April Aasheim's Blog, page 20

The Quest for Truth

     My stepdaughter asks me how the dinosaurs died? I look at her, wondering if I should tell her the truth.

     "Well," I begin, "some people think that dinosaurs were killed off by an asteroid."

     "What's an asteroid?"

     "It's like a giant rock from outer space."

     She accepts the explanation, but I wonder if I've scared her. "Don't worry," I say, "that happened a long, long time ago. We are safe."

     "It won't happen again?"

     I hate not being honest, but I tell her that I'm absolutely positive it won't happen again.

     She nods okay.

     As adults it's our job to protect children and to preserve their innocence. Sometimes that includes lying.

     We lie about the fun things: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy.

     We lie about reality: I'm not crying. I just got something in my eye.

     We lie about our uncertainty: There are no more asteroids. They died off with the dinosaurs.

     We lie about life: If you stay in school and work hard you will be able to do anything you want

     We lie about death: Goldie went to live with other dogs on a farm. He is very happy there.

     I'm starting to notice these things because she asks me the other day while I'm taking her to the potty if I will always tell her the truth? She's bright for her age and has figured out that adults are sometimes trying to pull the wool over her eyes, even if their intentions are good.

     I swallow, wondering how to answer. I could be really truthful and say 'yes, unless lying is for your protection or to keep your parents from getting upset.' Instead I respond simply,  "yes, I will always tell you the truth."

     "You promise?"

     "I promise."

     She uses her new found power right away. "What's in the boy's bathroom and why can't girls go in there?"

     "Um, potties are in the boy's bathroom and girls can't go in there because there's a 'no girls allowed' rule."

     "I know," she says impatiently. "But why?"

     She looks at me as if she's put me in check. I hedge. "What do you think?"

     "Well," she rolls her eyes to the side, "my friend says she knows."

     "Oh?"

     "Yes, she says its because the boy's bathroom is haunted and girls are more afraid of ghosts. Is that true?"

    As a step-mother my role is nebulous; I'm some kind of strange hybrid between parent and friend. I think about my options: It's not my place to tell her about the differences between boys and girls. It's also not my place to agree that the bathroom could be haunted.

     I kneel down beside her. "That's an interesting idea your friend has. What do you believe?"
    
     She puts a finger to her chin, considering. "Well, I want to believe the bathroom is haunted. That's just more fun."

     "It does sound more fun."

     "Then let's do it. Let's believe that together." She takes my hand and leads me back to her daddy who is waiting for us in our booth.

     "What did you ladies talk about?" my husband asks. My step-daughter and I share a secret smile.

     "Just girl talk," I say.

     "Yeah, girl talk," she echoes back.

     My step-daughter pulls out her dolls. The small doll begins asking the big doll questions: Why are some people mean? Are monsters real? Where does the tooth fairy live?

     The big doll replies, "what do you think?"

     And the small doll answers back, a long happy stream of consciousness. The small doll has lots of ideas about the world and the big doll listens.

    Someday, I may have to keep my promise to always tell the truth, but for now I think I'm safe. For now, I'll just be the one who has her examine the world. Through that, the truth will come.
    



    

Sexy Time with the TV

   
      I returned home one night to find my husband sitting in the living room, leaned in close to the TV. As I walked inside my husband quickly tapped a button on the remote and handed me the controller.

     "What are you doing?" I asked, suspicious.

     "Just turning it to one of the shows I know you like," he said, kissing me on the forehead before heading downstairs to his man cave.

     Before he could make it down the staircase I hit the LAST button on our remote. Just minutes before he had been viewing a show called The Wild Wives of Africa.
   
     "You perv!" I said, following him.

     "What? How am I a perv?"

     "The second I leave the house you're scanning the TV looking for something pervy to watch. I know you didn't watch The Wild Wives of Africa by mistake."

     "I'm not a perv and I didn't watch it."

     "No?"

     "No. It was horrible. Not nearly as good as the title. It's about cheetahs who protect their young. And it was on the Animal Planet network." He shuddered. "Not a wild woman in sight."

     I sighed and stomped upstairs.

     This wasn't the first time I had come home to find 'questionable' programming on our TV. Once I returned to see that he had been watching a movie called Passion in the Desert, a movie advertised as as a 'gripping and erotic tale of forbidden passion'. I watched the movie for several minutes, confused because there were no women in the movie. Finally, I discovered the object of the protagonist's affection: a large, female lion.

     "Really?" I demanded. "You're watching movies about men who fall in love with lions?"

