Beginning at Woolf

Posted on by February 25, 2020

I’m reading  To The Lighthouse in a group led by Lisa Harvey of Seeking Elevation. So I’ve had Virginia Woolf on my mind. But also, we’re cleaning house, and I mean cleaning house around here. And that’s got another famous Woolf piece in my head just now.

Back in January, we took 13 bags of clothing out for donations as part of the quest to Find The Bedroom. Since then, we’ve thrown out or relocated three pieces of huge furniture, opening up the house  and making it begin to look like people really live here. One of the largest changes we’ve made is the transformation of our guest room. We’ve been keeping a huge double bed in there in case of guests for years now. But we average around two overnight guests a year. Now, those guests, are people we love and welcome, but seriously, we needed the space. Besides, we have a perfectly good hide-a-couch, plus an air mattress should our company desire actual comfort.

So last month, the bed went out, farewell, goodbye, adios, see ya around. We discovered that the Faith Hope rescue mission does accept mattresses, which was good, because I feared we would have to get rid of it in this bedbug crazy atmosphere, even though we took great care of it and kept it in our house for pity’s sake. From there, we took an old cherry desk that’s been languishing under a pile of crap in the room-known-as-the-office and moved it into the guest room.  (Scott had to take the doors off their hings to make this work.) Then we moved my chair.

Yesterday, we made one more big effort. We adjusted the furniture so the pull out bed works and the other pieces don’t look so tacky. There’s stuff left to do (I need to clean out the closet you can’t see behind me in the picture, and the air mattress sitting on top of the bookshelf is moving out in a tote soon). But when we were through, suddenly I had a room of my own. I had been whiny for most of the process, because it looked like I was getting a messy 5×5 square for awhile there. And then it wasn’t messy. It was clean. It was nice. It was mine.

This is the first time in my life I have had a room of my own that I can call an office. We’ve maintained a home office, one that fully meets the tax code definition, for years. But it’s been shared space, the place where I do my online teaching and the place where Scott does his online teaching.

And now that we have created my space for writing, I realize exactly what Woolf meant. I look back on my life, on growing up sharing a 10×20 hallway with my sister (long story) and trying to turn my half into an office. I look back on my first apartment, where the living room also served as my office and dining room. I look at Scott’s and my first apartment and our rented home where he was the one with an office (and that’s not bitterness speaking – he needed that office before he got a full time job and a real office of his own). I look at our shared office, where the online teaching still gets done.

And I realize that I’ve never known this kind of quietude. I’ve never known this joyful confinement. I’ve never had a place where I can separate my writing from the rest of my life, all of my life, even the parts that I get paid for and shut the door, and lock myself in, and only open it if I want to.

I can’t even hear it if the kitchen timer goes off and the door is closed. So what if something burns. Who cares if I forget the wash. The kids have to knock because the handle, which isn’t supposed to lock at all, has an ungainly habit of locking itself. I have to rattle and beat it just to get out, let alone to convince it to allow someone else in.  I can play music whenever I want and I won’t be driving poor Scott batshit crazy.

This new space of mine is wonderful, and I have an awesome husband to thank for helping me make it happen. We aren’t through cleaning yet. The shared office still needs much work. But as of now, I have my own room, my very own room, and it feels so good.

Observe

Posted on by February 25, 2020

The murdered girl stared at her own reflection. As dead as she was, she still retained her most basic functions. She could see herself, smell the rank odor of her decay, hear memories that wept down from the fluorescent lights.

She heard the squeak of sneakers. “Can you change her?” her mother asked. Was that the smell, then? Just shit? Had she been upgraded from decomposing to merely falling out in clumps?

“Oh,” said the nurse. “Yes, I’ll get that right away.” The murdered girl heard the soft-soled retreat as the nurse went for supplies so she could pretend to observe yet another formality reserved for the living.

“How are you doing?” her mother asked in her softest voice. But under that quiet, the girl could still hear her mother screaming. What has he done to you? He’s murdered you, murdered you, baby!

Her mother kissed her forehead. “Can you squeeze my hand today?”

She wanted to seize great fistfuls of blanket like she had seized the air as she fell. She wanted to grab onto her mother’s face and shout that she had dying to get on with and didn’t have time for clumping waste and fingers that couldn’t even manipulate the remote control to change the fucking Price Is Right off the television.

“Well, the doctor says to keep working on it. Do you want me to read?” And underneath that, the doctor whispering to her mother, “Be patient, it’s early days.” The doctor could afford to say that. His early days were her late days. None of these people seemed to understand that she was dead.

She blinked one time. Yes.

Her mother said, “Chapter three”. The murdered girl barely heard the nurse’s return. She descended into the rhythm of her mother’s voice, following the tone more than the words. She rose up and sank down on hills of language that seemed to carry her outward, bearing her on to a world where even the dead could fly.

