R. says as long as he likes me, and he does—I can work with him every day this week. I ponder the thought and begin planning how busy I will be with my real job tomorrow. Probably so busy I won’t even get to go outside I say aloud. When I get home, I’ll check my e-mail and let you know for sure this evening. It’s feast or famine this business.
I’ve finished almost the entire bottle of water and I can tell R. is getting a little miffed. Either that or he is tired after a busy day of deliveries that will surely be followed by another two weeks of busy days; followed by another 20 years. But, at least we’re outside, he reassures himself over the blower motor. The blast of hot air from the engine compartment reminds me of O. I miss him in all his incompetent splendor. He was a good guy.
The company has a strict policy regarding sexual harassment. They didn’t tell us what it was, just that it is very strict. After three days of riding together, you learn a lot about a person whether they tell you or not. As R. pondered just how great our communication would be in three days if it was already this good today; I was getting sentimental over O. My first driver. I guess you never really get over your first. They’re the ones who teach you how to do things for the first time. Right or wrong, you’ll always remember them and compare their ways to the ways of all those who follow. Beyond that, there’s a trust established when you are forced into a new or potentially dangerous situation with complete strangers and come out alive. Just like the driver helper group initially bonded over our common need to find a job and found ourselves gathered around a table just like Thanksgiving Dinner I felt myself thrust into the great brown world of logistics—it’s sustainable don’tcha know.
O. and I established a higher level of trust than most by the second day. He had no sooner confided in me that his boss was no less than requiring him to have a better day and entered the code for the gate when a car zoomed around us activating the only one car per entry mechanism that sends the boom gate—the wooden thing that goes down at railroad crossings and airport parking and apparently, this complex—into action. There was no time to respond. We went barreling through and the thing came down a lot more violently than I ever expected between the force of the big, brown truck and the forward movement. It cracked like lightening over the passenger mirror. I closed my eyes and leaned to the left as far as possible while covering my face with my right arm. It dragged alongside the outside of the truck until it finally dislodged itself, broke off and fell to the ground with a hollow thwack. Apparently, this was not going to be a better day.
Jesus! Are you okay?! O. shouts and unbuckles himself as soon as we have come to a safe stop. I’m kinda stunned but fine. Your face! Let me see it, he laments and reaches cradled palms toward my chin, lifting it up to his eyes. Not a scratch. Did that scare you? I’m really sorry. No, no. I’m fine. Really. He gives me little signals that he really is a good dad and a caring person but this is something more. We sit there smoking for a minute before O. makes the call to his boss. We’re going to be here for a while if you want to snack, he says pushing gently past me to exit on my side. I’m still buckled in. I don’t understand how you eat so much and stay so thin. Well, there’s not much room to pack it in so I eat often. Do you want some of my almonds and apricots? Girl, you know I have a toothache and you’re offering me that hard-ass shit? It’s all I brought.
There was a time I would have taken that personally but this is not it. I know he is suffering. He plays it off but I am beginning to wonder if the reason I didn’t hear from him on the fourth day is because he got fired. The damage to the truck blended right in with the other scratches. Apparently, live oak is just as strong as whatever that non-splintering material in the gate was. Thank god there was no shrapnel, O. thinks to himself so loud I can hear. Could have scratched her face up bad. The security guard for the complex shows up and assures O. that he will be getting a bill in the mail for $150. O. shrugs that off too and seems confident in the knowledge that the company will pay. I’ll be a witness if you need one, I say. There was absolutely no way you could have stopped. That car came out of nowhere and cut right in front of you. At every subsequent gate, I look into the mirror for him as he enters the code and give the all clear.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
SDH Pt. 10 - Where it turns into to something else all together
I’m not paranoid. I’m OBSERVANT! I shout silently—impudently and hop in the truck. A quick flash of me in a candle lit room on a table under a white sheet caresses my brain. It’s 45 degrees and R. won’t let me shut the door because it sticks and I have to struggle to open it fast enough. I feel that if I practiced, I would eventually get better and faster but he insists. I’m not cold. I feel a heat radiating from my core and pat myself on the back for being centered and maintaining my power zone. The way they explained it in training there are “right ways” to practice delivery driving and logistics. According to the company videos: stretching, breathing, eating healthy and taking part in relaxation are all integral to maintaining a long, healthy and prosperous future at work and at home. Or maybe I inserted that last part.
In the interest of full disclosure, the story you have been reading is 100% true. I think. Mostly. I mean it’s my version of reality. I will admit to you that I am parting my veils a bit for you right now. This is the part of the story where I tell you the kind of things that drove my husband so mad with desire he actually questioned if they were true. I assure you they were not. Totally. I mean some of them sort of happened but not really and then those got mixed up with the ones that were not just true at all. So, hold on. We’re going for an exciting ride and it’s going to be fun. Well, at least for me and isn’t that what it all comes down to when you hear me moan your name in voice so deep you know it’s coming from that spot just below my navel. The spot you love to bury your nose in. Your hands around my hips, your fingers pressing into the firm muscle of my upper buttocks. I whisper, “What is that called again?” Into your ear and you reward me with an audible shudder. I make my breath hot and say more. This time I’ve altered my tone and all you can hear is how much I want you in every deeper confession.
“I like it when you bite my neck. I think it’s a button. Yeahhhh. When you do it right it releeeases tension and ohhhhh, yessssss. That’s the one. Oh myyyyyy.” More hot breath, more confessions, more pleasure exchange.
“Do you see where this is going?”
Yes.
Do you want to try to push my button? MMmmhmmm.
In the interest of full disclosure, the story you have been reading is 100% true. I think. Mostly. I mean it’s my version of reality. I will admit to you that I am parting my veils a bit for you right now. This is the part of the story where I tell you the kind of things that drove my husband so mad with desire he actually questioned if they were true. I assure you they were not. Totally. I mean some of them sort of happened but not really and then those got mixed up with the ones that were not just true at all. So, hold on. We’re going for an exciting ride and it’s going to be fun. Well, at least for me and isn’t that what it all comes down to when you hear me moan your name in voice so deep you know it’s coming from that spot just below my navel. The spot you love to bury your nose in. Your hands around my hips, your fingers pressing into the firm muscle of my upper buttocks. I whisper, “What is that called again?” Into your ear and you reward me with an audible shudder. I make my breath hot and say more. This time I’ve altered my tone and all you can hear is how much I want you in every deeper confession.
“I like it when you bite my neck. I think it’s a button. Yeahhhh. When you do it right it releeeases tension and ohhhhh, yessssss. That’s the one. Oh myyyyyy.” More hot breath, more confessions, more pleasure exchange.
“Do you see where this is going?”
Yes.
Do you want to try to push my button? MMmmhmmm.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
SDH Pt. 9 - Where I ask myself, "How many parts are there going to be?"
I dumped my water out while I was using the restroom at Big’s (Read: Valero). I made eye contact with myself in the mirror. I told myself I was not paranoid. If there ever has been a bigger better to be safe than sorry moment in your life, this is it. This is your chance to live to tell the tale. To be the smart chic in the horror movie who makes it out alive but still somehow unfulfilled. I pour my bottle of water in to the Smart bottle, noting that my hands are steady and I feel completely in control of every circumstance I can be. Splash some water on my face and prepare to face my fate.
It occurs to me that if this were a movie, I could make it as sweet as possible. I’m beginning to wonder if there was a little something in that water because I’m actually fantasizing about it. Well, the lead up to it anyway. I imagine he fulfills my every dark fantasy. By dark I mean the dysfunctional pleasure response created by the thing I was lead to believe was love as a child. The thing I named love as an adolescent. The gateway drug that became an addiction in my teens. The intense emotional experiences I created in my twenties. The dissatisfaction I felt in my early thirties. And whatever this thing I’m doing right now is because they were all THE best thing I ever felt at the time they were happening.
Even the bad parts—you know the ones that even though there aren’t really any bad parts or good parts; there are just parts—you still kinda wonder what that really means? Even though you KNOW that to be true, still you doubt? Yeah. Even those.
It occurs to me that if this were a movie, I could make it as sweet as possible. I’m beginning to wonder if there was a little something in that water because I’m actually fantasizing about it. Well, the lead up to it anyway. I imagine he fulfills my every dark fantasy. By dark I mean the dysfunctional pleasure response created by the thing I was lead to believe was love as a child. The thing I named love as an adolescent. The gateway drug that became an addiction in my teens. The intense emotional experiences I created in my twenties. The dissatisfaction I felt in my early thirties. And whatever this thing I’m doing right now is because they were all THE best thing I ever felt at the time they were happening.
Even the bad parts—you know the ones that even though there aren’t really any bad parts or good parts; there are just parts—you still kinda wonder what that really means? Even though you KNOW that to be true, still you doubt? Yeah. Even those.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
SDH Pt. 8 - Another day, another $32 after taxes
Here, I bought you some water. Drink up, R. says. What a guy. Not one of my other drivers has even offered me a drink. Luckily, I brought my own after the first day of being without for two hours. I did have gum, which is the only thing that made it tolerable. Not running is thirsty work.
We’re getting along great. My pet peeves are his pet peeves. It’s Smart Water he says—even better for you than just plain water. Yes, I say. Thank you. It tastes great. Out here in the country the drive ways are more than long, they’re distant. He drops me off at one, drives to the next and then turns around for me. Don’t worry he says, I’ll always come back. It really had not occurred to me that he wouldn’t. Something makes me feel grateful that I texted my location or at least my last location to my friends before I hopped in the truck. Beware of dogs! He shouts as he rolls away.
It’s kinda creepy navigating through the overgrown bush of the wild places in peoples’ front yards out here. It’s also almost exactly how I would choose to leave my land if I had some. Lush, native with little to no “improvement”. I feel an uneasy comfort approaching the fenced in exotics many locals keep as pets or game. Zebras, Oryx (a sort of long-horned antelope), llamas, ostrich and the spiral horned goat-looking thing that rammed our car at the drive-through zoo a couple years ago. Texas: It really is like a whole ‘nuther country.
R. does return and compliments me on my graceful three-point entrance with a caveat. Can you speed it up a little? Sure, thing! I say, wondering if my other drivers felt the same way. Please do let me know if there is anything else I can do to help you out or improve what I’m already doing, I add. Oh, I’m pretty outspoken, says R. yet somehow I don’t really believe him. He startles when I laugh and rarely makes eye-contact even when he is not driving.
I’m thinking we’ve already had some pretty deep conversations when somehow, we get on the topic of religion. R. wants me to know that he is a repressed Catholic boy. His words. I begin to wonder where this is going when he asks how come I’m not drinking my water. I really should be. It’s a tall bottle – maybe 32 oz. and I’ve only made a dent in it around 1/8 of the way down. Oh, right, I say and grab the bottle instinctively, already falling into my normal pattern of obedience and control in the presence of a tractable male. It’s comfortable here. In fact, I feel so comfortable and safe that even as the lip of the bottle touches my lips I can’t recall if the lid snapped when I turned it off the first time. The text of a little yellow sticker flashes through my mind—Do not consume if safety seal has been broken.
Did it snap or didn’t it? I can’t remember! I’m starting to feel sleepy just thinking about it. Is that his plan? I wonder how many of us have gone before? But he’s a delivery guy, they do background checks! How would he maintain a career and a normal life? They always do. And they’re the nice ones too. The ones who get along just fine with everyone. The quiet ones. He was a great neighbor—never a bother. What a tragedy. Who’d have guessed? All these years he’s been luring seasonal driver helpers out into the country, drugging them into the back of his truck and driving them home like a COD who didn’t answer the door. You never know what’s going to be inside, but it’s got to be good.
