Garden

I haven't posted anything from my novel for a while, I heard some stories about content being stolen from blogs and it scared me off a little. But not much can be taken from these little snippets so here it goes again. To catch you up: Grey's spirit is now visiting a woman named Gwen.

The ladies named Rachel and Carmen arrived at ten o’clock sharp with the ring of the doorbell. They looked like they belonged behind the makeup counters at Bloomingdales. They were so perfectly done up and clothes so achingly fashionable that I thought surely this can’t be real. There was much kissing of the cheeks, and barely-touching hugs as greetings. They wasted no time finishing making the Bloody Mary’s and moving to the deck outside to sit under the umbrella. They settled themselves and began talking in the manner in which very old friends do. They were comfortable and relaxed with each other. The variety of topics they covered and at lightning speed left my mind reeling. Rachel’s daughter’s dance class, Gwen’s house-hunting plans, and Carmen’s post surgery infection (which I gathered was breast implants not only by the look of them, but the motions she made towards the underside of her breast. I shuddered inside when she mentioned a tube). I watched their perfectly colored lips speaking and their hand gestures which seemed much too clique. After what seemed like hours they finally asked Gwen where the flowers and tools were. My surprise that they were actually going to plant flowers instead of drink all day didn’t last long when I watched them perch primly on little foam knee pads and plant four small flowers in a bed, then stand up and grab their drinks and talk some more. And if they weren’t taking a break Gwen was making more drinks inside.


“So Rick has this fantasy for us to have sex at someone else’s house during a cocktail party,” Carmen said while stirring her drink with her celery and rolling her eyes. Now I was listening. And taking the opportunity to check out her body as Gwen stared long at her.

“Oh my god – why?” Rachel said, laughing.

“He says it would really turn him on.” Carmen shrugged.

“Well you are NOT doing it at my house on the 29th! I could never look at my bathrooms the same, wondering which one you were in.” Rachel screeched with laughter.

“Ick. Why would it be in a bathroom? I was thinking in a guest bedroom or something.”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said, looking puzzled. “I just assumed that’s where one would have sex in someone else’s house.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Carmen said. “Gwen – what do you think? Should I do it?”

Gwen was looking away at this point and planting another flower half-heartedly. There was a pause as she pulled off her gardening gloves and looked up at them.

“At Rachel’s house? Absolutely.”

Rachel shrieked again and pretended she was going to throw her celery at Gwen. They must have decided that was enough gardening for the day because Carmen and Rachel turned and went back up on the deck laughing and swaying in their Christian Louboutins. Suddenly I was sidelined by a strong emotion from within Gwen. She had stopped and was standing stiffly, staring at the new flower in the ground. I couldn’t be sure but it felt like sadness, but as her gaze moved up towards her friends it hit me and was recognizable: jealously.

The Bloody Mary ladies stayed a little while longer and the talk was never dull. I felt like I had been given a back stage pass to Estrogenville, and there was a 3 drink minimum. I learned things that I had always wanted to know about women, and a few things I never wanted to know. When Carmen and Rachel left, Gwen wandered around the house with the enthusiasm of a death row inmate. She went from room to room, slowly running her hands over the furniture, taking in each room, but I could tell by her slow and steady stare that she wasn’t really seeing anything. I felt uncomfortable and like something was about to happen but I had no idea what. Her mind felt blank to me. I felt nothing. No emotions. She ended up in the master bathroom and opened up a silk box on the counter and retrieved a prescription pill bottle. The label was turned around in her hand and I could not see what the medication was. She slowly and methodically took one pill with water and then placed the bottle back precisely where it had been inside the fancy box. That one pill had more foreboding with it than if she had taken a whole bottle full. I knew there was more to Gwen than met the eye.

Silent Witness of You

You know the saying, “If these walls could talk”? Well, what if your car could talk? If you’ve had your car for a while, it has gone through a lot with you. And I’m not only talking about the places it has taken you, but how it has witnessed you in many stages of life (let’s pretend your car is a living entity for the sake of discussion).


Your car has seen you belting out your favorite songs at full volume, in the relative privacy, singing your heart out until your throat was even a little sore at the end of the ride. It has heard you play the song of the moment over and over until you got so tired of it you didn’t play it again for months. Your car has watched you cry and grip the wheel tightly as you struggled with life issues like divorce, loneliness, and death. It was there when you prayed out loud to God to get you home safely during a blizzard when the Interstate was shut down and you limped along on a back road, scared that any moment you would go off the road.

Your car has been there during the good times too. When you and your girlfriends went out on the town, applying lip gloss in its mirrors, laughing, and opening the moon roof to glimpse the night sky. It has been there when you and your best friend talked about things that you only talk about to each other. It has seen many a Christmas present be loaded into it to make the trek home; filled to the brim with excitement for the days to come.

It has seen you at your best, dressed in a suit and leaving from a job interview that you knew you nailed. Grinning, rolling down the windows and letting the summer air slip through your fingers, feeling like nothing could be bad in the world. Conversely it has seen you at your worst – breaking down and crying because the evening commute turned into 2 hours due to snow and accidents, and on top of your day at work, and other frustrations, you just can’t take it anymore.

How many different versions of yourself has your car witnessed? If it could talk it might say it knows you better than anyone because it has seen you unfiltered, raw and true.

If your car could talk, what would it say?