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Here is my Trifecta entry for this week.  This week’s word is in the title. Observe.

Cena Mexicana

Posted on by February 25, 2020

We don’t eat out often. With two kids on the spectrum and one of those kids being Sam, we forego most public dining opportunities. However. In order to buy me editing time for my second novel, we’ve been travelling a lot. Scott drives, I edit, and the kids entertain themselves with handheld games. We go somewhere fun and spend time together as a family, then I edit more on the way home. Win-win.

Except that my kids are hungry people. And when they get hungry? My people get cranky. And we don’t always bring enough snacks. SO we sometimes have to stop to eat, and we sometimes stop where no fast food is available, or when we’re just sick to death of the stuff.

This happened to us one week as we came home from Georgia. We stopped at one of the Auburn, Alabama, exits because we knew if we didn’t Sam was going to eat his sister or vice versa. For reasons unknown, I had a yen for Mexican food. Oh. Wait. The reasons weren’t unknown. I wanted a fucking margarita to survive the backseat passengers and found it unlikely that I’d get one at Micky D’s.

So when we drove past an actual honest to God MEXICAN RESTAURANT while I experienced this need, I pretty well ripped the steering wheel from Scott’s bleeding hands to direct us to the establishment, called El Dorado.

Now, if we’d checked online first, I wouldn’t have done anything of the kind. The most polite thing reviewers can say about El Dorado is that it has kickass margaritas. (But guess why I was really there?)  Reportedly, glaciers are faster than the food service, and the flavor is awful and about as native to Mexico as fortune cookies are native to China, which is to say not at all. And if I had known those things, I would have overlooked my alcohol yen and suffered through another trip to McDonald’s.

I would never have taken my restless, hungry (but picky), autistic children to a grown up restaurant with promises of slow service and bad food.

I’m SO glad I hadn’t done any research.

Because seriously, the place ruled. They didn’t object to Sam, who ran around like a maniac until he was fed. (It helped that we were four of the sixteen people in there.) They didn’t make us wait to eat (possibly because of Sam). And the food was fine. I won’t call it five star cuisine, or particularly realistic Mexican dining, but it was excellent college-town fare.  In fact, about the only thing online reviewers and I agree about is the margaritas. Big. Ass kicking big. Two thumbs way up.

Beyond that, though, I think the other people who ate there dined at so-dead-thirty or got their restaurants mixed up. Hell, the kids  even ate and enjoyed the food. They ate the MEAT in their soft tacos and asked for more. (My kids frequently reject meat.) The large screen TV mesmerized Caroline. (Aside: even now that we own a TV, my kids are so program deprived that they would, as Scott points out, watch a test pattern. Proof? They watch the weirdo happy yoga program with the strange little woman with overly bright pink cheeks when no cartoons have yet come on Saturday mornings. And they totally watched random soccer in El Dorado.)

We’ve been back two more times since that initial visit, both times with good results. Time before last, Sam got under a neighboring table long enough to dump an entire container of salt AND an entire container of pepper into a heap (kerchew! anybody?)  They thought he was hilarious even as I fussed at him for the behavior. And this last time, we ordered ahead and then got dessert. And for dessert, we had a sopapilla.

If you’ve never had a sopapilla, it’s a puffed flour dish lavished in cinnamon, sugar, and honey. Typically, they are served as little triangles, but this one came as a big round circle. And it wasn’t puffed. Yeah, I suspect that the ‘un-Mexican” critique was earned, even though the wait staff obviously speak primarily Spanish. Whatever. It was glorious. It reminded me of my childhood. So I texted my Dad. And I’ll leave you with the conversation that sopapilla engendered between the two of us:

Me: What was that Mexican restaurant in Cincinnati you used to take me to when i was 4 or 5? I am brewing a sopapilla blog entry.

Dad: Sylvias. It was in Newport. Remember, I used to drive in just to get their salsa and bring it to the farm. Eventually shut down for bringing in herbs ( I think you smoked them ) that were illegal.

Me: Well I never smoked them, but that is exactly who I meant.

Dad: Maybe that’s why I liked the salsa so much. I thought it was cilantro. I liked the big chunks of onions and other big chunk stuff in the salsa too. I had forgotten we went there. That’s great!

Me: Haha! Cilantro will forever be a euphemism in my vocabulary, now.

Dad: There had to be cilantro in there. And it was great. They really did fly their spices in from Mexico.

Me: Yes, it sounds like that is exactly what they did! I loved their cheese enchiladas and sopapillas.

Dad: What a bite in the butt if really good pot is an ingredient in really good Mexican salsa and food and they weren’t smoking it but cooking up Mexican dishes from the ninth ring of hell.