     "Is that what that was about? I got bored after thirty minutes of watching the guy run around the desert looking for water." I continued to stare at him, dumbfounded. "What can I say?" he added. "The title had promise." He then went on to inform me that Wild Things was a 'cinematic masterpiece' and Bodacious Babes Behind Bars a 'gripping documentary',  and, as luck would have it, both were on tonight.

    "Perhaps I'm being too hard on him," I thought, after several hours of not speaking to him. I mean, it could be worse. I was reminded of a friend whose computer was so infected with viruses after her husband's 'internet activities' that they had to throw the whole computer away and buy a new one. The worst I had ever seen on my own husband's monitor was a bikini clad picture of Pheobe Cates taken in the 1980's. Maybe things weren't so bad.

     Besides," he informed me one evening as we were flipping through channels, "sexy TV can be good for both people in the marriage." He found a channel airing the male gymnasts of the Summer Olympics because he knew I thought they were cute. He then dimmed the lights, lit some candles, and poured me a glass of wine. I almost laughed at the absurdity of what he thought I found sexy, but I shrugged, swilled down the wine, and thought 'what the hell?'


     Maybe I will never understand his desire to watch Wives in Thigh Highs, but I guess I don't need to. It's harmless, and fairly (fairly) innocent. Though I don't mind an occassional Channing Tatum flick, I don't plan my life around them. I guess men are just more visual.
    
     Who am I to criticize anyway? I have my own version of 'sexy time,' it just happens to be found in the lines of a really good book.

     "What's that?" my husband asks, pointing to my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover.

     "Oh, just a book about the class struggles in England shortly after the first World War."

     "Uh-huh. Whose a perv now?" He pours me wine.

    "It's not perverted if it's a classic," I retort, taking the glass.

     "Exactly!" he replies, joining me on the couch and flipping on the TV. "And good timing on your epiphany. One of greatest classics of all time is about to start: Wild Things Two. We can watch it together and then you can read to me from your book."

     And we did; a new tradition has been born.

Now That I'm Done with the Second Draft...

     I just finished writing the second draft of my 100,000 word novel. I mean just finished, as in today. The second draft is always harder to write, at least for me, when my creative mind has to take a vacation so that my analytic mind can get to work wringing out the kinks, working through plot holes, and making sure that the happily ever after is not only justified, but earned.

     It was a scary feeling typing out the final words: The End (for the second time) and my fingers hovered above the keys for a minute or two, not quite pushing the buttons. On my first draft those two words are freeing but on my second draft, they are downright frightening. The story line is really finished. Sure I can polish it up, but I will forever after be a visitor to this fictional world, no longer it’s god.

     After writing The End (for the second time) I put my laptop away and vowed not to write anything novel related for an entire week, a mental health holiday so to speak. I got as far as unplugging it before I panicked. An entire week? What was I going to do?

     The cool part of me that used to come out in my pre-novel writing days stepped forward, handing me a whole list of things to occupy my time: TV, video games, shopping, yoga class, or possibly even *gulp* read someone else’s novel. There were other things to do besides writing books, and I actually had the time to do them.

     But deep inside I was terrified. There was a lot of empty space between now and next Monday. The world had moved on while I was writing my book. I wasn’t sure I could catch up.

     I looked out the window. The sun was shining. It was spring. When did that happen?

     I could do this, I thought. There is a world out there and I can live in it again. And when I return I will clean up my prose, send the manuscript to my editor and figure what to do with my life next.
I’m guessing it will involve writing the first draft of another novel. And then the second.

**

(by April Aasheim...originally published at TIE http://networkedblogs.com/JYK0b)

Smile and Nod

(Note: This piece differs in content and tone from most of the other things I write in this blog. I wrote this five years ago but never published it due to the sensitive nature of the subject. It is not written as a dig at my mother but rather a snapshot of what I was going through during the year that followed my father's death).***
     I wade through the boxes, bins, and totes that are strewn across my mother’s apartment. The living room is filled with long-forgotten treasures recovered from her storage unit; treasures collected from her daily trips with my father to the Goodwill store. Treasures that probably cost her $500in total to buy, but which she has paid $800to store over the past eighteen months.
     There are memories here, memories of when my father was alive; remnants of her happy past, lovingly preserved in a tin can tomb. Each item has a story and my mother is more than happy to tell it.