Holy crap! I’m driving around in the middle of nowhere, TX with a serial killer! Suddenly, time slows down to a crawl. I feel very, very calm. All I have to do is stay awake. He’s not aggressive, at least not yet. He probably won’t attack unless I’m unconscious. Okay. So, no more water. But, how do I maintain the façade that I am drinking it and Jesus, God I am SO very thirsty all the sudden. I have mine own water in my bag in the back but how would that look? I take little sips and hold it in my mouth for a while hoping something in my saliva counteracts the sedative before I swallow. Thrity-six more stops before break-time he announces me out of my thoughts. I don’t’ know about you, but I have to take a potty break! Oh wow, okay maybe he is human after all. The other two never even mentioned it.
Of course he’s human. That doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer. They hire these seasonal helpers en masse. One or two could easily go missing. They’re just the type no one would miss either because they’re the ones who are always doing something just a little out of the norm. If he starts to ask me about my family connections, I’ll know he’s researching. The problem with that is even though I love my family dearly and they love me right back they would absolutely not question my absence for at least two days before beginning to inquire. By then, I could be buried in this guy’s backyard.
At least he’s nice. I mean, if you’re going to be heinously murdered I suspect the experience could be made as pleasant as possible by a caring killer. He seems genuinely interested in my “real” job. Raised his voice for the first time all day when he exclaimed, how COOL it must be to do the thing I do. To get into the minds of my clients and give them exactly what they want, even when they don’t know what that thing might be. Well, at least that’s the goal, I respond quietly almost modestly; secretly thinking wow, this guy really gets it. I’m probably glowing in the dark. I’m definitely smiling as we pass by the bank of mailboxes in one of those incredibly weird sub-divisions where all the houses are packed tightly next to one another for a few miles surrounded by vacant land again, and again, and yes. We ARE driving in circles.
We’re getting along great. My pet peeves are his pet peeves. It’s Smart Water he says—even better for you than just plain water. Yes, I say. Thank you. It tastes great. Out here in the country the drive ways are more than long, they’re distant. He drops me off at one, drives to the next and then turns around for me. Don’t worry he says, I’ll always come back. It really had not occurred to me that he wouldn’t. Something makes me feel grateful that I texted my location or at least my last location to my friends before I hopped in the truck. Beware of dogs! He shouts as he rolls away.
It’s kinda creepy navigating through the overgrown bush of the wild places in peoples’ front yards out here. It’s also almost exactly how I would choose to leave my land if I had some. Lush, native with little to no “improvement”. I feel an uneasy comfort approaching the fenced in exotics many locals keep as pets or game. Zebras, Oryx (a sort of long-horned antelope), llamas, ostrich and the spiral horned goat-looking thing that rammed our car at the drive-through zoo a couple years ago. Texas: It really is like a whole ‘nuther country.
R. does return and compliments me on my graceful three-point entrance with a caveat. Can you speed it up a little? Sure, thing! I say, wondering if my other drivers felt the same way. Please do let me know if there is anything else I can do to help you out or improve what I’m already doing, I add. Oh, I’m pretty outspoken, says R. yet somehow I don’t really believe him. He startles when I laugh and rarely makes eye-contact even when he is not driving.
I’m thinking we’ve already had some pretty deep conversations when somehow, we get on the topic of religion. R. wants me to know that he is a repressed Catholic boy. His words. I begin to wonder where this is going when he asks how come I’m not drinking my water. I really should be. It’s a tall bottle – maybe 32 oz. and I’ve only made a dent in it around 1/8 of the way down. Oh, right, I say and grab the bottle instinctively, already falling into my normal pattern of obedience and control in the presence of a tractable male. It’s comfortable here. In fact, I feel so comfortable and safe that even as the lip of the bottle touches my lips I can’t recall if the lid snapped when I turned it off the first time. The text of a little yellow sticker flashes through my mind—Do not consume if safety seal has been broken.
Did it snap or didn’t it? I can’t remember! I’m starting to feel sleepy just thinking about it. Is that his plan? I wonder how many of us have gone before? But he’s a delivery guy, they do background checks! How would he maintain a career and a normal life? They always do. And they’re the nice ones too. The ones who get along just fine with everyone. The quiet ones. He was a great neighbor—never a bother. What a tragedy. Who’d have guessed? All these years he’s been luring seasonal driver helpers out into the country, drugging them into the back of his truck and driving them home like a COD who didn’t answer the door. You never know what’s going to be inside, but it’s got to be good.
Holy crap! I’m driving around in the middle of nowhere, TX with a serial killer! Suddenly, time slows down to a crawl. I feel very, very calm. All I have to do is stay awake. He’s not aggressive, at least not yet. He probably won’t attack unless I’m unconscious. Okay. So, no more water. But, how do I maintain the façade that I am drinking it and Jesus, God I am SO very thirsty all the sudden. I have mine own water in my bag in the back but how would that look? I take little sips and hold it in my mouth for a while hoping something in my saliva counteracts the sedative before I swallow. Thrity-six more stops before break-time he announces me out of my thoughts. I don’t’ know about you, but I have to take a potty break! Oh wow, okay maybe he is human after all. The other two never even mentioned it.
Of course he’s human. That doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer. They hire these seasonal helpers en masse. One or two could easily go missing. They’re just the type no one would miss either because they’re the ones who are always doing something just a little out of the norm. If he starts to ask me about my family connections, I’ll know he’s researching. The problem with that is even though I love my family dearly and they love me right back they would absolutely not question my absence for at least two days before beginning to inquire. By then, I could be buried in this guy’s backyard.
At least he’s nice. I mean, if you’re going to be heinously murdered I suspect the experience could be made as pleasant as possible by a caring killer. He seems genuinely interested in my “real” job. Raised his voice for the first time all day when he exclaimed, how COOL it must be to do the thing I do. To get into the minds of my clients and give them exactly what they want, even when they don’t know what that thing might be. Well, at least that’s the goal, I respond quietly almost modestly; secretly thinking wow, this guy really gets it. I’m probably glowing in the dark. I’m definitely smiling as we pass by the bank of mailboxes in one of those incredibly weird sub-divisions where all the houses are packed tightly next to one another for a few miles surrounded by vacant land again, and again, and yes. We ARE driving in circles.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
SDH Pt. 7
I have the weekend off to nurse the whiplash inevitably caused by living out the motion of being rear ended over 200 times a day. Thank god because Day 10 is a freak show. My driver says to meet him at the Big’s off of 46. You know where that is? Yes, I say, I know where that intersection is. The big gas station on the corner? Yes, that’s the one, he assures me. It’s noon and he says maybe he’ll need me around 2 or 3 or maybe 4 o’clock. I’m hesitant because foul dude was sort of just as indecisive and I’m already getting the vibe that packages will be thrown and doors will be slammed so I make a note to braid my earplugs on a string into my bun. This one is far out of town, a solid 40 minutes from where I live and we’re already on the outskirts.
I’m getting used to gearing up in my Browns and hanging out working on the computer for hours while I wait for them to call and say meet me in 15 minutes at Blank. I don’t like to be late. I also don’t like to live up to the stereotype that women take forever to get ready. But, with a mane of Texas-sized hair to tame, I need a minimum of half an hour to shower and get out the door. More if I need to pack a lunch.
Around two, R. calls to say he’s ready and we should be out until around 8 p.m. Great! I say, thinking how nice it will be to be gone for the nephews’ nightly bedtime ritual of screaming, throwing fits, getting really thirsty and then wanting to give hugs and kisses to everyone they just gave a thorough beat down to. There is no Big’s on the corner. There’s a big gas station. It’s called Valero. I drive past thinking maybe it’s a bit down the road and there’s another one. It’s also called Valero. I’ve been on the road for 40 minutes. I call the driver. He doesn’t answer. I pull over in a subdivision and plug Big’s into the GPS. It says there’s one about seven minutes away so I follow it, waiting for R. to call me back. No call. Around 3:30 I’m back at the intersection he originally said to meet him filling up my tank at the Chevron across the street from Valero. I only use Chevron. Valero gas is like cool-aid – great when you’re a kid and all your mom can afford is a flavor packet and couple cups of sugar. As an adult, there’s no substitute for high-quality fuel. And if you don’t put crappy gas in your car, why would you put it in your body?
This is the conversation R. and I are having after he finally calls and clues me in to the fact that Big’s IS Valero and I hop in the truck with him after texting my location to a few friends. Everyone in TX knows Big’s is Valero, he exclaims with a hardy ho, ho, ho even though it’s nowhere to be seen on an actual sign. No, see it’s on the DOOR. Oh yes, about 12 inches high. Clearly visible from a parking space right in front of the entrance. Apparently, just another I’m not from around here moment.
R is rotund. There is no better word to describe him. If you looked up rotund in the dictionary, R’s picture would be there. He’s a redhead too with preternaturally preserved pink skin and a child-like gaze that I simultaneously adore and find hideously creepy in a nearing 50-year-old man. He tows the party line like the other two. Been here eleven years, love it, wouldn’t trade it for the world. Couldn’t really since I’m vested now and they work us around 12 hours a day every day with no lunch so the only thing we can do when get home is eat and pass out and do it all over again the next day. I quickly recall foul dude’s emphatic, I have a degree after telling me that he entered soon after high school and never left because the money was too good.
But back to R. He’s dreamy. Polite. Soft spoken. Communicates where we are going next and what my role is. Asks questions and gets lost but ultimately finds his way and never, ever throws a package. My question is: How in the hell do you work somewhere for a decade and still not have a clue how to excel at it? I’ve been with three drivers whose experience totaled the entirety of my youngest sister’s existence. Three different types of people. Three different approaches. No uniformity. No organization. No training? I have to think they must be thrown out into the world just like we, the seasonal driver helpers were. I’m beginning to question the logic of a company that has made seemingly zero improvements to a system that IMHO should include state of the art dispatch. Instead, there is an sadly out-dated DIAD that weighs about a 120 pounds around one foot outside the driver’s regular range of motion causing him to lean out of balance while driving and put his back, not to mention his hand at risk for repetitive motion injuries.
Why doesn’t a profitable company whose sole function is to deliver packages have the most awesome bouya baby get it there gadgets the western world has to offer? Why aren't its driver’s—the humans behind the machine—getting lunch instead of working through the pain and ending up that fat dude with toned and tanned legs? I wonder what the risk of heart attack is among them. I make a bet it’s disproportionally high. R. nods. When did it become standard operating procedure for a hard-working American man to sacrifice eating for his job or for anything for that matter? R. and I agree it’s a shame people easily understand that a car won’t go anywhere without fuel but still think they can deprive their bodies of vital proteins and nutrients and continue to live a high-energy, disease-free life.
I’m getting used to gearing up in my Browns and hanging out working on the computer for hours while I wait for them to call and say meet me in 15 minutes at Blank. I don’t like to be late. I also don’t like to live up to the stereotype that women take forever to get ready. But, with a mane of Texas-sized hair to tame, I need a minimum of half an hour to shower and get out the door. More if I need to pack a lunch.
Around two, R. calls to say he’s ready and we should be out until around 8 p.m. Great! I say, thinking how nice it will be to be gone for the nephews’ nightly bedtime ritual of screaming, throwing fits, getting really thirsty and then wanting to give hugs and kisses to everyone they just gave a thorough beat down to. There is no Big’s on the corner. There’s a big gas station. It’s called Valero. I drive past thinking maybe it’s a bit down the road and there’s another one. It’s also called Valero. I’ve been on the road for 40 minutes. I call the driver. He doesn’t answer. I pull over in a subdivision and plug Big’s into the GPS. It says there’s one about seven minutes away so I follow it, waiting for R. to call me back. No call. Around 3:30 I’m back at the intersection he originally said to meet him filling up my tank at the Chevron across the street from Valero. I only use Chevron. Valero gas is like cool-aid – great when you’re a kid and all your mom can afford is a flavor packet and couple cups of sugar. As an adult, there’s no substitute for high-quality fuel. And if you don’t put crappy gas in your car, why would you put it in your body?
This is the conversation R. and I are having after he finally calls and clues me in to the fact that Big’s IS Valero and I hop in the truck with him after texting my location to a few friends. Everyone in TX knows Big’s is Valero, he exclaims with a hardy ho, ho, ho even though it’s nowhere to be seen on an actual sign. No, see it’s on the DOOR. Oh yes, about 12 inches high. Clearly visible from a parking space right in front of the entrance. Apparently, just another I’m not from around here moment.
