A Valentine to My True Love

Posted on by February 25, 2020

In 2003, you got me candy for Valentine’s Day. We barely knew I was pregnant. Well, we barely “knew knew”. You’d been listening to me bitch that I couldn’t possibly be pregnant for over a month, but because you are kind, you took me at my word instead of my opposite. So things had only been formal for a week or two.

The chocolate rose you gave me sat on my desk untouched. I wanted to eat it. My God, I’d married a man who thought I deserved holiday treats. We’d been dating just shy of four years, we’d been married sixteen months, and I was still gobsmacked by the sight of your stubbly cheeks every morning. Do you know how stupid  I thought marriage was before you? Yes, of course you do. You’ve heard me say it often enough. But no, really you don’t know, or I think you’d have run headlong far away. You, who hate change, have no idea what you have wrought in me.

And I wanted to show you how I appreciated you. I wanted you to know what it meant that you gave me chocolate. But I was already captive to morning sickness, and so it sat as far from me as I could push it and still keep it on my desk. Just the sight made my gut clench. The smell made me gag outright.

It was a chocolate rose. I can’t remember, but I think it even had a chocolate stem. And it smelled strongly. (Everything stank when I was pregnant.) In July, when the constant nausea (‘morning’ sickness is such a misnomer) abated, I finally unwrapped it. I bit off one chocolate leaf, but immediately spat it into my hand and barely made the toilet before I ralphed. Caroline, who loves chocolate, hated it in utero. (Sam, who allowed me to eat it copiously while I was pregnant, now hates it. Small ironies.) After Caroline was born, I suddenly craved the stuff. When we got home from the hospital, I found that half eaten rose on my desk and gobbled it. Stale chocolate never tasted so sweet.

We go more for intangibles these days. Chocolate would be cruel in a year when both of us are dieting, and, quite frankly, apple exchanges are only fun if there’s bobbing involved. True love has always been about kindness and stability, and you offer me both every single day. I’m happy to cuddle you and watch the kids gorge on sugar. I wish their teachers the joy of them. Sam has already got a bad attitude this morning. You and I will spend the day busily doing other things, and that’s good. But I wanted to take a minute this morning to ask you something important.

Dear Scott, I love you. Will you be my Valentine?

 

Love, Jessie

Warning: TMI to follow

Posted on by February 25, 2020

My driving distractions don’t usually take my eyes off the road. Sure, I punch endlessly at the radio buttons and pass things over my shoulder to the backseat passengers. And yes, I answer the Bluetooth and use it to call out from time to time. Handsfree is a Godsend. But I don’t text or even really dial my phone. I don’t whip around to glower at the small people sitting behind me.

But this morning I sneezed, and I came to a sudden crisis point behind the wheel. It wasn’t one of those “Ah-ah-achoo” sneezes where there’s buildup and prep time. It was a sudden nasal geyser. I barely got my arm up, and when I pulled it away from my face, I did so with snot stringers. Goop smeared up onto my glasses and, because the mucous hadn’t just come out my nose, it dripped off my chin. One second, I was driving the kids to school, the next, my face was slime covered.

And the tissues had fallen off the passenger seat into the floor.

“Bless you,” said Caroline.

“Ewww,” said Sam.

It’s not like I was completely unprepared. We all had colds last week, and the kids and I have been coughing up escargot for several days in their aftermath. But the tool I needed sat just beyond my reach at an angle that required me to take my eyes off the road and lunge diagonally forward.

Only twenty years of conditioning doesn’t break easily. The car was still moving, even though my vision was blurred, and I could feel a warm spot growing at the top of my shirt. I tried swiping my face with the other arm, but another sneeze erupted as I did, and now I had two coated arms and a snot-beard. I needed the damned tissues.

But I couldn’t just lean over and get them.

The year I learned to drive, a girl my age crashed. She was driving home from work after dark, and she made a stupid decision. At forty miles an hour, they think she leaned over into the floor of the passenger side to get something. Possibly a CD for the changer. Whatever the object, she did it coming into a curve, and she lost control of the car and plowed into a telephone pole. It was stupid. It was small. And she died.

It’s left me with a lifelong paranoia about keeping my eyes where they need to go.

So instead of ducking over to grab the tissue box, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and, after deciding there was nothing behind me, I hit the brakes. Then I leaned over into the floor.

Caroline said, “What are you doing.”

“Never mind. Play your Angry Birds.”

While I was reaching down, I saw a hoodie I’d stripped off on a warm afternoon. I grabbed it too.  I wiped off my chin, cheeks, nose, and neck. That took five tissues. Then I took off my glasses and whipped off my shirt.