     "Remember this?" Her eyes mist over as she holds up a picture of a French village, ripped from an old calendar. The picture once had a frame and hung on her wall. It was ugly then and uglier now, crinkled and torn at the edges, but I’m a dutiful daughter. I smile and nod.
     "Your father and I found it by accident. We were out looking for salt and pepper shakers one day when we came across this perfectly good calendar. It was a few years old but the prints were still good so your dad framed them. Got twelve pieces of art for less than a quarter. I wonder where its frame is?” She searches through another crate and, not finding it, sighs. “Oh well, I can probably decoupage it onto a piece of wood or something. I need to get started on making Christmas presents anyway.”

     "What will you do with the rest of this stuff?" I sort through a nearby tote and find pictures of my dad from his infancy through his sixty-fifth birthday, when he was taken from me; pictures I resent my mother having because some part of me believes they are mine. I was his child. She was only his wife. I take a few, concealing them in my purse. She will never know. She has so many.

     "What do you mean, what will I do with this stuff? Keep it!" She clutches an old Tupperware bowl she has just unearthed to her chest. "I'm too old to start over now."

     My heart softens. This is her life. All that she owns. Every ounce of self-worth she still possesses is neatly bundled up in boxes I helped her gather from behind Safeway. It's junk. All of it. But it's her junk.

     "My therapist will be happy," she continues. "Going to storage and getting all this stuff back is a big step in my grief recovery."

     My toddler niece, born the day of my father's funeral, enters the room and removes a photo from a carton. "Look!" mom says, a smile spreading across her face. "She found a picture of your dad. She knows her grandpa." She has always been convinced that my niece is the reincarnation of my dead father. This cements her theory. She pulls my niece onto her lap and strokes her hair.

     I smile and nod.

     "I never knew being a pack rat was a sign of mental illness," my mother sighs. This was a new confession coming from her lips.

     "Well, being a hoarder,” I explain, purposely changing her wording, “means that you can't let things go, or that you have an obsessive-compulsive personality."

     She laughs. "Maybe both!" She is giddy. She used to deny she had a problem but lately she has begun to relish her craziness, to luxuriate in it like one would a hot bath. It defines her. It gives her purpose. But she will only accept it in the context of my father's death. He caused it. Before that, she insists, she was perfectly normal.

     "My psychiatrist told me there aren’t enough years left in my life to cure me." She grins like she has just won a game. "So he loads me up on pills now. I can't believe your father's death would do that to me."

     I want to say more. I want to say ‘mom, don’t you remember our childhood? Remember how checked out you were? Remember how you were so depressed you slept for days at a time and we were left to fend for ourselves?’
     But I don’t.

     I smile and nod.
     I spy another picture of my dad on the top of the nearest pile. I perform a sleight of hand trick and take it, knowing she would never give it up willingly. It's mine now. I’ve got secrets too.

     "But I think my psychiatrist is just going through a mid-life crisis and hates all women," mother continues. "He's probably about forty-five. You know how men are when they get that age? Crazy, all of them.”
     ‘Yes, mother,’ I want to say. ‘All your problems are related to my father's death and by men suffering mid-life problems. Your sanity, or lack thereof, rests completely with the men around you who have oppressed you in one form or another. Either by dying and leaving you behind, by running off with your mother's best friend in your formative years, or by labeling you a nut so far gone there isn’t enough time left on this earth to cure you."

     But I don't.

     I just smile and nod.

 

Magic Man

The Witches of Dark Root (Novel to be released Summer, 2013)
Prologue: Magic Man February, 2005