R is rotund. There is no better word to describe him. If you looked up rotund in the dictionary, R’s picture would be there. He’s a redhead too with preternaturally preserved pink skin and a child-like gaze that I simultaneously adore and find hideously creepy in a nearing 50-year-old man. He tows the party line like the other two. Been here eleven years, love it, wouldn’t trade it for the world. Couldn’t really since I’m vested now and they work us around 12 hours a day every day with no lunch so the only thing we can do when get home is eat and pass out and do it all over again the next day. I quickly recall foul dude’s emphatic, I have a degree after telling me that he entered soon after high school and never left because the money was too good.
But back to R. He’s dreamy. Polite. Soft spoken. Communicates where we are going next and what my role is. Asks questions and gets lost but ultimately finds his way and never, ever throws a package. My question is: How in the hell do you work somewhere for a decade and still not have a clue how to excel at it? I’ve been with three drivers whose experience totaled the entirety of my youngest sister’s existence. Three different types of people. Three different approaches. No uniformity. No organization. No training? I have to think they must be thrown out into the world just like we, the seasonal driver helpers were. I’m beginning to question the logic of a company that has made seemingly zero improvements to a system that IMHO should include state of the art dispatch. Instead, there is an sadly out-dated DIAD that weighs about a 120 pounds around one foot outside the driver’s regular range of motion causing him to lean out of balance while driving and put his back, not to mention his hand at risk for repetitive motion injuries.
Why doesn’t a profitable company whose sole function is to deliver packages have the most awesome bouya baby get it there gadgets the western world has to offer? Why aren't its driver’s—the humans behind the machine—getting lunch instead of working through the pain and ending up that fat dude with toned and tanned legs? I wonder what the risk of heart attack is among them. I make a bet it’s disproportionally high. R. nods. When did it become standard operating procedure for a hard-working American man to sacrifice eating for his job or for anything for that matter? R. and I agree it’s a shame people easily understand that a car won’t go anywhere without fuel but still think they can deprive their bodies of vital proteins and nutrients and continue to live a high-energy, disease-free life.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
SDH Pt. 6
Day 9 – I think O. may have called in sick for his tooth because I haven’t heard from anyone and it’s 10 a.m. Or maybe I shouldn’t have texted him that picture I took of him all proud in the back of his empty truck at 7:35 the night before? Oh well. Maybe this new driver will have his shit together on the very first day.
One o’clock rolls around and I get a call back. Will we be stopping for lunch? I ask, thinking I should probably eat before I leave anyway since breakfast was at 7 a.m. What? Yeah. Lunch? He responds as if I have just asked him to rub my back before I’ll accept any packages. I should have eaten more than half a peanut butter sandwich. This would be my most challenging day. The dude was foul from the start. Had me meet him in a residential area and then wait outside the gate with no code to get me in. Barely shook hands before telling me his was two hours behind and took off before I even had both feet in front of me in the jump seat, much less a belt on. I almost got back into my car after the first neighborhood where he proceeded to not just throw packages like O. had done but speed pitch them into the corners of the truck with a hearty, GODDAMMIT! when he could not find a particular address or worse found one that he had already passed. That happened several times within the first hour. But, I figured you know, everyone has a bad day and even O. had a few bad days there at the start. Let’s give this guy a chance.
Bad idea. About half way into my shift I want out. He is not anything like O. Who, despite his disorganization on the first day, welcomed my help in the back of the truck and even thanked me for putting packages in order as I looked for the one that had gone missing. He cusses incessantly and when he’s not driving at least double the speed limit, he is slamming on the brakes so hard I fear for my internal organs. The jump seat was plenty comfortable for my posture before, now it’s a torture device. Instead of going to the rear to find the next box when we stop, he is texting and talking on the phone. He texts while we drive 70 mph down the not a lane, half way in a half way off the dirt in the median to the place where he unloaded half of his truck and coincidentally where all the missing packages have gone. I text my friends and family when I get dropped off. Glad to be alive.
At some point during this day, I think to myself there is no way this is worth $8.50/hour. And then I think, what is? I mean, here I am outside in the sunshine getting exercise on a day when I would otherwise be stuck in front of a computer pounding away at a publication. Granted, I would be getting paid four times as much but I have no work right now so in reality I would be surfing for dollars or shopping for that new bike and not actually any making money at all.
I’ve always been a hard worker, just out to earn a decent living. My first job was on the weekends at an insanely busy donut shop. I was 15. Granted, at the moment I’m sitting here snacking on some Chex Bold Mix, downing a couple Shock Tops to ease the pain on the second level of my sister’s kick ass house in a desirable zip code but what do you think SHE did to get here? Any guesses? Anyone? Bueller?
She WORKS. She works for the same reason I always worked. Because we knew we had to.
She didn’t get here by protesting and she didn’t sell out her dreams to work for the man 9 – 5 Monday through Friday in some dead-end paper pushing soul crushing job where she would never see her kids either. She got here by deciding what she wanted and going after it and all she ever dreamed of doing was being the best mom ever. She not only pursues her happiness, she accomplishes it over and over. Day by day her dreams come true and are decimated by a car payment, revived by her spirit to carry on and do it all over again the next day only to be stripped by a single trip to the grocery store to feed three hungry growing boys. Her hands are nearly crippled from grasping and reaching and grasping and reaching in a surprisingly similar occupation to the one I’m only toe-deep into and griping incessantly about.
But, that’s another story.
Or is it?
One o’clock rolls around and I get a call back. Will we be stopping for lunch? I ask, thinking I should probably eat before I leave anyway since breakfast was at 7 a.m. What? Yeah. Lunch? He responds as if I have just asked him to rub my back before I’ll accept any packages. I should have eaten more than half a peanut butter sandwich. This would be my most challenging day. The dude was foul from the start. Had me meet him in a residential area and then wait outside the gate with no code to get me in. Barely shook hands before telling me his was two hours behind and took off before I even had both feet in front of me in the jump seat, much less a belt on. I almost got back into my car after the first neighborhood where he proceeded to not just throw packages like O. had done but speed pitch them into the corners of the truck with a hearty, GODDAMMIT! when he could not find a particular address or worse found one that he had already passed. That happened several times within the first hour. But, I figured you know, everyone has a bad day and even O. had a few bad days there at the start. Let’s give this guy a chance.
Bad idea. About half way into my shift I want out. He is not anything like O. Who, despite his disorganization on the first day, welcomed my help in the back of the truck and even thanked me for putting packages in order as I looked for the one that had gone missing. He cusses incessantly and when he’s not driving at least double the speed limit, he is slamming on the brakes so hard I fear for my internal organs. The jump seat was plenty comfortable for my posture before, now it’s a torture device. Instead of going to the rear to find the next box when we stop, he is texting and talking on the phone. He texts while we drive 70 mph down the not a lane, half way in a half way off the dirt in the median to the place where he unloaded half of his truck and coincidentally where all the missing packages have gone. I text my friends and family when I get dropped off. Glad to be alive.
At some point during this day, I think to myself there is no way this is worth $8.50/hour. And then I think, what is? I mean, here I am outside in the sunshine getting exercise on a day when I would otherwise be stuck in front of a computer pounding away at a publication. Granted, I would be getting paid four times as much but I have no work right now so in reality I would be surfing for dollars or shopping for that new bike and not actually any making money at all.
I’ve always been a hard worker, just out to earn a decent living. My first job was on the weekends at an insanely busy donut shop. I was 15. Granted, at the moment I’m sitting here snacking on some Chex Bold Mix, downing a couple Shock Tops to ease the pain on the second level of my sister’s kick ass house in a desirable zip code but what do you think SHE did to get here? Any guesses? Anyone? Bueller?
She WORKS. She works for the same reason I always worked. Because we knew we had to.
She didn’t get here by protesting and she didn’t sell out her dreams to work for the man 9 – 5 Monday through Friday in some dead-end paper pushing soul crushing job where she would never see her kids either. She got here by deciding what she wanted and going after it and all she ever dreamed of doing was being the best mom ever. She not only pursues her happiness, she accomplishes it over and over. Day by day her dreams come true and are decimated by a car payment, revived by her spirit to carry on and do it all over again the next day only to be stripped by a single trip to the grocery store to feed three hungry growing boys. Her hands are nearly crippled from grasping and reaching and grasping and reaching in a surprisingly similar occupation to the one I’m only toe-deep into and griping incessantly about.
But, that’s another story.
Or is it?
Monday, December 19, 2011
SDH Pt. 5
Day 8 is a great day! So says, O. who unlike yesterday is fantastically organized, in a happy mood and muy prepared to kick some bi-lingual azz. We even have time to stop for lunch. AND eat it. This is the first time I have ever used the restroom on the job. For being on the computer so much at my “real” job, I am surprisingly energetic. On this third day of actual work running back and forth from the truck—I mean walking at a brisk pace back and forth from the truck—the only thing troubling me is my right pinky toe and the heel of my left foot. I’ve stuffed some cotton in my eight-hole Docs with the original Air Ware heel pull loop and classic trans PVC DMC Air Cushioned outsole and am feeling pretty keen about actually doing work in them after a couple decades of just wearing them for fashion’s sake.
There is hardly any time to talk and it’s loud so O. is definitely not experiencing the full force of my sarcastic wit. Once we’re on the road, it’s all business. We’ve exchanged pleasantries of course. He’s been with the company nine years, straight outta high school, loves it, hates it, has a plan to retire at 50 and move to the beach. Has a gf and a couple baby mamas. Loves his two kids. Is from San Diego, but not that one. It’s a little like flying right seat in an aircraft. You stay quiet and let the pilot focus unless he asks you for help, especially during take-off and landing which in one of these trucks is about every 30 ft. The first day, my worst pain was in my thumb from all the clicking and unclicking but it’s the law and it’s also a safety rule so it is done fastidiously and by everyone without fail.
Tonight marks our first after dark delivery and it’s a little scary. NTR: Well-lit addresses on the sides of mailboxes get high marks from these guys. I’ve learned to appreciate the finer details of a home on approach. Lighted door bells are underappreciated by the general public. BTW, as a straight path to the front door as can be made is going to happen whether you create one or not. O. goes easy on me, taking deliveries on his side of the truck whenever there is one; handing me a flashlight and all the packages down the steps so I don’t have to figure out how to maintain three points of contact with my hands full. 248 stops. Not including the last one I made to CVS to pick up the Epsom Salts I longed for during last night’s bath.
It’s a bone-chilling 42 degree sunset after an enjoyably active sunny day. I don’t know if I’m going to make it back tomorrow but O. reminds me cheerfully that on this night we have seen some spectacular Christmas light displays. The once-cold and uninviting windows warm up to a golden glow when the people come home and inhabit their spaces Thomas Kinkaid style. The city lights sparkle and I feel like a princess in my brown polyester uniform presented with cache of precious gems: emeralds, rubies, sapphires and opals in a black velvet lined box. I say so. You know, you can close that door O. says after a noticeable shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. We both slide the heavy floor to ceiling doors with a satisfactory metallic CLATCH after the last stop and enjoy the heat from the engine coming through the vents in the sparse dashboard that includes a fabulously retro push button starter. It’s not the only thing old school on the truck. We silently cruise out of what is most likely the premier planned development in the city taking in the views on the way down. Put it this way: Even I recognize the names and I don’t watch sports.
A gigantic guard-tower looking thing appears between rooftops and hovers over the horizon in such a way that I can only gasp and say, what IS THAT? O. senses it must be something cool since I have been mostly dismissive of the ginormous, over-sized, why the f&*K would two people want to live in a house that big, been there done that castles on a hill to the point that we’re both kind of disgusted by them. I can tell we’re both feeling a tad self-righteous about driving around delivering Santa’s packages by the way his head is perched on the top of his spine. Can we go? I ask, almost pleading? Yeah, let’s check it out. I’ve never been there before. I’m slightly concerned that it’s going to be a house and I’m going to have to own it immediately because it is just my thing—a three-story Spanish mission style guard tower—sigh, home sweet home. Thank god it turns out to be the NDOs (residential group mail boxes). What a joke!