“Mom, what are you doing?”  That was Sam.

“Changing.”

“Wow. You really got boogers everywhere.”

I wiggled into the hoodie and threw my turtleneck back where the tissues had been. Then, because they were so badly affected, I took a couple more tissues and wiped my glasses down, too.

When I put them back on, I once more checked the rearview and saw a line of three cars stuck behind me. They were waiting politely, because down here, it’s considered rude to lay on the horn in the event of an idiot driver. It is far better to wait while the person in front of you does who-the-hell-knows-what than to beep and let them know you need to pass.

God knows, they’d all just seen me change my shirt.

I waved a thank you over my shoulder and took my foot off the brake.

Sam said, “Yuck.”

I said, “Caroline, can you reach the hand sanitizer back there?”

“I think so, but it’s in the floor under Sam.”

“Just lean forward and get it for me, honey. Mommy needs a bath, but that will have to do.”

 

What the Cat Saw

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Yes, I’m sorry, this one has backstory. Not much. And it makes sense out of context. But if you want to know how we got here,

Start with this one

Then read this one

And then go here

Then proceed with this week’s entry

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“What’s your name, child?” The queen picked up a kitten and settled it on her lap as she sat on the bed.

“Pickles.” The girl squirmed and turned her head to sneeze.

“Well… Pickles, what does the Wizard Deen do for you?” The kitten began climbing her majesty’s dress.

“Bed, two meals, sometimes three a day. And he’s teaching me magic.” Pickles coughed into her arm.

“Clearly not any healing spells.”

“He’ll fix me up once he comes around. Is the king any better?”

“His majesty will recover.”

“See? Deen’s not so bad.”

“You could have done better for yourself.”

“Because of the cats?” Near Pickles’ head, the mama cat purred and kneaded the pillow.

The climber clawed its way up the Queen’s front and finally reached her shoulder, but fell. Her majesty caught it and replaced it on her lap. “Do you have any idea what value a magical cat has?”

“If I sold my cat, I could live here in the palace. But she’s my familiar. Deen won’t take her. He swore a blood oath.”

“I begin to see the appeal of this path. But … a demonologist?”

“I won’t go hungry.”

“I think your cat did all his fighting for him.”

Pickles jerked the covers into her face and sneezed again. “They worked together.”

“I see.” The kitten flopped onto its back and seized a dangling string.

“That one likes you. I might sell him.”

“Might?”

“For the right price. To the right person.”

The queen chuckled and dislodged her ferocious guest, returning him to his siblings on the counterpane. “I shall have to consider carefully.” She swished out of the room in a wash of perfume.

The kitten meowed after her until Pickles pulled it up to her own chest. “She’ll be back. She doesn’t know you already belong to her. And we shan’t tell her. We’ll let her pay.” The little girl stroked the kitten’s nose, then flopped back onto the pillow and closed her eyes.

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What’s your path? Everyone would love to know over at Trifecta.

[note – the girl IS lying about her name. Her name is Vee. She doesn’t trust anybody, let alone the queen.]

Sam Says / Caroline Says

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Sam Says

We play a lot of Lego Star Wars in our house. I recently restarted the whole game in a new save slot in a vain attempt to have my OWN game. It was quickly taken over by the children, who are having fun getting back all of the extras that come with each level. The most important extras to have, for those of you who live under rocks, are the score multipliers. There’s a 2x, 4x, 6x, all the way up to 10x. I spent about a week getting the two million five hundred thousand studs (Lego coinage) needed to buy the doubler. The quadrupler was more quickly purchased. Sam recently unlocked a new one and came shrieking in to inform me, “Mom, now we can save up for the EIGHT-dupler!”.

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Baking blueberry muffins with me. “MOM, SINCE THE [covers his own mouth with his hand, speaks, then uncovers it] ARE A SURPRISE, TELL DAD AND SIS TO STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN.”

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“Are you going to feed me to the alligators if I take a nap right now?”

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Caroline Says

“Tights are so the same as pants.”

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“I wish you liked the Thompson Twins, Mom. Then we could listen to ‘Lies, Lies, Lies Yeah’ together.”

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“Every time I cough, my chest hurts right HERE.” [jabs herself in the boob]. “Ow.”

Sharp. Hope is sharp.

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Hope.

It’s the worst emotion for someone like me. It’s intricately bound up with expectations and desires, and I don’t handle disappointment well. Can I tell you something? I finished a novel two years ago. I’ve talked with a potential publisher twice. The editor at the publishing house is really interested, and yet every time I’ve gotten ready to send, I’ve stopped.