Me: It would be pretty cold coming from the 9th ring. But the 7th circle now, that would be muy caliente.

 

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PS: For the record, I have had plenty of excellent pot free Mexican food. So I rather think Dad’s off his rocker. But in the most endearing and hilarious way.

Memories Captured April: My Three Loves

Posted on by February 25, 2020

 

 

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Once more this April, I’m linking up with Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This for their monthly Memories Captured photo meme. Ladies, thanks for an awesome photo meme. This one stretches my editing boundaries every time, and I learn something new and cool in the process.

I edited with GimpShop software, which is like Photoshop, only free, and with Picmonkey, because, in spite of the fact that Gimp is painfully easy to use, I can’t figure out quiiiite everything I want to do in it.

Wazzzupppp

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Hey dudes, I heard there was a PARTAY in the HOUSE

Well, I for one am ALL in favor of celebrations. Especially the ones that involve days and days of hedonistic blogging.

Just to give you a quick introduction, I’m Jessie the Jester Queen, and I’ve got two kids, Caroline and Sam, and an awesome husband, Scott. I’m bipolar. The kids are both on the autism spectrum. Caroline is eight and has been formally diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome.  She’s a budding ballerina who is terrified of most TV shows but loves live plays.

Sam is four, and we’re still at the beginning of our diagnosis process with him.  The very beginning. The local school system did formally declare that he has Autism Spectrum Disorder, but at this point we haven’t found out really where on the spectrum he sits.  We do know that, like his sister, he’s whipsmart. And like his Daddy at this age, he is FULL of mischief.

Scott is, quite simply, my rock. I never imagined that I would fall in love, let alone get married and have children. My idea of heady romance involves stability, laughter, and support. Scott is all three.

 

And then there’s me. All of those links above are to biographical content, and you will find a lot of memoir on my blog. But you’ll also find fiction, and that’s where my real heart lies. My novel, Divorce: A Love Story, was published by Throwaway Lines in 2011, and it’s available for download on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. You can also find some of my favorite pieces in the short fiction link above.

Thanks again for visiting. If you want to get a pretty-much-daily dose of the fun, you can sign up for e-mail delivery in the sidebar or below. And my facebook and twitter links are in the upper right corner of the page, the better to friend me with my dear. Have fun poking around. Be sure to leave me a comment so I can make sure to visit you, too!

Cheers,

Jessie

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cats

Not What I Meant To Do At All

Posted on by February 25, 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Mrs. McIntyre,

I’m sorry I ran over your mailbox with Dad’s car. I thout I hit the braks. I guess not. I’ll pay you the $65 slowly cos I only ern five dollrs a week.

Snrly,

Lexi

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This is my entry for this week’s Trifextra. We are to write an apology in 33 words (salutation and closing don’t count against). I owe credit to my co-author, Caroline, who helped me with the spelling and posed as Lexi. However, she wants everyone to know she would never steal Dad’s car, and that our car is just ‘our car’, not ‘Dad’s car’.  The handwriting is mine – I’m a lefty and that’s what it looks like when I write with my right hand.

Sam at the playground

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Before

After

Shit! How did that happen?

Eggz

Posted on by February 25, 2020

It started with the colors

But things got silly fast

for Sam, anyway.

Caroline was into the eggs at a much deeper level

She really considered what colors to use

and took great pride in her results;

especially when she realized I’d put her name on one of her eggs.

Sam was pretty thrilled when he saw his first eggs come out.

 

But on the whole, he was more interested in dumping colors together and dying himself mushy blue.

In the end, they both had an eggsellent time.

Right up until Sam melted down for four hours when the project was over. Oh well. Can’t win them all, and even he had fun while the project was in progress.

 

 

 

Gossip

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Skip to the backstory

“That girl’s got to find herself a man.” Doreen, DoDo to all but a few of the newest nurses, stabbed her finger at Jennifer Anniston.

“I think she’s got somebody, hasn’t she?” asked Wilma. The women maintained an easy friendship based on their shared love of celebrity gossip. They watched the all the shows about movie stars’ lives, and they collected magazines so they could compare nose jobs, boob jobs, and lovers.

DoDo said, “She needs one that’ll stick.”

The afternoon nurse, Audrey, swept into the room.“That rag’s a week old,” said Audrey after she administered the appropriate pills. “I can pick you up this week’s after work tonight.”

“No,” said DoDo. “Molly brings them to me on Saturdays.”

Audrey moved on, and the women waited while her cart retreated down the hall. Wilma said, “Molly indeed. Can you imagine Molly bringing you one of these?”

“No, she’s good enough on the large print books, though.”

Then Wilma pushed herself up out of her seat and got DoDo’s wheelchair from its spot in the corner. “Ready, dear?” she asked her older roommate.