“Goodbye, Martha,” Maggie said, practically pushing the woman out of the store. “See you tomorrow.” Martha Silverton had finished her shopping an hour before but she was just getting started on her gossiping. Maggie couldn’t endure another evening of ‘who is doing what in Dark Root.’ It was bad enough when her mother did it, but listening to her mother’s friends drone on about the comings and goings of the locals was a whole new level of torture.
“Quick! Lock the door!” Maggie’s sister Eve said as she emerged from the back room, sucking on a piece of candy, “before any more of mother’s cronies drop in.” The two women had been working the store without their mother for the past year now, but their mother’s friends still insisted on coming by ‘just to check in’.
Maggie glanced out the window. Martha had found a new victim, a young woman who was about to enter the book store next door. With any luck the woman would occupy Martha’s attention for at least ten minutes, long enough for Maggie to finish closing the store and sneak away, unnoticed.
 “You need to order more peppermint,” Eve said. “We’re out.”
“You order peppermint,” Maggie replied. If Eve was going to eat all the supplies, she could order them as well. While Eve lectured Maggie on the many reasons her older sister was more suited for ordering – she was better at math because she was practically a boy, she had no social life and thus had more time for ordering - Maggie began dusting the hundreds of knickknacks that covered the shelves of Miss Sasha’s Magick Shoppe.  She stopped at a glass owl, a figurine that had been in her mother’s shop for as long as she could remember, and ran her fingers along the ridges of its wings. It was an ugly thing, with eyes that bulged and a beak that hooked, but Miss Sasha insisted that one day it would find a proper home. “I’m leaving first,” Maggie spoke to the figurine. The owl regarded her with large, knowing eyes. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that’, it seemed to answer.
Maggie finished dusting and then looked around for something else to do. She was torn between reading a stack of magazines Eve had smuggled in from the book store and checking out the new herbs they had ordered, to see if any of them looked smokable. It was almost six and that meant that soon she would have her freedom. She had planned a night of drinking at the local park and she had already secured the beer, thanks to a Lindsburg girl who was more than happy to purchase it in exchange for a love charm.  Maggie had gotten the better deal on that one. The beer was 8.99. The charm, made in India, cost her less than fifty cents. She glanced again at the clock, frustrated that it didn’t seem to move.
“I’ll close the blinds,” Eve volunteered. Maggie shrugged. Eve could do all the work if she wanted to.  “Maggie! Look!” Eve called her to the window. Maggie tossed the magazine onto a chair and joined her. Eve pointed directly across the street to Delilah’s Deli, at a man Maggie had never seen before.
“Who is he?” Eve asked. “I don’t recognize him at all.”
Maggie moved to get a better view, nudging Eve out of the way. “Well, he isn’t from around here,” she said, and Eve clucked her tongue at the obvious statement. Of course he wasn’t from around here. His grey coat and khaki slacks identified him as a city person, not a man who spent much time skulking around the small, backwoods towns of Central Oregon.
“He’s handsome,” Eve said and Maggie silently agreed. Though daylight was turning to dusk Maggie could still make out a thick mane of wavy brown hair and the strong line of his jaw. He leaned forward, speaking to a gaunt young man who was listening attentively to every word.
“You can have the friend,” Eve said, waving her right hand dismissively. Maggie noticed the dreamy look on Eve’s face. She had probably already planned their wedding.
Delilah’s Deli was closing shop, its neon sign flickering on and off, like eyelids fluttering shut. The waitress filled ketchup bottles and swept around their booth but the stranger made no effort to hurry through his conversation. The other man continued listening, excitedly taking notes. Maggie wished she could read lips. Or minds.
                    “We have to find out what he’s doing here,” Eve said. “It’s just not natural.” Though the town teemed with tourists during the fall when the Haunted Dark Root Festival took place, it was rare to see anyone arrive in the off months. A tourist in February was practically unheard of.
                “Probably just passing through on his way to Salem and really wanted a sandwich. It happens.”
“Why do you have to take the fun out of everything?” Eve said, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe he is here for a reason.” She conjectured about his fabulous life as a scientist, an archeologist, or an astronaut. “Or maybe even a producer!” The last revelation worked her into frenzy and she pulled out her compact to check her appearance. Maggie wasn’t convinced that he was any of those things, but there was something special about the man. He had an energy that crackled and popped.
Unexpectedly, he turned in their direction. Eve ducked out of sight but Maggie stood her ground, locking gazes with the stranger.  His dark eyes stirred something inside her, jolting her awake. He blinked once, and then returned to the conversation with his friend.
                “We should bring him over.” Eve’s eyes flashed with mischief. Maggie watched her sister push a stepstool across the floor to gather oils and vials from a high shelf that ran the perimeter of the shop. Next, she collected an assortment of herbs from bins beneath the counter. “Candles! I need purple candles.” She was driven when she had a mission, not the same dreamy girl who sat behind the counter, talking about the wonderful things she would do one day while she ignored the customers.       