I thought for awhile that I had submission terrors. That I suffered from an internal certainty that once the piece was out there it would turn out to be shit when someone else judged it. But then I realized I’ve been sending other, less polished things out, short stories, nonfiction pieces, and some have been accepted and others rejected, and I’ve been fine with it. Content, bummed, whatever, nothing too strong. I remember that I have in the past sent out a whole novel and thrown two thirds out after the publisher received it. So it wasn’t fear of rejection holding me back.

It was, I have come to realize, the fear of this period in between submission and response. The response could be acceptance (whee!). The response could be rejection (boo!). The response could be “revise and resubmit” (OK cool). (In fact, I most expect this third thing.) But there’s a probable lag of six to eight weeks before I hear anything.

A

N

Y

T

H

I

N

G

And living with the novel completed but in perpetual editing, so that I was still in control of the situation for two fucking years was better than waiting to hear back. That’s how much I hate hoping.

And here’s the truth. I will be disappointed if the novel is rejected, but not crushed. I’ll be content if I need to revise. But I’m liable to go into a manic tailspin if it’s accepted, because I will have spent so long on tenterhooks unable to fully distract myself.

And there’s billions of things I can do, and that I shall do in the meantime. I’m teaching three classes, with all of the attendant grading right now. I’m still volunteering heavily at the ballet, and now I’m hoping to do some grant writing for them. I’m working on this autism book with another Mom at my kids’ school. And oh yeah, I have a couple of kids, not to mention another novel in perpetual editing, a blog, and several short stories in progress. And a husband with the patience of Job.

Yet at the pit of my stomach all that time, I’ll have to carry hope, because it will not leave me. When I say I want to live hopeless, I don’t mean I want to live in a boring wasteland with no possibility for a future. I mean that I don’t want to endure this painful uncertainty where I cannot be either happy or sad with regards to something so important.

And hope’s twin is disappointment. No matter what happens, whether it is rejection, acceptance, or revision, it will not come to me in the way I have anticipated. It won’t matter what various million possibilities I have considered, I won’t have thought up exactly how the response will be worded. Which means that even if I receive exactly the outcome I desire, I will still be disappointed. Historically, I know this. It’s one of the reasons I hate Christmas. I don’t mean to, but I find fault with even perfect gifts sometimes, because I didn’t imagine them a certain way. I can be such an ungrateful bitch at the holidays, and it boils down to this hope problem. I try to, but cannot completely, turn off expectation and simply live in the moment.

I will be able to best predict the negative outcomes. I’ve received enough rejection letters in general, and I’ve spoken with the editor at this publisher enough times to know what she’s liable to say if I don’t meet her expectations. But I don’t know what acceptance will sound like. Or look like. It’s liable to come in e-mail. Sure to. .. but there I go. My mind is out of control with possibilities and predictions.

I’m a fucking novel in progress.

But I’m writing. And I’m getting out of the house. So you may not have to lock me up in the crazy bin. But you should probably send care packages to Scott and the kids. They have to live here, yah know?

Hope is

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Hope is the yawning mouth of the river. It gathers desire, expectation, and disappointment into a single current. It binds me into a place where my stomach growls and my throat swells. Hope is a jailer whose prison pretends to sunshine.  It holds out bright open spaces and blinding joy, but it denies revelry. It builds its box one ray at a time, until the light is painful. It burns me until my skin is scalded.

Hope is every childhood nightmare. It is the feeling of running away from the monster down the street of faceless houses. It is the certainty of escape that crashes against the pursuing evil rounding that final corner. It leaves me wandering close to home, hopelessly lost, unable to arrive. Hope is a trolling lover. It exploits. It runs alongside and suddenly lifts, but then snatches itself away at the arch’s apex. It offers itself but withholds consummation. It decimates me but teases, offering to rebuild, only to pull back again at the climax.

I would prefer to carry my life forward hopeless, to live without expectation and dwell in the small moments. But I am not that kind. I look forward, carried up on a swell of broken glass, all sharp edges and shining promises. I prognosticate and play at the meteorology of emotion. I try to predict myself so that when hope pulls back and burns, I can control my fall and tumble back into contentment.

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We’re all about the mouth over at Trifecta.

And don’t worry – I’m not sitting around all maudlin and shit. I’m good. I just hate hoping for things, and this is what hope is like for me. It’s a sea of uncertainty, and I like to KNOW, not half guess things. I’ve got a longer, less metaphorical, and probably more boring post scheduled for tomorrow to tell you what I’m hoping for and why I’m going a little nuts with it right now.

Dead Rock Stars

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Jimi Hendrix shifted his weight on my couch and jabbed at his gums with a toothpick.

