Bite Me, No...Wait.

The story alluded to in the earlier post isn't written. It may be written at some point, but can't be written now.

There was a beginning, or rather, the workings of a beginning but it hasn't gone much further. Yet.

And perhaps it won't. Like I said before, I can't think. I'm not drinking today, but still, I can't think. That is to say that I'm having trouble thinking beyond the here and now. And what is here and now is work. jobs. sales. finances. and yes, eating. drinking. and too, having the where-with-all to be some kind of merry. Not to mention the where-with-all to maintain hearth and home.

For the moment, a personal impending crisis been averted. I can't go further than that because it feels . . .well, I'm still somewhat . . . wow. Still, as distressing as the prospective news was, it wasn't devastating. It could have been worse. And it may be at some point, but for now, I'm breathing a tad bit easier today than I was the other.

In other news, I haven't had any potato chips in since just before I turned fifty. Oh sure, that may not big news to you, but to me? It's gi-norm-us.


*click the pic h/t

Six Points

Weekend Wordsmiths prompt from a couple of weeks ago. Any resemblance to any creatures large or small is purely coincidental.

Six points. That's all that separated my sweety, Grace from victory. Six lousy points. That Grace wound up on the wrong side of the six points is surprising in and of itself, but more to the point is that Grace being on the wrong side of six points doesn't bode well for me and the evening's plans. Well, my plans. Instead of the victory dance (read: sex) I was tuning up for, there will be angry recitations of the flow of the game gone wrong. Grace will review each move, each strategy. She will obsess over the loss, she will gnaw and pick like a dog with a bone. She will not be cajoled, she will not be wooed. There will be heat, but not in the way I desired.

Six. Lousy. Points.

Grace hardly ever loses, for this I am grateful. She is the most competitive person I know, the most competitive person I've ever met. Grace accepts challenges to play a game she'd never played. Upon accepting a challenge to play a game formerly foreign to her games repertoire, she studies and practices until she acquires (in her view) the skills of a seasoned veteran. It seems to work for as I say, she hardly every loses. Grace expects to win every game played and her sore losing is nothing compared to her boisterous winning. And while her public victory lap is a bit embarrassing, the private one is most welcomed.

I don't know what happened tonight, but I will. I will hear over and over, ad nauseum just where the tide turned. Grace will refuse to let it go, she will keep me awake with her, she will ask me to quiz her, practice with her, she will complain that her opponent cheated, she will deride herself for being too tentative, for playing it safe. She'll continue deep into the night until she is too exhausted to keep her mouth shut or her eyes open.

When I think of the night I could have, should have just scream . . .

SIX LOUSY POINTS!!!

Another Day, Another Holler

Renee lingered in bed long after the alarm chirped. The snooze feature was deactivated because Darlys preferred to perform those duties in her own unique fashion. Renee counted down, 3, 2, 1 here it comes, "GET UP RENEE!" Darlys yelled from the bathroom. Renee emitted a grunt and a prolonged groan.


Darlys caught the tail end of that groan and pursed her lips to say for the umpteenth time, "if you don't like it, quit. Another groan followed closely by a sigh. Darlys kneeled down next to the bed, searched under the covers until she found Renee's hand, she squeezed lightly and whispered, "I understand honey, but it will be ok. We'll be ok." Darlys released Renee's hand as well as the topic. Renee would come to a decision in her own time.

This has been going on for weeks now. Each day brings a new frustration. Renee is no longer challenged by her work, yet she is rooted to the place, not just because it is her mom's place but also though she doesn't like what she's doing now, she doesn't know what to do next. She's conflicted and though she won't admit it, scared.

I wrote this some weeks ago for the Weekend Wordsmith prompt that week, but never posted it because I couldn't finish it before the next prompt went up. It still isn't finished but I figured what they hey, I'd didn't want it languishing in draft mode. I suppose I could have deleted it, but no, it shall serve a purpose as being the buffer to yet another CAT post.

This is about the other cat.

The first words out of my mouth this morning (to a human) were, "YOUR cat shat in the dog's bed." Had I been in a poetic mood I suppose it would have come out, "your cat shat on the mat."
But no, poetry wasn't on my mind.

When Buttah does something inappropriate HE is HER cat. Otherwise, he's mine (or our ) loving, lovely orange kitty. This morning he (and his shit) were all hers.

She groaned and asked, "is it soft?"

It wasn't (very) and I told her so adding, "he's cleaning his feet." To which she yelled, "HE JUST DID IT!!?" Another groan.

Buttah hasn't ever done anything like this before and we're hoping it's an aberration rather than a new bad habit. We are routinely quite diligent about cleaning the pans. I'll admit to being a tad slow about it this morning, but they didn't seem that soiled.

I stood corrected.

It would appear that the morning routine might need some tweaking to accommodate the little prince's early morning poo-ti-tude.

Silent Battle*

Sixteen days. Jasmine had been in residence for 16 days and that meant sixteen days remained. The hash marks on her arms were clear, sixteen days. What wasn’t clear was if this self-imposed quarantine would solve her problem, settle her mind. Jasmine needed to be in the room of secrets. She needed to know if giving herself over to the room would divest her of her own secret.

Jasmine was prepared for the necessary silence. She knew secrets lived in silence and that there was power in the silence. For the next sixteen days Jasmine would remain devoid of tone, yet she would speak or rather leak her secrets onto the floorboards, hoping they’d forge a path to the walls. Jasmine was hoping that by the end of the next sixteen days, she’d be able to leave this room with her secret happy to be cavorting with all the others left by previous occupants.

