Archive for November, 2011

Things I said to my sisters over Thanksgiving.

No, my sweater will not be the same after your chest has been in it.

No, you are not allowed to use my <fill in the blank> without asking because you forgot yours or it smells SO good. <deodorant, shampoo, mascara, moisturizer>

No, my taking a shower was not an invitation to take over my bed and drink my chocolate wine. And I am the only one who gets to drink out of the bottle.

Yes, I brought heated sheets and no they are not for us to share.

No, reading my journal while I’m in the shower isn’t an attempt to bring us closer. And no it wasn’t lying open on the bed. It was hidden behind the chest of drawers.

And no I don’t think waving the turkey carcass, butt first in my face brought back nostalgic memories from our childhood.

I, for my part, will confess –

I think putting Everclear in blank’s glass was probably not the best idea.

No, I don’t know who put the ice packs in your beds or I’m not confessing.

To one of my sisters in particular, yes, I know you’re a prude. That’s why I left those kind of magazines on your bed. No, I didn’t know everyone would see them. That was a happy accident.

To another sister, yes, we all know you’re a vegan, however, lobster does so count. I don’t care what you read. And I still think serving you the gory fondant turkey head was funny.

I don’t know who brought the whoopee cushion, but yes, I did use it.

And so another Thanksgiving comes to an end.

Oh one more – Yes, I do need to find itching powder before Christmas.


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I was trying to think of the perfect post for Thanksgiving and me being me, I decided to be thankful for the nut I call my  sister.

My Grandmother wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread over a field of blue bonnets. So after she was cremated, someone thought it was be a good idea to take handfuls of her and spread her around thinking good thoughts. Midway through I realized how disgusting this was. That was about the time the wind picked up. Grandma blew back in my face and I choked on her.

On our way home, one of my sisters wanted to go through a drive through and pick up a burger.

I said, “I have to go in. I have Grandma all over my hands and steering wheel.”

My sister start to laugh.

I asked, “Hey, you know you have a smudge of Grandma on your teeth.”

As the sun was setting, I was waxing nastalgic. I don’t know how many time I’ve told my sister to keep her mouth shut. She never listens. I wonder if that makes her a cannibal.

P.S. Thanks to Hilary White for this week awesome header.

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A while back I was invited to a party, at which I was the shortest person. In this mostly male crowd, I didn’t come above any of theirs armpits. I’m five two and they were all over six feet.  I felt like I was in a forest of moving trees.

It seemed none of the guys quite knew what to do with the wee little one, as one guy described me. As alcohol was involved, eventually insufferable giant, Jaxx said, “She’s so little, I can just pick her up.” And he did.

I, of course, responded with my evil, narrow eyed, menacing, I’ll kick your ass look and said, “Put me down.”

To which he responded laughing, “Oh, the little one’s got a temper.”

He didn’t seem to realize my knee was now in a perfect position for permanent damage. We needn’t go further, he put me down.

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I had a dream last night, my psychiatrist would have a field day with. I dreamt there was a beautiful park in the middle of a city. You had to pay a quarter to get in. In the middle of the park were these brick toilets and again you had to pay a quarter to get in.

I thought, Wow those must be really nice toilets. I don’t really need to go, but I’ll pay a quarter to get in and a quarter to use the really nice toilets.

So I sitting there, looking out a half window at the park, and by the way they were really nice toilets, and a woman kept going back and forth. I thought to myself this might be the kind of place someone would vandalize.

So I was sitting there and the entire wall of the toilet was ripped off and  I was exposed to the city.

Yeah, thanks vandals.

Remember, this is a dream. Even my dreams have a freaky sense of humor.

My psychiatrist would want to look for deeper meaning, like my Mom’s toilet training techniques. But, me I’m not that brilliant and well-educated and I think my Mom did a fine job.

I think it’s because I’m facing my fear of short stories publicly. Oh by the way the last short story really sucked, so can my freakish dream count instead?

wooded subway stop

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I posted another short story. If your interested in my second attempt, check out the tab Short Stories You Might Not Want to Read. Apparently my best writing might be right in the middle of the night.

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I forgot to mention that I was creating a new tab called Short Stories You Might Not Want to Read. I’ve place my first official fiction story about a Dreamwalker. I’ve misplaced my notebook with the second only half finished short story, which means I left it on my desk at work. So I have to quickly come up with a fast short story for today.

She fell in love with a serial killer and that was the end of that.

I think that would be romantic suspense. Got to get started on another one. Till tomorrow.

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Though I have many things to confess, most of which I’ve already been absolved, I have a fear of words. One hundred and forty characters invigorates me. A blog post makes me a little nervous. Can I find something interesting that will last more than one hundred and forty characters? Not sure.

A novel of 50,000+ words? Not so afraid, there’s a structure, word limits, rules and regulations to follow.

My true and total fear – the short story. How long is enough or too long? How many plot points? Number of twists one, two or three? I feel no guidance in writing a short story and maybe that should be the draw – freedom. But I like rules and guides.

So I have a phobia of short stories. I’ve tried researching them, but the only cure I can think of is to write them. So, I’m going to write one a day. I’m not going to worry if I don’t have an end or if it’s really boring and sucks. I’m just going to write one short story a day.

I’m going to love writing short stories even if it kills me.

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I got to work and people where talking to me like I care.

I thought Holy Crap, I must have gotten sucked into an alternate universe where “I” care!

But if I’m here, the me that cares must be in my world screwing everything up. Holy Crap, suddenly I cared. Then I got so freakin’ confused I didn’t care anymore.

Okay, I’m good now.

Images courtesy Rodrigo Lazzarini.

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My house was built in 1964. The duck wallpaper doesn’t scream old-world, it screams strip me and the nineteen layer under me. At what point does dirt and dust turn the corner and become patina?

Furniture refinishing instructions have a step that goes something like this. Now rub the fake dirt on it so it looks old.

I think I’ll just wait for the real dirt. My problem, the real dirt never looks as good as the fake dirt.

Images courtesy Rodrigo Lazzarini.

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