             “Like a fly to a spider,” Maggie said, shaking her head.  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we just walk across the street and talk to him?”
Eve huffed. “Just because you’re too good for magic, doesn’t mean some of us don’t respect the craft.”
“I’m not against magic. I just think it’s a waste of time. Plus, I’m not sure most of it really works.”
“We can’t all be Wilders, can we?”
Maggie’s face reddened. Wilder was the term for a natural witch, one with thoughtless and reckless magic; a witch who had not yet learned to control her powers.  It was a derogatory word, rarely uttered in polite company. The light bulb buzzed overhead, threatening to burst, and Eve moved her gaze to the ceiling to prove her point.
“Calm down,” Eve said, placing her stack of objects on the counter and arranged them into neat piles. “I didn’t mean it.” She had been around her sister long enough to know when she had pushed things too far. “Casting spells is fun, Maggie, as long as we don’t have mom here, grading us like school kids. Now, where’s the book?” Eve scanned the room for their mother’s book of spells and incantations. Maggie shrugged, not offering to help. If Eve wanted to buy into their mother’s brainwashing, that was her choice, but Maggie was done with it.
“Ah, here it is,” Eve said, finding the small, leather-bound tome on a chair near the entrance, half buried under a magazine. It was dog-eared and musty; a rare book, their mother claimed, filled with spells that would have otherwise been lost to time had they not been carefully scribed onto those pages.  As a result, customers were permitted to read the book but were never allowed to borrow it. So protective of the book was Miss Sasha that only family members could remove it from the store without suffering a terrible curse. What the curse was, nobody knew, but Sasha Shante was a formidable witch and there was not a soul in Dark Root brave enough to take the chance.
Maggie regarded Eve as she went to work creating a concoction of vanilla, rose petals, and thyme - stirring the mixture with the quill from a dove - barely glancing at the open book beside her. Maggie guessed that Eve had committed the man-luring spell to heart. Eve looked up, while continuing to stir. “Wouldn’t it be exciting if we fell in love and he took me away from this Godforsaken town? Now that Merry is gone, there’s nothing to keep me here.”
At the mention of their missing sister’s name, Maggie grew irritated. “You really think you’re getting out before me?”
“Someone’s got to take care of mom. She’s not getting any younger. Besides,” Eve said, her eyes flickering towards the open window. “I have to get out of here. I am going to be a famous actress one day and I need to go to someplace like New York or Hollywood. I’ve read the tea leaves, Maggie. It’s my destiny.”
“You do dream big,” Maggie said, “but even if your spell works and you get him to wander over here, what makes you think he is going to fall in love with you?”
“Duh! Look!” Eve stopped working long enough to pose. With long, dark hair that fell to her waist, dimples so deep you could put dimes in them, and a body that was both thin and curvy, she was beautiful, almost exotic.
“And,” Eve continued, before Maggie could comment. “If for some reason that isn’t enough to snag him, one sip of my special tea and he will be buying me a ticket to London to study Shakespeare.” Eve winked and retreated into the back room, returning with a white porcelain cup and teapot. “You might not have dreams Maggie, but I do. I refuse to end up like you.” She opened the teapot and sprinkled something inside, tea leaves she had grown and cultivated herself, just for such an occasion.
Maggie was about to tell her that she had no intentions of staying here either, when the door opened and the man from across the street entered.  Maggie did a double take, wondering if Eve’s spell could have worked so quickly.          
“Well, hello there.” Eve said, startled. She dropped a cloth over her concoction and extended her hand. “Our shop is closed, but I’m brewing tea. Perhaps you’ll have a cup?” Eve slinked towards the man, her long hair swaying sensually around her.
                The man did a quick perusal of the room, taking in the candles, books, and oddities of the shop. His eyes rested momentarily on their mother’s book of spells before moving on.  He nodded, satisfied. He strode past Eve and stopped before Maggie, looking her up and down. “Actually,” he said when his eyes met hers, “Maggie Maddock. I’m here for you.”
 

In Defense of Barbie

     I've given my step-daughter all my old Barbies, including the 'collector' dolls that may be worth a few bucks. I have about fifty of them, in various stages of dress and decay, accumulated since childhood. They've been sitting in my garage for years now, collecting dust, and I figure someone should have some fun with them.

     She gasps as I hand her each one. She asks me about their costumes and accessories. I tell her the story of how I came to own each doll. She gives them loving hugs and sets them up in her playroom.

     She plays with them all, combing their hair until it falls out, dressing and undressing each one. I try not to cringe when she puts the Bob Mackie dress on Vetrinarian Barbie.

    She looks longingly at the Barbies that are still encased in their plastic boxes, and asks if she can remove them. "I will be very careful," she promises me as I glance towards the 2002 Holiday Barbie I let her take out of the box the previous week. It now resembles a beat up drag queen. I shake my head, letting her know it's not yet time.  She nods, undetoured, and plays with them anyway. She lines them up in their containers, marching them into their dream  house, as if they are on their way to some macabre all-mime ball.

     "Some girls aren't allowed to play with Barbies," she tells me conspiratorilly. I smile and say nothing. I've heard the argument. By allowing our girls to play with these dolls we are setting them up for unrealistic body expectations. Once Barbie infiltrates their brains they will start hating their bodies, puking up their lunches, and appearing on the Dr. Phil show.

     "You can play with them when you are here," I respond to her. "You know they aren't real right?"