It reminds me of my last apartment—third floor on a mountain preserve overlooking multi-million dollar homes. I pick out the tiny one on the very top that turns out to be the club house. But, I’m in no mood to ponder how the decadence of western civilization will inevitably lead to a water shortage or how the mining companies are buying up rights and will ultimately profit from that too. We are FREE! And the air coming in the windows is crisp and clean and flushes our cheeks like starry-eyed lovers serendipitously thrown together by a dramatic but completely over-comeable life challenge culminating in a financial windfall followed soon after by a major land purchase we vow to be stewards of and immediately begin to dig out passive rain water collection burms, build an earthship, apply for conservation status and invite schools to field trip at our home; educate the children, get a tax write-off and all at once finally feel that this is what it means to be alive.
There is hardly any time to talk and it’s loud so O. is definitely not experiencing the full force of my sarcastic wit. Once we’re on the road, it’s all business. We’ve exchanged pleasantries of course. He’s been with the company nine years, straight outta high school, loves it, hates it, has a plan to retire at 50 and move to the beach. Has a gf and a couple baby mamas. Loves his two kids. Is from San Diego, but not that one. It’s a little like flying right seat in an aircraft. You stay quiet and let the pilot focus unless he asks you for help, especially during take-off and landing which in one of these trucks is about every 30 ft. The first day, my worst pain was in my thumb from all the clicking and unclicking but it’s the law and it’s also a safety rule so it is done fastidiously and by everyone without fail.
Tonight marks our first after dark delivery and it’s a little scary. NTR: Well-lit addresses on the sides of mailboxes get high marks from these guys. I’ve learned to appreciate the finer details of a home on approach. Lighted door bells are underappreciated by the general public. BTW, as a straight path to the front door as can be made is going to happen whether you create one or not. O. goes easy on me, taking deliveries on his side of the truck whenever there is one; handing me a flashlight and all the packages down the steps so I don’t have to figure out how to maintain three points of contact with my hands full. 248 stops. Not including the last one I made to CVS to pick up the Epsom Salts I longed for during last night’s bath.
It’s a bone-chilling 42 degree sunset after an enjoyably active sunny day. I don’t know if I’m going to make it back tomorrow but O. reminds me cheerfully that on this night we have seen some spectacular Christmas light displays. The once-cold and uninviting windows warm up to a golden glow when the people come home and inhabit their spaces Thomas Kinkaid style. The city lights sparkle and I feel like a princess in my brown polyester uniform presented with cache of precious gems: emeralds, rubies, sapphires and opals in a black velvet lined box. I say so. You know, you can close that door O. says after a noticeable shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. We both slide the heavy floor to ceiling doors with a satisfactory metallic CLATCH after the last stop and enjoy the heat from the engine coming through the vents in the sparse dashboard that includes a fabulously retro push button starter. It’s not the only thing old school on the truck. We silently cruise out of what is most likely the premier planned development in the city taking in the views on the way down. Put it this way: Even I recognize the names and I don’t watch sports.
A gigantic guard-tower looking thing appears between rooftops and hovers over the horizon in such a way that I can only gasp and say, what IS THAT? O. senses it must be something cool since I have been mostly dismissive of the ginormous, over-sized, why the f&*K would two people want to live in a house that big, been there done that castles on a hill to the point that we’re both kind of disgusted by them. I can tell we’re both feeling a tad self-righteous about driving around delivering Santa’s packages by the way his head is perched on the top of his spine. Can we go? I ask, almost pleading? Yeah, let’s check it out. I’ve never been there before. I’m slightly concerned that it’s going to be a house and I’m going to have to own it immediately because it is just my thing—a three-story Spanish mission style guard tower—sigh, home sweet home. Thank god it turns out to be the NDOs (residential group mail boxes). What a joke!
It reminds me of my last apartment—third floor on a mountain preserve overlooking multi-million dollar homes. I pick out the tiny one on the very top that turns out to be the club house. But, I’m in no mood to ponder how the decadence of western civilization will inevitably lead to a water shortage or how the mining companies are buying up rights and will ultimately profit from that too. We are FREE! And the air coming in the windows is crisp and clean and flushes our cheeks like starry-eyed lovers serendipitously thrown together by a dramatic but completely over-comeable life challenge culminating in a financial windfall followed soon after by a major land purchase we vow to be stewards of and immediately begin to dig out passive rain water collection burms, build an earthship, apply for conservation status and invite schools to field trip at our home; educate the children, get a tax write-off and all at once finally feel that this is what it means to be alive.
Friday, December 16, 2011
SDH Pt. 4
Unlike the uber-pleasant open lots of Day 6, the homes here look cold and uninviting and no one is home to sign for packages. O. wonders out loud what these people can possibly do for a living and since it’s our second day together I feel safe sharing that they spend their whole lives working and living in fear. You think? He says. I know. I say. There’s a difference in the lives of the people who live just within their means on a little lot just out of town and those who choose to live in the gated communities we’re in today. I’m generalizing of course, but everyone knows it’s status. So why do it? I can only tell you this. I spent the whole day somewhere between envy and disgust. The views, the quaint little yards, the organization, the structure—the addresses that all go in order. Contrasted by the knowledge that the land underneath is completely decimated and that all living things have been relegated decorative accessories including the hundred-year-old oaks that may have lived another century if were not for the removal of nutrient-rich soil, natural irrigation and pre-emergent chemicals that keep its offspring from replacing it. I heard a rumor once that San Antonio—known for it’s Riverwalk and densely canopied landscape—will know a time when there are no mature trees. Zero. But don’t worry, there’s a movement to plant more so you don’t have to.
Speaking of movements, I’d love to be sitting in the park smoking that hooka with you the 1% but I am beginning to feel like the .05% who got up off my ass and got a job. Not that what you’re doing isn’t very important but if you really want to make a difference – pick a cause and go volunteer. Help a kid learn how to read, deliver an old man’s lunch, read to a dying patient in a nursing home – whatever, just DO something. And guess what? People who volunteer usually get first pick when new jobs open up so get yourself out there if you really want to work and pick something you love because we don’t need any more assholes out there pretending to care.
Someone told me once that I should never be a teacher because teachers are people who teach because they can’t do. I beg to differ. In fact, who do you think DOES more to affect our personal futures? Having some type of teacher in our lives is the something we all have in common no matter what our socio-economic or ethnic background and they usually touch us in ways that change our entire lives for better or worse. Anyway, I didn’t go back to school to get that degree because I couldn’t afford it. That’s right. I didn’t spend money I didn’t have to buy something I knew I could not afford. And no my parents did not teach me that. I learned it all by myself by living in the real world and being an adult. I learned it the very FIRST time I got a credit card bill in the mail and it had double digit interest applied to the balance on which I had made only the minimum payment which means I only paid like $2 toward the principle. I paid it in full every month after that and never charged over what I could afford again.
We’re getting off track here, but much like my driver I’m going to smash down some security gates on my way in to your hood. Don’t worry, the company picks up the tab.
Speaking of movements, I’d love to be sitting in the park smoking that hooka with you the 1% but I am beginning to feel like the .05% who got up off my ass and got a job. Not that what you’re doing isn’t very important but if you really want to make a difference – pick a cause and go volunteer. Help a kid learn how to read, deliver an old man’s lunch, read to a dying patient in a nursing home – whatever, just DO something. And guess what? People who volunteer usually get first pick when new jobs open up so get yourself out there if you really want to work and pick something you love because we don’t need any more assholes out there pretending to care.
Someone told me once that I should never be a teacher because teachers are people who teach because they can’t do. I beg to differ. In fact, who do you think DOES more to affect our personal futures? Having some type of teacher in our lives is the something we all have in common no matter what our socio-economic or ethnic background and they usually touch us in ways that change our entire lives for better or worse. Anyway, I didn’t go back to school to get that degree because I couldn’t afford it. That’s right. I didn’t spend money I didn’t have to buy something I knew I could not afford. And no my parents did not teach me that. I learned it all by myself by living in the real world and being an adult. I learned it the very FIRST time I got a credit card bill in the mail and it had double digit interest applied to the balance on which I had made only the minimum payment which means I only paid like $2 toward the principle. I paid it in full every month after that and never charged over what I could afford again.
We’re getting off track here, but much like my driver I’m going to smash down some security gates on my way in to your hood. Don’t worry, the company picks up the tab.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
SDH Pt. 3
Day 6 has finally arrived and I’m like a teenager on her first date. I’ve been called! Can I be ready in an hour? Sure! And just like that, the bun is on and I’m suited up for action. It’s 11 a.m. The driver just happens to be right down the street and picks me up at my front door. Can’t beat that commute. The neighborhood is beyond beautiful. It’s a perfect 65 degree day with sunshine and those big, white puffies that pass over occasionally creating depth in the valleys between the rolling hills. The plentiful deer are absolutely twitterpated—prancing and loping and showing off for each other. It’s hunting season in the rest of the state but not here. This is private property. And we love our deer. A couple of hours in the breezy jump seat and I’m ready for a break. It’s just like riding in a helicopter but lower with frequent jumps. I make a note to bring some earplugs tomorrow. We just happen to be passing the house so I hop out for lunch and he picks me up forty minutes later, rested and ready to rock. It’s fun! The physical activity is the perfect complement to sitting in front of computer all day. I can’t believe some people are lucky enough to get paid to be outside. By 8:30 p.m. I’m exhausted but happy. 148 stops.
Yoga in the a.m. after my first full day at work is a stretch—literally. Day 7 is looking promising at 5:30 a.m. with no pressing deadlines. I resume the search for the motorcycle I have been looking for since I got my license in May. A call from O. to meet him at the CVS nearby comes in at 11:30 and I’m there by 11:55. We take off into the misty morning. Today is a different area. Patio homes! Gotta love that. My neighborhood is beautiful but ½ acre lots make for long walks to the door and where there is plenty of space there are dogs outside. Let me take this opportunity to share my first Note to Resident: If you want packages delivered inside your gate, leash your dog. He likes to eat things with this many different smells on them. And no, it is not cute that he never growls except at us and postal workers. It’s just not.
On a serious side note: Fear of being bitten by a dog is #1 on the list of complaints about this job. It’s no laughing matter. There are three safety rules that are stressed beyond any others. 1. Always maintain three points of contact with the truck while exiting and entering. 2. Never run and 3. If there is an unleashed dog on the property, don’t risk it. Number three is the only rule I’ve never seen broken.
So, we’re driving along and O. confides that this has already been a horrible day. He was late to work. He has a tooth ache and his boss let him know that he “can’t have another day like yesterday”. Plus, we have 226 stops. I’m beginning to get the idea that the good drivers don’t need helpers. Every stop is a near fiasco. Packages are jumping off the shelves and out of site as soon as O. goes to look for them. I am not running, but am engaged in a solid full foot to the pavement jog from the hip that looks something faster than walking though it really isn’t. I’m trying to give him time between stops to organize but it isn’t happening. Would you like some help with that? I inquire, trying not to overstep my boundaries by invading his private space in the back of the truck. A few packages are tossed in frustration. NTR: You do not want to know what goes on in the back of these trucks. I assure you.
Yoga in the a.m. after my first full day at work is a stretch—literally. Day 7 is looking promising at 5:30 a.m. with no pressing deadlines. I resume the search for the motorcycle I have been looking for since I got my license in May. A call from O. to meet him at the CVS nearby comes in at 11:30 and I’m there by 11:55. We take off into the misty morning. Today is a different area. Patio homes! Gotta love that. My neighborhood is beautiful but ½ acre lots make for long walks to the door and where there is plenty of space there are dogs outside. Let me take this opportunity to share my first Note to Resident: If you want packages delivered inside your gate, leash your dog. He likes to eat things with this many different smells on them. And no, it is not cute that he never growls except at us and postal workers. It’s just not.