“Of course I am,” said DoDo. She swung down out of bed and gingerly settled into the chair. “Audrey’s right about one thing. Our scandal sheet is a week old. It’s high time for a new one.”

Wilma pushed DoDo into the nursing home’s garden, two old women out for an innocent stroll. She said, “I’m glad we don’t live on the lockdown side.”

“No, we couldn’t run away like this,” DoDo agreed.  They set their eyes on the garden’s gate. When they were sure Audrey hadn’t come down from the nurse’s station to monitor them through the door as she sometimes did, they pushed out into the loading area, then maneuvered to the busy sidewalk beyond.

DoDo leaned back in the chair. “Maybe this week, Jennifer can get somebody to replace Brad,” she said.

Wilma said, “Maybe she doesn’t need a man at all.”

DoDo clucked. “Scandalous!”

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This is my entry for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge, where we have been tasked with the third definition of ‘scandal’. Note that ‘scandalous’ is NOT the usage; ‘scandal sheet’ is. I’m not trying to slip one by and change the word form, which is not allowed. The last word is just soooo obviously right.

The story is based on a bizarre dream I had last week about my best friend’s daughters. It was supposed to morph into my entry for Lance’s 100 word song last week, but these old birds flatly refused to be confined to 100 words. Flatly. Refused. Which is in character I suppose, but maddening for their author.

They were supposed to run away from the nursing home and leave it at that, since that’s what happened in my dream. But it wasn’t taking place that way, because my brain kept inserting reality checks. So then, I was left with wondering what they COULD do, and they had all KINDS of ideas. They wanted to go to the movies, ride public transit until the bus driver caught on and took them back to the home, take DoDo’s wheelchair joyriding through the Furniture gallery, and go try to get a test drive at the BMW dealership. Again. (Damned salesmen require a driver’s license and insurance papers, and Wilma hasn’t got her great-grandson on board with forging those or teaching her how to do so yet.) This seems fitting considering the girls the old ladies are based on.

Then Trifecta came along and saved me with ‘scandal’.

I will be long dead by the time the real DoDo and Wilma  (whose names are not Doreen and Wilma) are old enough to star in this story (so will Jennifer Anniston and Brangelina). But I do so enjoy imagining the young people I know as old folks. Because to see them that way means they have survived adolescence and adulthood. It’s a window into their lives as I will never know them.

And these kids would already have the cool and moxie to achieve a breakout like this, but you would have to convince DoDo that it was a good idea first.

My Brother On The Mound

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“Hot pretzel and a package of candy,” says the woman in pink. She has a glazed look, like she’s been standing in line for a thousand years.

“Six fifty.”

She gives me a credit card, and I go for the pretzel. We’re shorthanded, so I’m my own runner.

“Get me one,” Brady calls from his register.

“The syrup’s out in the diet cola,” Kelly shouts.

Their voices blend together with the clanging, whirring, and popping that is a ballpark concession stand. The PTA gets funds, Minor League baseball gets good neighbor points, and I get a headache. I can’t hear the score over the cacophony.

I’d really like to know how the guys are doing. My brother’s on that team, after all. But all I know is we’re in the 7th, and I’m not going anyplace except back to my register with the pretzel. “Cheese?” I ask Ms. Pink.

“Nah, but don’t forget my candy.”

Finally, the printer spits out a receipt for the woman to sign.  “What’s the score?” I ask as I hand her a pen.

“We’re winning three to nothing.”

Another crash in the background means I barely hear her. Mandy shouts, “Ah crap, I just dumped magic soap everywhere!”

“It’s hand sanitizer,” scolds one of the adults, like the real problem is Mandy calling it by a preschool name.

“Whatever. It’s all over the floor back here now. Watch your step.”

I take the receipt from the woman and put it in my drawer. “Three to nothing?” I repeat.

She’s walking away now, but she says, “Yeah, Claymore’s working on a perfect game.”

Suddenly, I tear off my apron and hoist the counter to let myself through. They yell after me, but I don’t hear their words. I smack two insects off my arm, but I don’t even feel the sting from the blood they’ve drawn. The visitors can’t get so much as a hit, and that’s my brother on the mound. That’s my brother on the mound.

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This weekend at Trifextra, we have between 33 and 333 words to use the words cacophony, soap, and insects in order.  The timer’s ticking if you want to come play!

The picture above is probably of Montgomery Biscuits pitcher Jim Paduch. I say probably because I’m not sure if I ever reset my little camera from Eastern Time when we moved to Montgomery from Lexington. The camera thinks the picture was taken at 8:43 on July 16, 2011. Meaning it was probably 7:43. Meaning it’s probably the starting pitcher still on the mound. Or rather, stepping off the mound for a second. If not, though, it’s either Frank De Los Santos or Zachary Quate.