She nods, showing me the foot of one of the dolls I had chewed through when I was a kid. She giggles and responds."If this was real, it would really hurt."

     I'm not sure who first decided that Barbie was the devil. I never looked at Barbie and thought, 'if only I had her small waist and those giant, nipple-free boobs my life would be perfect.' The reason I wanted to be like Barbie had less to do with her measurements and more to do with her kick ass shoe collection. She had the closet I always wanted.

      Barbie isn't the antithesis of feminism. In fact, I when I was a kid I saw her as a superhero, second only to maybe Oprah. She could babysit Skipper in the morning, pull an afternoon shift at the McDonalds, perform surgery in the evening, and still have time to go into space.  She may have dated Ken but she never had to ask him for money. When you work four different jobs, you can buy that dream house on your own.

     Barbie isn't bad. It's just a toy made of plastic. We don't tell our boys they shouldn't aspire to be transformers, mainly because we know they understand the difference. I would hope we give our little girls the same credit.

     I will do my best to teach my step-daughter the difference between fantasy and reality. In fantasy you get perfect skin and arms that bend in every direction. You get twelve careers and a house that never gets dirty. You get a boyfriend with a corvette who only comes around when you want him.

     In reality you get...



     Well, maybe I won't teach her about reality yet. It's going to be tough enough on her when she learns about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'll give her a few more years before I tell her about the real world.

Time Passages

She got me. Worse, I didn’t even know she was coming. A quick detour through Waikiki’s evening street market district and I was one hundred dollars poorer.
“This is all your fault,” I said, grumbling to my husband and handing him my wad of ‘fun money’. “You had to check out that alley. I should have known we were going to get mugged.
He laughed. “As I recall you bought this stuff willingly. Besides, you might have fun with these products.” He was more cheerful than I expected. “It’s good for you to pamper yourself sometimes.”
Easy for him to say. He grew up in a house whose motto was ‘Life is good’. By contrast, our own family motto was ‘Hide your money and your women. The Vikings are coming’. Needless to say I wasn’t a spender, I was a hoarder. Giving the woman all this money, just for something that I was going to slather on my face then rinse away, seemed wasteful.
But she was so smooth, and beautiful, and from Israel. She had skin like soft desert sand and eyes the color of the ocean. And she appealed to my Achilles heel - my vanity.
“Look there, April.” She handed me a mirror as she sat me down at her cosmetics stand. “Do you see those spots on your cheek?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t seen them before. But here, under the unforgiving glare of her fluorescent lights, they stood out like craters on the moon.
“And over here, you have a bit of rosacea going on. You must not scrub very often do you?”
I shook my head again, ashamed.
“And those little lines on your forehead. Those are only going to get worse.” I started to say something but she stopped me.  “You have bags under your eyes too…you must not get enough rest.”
“Fix me!” I burst out, unable to control myself any longer. “Fix all of me!” How had I not noticed this all before? Suddenly, I felt like Franken-beast out terrorizing the villagers. How could my husband have let me go into public like this? I glared at him as he checked out the nearby stands.
“In my country,” she cooed, taking my hand to let me know everything was going to be okay. “I got addicted to these products when I served in the Army. They are from the Dead Sea. You can look at my skin and see what they do.”
I not only wanted to look at her skin, I wanted to lick it. It didn’t matter that she was twenty and I was…not twenty. I wanted a face like that.
 “How’s it going over here?” My husband ambled in our direction. “Need my debit card?”
I looked at her to ask ‘can we do something about this?’ She nodded.
“Yes, honey,” I said to my husband. “I need your debit card.”
For the next fifteen minutes she showed me how years of bad nutrition, bar soap, and not living in Israel had taken its toll.  “Buy these April. They will make you look very beautiful, for your age.”I didn’t want to be beautiful for my age. I wanted to be beautiful for her age. I let her know and she sold me two more items for my patch and repair kit. I was a target, but I didn’t care. I had spent weeks dieting so that I would not feel ‘fat’ in Waikiki, but I hadn’t counted on feeling something else: old. So after a very good sales presentation I schlepped away with a bag full of products, and a promise from a beautiful Israeli girl that in just one week my lines softened, my jaw tightened, and the bags under my eyes gone for good.
As we left I noted that most of the people on the beach were young. There was a glow around them, and not just because their skin was still supple. It was because they had years left to plan, and live, and dream. The road to the world lie ahead of them, paved with possibilities. They had so much time ahead of them, and I did not. Maybe that was the real reason I bought all those products. If I looked as young as they did, maybe I could fool time into letting me go back, letting me do it all again. Relive every moment I had heretofore taken for granted: holding my sons, kissing my husband for the first time, spending time with my dad before he passed. The lines that were beginning to emerge on my face were a new reminder that time was passing, and I was passing too.
“Want to go back to our room and watch a movie?” My husband asked. It was 9 PM. I looked around me. There were young, fashionable people scurrying off to clubs and piano bars. If I ran to our hotel, slathered on a week’s worth of product, I might look good enough to infiltrate their group. I wasn’t that young anymore, but with the right clothes, makeup, and miracle cream, I could pretend.
“I’m glad you bought yourself something,” my husband said, taking my hand. “But you didn’t need it. You’re already beautiful.”
“For my age?” I looked up at him and batted my eyelashes.
“For any age. We have lots of years ahead of us, and they are going to be good.”
He was right. I smiled and wrapped an arm around his waist. The siren’s call of a warm bed, popcorn, and a movie with my husband was stronger than the call of the world. I realized I didn’t need to go back. I had all that I wanted, and needed, right now.  