On a serious side note: Fear of being bitten by a dog is #1 on the list of complaints about this job. It’s no laughing matter. There are three safety rules that are stressed beyond any others. 1. Always maintain three points of contact with the truck while exiting and entering. 2. Never run and 3. If there is an unleashed dog on the property, don’t risk it. Number three is the only rule I’ve never seen broken.
So, we’re driving along and O. confides that this has already been a horrible day. He was late to work. He has a tooth ache and his boss let him know that he “can’t have another day like yesterday”. Plus, we have 226 stops. I’m beginning to get the idea that the good drivers don’t need helpers. Every stop is a near fiasco. Packages are jumping off the shelves and out of site as soon as O. goes to look for them. I am not running, but am engaged in a solid full foot to the pavement jog from the hip that looks something faster than walking though it really isn’t. I’m trying to give him time between stops to organize but it isn’t happening. Would you like some help with that? I inquire, trying not to overstep my boundaries by invading his private space in the back of the truck. A few packages are tossed in frustration. NTR: You do not want to know what goes on in the back of these trucks. I assure you.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
SDH Pt. 2
Day 3 sounds like it’s going to test my resolve when she rings on the drive home from Day 2 to ask me if I’m available at 7 a.m. and I know I have a deadline that same day with a client who actually keeps his deadlines. I’m self-employed and telling myself that this gig is just a temporary thing for the holidays, not a major career change. Why not? I say out loud and she tells me where to be and when and hangs up. I’m curious about a number of things at this point but just go with the flow. So does everyone else. The day turns out to be easy. Everyone shows up, gets their assignments by zip code, finds a uniform that isn’t too ill fitting and we watch some training/safety videos in-between. Three of us are asked outside and never return. Only 85259 and I seem to be curious about things like where we clock in and how we get paid. Our curiosity creates a bond, along with our neighboring zip codes. We are told that we are highly desirable and will most likely be called the next day if not that very afternoon. We exchange victorious glances.
By Day 4 I’m only slightly saddened that I haven’t gotten a call. It’s the day before Thanksgiving. My deadline has been met and the invoice sent. I spend the rest of the day pressing my new uniform and waiting by the phone so long I begin to feel like a jilted lover. Why hasn’t he called? Should I call him? Or would that be too presumptuous? The woman who was supposed to give us all the finer details and a test to make sure we were paying attention during the safety portions of the orientation has only been hired two weeks before and “Sorry, guys. I just don’t have the time to tell you anything right now.” We’ll call you. Don’t call us. 85259 and I are floored. We are shuttled out the door and the next group of 30 is ushered in. I won’t compare us to cattle but we did have to stay inside the yellow lines for our safety.
Day 5 is the day after Thanksgiving – a notoriously busy day for deliveries. I wake up at 5 a.m. to do my yoga, eat, shower and check work e-mail before I get geared up. I sweep back every hair into a bun so tight a ballerina couldn’t leap, bend or spin a wisp loose. And I wait. No call. I’m kind of glad because I can work on my next publication and get ahead for what is sure to be a very busy month leading up to Christmas. My head hurts and my eyes are slanty.
Holidays and weekends off. Woohoo!
By Day 4 I’m only slightly saddened that I haven’t gotten a call. It’s the day before Thanksgiving. My deadline has been met and the invoice sent. I spend the rest of the day pressing my new uniform and waiting by the phone so long I begin to feel like a jilted lover. Why hasn’t he called? Should I call him? Or would that be too presumptuous? The woman who was supposed to give us all the finer details and a test to make sure we were paying attention during the safety portions of the orientation has only been hired two weeks before and “Sorry, guys. I just don’t have the time to tell you anything right now.” We’ll call you. Don’t call us. 85259 and I are floored. We are shuttled out the door and the next group of 30 is ushered in. I won’t compare us to cattle but we did have to stay inside the yellow lines for our safety.
Day 5 is the day after Thanksgiving – a notoriously busy day for deliveries. I wake up at 5 a.m. to do my yoga, eat, shower and check work e-mail before I get geared up. I sweep back every hair into a bun so tight a ballerina couldn’t leap, bend or spin a wisp loose. And I wait. No call. I’m kind of glad because I can work on my next publication and get ahead for what is sure to be a very busy month leading up to Christmas. My head hurts and my eyes are slanty.
Holidays and weekends off. Woohoo!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Seasonal Driver Helper Wanted Pt. 1
Day 1 of my experience with the company whose name shall never be spoken, but with which you are most likely intimately familiar is hopeful. I have chosen this company out of a list of “five top part-time jobs with full-time benefits”. Based on my desire to work for a company I can believe in or at the very least have no serious qualms with morally, philosophically or otherwise I chose to work here first and let’s be frank, they hire anyone during the holidays.
After filling out an extensive but not overly exhausting application online, I immediately receive an e-mail stating that I should show up for my interview on Monday at 1 p.m. It’s Friday at 5. The e-mail has sections like “What to Bring/What to Expect” and states that casual attire is appropriate as interviews can take up to two hours. No sandals, no jewelry and no cell phones. A wedding band and one form of identification is acceptable.
The directions are far from general and I suspect my GPS will not suffice in this scenario so I plan ahead for 40 minutes of travel and 10 minutes to get to the guard shack where I have been directed to proceed. The place is so far south, I begin to fear that Day 2 of my adventure will end with confiscation of my driver’s license by an armed guard and abduction into human slavery across the very near border of Mexico.
There are big signs with the company brand all over so unless this is a really elaborate scheme, I think I’m safe. I disregard the no jewelry rule though and wear my mace on a red ribbon under my shirt just in case. Vaguely wishing I wore a wedding band to signify that someone would miss me if I never returned home, I joined the line of job-hungry middle-agers and twenty-somethings who obviously took casual attire to mean come as you are.
It’s a “ring the bell” type interview. You know the one where they tell you what most people hate about the job and then ask if everyone still wants to stay. Everyone stays. You will have to cut your hair if it is below the collar or wear a bun, no ponytails. Men included. You will have to wear work boots, not tennis shoes. The drivers will tell you it is okay to wear tennies. It's not. You will have to show up for work every day. You will be working on a truck, outdoors. You will wear your seatbelt and stay in the jumpseat at all times. Do not let a driver take off if you are not belted in. They will try to. Do not let them. You will show up tomorrow looking like you are ready for work. You will not run, you will walk. The drivers will tell you it is okay to run. It is not. If you stay and do not follow all of these directions through-out the term of your employment, I will have no choice but to report you as terminated with no recommendation for rehire. None of this sounds heinous enough to anyone until the stern but petitely pretty human resources gal says, “Congratulations, you’re all hired and will report back here tomorrow for your orientation pending background checks.”
After filling out an extensive but not overly exhausting application online, I immediately receive an e-mail stating that I should show up for my interview on Monday at 1 p.m. It’s Friday at 5. The e-mail has sections like “What to Bring/What to Expect” and states that casual attire is appropriate as interviews can take up to two hours. No sandals, no jewelry and no cell phones. A wedding band and one form of identification is acceptable.
The directions are far from general and I suspect my GPS will not suffice in this scenario so I plan ahead for 40 minutes of travel and 10 minutes to get to the guard shack where I have been directed to proceed. The place is so far south, I begin to fear that Day 2 of my adventure will end with confiscation of my driver’s license by an armed guard and abduction into human slavery across the very near border of Mexico.
There are big signs with the company brand all over so unless this is a really elaborate scheme, I think I’m safe. I disregard the no jewelry rule though and wear my mace on a red ribbon under my shirt just in case. Vaguely wishing I wore a wedding band to signify that someone would miss me if I never returned home, I joined the line of job-hungry middle-agers and twenty-somethings who obviously took casual attire to mean come as you are.
It’s a “ring the bell” type interview. You know the one where they tell you what most people hate about the job and then ask if everyone still wants to stay. Everyone stays. You will have to cut your hair if it is below the collar or wear a bun, no ponytails. Men included. You will have to wear work boots, not tennis shoes. The drivers will tell you it is okay to wear tennies. It's not. You will have to show up for work every day. You will be working on a truck, outdoors. You will wear your seatbelt and stay in the jumpseat at all times. Do not let a driver take off if you are not belted in. They will try to. Do not let them. You will show up tomorrow looking like you are ready for work. You will not run, you will walk. The drivers will tell you it is okay to run. It is not. If you stay and do not follow all of these directions through-out the term of your employment, I will have no choice but to report you as terminated with no recommendation for rehire. None of this sounds heinous enough to anyone until the stern but petitely pretty human resources gal says, “Congratulations, you’re all hired and will report back here tomorrow for your orientation pending background checks.”
Friday, December 2, 2011
Socrates Cafe
I hunger, therefore I am
was my motto at 27
and long before that
I hungered
but knew not what
hunger was.
I satiated my appetite
with danger, lust and
worse, with pain.
I filled the void
like a child instinctively
fills a bucket with sand
and builds a castle.
But I built nothing.
I scratched and clawed
at reason
I bit, and hard
I gnawed at the truth
I swallowed passion like a tonic
and still I searched
for the cure
the meal that would finally
and forever satisfy my hungry
soul - and sometimes I found it
for a moment, with the lights off
on a winding desert road
for an hour in the full moon
face that lit my way
for a day or two
and a night and sometimes more
but as long as I sought
after it
it never lasted.
was my motto at 27
and long before that
I hungered
but knew not what
hunger was.
I satiated my appetite
with danger, lust and
worse, with pain.
I filled the void
like a child instinctively
fills a bucket with sand
and builds a castle.
But I built nothing.
I scratched and clawed
at reason
I bit, and hard
I gnawed at the truth
I swallowed passion like a tonic
and still I searched
for the cure
the meal that would finally
and forever satisfy my hungry
soul - and sometimes I found it
for a moment, with the lights off
on a winding desert road
for an hour in the full moon
face that lit my way
for a day or two
and a night and sometimes more
but as long as I sought
after it
it never lasted.
Dear Sister
it is a great accomplishment
in life
to have succeeded so
to have conquered fear
real or imagined
to be self-sufficient
and more
to be self-reliant
financially stable
and some days even
well-off
to be healthy and happy
and to have beautiful children
to share it with
and to watch grow
and to teach
and one day to set out
on their own.
What a privilege then
it will be
to have a chat on the phone
from far away
about absolutely nothing.
in life
to have succeeded so
to have conquered fear
real or imagined
to be self-sufficient
and more
to be self-reliant
financially stable
and some days even
well-off
to be healthy and happy
and to have beautiful children
to share it with
and to watch grow
and to teach
and one day to set out
on their own.
What a privilege then
it will be
to have a chat on the phone
from far away
about absolutely nothing.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
The Battle for Authenticity
In love and war
they say,
All's fair.
But drafted from the battlefield
a declaration of dependence
violence, fear and distrust
is brought into existence
Reclassified as love.
We volunteer for this.
Our planes - one minute soar
the next - shot down
Our parachutes - one minute open
the next - hung from a tree
Our bodies - one minute able
the next - taken prisoner
Our minds - one minute lucid
the next - held hostage.
But the enemy is me.
What wages war for freedom fought?
Ego.
Ergo,
I surrender.
they say,
All's fair.
But drafted from the battlefield
a declaration of dependence
violence, fear and distrust
is brought into existence
Reclassified as love.
We volunteer for this.
Our planes - one minute soar
the next - shot down
Our parachutes - one minute open
the next - hung from a tree
Our bodies - one minute able
the next - taken prisoner
Our minds - one minute lucid
the next - held hostage.
But the enemy is me.
What wages war for freedom fought?
Ego.
