pass-time. I could hit the beach at 9:00 AM, and hang there until 4:00 without thinking twice about it.
Because we live in New England and the non-beach months are long, we seek out great deals on tanning packages in electric beds, or gym memberships and travel agencies that offer free tans when you buy something. Most of my vacations revolve around the opportunity to go somewhere with more sun than I can get at home. I would rather skip lunch and walk around the block to get just a few moments of sun when its the dead of winter and its dark when I head to the office, and dark again when I come home.
I just love the opportunity to catch some rays-even if it means a wrinkle or two extra, and even if I know it's not entirely "good for me"...but what's "good for me" is a very subjective thing. Do I know excessive sun causes wrinkles, skin cancer, and early aging? YES! But I dont tan EVERY day, and I really dont see that those potential problems outweigh the benefits of tanning for me.
Hitting the beach in the summer, or the tanning bed when I'm stuck inside, or during the times of the year when nights are long improves my mood. It improves my motivation, my stamina, and makes me feel good. I love the healthy glow of my skin with a tan. It gives me added confidence, and the heat of the rays on my skin makes me feel alive.
So do I believe in Seasonal Affective Disorder? Yes, for sure. Do I think we have a genetic disposition to needing the sun? Perhaps. That quickly becomes a nature versus nurture question that I cant answer. I do think that some of us REQUIRE sunlight to function properly, and I know for certain that I am one of those people. I also think that its absolutely splendid that some nice folks on Facebook have created a group to people who love the sun. Because I do LOVE it, and it's a love affair that will never die.
At any rate, a friend of mine joined a group of people who are "fans of the sun". I am a fan of the sun, that's for sure. But this made me think, do people exist who aren't fans of the sun (I mean, other than albinos and people who work nights?)? It also made me think about this new phenomenon of Seasonal Affective Disorder. All of this seems very timely considering that it's 4:00 PM and the sun is already headed to bed for today.
First things first. You need to understand that I LOVE the sun. I would even say that I love it to a point that borders on addiction. I am the granddaughter of a woman who was known to partake in visits to electric beach, even after having chunks of skin removed for melanoma, and while I hesitate to say that its "hereditary" I do think that there is something in my genes that makes me NEED the sun in a way that some others don't.
I have been tanning since I was a babe. My mother used to take me to the beach with her friends and they would slather themselves in baby oil & lay out to bake. My grandmother, her sister, and my great-grandmother all always loved the beach too. And today, my sister and I both love it. We meet in the summers to "lay out"-which is a favorite pass-time. I could hit the beach at 9:00 AM, and hang there until 4:00 without thinking twice about it.
Because we live in New England and the non-beach months are long, we seek out great deals on tanning packages in electric beds, or gym memberships and travel agencies that offer free tans when you buy something. Most of my vacations revolve around the opportunity to go somewhere with more sun than I can get at home. I would rather skip lunch and walk around the block to get just a few moments of sun when its the dead of winter and its dark when I head to the office, and dark again when I come home.
I just love the opportunity to catch some rays-even if it means a wrinkle or two extra, and even if I know it's not entirely "good for me"...but what's "good for me" is a very subjective thing. Do I know excessive sun causes wrinkles, skin cancer, and early aging? YES! But I dont tan EVERY day, and I really dont see that those potential problems outweigh the benefits of tanning for me.
Hitting the beach in the summer, or the tanning bed when I'm stuck inside, or during the times of the year when nights are long improves my mood. It improves my motivation, my stamina, and makes me feel good. I love the healthy glow of my skin with a tan. It gives me added confidence, and the heat of the rays on my skin makes me feel alive.
So do I believe in Seasonal Affective Disorder? Yes, for sure. Do I think we have a genetic disposition to needing the sun? Perhaps. That quickly becomes a nature versus nurture question that I cant answer. I do think that some of us REQUIRE sunlight to function properly, and I know for certain that I am one of those people. I also think that its absolutely splendid that some nice folks on Facebook have created a group to people who love the sun. Because I do LOVE it, and it's a love affair that will never die.
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