When a Writer Takes a Vacation

       I stared at my aqua-marine messenger bag. It sat innocently on the recliner, where it had resided all week long. It saw my comings and goings, and I could feel its make believe eyes, watching me.

     “You can stare at me all you want,” I said. “I’m not taking you.”

      I was prepping for a romantic getaway to Hawaii with my husband, a trip I had been looking forward to all winter. It was going to be a week without children, family, or pets; A trip where we could lose ourselves in the moment without having to worry about anyone, or anything, along the way. This included my laptop and its accompanying messenger bag.

     “You know you are going to end up taking it,” my husband said as I arranged and rearranged my bags for the trip. “You might as well pack it now.”

     “You don’t know me as well as you think you know me. I can be strong. It just takes a little will power. That’s all.”

     “Uh-huh,” he answered and I walked away with my nose in the air.

     Maybe I had failed before but this time I could be strong. My identity wasn’t tied to my laptop. I was April before it existed and I would be April afterwards. This was my chance to prove it, to him, and to myself.

     “Besides”, I said to the bag as I threw it in the closet so it would no longer tempt me, “you’re bulky and oversized. You haven’t shed your winter weight. You’ll just slow me down.”

     As the time for our trip drew nearer I could feel the calling of the bag growing stronger, even through the closet door.

     “April, please take me. I can be a lot of help. Whenever you have a great idea I will be there for you. You wouldn’t want to lose that great idea, would you?”

     Shut up.

     “And if you leave me for a week you may lose that flow that’s been going so well in your novel. You could forget character details and motivations. And you will just get further behind on finishing it. Didn’t you say you’d have that second draft done by mid-March?”

     Shut up!

     “Please! I really want to see Hawaii! You won’t even know I’m there.”

     I hate to admit how obsessed I was and how the dilemma had cast a shadow over my trip. I was feeling a bit like Anthony Hopkins character (a ventriloquist) in the movie Magic. By the end of the movie the dummy and the ventriloquist had become so infused with one another, the audience wasn’t able to discern who was who anymore. My laptop had become my dummy, and it was really starting to creep me out.

     “Just take it,” my husband said again as I was recounting the reasons it needed to stay home.

     “No. I’ve made up my mind.”

     “Yeah. We’ll see.”

     On the day of our trip we packed our car, pulled out of our driveway, and rambled down the street that would lead us to the freeway. Having successfully left my bag in the house, I was feeling rather smug and was about to give my husband a great big I told you so lecture. But before we could make it out of our subdivision the panic set in.

     “Stop!”

     My husband looked at me, smiling. “You want your bag don’t you?”

     “Yes,” I nodded meekly. “I feel like a mother who forgot her child at the supermarket.”

     “Well, you lasted longer than I thought you would. It’s a good first step.”

     “I had just really hoped…”

     “It’s your safety net and your umbilical cord, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Even if you don’t write one word on our trip, you will be happy it came along.”

     He pulled into our driveway and I rushed into the house, cursing all the way. I threw my archaic, seven-pound laptop into my messenger bag, found my thumb drive, and ran for the car.

     “You are going to break my shoulders and make me use an extra bin in security,” I scolded it as we drove. “It’s because I lug you around all day that I have to go to physical therapy for my back.”

     “But you would have missed me so much.” It answered.

     “Yes. I know.”

     My husband shook his head. “You know I’m sitting right next to you? I can hear your imaginary conversation with your bag.”

     “Don’t listen to him,” the bag said. “He doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

     “I know.” I answered.