Ergo,
I surrender.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Letter to a Runaway (and Jesus)
Dear Johnny,
When I saw you crying in the Bell Towne Plaza breezeway somewhere between Jamba Juice, Peter Piper Pizza and what appeared to be inconsolable anguish, I could only imagine what you were going through. I thought maybe some bullies at school were giving you a hard time. You said you ran away from home. And when I asked you why, you called it “rough times”. Then you broke down and said you just wanted to call your dad. Did I jump at the opportunity to offload your woes on someone else? Instead of asking you; I told you how you felt and you agreed.
You didn’t even attempt to hide the way your body heaved with each convulsive sob. I didn’t even offer you a hug. Water, yes and the peanut
butter crackers I keep on hand in emergency situations like this one, along with the first aid kit and flashlight—but what about compassion, sympathy, genuine emotion? All I could muster was that sweet smile I put on especially for times like these, coupled with an intense desire to fix this for you.
I should’ve thought it through before I drove ahead and parked with the intention of accidentally intercepting you in your forward path and simply asking you if you we’re okay when you so obviously were not.
I know that hopeless feeling. The one that says you can’t go back but where do you go from here?
The one that tilts your head up to the skies seeking an answer, any answer and the one that pulls your shoulders down so low it looks as if you’re carrying a bag of slump blocks instead of books on your back.
Oh, Johnny. I know how unbearable that weight can be. So, why didn’t I ask you before? Is there any reason why you wouldn’t want to go home?
You were so determined to make that call and the urgency in your voice forced me to comply. Twelve years old. I could feel you putting on the mask for me so I wouldn’t hurt for you like you hurt. I recognize the protective instinct. Do you have any brothers or sisters? "Yes, my little brother is probably so scared I'm gone." He hung his head in shame at having caused that. Let’s go inside and find a phone. We’ll call your dad and tell him you’re fine and where you are and he’ll come pick you up and everything will be okay.
Only some dads are the reason things aren’t okay. I thought maybe that crack on your lip was just dry air and heat and you really seemed desperate to speak with your father. A few yes ‘sirs and a couple I love yous later I thought okay, you’ll be just fine now. I thought. But did I see? I listened, but I did I observe? “He’s not angry. More upset than anything,” you say reassuringly.
Just as I ask out loud, “Johnny, is there any reason..” Jesus jumps in from behind the counter with the rapport-establishing small talk. What grade are you in? What school do you go to? Do you like sports? The stuff I always take for granted no one really wants to hear. The kind of questions that make a person want to tell you what you want to know without asking. I let him take over, nod and smile at the kid
consciously wondering if there is not a more appropriate facial expression to
wear at the moment but still can’t think of one so I just sort of flatten it out a little.
“Things have just been rough,” you say again. You got a bad
grade in math. “Been there,” Jesus half sighs as if he’s confessing his entire
life story in an exhale so sharp I know you must have felt it too, Johnny
because you stepped back and the tears came out again. Only this time you
seemed relieved. “Me too,” I say.
I swear it was never uttered but I’m quite certain what we all heard was—You’re not alone.
With that we were silent long enough for the lady not really
browsing reading glasses nearby to jump into the conversation she was eavesdropping
on, most likely trying to determine if some sort of authoritative intervention
was going to be required or if Jesus and I could handle it. Well, lady the TWO
security guards I strategically met Johnny in front of were not interested in
the slightest bit to this boy bawling his eyeballs out or the young woman who
kept making eye-contact with them while they chatted about who knows what. Another human being is suffering right in front of you and you don’t even see it! I thought I heard her think, “That’s just inviting drama into your life.” as she stepped
back in front of the mirror and tried on the 24th pair.
You started to look antsy so I thought it might be best to leave you two for some man to man time before dad arrived just in case there was something you needed to say that you couldn’t say in front of me. But I invited you out “to warm up in the sun” and to my satisfaction you opted to stay, looking strangely at ease with the man assembling lamps behind the counter. Before I’m out of range I hear him ask you if you have anyone to talk to, someone you trust? You say yes, you have counselors and it’s been a rough time. Your eyes soften. The tears subside.
Well, if you ever need a big brother man, or just someone to
talk to—I’m here. And that’s just what I want to hear before I walk out the
door and redial the phone number you tried on my cell before we went into the
store. I spoke with your grandfather. He sounded scared. I repeated my name and
phone number and told him I was the person who found you and he could call
anytime.
I have to be honest, Johnny. I think I failed you.
When your dad pulled up looking all sketchy and fingered you
over rather than approach Jesus, who escorted you out of the store I got
between you for a second but couldn’t decide. I looked him in the eyes and saw
nothing before they darted away. Your grandma smiled graciously as I waved to
you and sang, “Goodbye, Johnny. It was nice to meet you,” with a smile in my
voice so sweet I got sweaters on my teeth. What I really wanted to say was
drown out by the music in my head.
Be good, be good. Be good. Be good, be good. Be good. Be good, be good. Be good. Be good, Johnny.
When you told me your name as we entered the store, I said
deliberately, “That was my dad’s name,” to illicit some response from you. You
twinged.
I cried too, just like you: On the city bus, on the walk to
school, at my locker, in the girls’ restroom, all the way through home room and
halfway into second period geometry before Mrs. B gently folded up my soggy,
unfinished first-quarter final and led me outside the classroom.
I was scared too. Just like you. I should have seen! I
should have been there, instead of wherever I was. Sipping my Caribbean Dream
uncontrollably and smiling. After you left, I went back in to consult with
Jesus. Did we do the right thing? Do you think he’s going to be okay?
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds searching for the
right words. Then he smiled the smile the son of god surely smiled at the men
below him. The one that means forgive them for they know not what they do and
said, “If he was my son, I would have hugged him.”
Oh, Jesus! What have I done?
All I ever claimed to want in life is to help others. I
failed this innocent child who had escaped the grip of blinding, deafening love
that is an abusive parent—if only momentarily and through the greatest feat of
strength he had probably exhibited in his life up to this point in a
death-defying leap of faith into the unknown which I know from experience
requires enormous amounts of will and determination. Not to mention a steel
resolve to disregard the pain and suffering that will surely follow whether you
get caught or not.
Because the fact is Johnny, none of your counselors may ever
be with you long enough to tell you that to be the kind of person who runs away
from an abusive love relationship you have to be the kind of person who is
willing to accept and inflict pain on yourself. As a child, realizing that your
parents are the bad guys and that it just might be safer out there than in here
YOU end up feeling like the one out of control. Eventually, you dare to go out
on your own alone into the world just to try it and decide half way down the
block you’re never going back because you’ve practiced feeling the pain of
separation by cutting yourself or getting into it with the bullies. You’ve internalized
the guilt over not accepting that kind of love by reminding yourself that you’re
not worthy of love anyway because that’s what you hear them say when they ignore
you to fight over bill collectors or how to get cash for these useless food stamps.
You train yourself to accept the fear of no longer pleasing those you wish to
please most by getting bad grades in your best subjects and being punished for
it. Isn’t that right, Johnny?
I may have sent you back into the lion’s den, but I can promise
you this. They do love you, Johnny. They do care. They’re just too wrapped up
in their own hell to show you how much. THIS is the hidden gift in the smile I gave
you. You will get to the place where you don’t have to hurt yourself anymore.
You will be a capable, talented human being who loves and accepts love,
respects and is respected by those you choose to let into your life. And you won’t
have to run—anymore.
__________________________________
Jesus, you were perfect. But now I am so jaded I question if
you did it for me or for the boy? Because later when you had me paged at the
store I told you I would be going to when you said we don’t carry that sort of
thing here, I thought you were just as lost and concerned as I was.
I thought you genuinely cared enough to ask for a miracle.
When the voice over the loud speaker inconceivably announced, “If there is a
customer in the store named Jessica, please come to the fitting room,” and then
repeated itself I was busy staring blankly into a dusty plastic bin wondering
if it would hold everything I needed it to hold. I am constantly, consciously unfurrowing my brow over and over at the thought of Johnny’s less than joyous homecoming to grandpa, baby brother and no hugs. WHERE is his mother?
Ever so slowly, I push my empty cart back to the fitting
room reasoning there must be a least five Jessicas in the store at any given
time, but there is no one. Only the kindly attendant Theresa, who had helped my niece
and I find the just the right bathing suit two weeks before and what do you
know, it just happens to be on sale too.
“Have you found your Jessica?” I ask disbelieving my own question.
She puts both hands on my shoulders. Oh my GOD! Are you her? “Well, I don’t
know…” It’s the strangest things she proclaims. Never had anything like this happen to me before—a man called and asked if I could.. and if I would.. could she.. So I did.
I called you back at the store across the street, thinking
god knows what about Johnny. I’m not even sure what you said, but I gave you my
phone number and you texted me yours and what the hell is that shit they’re
trying to pass off as food in the grocery isle anyway?
I’m having trouble concentrating on this list. Why do you need boxes? I’m running away too. But this is different. Isn’t it? Don’t be so hard on yourself. No one else even bothered to stop. I need to eat. Sit down. Smoke. Talk to someone real about why and how and if only and maybe I’m just projecting.
There are some dads who do make everything okay. Maybe Jesus is one. Or maybe he just wanted my phone number.
Either way, Theresa insists she’ll be an honored guest at the wedding.
And Johnny, if you’re out there and you’re still listening—be good.
When I saw you crying in the Bell Towne Plaza breezeway somewhere between Jamba Juice, Peter Piper Pizza and what appeared to be inconsolable anguish, I could only imagine what you were going through. I thought maybe some bullies at school were giving you a hard time. You said you ran away from home. And when I asked you why, you called it “rough times”. Then you broke down and said you just wanted to call your dad. Did I jump at the opportunity to offload your woes on someone else? Instead of asking you; I told you how you felt and you agreed.
You didn’t even attempt to hide the way your body heaved with each convulsive sob. I didn’t even offer you a hug. Water, yes and the peanut
butter crackers I keep on hand in emergency situations like this one, along with the first aid kit and flashlight—but what about compassion, sympathy, genuine emotion? All I could muster was that sweet smile I put on especially for times like these, coupled with an intense desire to fix this for you.
I should’ve thought it through before I drove ahead and parked with the intention of accidentally intercepting you in your forward path and simply asking you if you we’re okay when you so obviously were not.
I know that hopeless feeling. The one that says you can’t go back but where do you go from here?
The one that tilts your head up to the skies seeking an answer, any answer and the one that pulls your shoulders down so low it looks as if you’re carrying a bag of slump blocks instead of books on your back.
Oh, Johnny. I know how unbearable that weight can be. So, why didn’t I ask you before? Is there any reason why you wouldn’t want to go home?
You were so determined to make that call and the urgency in your voice forced me to comply. Twelve years old. I could feel you putting on the mask for me so I wouldn’t hurt for you like you hurt. I recognize the protective instinct. Do you have any brothers or sisters? "Yes, my little brother is probably so scared I'm gone." He hung his head in shame at having caused that. Let’s go inside and find a phone. We’ll call your dad and tell him you’re fine and where you are and he’ll come pick you up and everything will be okay.
Only some dads are the reason things aren’t okay. I thought maybe that crack on your lip was just dry air and heat and you really seemed desperate to speak with your father. A few yes ‘sirs and a couple I love yous later I thought okay, you’ll be just fine now. I thought. But did I see? I listened, but I did I observe? “He’s not angry. More upset than anything,” you say reassuringly.
Just as I ask out loud, “Johnny, is there any reason..” Jesus jumps in from behind the counter with the rapport-establishing small talk. What grade are you in? What school do you go to? Do you like sports? The stuff I always take for granted no one really wants to hear. The kind of questions that make a person want to tell you what you want to know without asking. I let him take over, nod and smile at the kid
consciously wondering if there is not a more appropriate facial expression to
wear at the moment but still can’t think of one so I just sort of flatten it out a little.
“Things have just been rough,” you say again. You got a bad
grade in math. “Been there,” Jesus half sighs as if he’s confessing his entire
life story in an exhale so sharp I know you must have felt it too, Johnny
because you stepped back and the tears came out again. Only this time you
seemed relieved. “Me too,” I say.