From the kitchen, John Lennon called, “Anybody else want a cuppa?”

Janis Joplin took a drag on a round kazoo and blew smoke rings to the ceiling. “John, you have to come back in here. You need to. You’ve got to come back in here.”

“Ever see Star Wars?” John and his cuppa nearly tripped over the dog in the kitchen doorway. “Whoosh, buzz, bap, crack.” He waved an imaginary light saber.

Janis shook her head.

“Died too soon.” Jimi threw his toothpick behind the couch.

“All the chow, ping, peeow, boom.” Now, John fired an invisible blaster at us and nearly dropped his tea flinching from the gun’s recoil. “Gotta hold that one with two hands, I reckon. Do you have a tape of it, Jessie?”

“I thought we were playing cards?” I pointed to the deck.

“Oh, right. Slipped my mind.” John sat. “So whose turn is it, now? What’s trump?”

“Can’t you follow suit?” Janis indicated the three hearts already on the table.

“Oh, I dunno. I better check my hand, then.”

Jimi rose. “I’m getting another one of them toothpicks. Want anything?”

“I could use a refill.” Janis tossed back a mouthful of amber liquid and handed her highball glass up.

“Gonna cost you.” Jimi took a hit off of her kazoo and gave it back before ambling towards the kitchen.

Outside, the garage door rumbled up, then Scott let himself in by the pantry. “Who are you?”

“Overnight guest. Don’t worry, I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Jessie, what the hell is going on?”

“Oh, Jesus, this is going to be a bitch to explain.”

“Now don’t get fluffed up,” said Janice as my husband walked in the living room. “We just dropped by to play a little Bridge. Jimi’s the only one sleeping over. John and I will be gone by the time you wake up in the morning.”

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The Jester Queen welcomes you to her court. My e-mail subscriber count doubled over the weekend. Wow! Thanks so very much for deciding to hang out with me. I do a lot of writing prompts, and Trifecta is one of my favorites. Come play with us if you feel like some fun! This week, the word we need to use in our stories is ‘bitch’ (3rd definition – jump over to the Trifecta page and take a gander at the rules before you start writing).

 

 

Let it Snow

Posted on by February 25, 2020

We won’t be getting much of the white stuff down here in Alabama this winter. But we got snowed in at my mother-in-law’s house in Cincinnati the day after Christmas in 2012. Technically, she and Scott did most of the walk clearing. (I was in bed with a 102 degree fever. That is my excuse. I hate snow is the real reason.) But Sam certainly did his share, especially considering that the shovel was bigger than he was.

I’m linking up this memory with Galit Breen of   These Little Waves and Alison of Writing Wishing for their monthly Memories Captured linky.

Rebirth at the ballet

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Tutus often come in two parts, so that bodices can be separated from the skirts. Snip here, unlace there, and like magic, last month’s flower fairies are reborn as next month’s woodland sprites.

 

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This weekend, Trifextra wants 33 words about rebirth.

Drink from the burning well

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“There are two types of adultery.” Jillian poured the coffee and added a generous amount of cream to her own. She brought the cups to the table.

Sarah looked up for the first time to take hers. “You’re justifying.” She reached for the artificial sweetener.

“No. It’s got to do with intentions. Are you dabbling? Or is this the final act of an already broken union?”

“There’s no difference.” Sarah sipped, but flinched against the heat and spit back into the mug.

Jillian added two spoons of sugar. “Consider me. Blaine was trapped in a toxic marriage when we met. Our relationship motivated him to end it.”

“Until he did, you only knew you were screwing around with a married man.”  Sarah, allowed the steam to rise to her face.

“It’s time that shows the difference.”

“How does that help me?” Sarah set down her mug and met her friend’s eyes.

Slowly, Jillian answered. “How long have you been seeing Oscar now? A couple of months?”

Sarah nodded, lifted the cup again.

“What have you learned about your marriage? Do you want out? Do you want to try to fix it?”

“I’ve learned Matt’s fucked. When I tell him, I don’t even know if he’ll want to leave me. I still love him.” Sarah didn’t drink.

“And do you love Oscar?” Jillian asked.

“So much it hurts. But he knows. Matt? He’s got no idea.”

“So which one do you want?”

“What if what I really want is myself?” Sarah unfolded her fingers to put the cup back down.

“Then it isn’t time yet. You don’t know enough to take action.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s not fair, the way you’re beating yourself up.”

“It is fair. It’s the first fair thing that’s happened since that conference. I’m being honest for the first time in ages.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Sarah pushed her coffee away and began to weep.

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This is my link for Trifecta this week, where our intentions are always good.