While Jasmine was prepared for and oddly comforted by the silence, she was not comforted by the cold. The cold was oppressive. And though her partner warned, “Secrets are silent as you know, but they are also cold. Don’t expect to be warm.” Jasmine was still taken aback even though she’d heeded her partners words and prepared accordingly. The extra blankets and sweaters did little to combat the stout chill. Jasmine had to reach deep down where the extra reserve of determination lived. Jasmine’s determination, dubbed warrior was vigilant as well as valiant against the burdensome cold.

It was day sixteen and each moment crystallizing the truth; Jasmine was in for the fight of her life, one she was determined to win.

The hash marks were clear, sixteen days spent with sixteen remaining. Jasmine cleaved to the belief that these days would end the haunting of those frightful days of last year. Jasmine trusted that her efforts during these days would allow her to leave the silence of her secret far, far behind.

Bring on the noise

*weekend wordsmiths writing prompt.

A Walk With Florence

Florence eased out onto the landing that led to the path. The path would eventually lead her to her most favorite area of the property. The early morning treks down the path grew more physically difficult every day, but emotionally Florence felt compelled to make the effort. Though somewhat arduous, the daily journey had become necessary.

The power of earth scents threatened to overcome Florence's senses. The early morning chill had Florence pulling her wrap a little bit tighter about her shoulders, but she was not daunted. She would not be denied this ritual. Taking one last look around the once pristine, now over-grown garden, she set off tentatively but resolutely down the well-worn path.

Though Florence’s memory fails her often these days. However, she never fails to re-call the slight slip, the near fall of some weeks ago. That recollection trains her to take it slower and easier especially as she approaches the curve a bit further down the path.

It will take Florence the better part of an hour to reach her destination. But, in her mind and in her heart it is a trip well worth taking. The kids, all grown up with kids of their own, don't come around much anymore. That thought and the ache that travels with it nestles in the pit of Florence's stomach. The daily destination will soothe that ache, erase those thoughts.

Slowly and as surely as she could possibly step, drawing nearer to her destination, the pulse quickened and the breath labored by the exertion, begins to slow and calm and that familiar sense of tranquility begins to take shape. The path ends suddenly with a slight step-off, opening to a clearing, awash with light and at this time, warmth from the sun high above.

In the middle of a clearing stands a fountain, dry and crumbly. Next to the fountain, a bench, just as decrepit. However, for Florence, the sight and the joyous times that traveled with it nestles in the caverns of her heart joining the sun to provide heat and warmth. Florence removes her wrap, places it squarely and gently upon the bench. She takes her seat and spends the rest of her days gazing at the water-less fountain.

*for the weekend wordsmiths exercise.

Opposites Attract*

Deena paced back and forth reminding Maria of the Brookfield Zoo polar bear. That memory brings a smile to Maria’s face. Deena spies the smile, halted her pacing long enough to ask, “What’s so funny?” Maria let Deena in on the memory only to see her scowl and resume the pacing.

Maria tried once more to lighten the mood in the tiny bedroom, “come back to bed honey.” Deena kept pacing while thinking seriously of digging out and firing up the cigarette she’d hidden in the sock drawer. She treated Maria to another scowl, adding a growl and a very terse, “no, we’ve had enough sex for one day.” Deena added, “What the hell is it with you and the rains? Every time we get these torrential rains you get crazy for sex. We’ve been cooped up in this room for d-a-y-s.”

“Sweetheart” Maria reasoned, “It has only been raining for 3 hours, you have only been home for two, I think of it as being crazy for you and not just sex but making love, honey. Besides, just think how lush and green the yards will be tomorrow.” Maria met Deena’s scowl with a more playful version trying to get Deena to smile, just a little. Those smiles melted Maria’s heart, over and over again.

Deena paced some more but without resolve. She knew Maria would be able to lure her back into bed. Again she found herself wondering just what it was about Maria and why with all their differences they seemed to work. Then she decided she didn’t care. Deena made a final turn, tilted her head and treated Maria to the smile that got her motors going.

Minutes before succumbing to the kiss Maria was aiming to plant, Deena noted that they would probably have to swim to the mailbox. However, it was clear from the depth of that kiss and the active hands that Maria didn’t give one whit about mail, swimming or anything other than making love to the rhythm of the rain.

Deena decided neither did she and further found herself saying a hearty thank you to torrential rains and for Maria.

*Weekend Wordsmith prompt from 5/2/08

A Tale

I stumbled upon this site and this week was inspired to play.

Four, Five, Six…
The pug next door said it was useless to count the humans. He said there were too many and since you didn’t know which ones were good and which not, why bother? I asked him what he counted. He said he counted the dark times.

The dark times, what? He explained further that as there were times the room was bright and times when it wasn’t. He counted the times it wasn’t. He said a poodle clued him in, the dark times signaled an end and the start of a beginning. The poodle noted how when the bright came after the dark another bowl of food was delivered.

Nine, Ten, Eleven. . .
I was confused as to how counting the dark times was any less useless than counting the humans. I liked counting the humans. There were more of them than dark times and it was more fun. Some of the humans were nice. The short ones like to pat my head. Some of those had sticky fingers. Now and again I got to taste peanut butter they left behind.

Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen…
I heard the pug sigh loudly when he got to sixteen. I asked if all was well. He said no one made it past twenty dark times. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, though I did notice the chocolate lab and that weird terrier were gone and a different poodle and a stout bulldog were in their places. I’d lost track of my dark times, since I was counting humans but if pug was on sixteen my count had to be more. I was here before him.

Nineteen….
Oh goody, more humans and they have some short ones with them. I just love the short humans. I think I’ll wag my tail. They seem to like when I do that. The short humans giggle when I waggle my tail.

“Mommy, please Mommy, please, please, please…may we have this one!!”