I swear it was never uttered but I’m quite certain what we all heard was—You’re not alone.
With that we were silent long enough for the lady not really
browsing reading glasses nearby to jump into the conversation she was eavesdropping
on, most likely trying to determine if some sort of authoritative intervention
was going to be required or if Jesus and I could handle it. Well, lady the TWO
security guards I strategically met Johnny in front of were not interested in
the slightest bit to this boy bawling his eyeballs out or the young woman who
kept making eye-contact with them while they chatted about who knows what. Another human being is suffering right in front of you and you don’t even see it! I thought I heard her think, “That’s just inviting drama into your life.” as she stepped
back in front of the mirror and tried on the 24th pair.
You started to look antsy so I thought it might be best to leave you two for some man to man time before dad arrived just in case there was something you needed to say that you couldn’t say in front of me. But I invited you out “to warm up in the sun” and to my satisfaction you opted to stay, looking strangely at ease with the man assembling lamps behind the counter. Before I’m out of range I hear him ask you if you have anyone to talk to, someone you trust? You say yes, you have counselors and it’s been a rough time. Your eyes soften. The tears subside.
Well, if you ever need a big brother man, or just someone to
talk to—I’m here. And that’s just what I want to hear before I walk out the
door and redial the phone number you tried on my cell before we went into the
store. I spoke with your grandfather. He sounded scared. I repeated my name and
phone number and told him I was the person who found you and he could call
anytime.
I have to be honest, Johnny. I think I failed you.
When your dad pulled up looking all sketchy and fingered you
over rather than approach Jesus, who escorted you out of the store I got
between you for a second but couldn’t decide. I looked him in the eyes and saw
nothing before they darted away. Your grandma smiled graciously as I waved to
you and sang, “Goodbye, Johnny. It was nice to meet you,” with a smile in my
voice so sweet I got sweaters on my teeth. What I really wanted to say was
drown out by the music in my head.
Be good, be good. Be good. Be good, be good. Be good. Be good, be good. Be good. Be good, Johnny.
When you told me your name as we entered the store, I said
deliberately, “That was my dad’s name,” to illicit some response from you. You
twinged.
I cried too, just like you: On the city bus, on the walk to
school, at my locker, in the girls’ restroom, all the way through home room and
halfway into second period geometry before Mrs. B gently folded up my soggy,
unfinished first-quarter final and led me outside the classroom.
I was scared too. Just like you. I should have seen! I
should have been there, instead of wherever I was. Sipping my Caribbean Dream
uncontrollably and smiling. After you left, I went back in to consult with
Jesus. Did we do the right thing? Do you think he’s going to be okay?
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds searching for the
right words. Then he smiled the smile the son of god surely smiled at the men
below him. The one that means forgive them for they know not what they do and
said, “If he was my son, I would have hugged him.”
Oh, Jesus! What have I done?
All I ever claimed to want in life is to help others. I
failed this innocent child who had escaped the grip of blinding, deafening love
that is an abusive parent—if only momentarily and through the greatest feat of
strength he had probably exhibited in his life up to this point in a
death-defying leap of faith into the unknown which I know from experience
requires enormous amounts of will and determination. Not to mention a steel
resolve to disregard the pain and suffering that will surely follow whether you
get caught or not.
Because the fact is Johnny, none of your counselors may ever
be with you long enough to tell you that to be the kind of person who runs away
from an abusive love relationship you have to be the kind of person who is
willing to accept and inflict pain on yourself. As a child, realizing that your
parents are the bad guys and that it just might be safer out there than in here
YOU end up feeling like the one out of control. Eventually, you dare to go out
on your own alone into the world just to try it and decide half way down the
block you’re never going back because you’ve practiced feeling the pain of
separation by cutting yourself or getting into it with the bullies. You’ve internalized
the guilt over not accepting that kind of love by reminding yourself that you’re
not worthy of love anyway because that’s what you hear them say when they ignore
you to fight over bill collectors or how to get cash for these useless food stamps.
You train yourself to accept the fear of no longer pleasing those you wish to
please most by getting bad grades in your best subjects and being punished for
it. Isn’t that right, Johnny?
I may have sent you back into the lion’s den, but I can promise
you this. They do love you, Johnny. They do care. They’re just too wrapped up
in their own hell to show you how much. THIS is the hidden gift in the smile I gave
you. You will get to the place where you don’t have to hurt yourself anymore.
You will be a capable, talented human being who loves and accepts love,
respects and is respected by those you choose to let into your life. And you won’t
have to run—anymore.
__________________________________
Jesus, you were perfect. But now I am so jaded I question if
you did it for me or for the boy? Because later when you had me paged at the
store I told you I would be going to when you said we don’t carry that sort of
thing here, I thought you were just as lost and concerned as I was.
I thought you genuinely cared enough to ask for a miracle.
When the voice over the loud speaker inconceivably announced, “If there is a
customer in the store named Jessica, please come to the fitting room,” and then
repeated itself I was busy staring blankly into a dusty plastic bin wondering
if it would hold everything I needed it to hold. I am constantly, consciously unfurrowing my brow over and over at the thought of Johnny’s less than joyous homecoming to grandpa, baby brother and no hugs. WHERE is his mother?
Ever so slowly, I push my empty cart back to the fitting
room reasoning there must be a least five Jessicas in the store at any given
time, but there is no one. Only the kindly attendant Theresa, who had helped my niece
and I find the just the right bathing suit two weeks before and what do you
know, it just happens to be on sale too.
“Have you found your Jessica?” I ask disbelieving my own question.
She puts both hands on my shoulders. Oh my GOD! Are you her? “Well, I don’t
know…” It’s the strangest things she proclaims. Never had anything like this happen to me before—a man called and asked if I could.. and if I would.. could she.. So I did.
I called you back at the store across the street, thinking
god knows what about Johnny. I’m not even sure what you said, but I gave you my
phone number and you texted me yours and what the hell is that shit they’re
trying to pass off as food in the grocery isle anyway?
I’m having trouble concentrating on this list. Why do you need boxes? I’m running away too. But this is different. Isn’t it? Don’t be so hard on yourself. No one else even bothered to stop. I need to eat. Sit down. Smoke. Talk to someone real about why and how and if only and maybe I’m just projecting.
There are some dads who do make everything okay. Maybe Jesus is one. Or maybe he just wanted my phone number.
Either way, Theresa insists she’ll be an honored guest at the wedding.
And Johnny, if you’re out there and you’re still listening—be good.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Filling the Void
When you get to the place
Where you realize
you have nothing to offer
to anyone else that they aren't
completely capable of giving themselves
and expeditiously, and you see
the reality that you have nothing
to lose but that which you
give away expecting something
in return you take notice
that there is no one who
has anything to offer you either
though you each have everything
to gain.
Where you realize
you have nothing to offer
to anyone else that they aren't
completely capable of giving themselves
and expeditiously, and you see
the reality that you have nothing
to lose but that which you
give away expecting something
in return you take notice
that there is no one who
has anything to offer you either
though you each have everything
to gain.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Banana Fana Fo Fana
A good man is like a good banana: You can hold it with one hand, peel the skin all the way down and it won't fall over.
Friday, September 9, 2011
P...S...A...
If you wouldn't date yourself...
Don't even think about dating me. Seriously. Just don't.
This public service announcement is brought to you by the people who don't expect others to be better than they expect from themselves department of labor and statistics on better living, etc.
Don't even think about dating me. Seriously. Just don't.
This public service announcement is brought to you by the people who don't expect others to be better than they expect from themselves department of labor and statistics on better living, etc.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Detachment
The wound was deep
But I held my hand
Over my heart
And when you asked
I pressed the other against your cheek
Engaged your eyes with a smile
Lifted two fingers away from my chest
And showed you the blood there.
Only a few drops, see?
You relaxed then so I held your gaze
With a turn of my cheek
Affectionately toward yours
And when our foreheads met
I pushed yours gently to the left
So you would watch the pretty nurse
Approaching, she was appealing in her
White starched dress and cap, silk
Stockings with a seam
Running all the way down the back of her
Taut calves to the rim of her
White soled comfort shoes
Dipped in scarlet
She never slipped as she
Walked right through me
Crimson prints marked her path
To the next room
To the next door.
As I tried to hold your gaze
Chin in hand
And smile affixed
I felt you stiffen
Your eyelids drooped
You looked as if you swallowed something
Very sharp
Or very poison.
The door shut automatically behind her.
You flinched at the finality
Of the sound
But never looked down
You didn’t have to.
Instead, you looked to the left
From where she had come
And to the right again.
This time when you caught my gaze
I knew I could release you
You used to say my eyes looked empty this way
But I knew
You’d have to hate me
To release me.
But I held my hand
Over my heart
And when you asked
I pressed the other against your cheek
Engaged your eyes with a smile
Lifted two fingers away from my chest
And showed you the blood there.
Only a few drops, see?
You relaxed then so I held your gaze
With a turn of my cheek
Affectionately toward yours
And when our foreheads met
I pushed yours gently to the left
So you would watch the pretty nurse
Approaching, she was appealing in her
White starched dress and cap, silk
Stockings with a seam
Running all the way down the back of her
Taut calves to the rim of her
White soled comfort shoes
Dipped in scarlet
She never slipped as she
Walked right through me
Crimson prints marked her path
To the next room
To the next door.
As I tried to hold your gaze
Chin in hand
And smile affixed
I felt you stiffen
Your eyelids drooped
You looked as if you swallowed something
Very sharp
Or very poison.
The door shut automatically behind her.
You flinched at the finality
Of the sound
But never looked down
You didn’t have to.
Instead, you looked to the left
From where she had come
And to the right again.
This time when you caught my gaze
I knew I could release you
You used to say my eyes looked empty this way
But I knew
You’d have to hate me
To release me.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Overheard @ the Art Museum
She, the voluptuous one
With the violin lips
Satin mocha arms.
And he, the ardent one
Six-stringed and
Witty to boot.
And her, the silent one
The one paraded, coveted
By the rich, the old, the infirm
The newlywed’s gift
The dream of man
The promise of immortality
She sang through her eyes
And we listened
Intently
For a hint at that secret
Her clarinet shoulders
Cooed and babbled
And we took it as god’s grace.
She’s awake again.
It’s your turn.
No, it’s yours.
No, I took her last night.
You’re mistaken. That was me.
No, it wasn’t.
Please, I’m so tired.
But I worked all day.
And I didn’t?
You slaved.
Yes, I did.
I bore her.
Yes, you did.
Let’s go together.
Are you sure? No. I’ll go.
No, let it be me.
If you’re certain.
I am.
I want to.
For you.
Get some sleep.
I’ve got this.
You rest.
I’m going.
ARPAGGIO!
My darling, I am so sorry.
We need you.
I know.
With the violin lips
Satin mocha arms.
And he, the ardent one
Six-stringed and
Witty to boot.
And her, the silent one
The one paraded, coveted
By the rich, the old, the infirm
The newlywed’s gift
The dream of man
The promise of immortality
She sang through her eyes
And we listened
Intently
For a hint at that secret
Her clarinet shoulders
Cooed and babbled
And we took it as god’s grace.
She’s awake again.
It’s your turn.
No, it’s yours.
No, I took her last night.
You’re mistaken. That was me.
No, it wasn’t.
Please, I’m so tired.
But I worked all day.
And I didn’t?
You slaved.
Yes, I did.
I bore her.
Yes, you did.
Let’s go together.
Are you sure? No. I’ll go.
No, let it be me.
If you’re certain.
I am.
I want to.
For you.
Get some sleep.
I’ve got this.
You rest.
I’m going.
ARPAGGIO!
My darling, I am so sorry.
We need you.
I know.
Never Once
Today
I woke, I worked, I walked
and never once wondered
how it would be if
If only you were here.
Tonight
I write and wrestle with the thought
that I never once wondered.
July 21, 2008
I woke, I worked, I walked
and never once wondered
how it would be if
If only you were here.
Tonight
I write and wrestle with the thought
that I never once wondered.