On a Date - With Your Cocktail

You are at a new restaurant. You order your typical drink. Or maybe you try a drink you don't usually get, just because you feel like mixing it up.

Have you ever noticed that when we take our first sip of a drink, we pull back, and stare directly into the drink as we assess it's worthiness? Even as we speak, we can't pull our eyes from the drink. Your companion asks, "Is it okay?"  And you study the drink and contemplate its flavor and concoction and maybe nod a little bit while licking your lips, all the while looking into the depths of the icy cold glass.

It's as if you are saying to your drink, "Hello. I think I like you. But you are different than I'm used to. My usual bartender is heavier on the cranberry in this drink, and lighter on the lemon. But just give me a minute. . . . . yes, yes, I can see how that would be, mm-hmm, interesting. I'm willing to get to know you better, let's move forward." And if you really like your new friend, your hand rarely leaves the stem of the glass. As if holding hands while you stroll down the street. "I won't let go, until the end!" You say to your Cosmo as lovingly as Rose did to Jack in Titanic.

But if it goes badly . . . . if the bartender butchers your drink beyond recognition . . . .it's more something like this: "Is it okay?" companion asks. You grimace and pucker your lips, staring at the beautiful thing in the glass that suddenly has turned ugly. How could it be so two-faced? "Oh. No. No. It's. . . I don't know, it's . . . . oh it's just NOT RIGHT. This is NOT OKAY. Who would do this to a Vodka Tonic? I mean, it's just WRONG." You withdrawal your hand and you push the glass further onto the table, away from you. "It's not going to work out," you say. "I'm just not that into you."

Mad Men, the 80's, and Now

I recently started watching Mad Men. And like a good little NetFlix-er, I started from the beginning with the first season.
First of all - freakin, frackin, LOVE it. 

Second, it has me thinking about the workplace and how far women have come in their careers, earning respect, and creating equality. But the series stands out SO much from today's standards (obviously) that it makes me wonder if we are getting close to the end of the spectrum. We have men calling women 'sweetheart' and 'honey' in Mad Men; treating them as if they don't have a brain in their head, as if the ONLY job they could ever do was a secretary job. Christmas was called Christmas, parties were called parties, people said off-color things and everything was okay the next day at work. There were fist-fights in the office, and it was probably sometimes the best way to handle a disagreement.

Now things are the opposite. And with GOOD reason on most issues. But the hyper-politically correct society we live in starts to bother me sometimes. We are ever so easily offended. We must watch our words in the office, our beliefs, our opinions, lest we hurt someone's feelings. Christmas in the office becomes a 'Holiday' or just a 'Get Together'. I'm not saying I don't understand the reasoning for why we are the way we are now, but are we going just a bit too far? Mad Men standards were too loose, now we might be too tight. Is there a middle ground? Was it the 80's?

What will the workplace be like in 20 years? 

The Grinch's Dog?

  

 

A Day in a Dog's Mind - Part II

12:10pm: She made me put on the weird strappy thing that goes under my front legs, around my chest, and on which she clips The Restrainer. Oh I hate The Restrainer. It always keeps me several feet from her and I can't run like I want to or do what I want. I am over a year old now. I can go on my own. I can run ahead of her and see what's up ahead. Although, . . . . this one street is kind of scary, what with the towering Great Dane that yells obscenitys at me every time, and the yard that smells like death. She tells people 'Kaiya is a little timid'. I don't know what this means. Not sure it is a compliment. I know what compliments sound like: "awww, pretty girl!, pretty Husky! beautiful dog!" I like these sounds and when I hear them I'm sure to curl my tail extra tight in the way it looks good. But timid I don't know. Maybe it means hunter?

12:20pm: Ah fluff, we are going down the scary street. I know his house. It's on the right and I can smell him. He smells icky. He hears my jingly collar and starts yelling at me. I didn't even do anything to him. Seriously, I don't even know him. Why does he hate me? I can't repeat the things he yells at me. But I know one thing - he doesn't want me in his yard or house. I hurry by.

12:30pm: I smell something! Something I smell! What is it? What is it? What is it? It's right here! No, here. No, wait here. Or maybe over here. Wait! I smell something! She always rushes me.

12:40pm: Small terrier up ahead. It starts calling out to me, "Hi! Hi! Hi there! What's your name? Mine is Cocoa! We don't have much time to talk so please listen! You gotta break me outta here! You just gotta! My owner feeds me organic dog food and it SUCKS. You have no idea! So if you just pull on the fence right over here . . . " But I'm being pulled along by The Restrainer and can't stop to talk or help. I feel for her though - sometimes you just want some junk food like Purina.

12:50pm: We are turning home. I know by the smell and where we are. I'll stop pulling on The Restrainer a bit to give her a break. Tired of hearing her say 'heel'. What a dumb word.

12:55pm: We are walking up to house and, . . . . the pigeons are back! They are on the ground under the tree. I'll get them, let me go! Let me off The Restrainer and you can count on me! I do a special half leap combined with a bark/howl and it's most effective. The pigeons fly away quickly. I am the best hunter ever.

Grace

This is a special post for me. The lyrics to this particular song have always touched something inside me, and while they are quite haunting, I also find such beauty in the words. My extremely talented cousin agreed to sing this song and I paired it with some of my favorite photographs that also resonate with me. This isn't meant to be outwardly morbid, but to marry the images with the words and find the beauty that the two create together. Thank you to Susan for allowing me to share this.

This is dedicated in memory of Tony Ross.