     “You’re insane,” my husband said. “But I love you.”

     “Just drive,” I directed him. And he did.

More Quirky Fun for 99 Cents

Just bumping my book...

If you like my writing give this a try. Its an offbeat love story about a woman, four men, her menopausal mother, a walking condom, and true love.

It will have you laughing (and thinking) the whole way through.

The Universe is a Very Big Place (on Amazon)

April Loves Eddie

     Well, it's Valentine's Day. The day of love for many, loneliness and cruelty for others.

     I have my own story of unrequited love. It's a sad tale. And it started in the third grade.

     It was February and we were getting ready for our annual Valentine's Day party. I was sure to get lots of Valentines because the boys had voted several weeks before, and had chosen me as the girl they would mutually like. To show their sincerity they had been writing me letters, singing me songs, and chasing me around the monkey bars. They had even flipped their eyelids at me.

     Though I secretly enjoyed their attention, I'd walk by them, nose in the air. I had only one love, the leader of their pack: Eddie (Last name unremembered).  He had fabulous hair and a really cool binder with a picture of Han Solo on it. He had also professed his love to me during a violent game of dodge ball.

     But I couldn't bring myself to say it back. So I played it cool instead.

     As Valentine's Day drew nearer, and my need to play kiss and catch with Eddie exclusively controlled my every thought,  I came up with a plan.  "You need to buy me two sets of Valentine's cards," I said to my mother.  "We have a very big class this year."

     It was a lie of course, but I couldn't tell my mother the truth: that one of those sets of cards- the entire Tweety Bird collection - was going to Eddie (Last name unremembered).

     I spent the evening before our class party adding personal messages to all 32 cards, convinced that when he read "I like your hair" and "Your dad looks a little bit like Mr. Rogers," he would sweep me off my feet and we'd spend every lunch recess thereafter playing dodge ball together.

     It was a solid plan.  After all, he loved me. I just had to let him know I reciprocated the feeling.

     The morning of Valentine's Day our classroom was filled with excited chatter. We waited anxiously for Miss Wilson to announce that it was time to deliver our cards into the red, construction paper envelopes we had glued together the day before. Finally, we were called, alphabetically by first name, to the front of the class. I was first to contribute. With sweaty hands and a beating heart I made my way forward. The class leaned in to watch. Would I have Snoopy or Star Wars cards? Would there be candy in them? As the first card deliverer, I was setting the bar.

     Drop. Drop. Drop.

     I put each card into its corresponding envelop. A few of my classmates slumped back when they saw that there were no lollipops taped to them.  A few others looked relieved to see that my parents were as cheap as theirs.

     Drop. Drop. Drop.

     At last I came to Eddie's pocket. It was red and beautifully decorated with stick figure drawings of Indians and dinosaurs. I ran my hand discreetly across it before dumping 32 cards inside.

     A collective gasp rang through the class. An entire box of Valentine's cards going into just one envelop? No one had ever dared such a feat. Maybe I would be hailed a hero.

     My dreams were short lived, however, as the students broke out into that most horrible childhood chant: April and Eddie sitting in a tree. I turned as red as Eddie's envelop, delivered the remaining cards to the undeserving pockets of the other students, and raced to my seat.

     As I passed by Eddie's desk I offered him a shy smile. He turned his head away.

     I slid into my seat as the chanting continued. Eddie wouldn't look at me.  I had brought disgrace to the  third grade alpha male. And I was being shunned.

     At lunch recess Eddie (Last name Jerkface) sat on the grass surrounded by his cronies. The girls let me know that he was reading each of my cards - complete with special handwritten messages - out loud to his friends. I could see them through the cafeteria window as I nibbled on my sandwich. With each card he read the boys doubled over in laughter. I never left the lunchroom.

     By the end of the day the boys voted in a new girl to like: Audra (Last name Bitch). They threw rocks at her, chased her around the monkey bars, and even flipped their eyelids at. her. She squealed appropriately at each gesture and didn't snub a one of them.

     For the remainder of the school year she was Queen and I was forever known as 'that girl that won't stop following Eddie' (Last name go-f-yourself) around.

     I moved away the following year but I kept track of Eddie through friends. After high school he married twice, had seven kids, and made a career of selling farm supplies.I hear he does okay for himself.


     Love is a strange and wonderful thing and I'm not sure why we chase it. But we do. Even when we are young. And the trials and tribulations of keeping love, once found, continue through the rest of our lives.

     If you're not careful, in the time it takes to dump 32 cards into a construction paper envelop, it can be gone.