July 21, 2008
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Nutsack Girl
She carried a bag of nuts with her wherever she went. One day I asked her about them and this is what she told me. "These are not your ordinary nuts. These nuts are hard to crack. Some are shaped oddly, some have a thick outer shell, some are slippery and well, you get the point. The fact is that these nuts are a lot like people and I carry this bag around to remind me of that. You have to have just the right tool and just the right technique to crack these nuts. If you don't do it right, you stand a good chance of getting hurt. Or worse, hurting the tender meat that is sustenance inside the shell."
Then she lit up a joint and I knew our conversation, at least the part that made sense was now over. "So here's how it works, sis. Every day I take out one of these nuts and study it just like this." She slid her long arm bronzed from daily exposure into the small opening she had created by pushing two fingers of each hand into the tiny hole drawn tight by a double drawstring at the top of the bag and gently massaged it open as if she were pulling back the red velvet curtains of a tiny stage. She never looked inside. Letting her arm relax, I could see her wrist and hand begin to writhe inside the bag like arachnid acid. She was getting off on the feeling of the nuts passing between her fingers as she grasped a bunch and let them fall or just let her hand pass underneath them, through them; sensing this one and that with only the deft touch of her left hand. The sound was quite entrancing from my end but that was not her gig. She loved to touch and she was good at it. She continued on like this for some time, letting out a squeal when her hand, which now seemed separated from the rest of her, found some tactile treasure and felt it necessary to share that pleasure with the brain. Her brain was now in a fog so deep it would take hours for her to come back up. She could still register pleasure and pain without the tedious business of thought to bog the whole mechanism down and this is exactly where she sought to be when she got high.
She touched something she liked. I gauged this from her reaction. Her body never lied when she was in this state. She could hide nothing. The tone was lazy this time and more like a moan that she maintained at a lower octave than the others as if to say, oh now this is the one. Then, lazily she threw her head back and with it the hair that had been shielding her face like blinders on a Thoroughbred about to race the Dubai World Cup. Her perfect face now flushed with excitement over the tiny nut she would remove from the bag and attempt to crack. There was a moment of sheer silliness when she realized she had gripped the thing so tightly that her fist made it impossible for her to get her hand out of the hole she had created earlier. She wasn't tender this time. She pulled the bottom of the bag with her right hand and without loosening her grip, yanked her left fist out of the top, leaving a red mark around the base of her hand where it met her wrist. Why she didn't just let the drawstring go slack, I didn't think to wonder about then.
It was a Brazil nut. Nigger toes as dad used to call them. It makes us both cringe to think that there are people related to us who still talk this way. We raise our eyes simultaneously, but there is no one here to correct or to be embarrassed of. “Brazil nuts only grow in virgin rainforests you know,” I didn’t know. “Not only that but there is only one bee – the bombardier bee - you know the really big one? The one that looks like a B-52? It could just swoop down and bomb your little insect town at any moment.” I know she’s really gone when she starts mixing perspectives like her colossal fondness for WWII aircraft and irrelevant penchant for calling my mons a little insect town, but she’s my sister and I love her. She goes on to tell me about the great coiled hood of the Brazil nut tree’s yellow flower which contains a sweet nectar unlike anything ever tasted by man and that this bomber B-52 bee is the only one with a tongue strong enough to lift the hood and long enough to navigate the coils. Sounds like a legendary invasion my little insect town could hold a parade for or name a street after. Brazil Nut Bee Lane. Yes, lane. Boulevard sounds too spacious and street well, that’s just plain trampy. Lane it is. BNB Lane people would affectionately call it – home of the sweet nectar of the yellow-flowered-Brazilian goddess; a narrow two-laner, recently-paved, smooth and relatively quiet. You wouldn’t want to drive a Cadillac down there though – it’s definitely Not a Thru Street and the three point turn would be a bitch.
Then she lit up a joint and I knew our conversation, at least the part that made sense was now over. "So here's how it works, sis. Every day I take out one of these nuts and study it just like this." She slid her long arm bronzed from daily exposure into the small opening she had created by pushing two fingers of each hand into the tiny hole drawn tight by a double drawstring at the top of the bag and gently massaged it open as if she were pulling back the red velvet curtains of a tiny stage. She never looked inside. Letting her arm relax, I could see her wrist and hand begin to writhe inside the bag like arachnid acid. She was getting off on the feeling of the nuts passing between her fingers as she grasped a bunch and let them fall or just let her hand pass underneath them, through them; sensing this one and that with only the deft touch of her left hand. The sound was quite entrancing from my end but that was not her gig. She loved to touch and she was good at it. She continued on like this for some time, letting out a squeal when her hand, which now seemed separated from the rest of her, found some tactile treasure and felt it necessary to share that pleasure with the brain. Her brain was now in a fog so deep it would take hours for her to come back up. She could still register pleasure and pain without the tedious business of thought to bog the whole mechanism down and this is exactly where she sought to be when she got high.
She touched something she liked. I gauged this from her reaction. Her body never lied when she was in this state. She could hide nothing. The tone was lazy this time and more like a moan that she maintained at a lower octave than the others as if to say, oh now this is the one. Then, lazily she threw her head back and with it the hair that had been shielding her face like blinders on a Thoroughbred about to race the Dubai World Cup. Her perfect face now flushed with excitement over the tiny nut she would remove from the bag and attempt to crack. There was a moment of sheer silliness when she realized she had gripped the thing so tightly that her fist made it impossible for her to get her hand out of the hole she had created earlier. She wasn't tender this time. She pulled the bottom of the bag with her right hand and without loosening her grip, yanked her left fist out of the top, leaving a red mark around the base of her hand where it met her wrist. Why she didn't just let the drawstring go slack, I didn't think to wonder about then.
It was a Brazil nut. Nigger toes as dad used to call them. It makes us both cringe to think that there are people related to us who still talk this way. We raise our eyes simultaneously, but there is no one here to correct or to be embarrassed of. “Brazil nuts only grow in virgin rainforests you know,” I didn’t know. “Not only that but there is only one bee – the bombardier bee - you know the really big one? The one that looks like a B-52? It could just swoop down and bomb your little insect town at any moment.” I know she’s really gone when she starts mixing perspectives like her colossal fondness for WWII aircraft and irrelevant penchant for calling my mons a little insect town, but she’s my sister and I love her. She goes on to tell me about the great coiled hood of the Brazil nut tree’s yellow flower which contains a sweet nectar unlike anything ever tasted by man and that this bomber B-52 bee is the only one with a tongue strong enough to lift the hood and long enough to navigate the coils. Sounds like a legendary invasion my little insect town could hold a parade for or name a street after. Brazil Nut Bee Lane. Yes, lane. Boulevard sounds too spacious and street well, that’s just plain trampy. Lane it is. BNB Lane people would affectionately call it – home of the sweet nectar of the yellow-flowered-Brazilian goddess; a narrow two-laner, recently-paved, smooth and relatively quiet. You wouldn’t want to drive a Cadillac down there though – it’s definitely Not a Thru Street and the three point turn would be a bitch.
Procreation Nation
His tribe taunts me
flaunting the American dream
like a six-pack picket fence
His body tempts me
into accidental procreation
He wants to plant his seed
He wants me to give him a legacy
but I'm wise to the tricks of this
modern day snake oil salesman
He's selling lies
I serve his potion with wine
in twelve matching crystal glasses
and my dinner party
goes off splendidly
though the slide show on the tv screen
is of someone else's family
and the soundtrack is rather awkwardly playing
music that someone will say they like but never hear again.
Someone will hum a note or two
absent-mindedly, later that night or the next day
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point - post lobotomy.
Someone may well be awoken
and say quietly some thing equally important
before busying themselves into remission-
staving off the bestial cohabitation
of body and soul for yet another day.
Some one may thank you.
Some one may shake your hand.
Someone may touch you.
But they all affect you.
In the end, only the tribe remains
temptation exists for a reason
and evolution is not just a theory
if you don't believe me
take a trip to the National History Museum.
The seed is always planted
whether in your womb
or the next.
Someone will get it.
Some one will experience pain
and finally understand
if only for a moment
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point - for all eternity.
flaunting the American dream
like a six-pack picket fence
His body tempts me
into accidental procreation
He wants to plant his seed
He wants me to give him a legacy
but I'm wise to the tricks of this
modern day snake oil salesman
He's selling lies
I serve his potion with wine
in twelve matching crystal glasses
and my dinner party
goes off splendidly
though the slide show on the tv screen
is of someone else's family
and the soundtrack is rather awkwardly playing
music that someone will say they like but never hear again.
Someone will hum a note or two
absent-mindedly, later that night or the next day
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point - post lobotomy.
Someone may well be awoken
and say quietly some thing equally important
before busying themselves into remission-
staving off the bestial cohabitation
of body and soul for yet another day.
Some one may thank you.
Some one may shake your hand.
Someone may touch you.
But they all affect you.
In the end, only the tribe remains
temptation exists for a reason
and evolution is not just a theory
if you don't believe me
take a trip to the National History Museum.
The seed is always planted
whether in your womb
or the next.
Someone will get it.
Some one will experience pain
and finally understand
if only for a moment
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point - for all eternity.
Readme.txt (in case of death)
on Tuesday, January 27, 2009 at 7:45pm
I wrote this four years ago when I "upgraded" to CS2. It still applies today with the simple substitution of the word DELL for ADOBE. BTW, I LOVE Windows Vista, especially when the automatic updater installs a blue screen. I don't have the energy to write a whole new one for Dell after 12 hours on and off the phone with their "tech support" AKA people who tell you how to reboot your computer 17 different ways and use a simple system restore function for days on end, but believe me, it would be a KILLER.
If you are reading this letter and I am dead, please forward it to the proper authorities.
I WAS MURDERED BY ADOBE® TECH SUPPORT.
Dear Authorities:
Please follow these simple directions to determine the responsible parties punishible for my utimely and painful death.
1. Call 1-206-675-6307 if you think it was ADOBE® Illustrator that brought my mortal days to an end.
A. Press 2 because you do not have a support plan already in place.
B. Press 2 again since this is obviously not an installation issue - rather the opposite as I have now been permanently "uninstalled" from life.
C. Press 1 if you tried to solve the mystery yourself by accessing ADOBE's® incrediby useful (if you are an ADOBE® tech) website before calling this number.
***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.
2. Call 1-206-675-6311 if you believe it was ADOBE® InDesign that eventually did me "in".
and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.
3. If you suspect that ADOBE® Photoshop was the specific cause of my demise, dial 1-206-675-6303 and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.
4. It may be that you have surmised the entire ADOBE® Creative Suite 2 has conspired to snuf me out. If this is the case, dial 1-206-756-6330, follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE and be sure to reference Case #171650945 or have the serial number handy.
5. Wait two hours for an e-mail response to your long-distance telephone inquiry.
6. When you are sure nothing is coming by e-mail, go back to the website www.adobe.com and search the document numbers you jotted down as the tech muttered them under his breath.
7. Watch your back, they may be coming for you next.
[caption id="attachment_176" align="alignnone" width="180" caption="God bless the U.S.A. and Dell"]
[/caption]
I wrote this four years ago when I "upgraded" to CS2. It still applies today with the simple substitution of the word DELL for ADOBE. BTW, I LOVE Windows Vista, especially when the automatic updater installs a blue screen. I don't have the energy to write a whole new one for Dell after 12 hours on and off the phone with their "tech support" AKA people who tell you how to reboot your computer 17 different ways and use a simple system restore function for days on end, but believe me, it would be a KILLER.
If you are reading this letter and I am dead, please forward it to the proper authorities.
I WAS MURDERED BY ADOBE® TECH SUPPORT.
Dear Authorities:
Please follow these simple directions to determine the responsible parties punishible for my utimely and painful death.
1. Call 1-206-675-6307 if you think it was ADOBE® Illustrator that brought my mortal days to an end.
A. Press 2 because you do not have a support plan already in place.
B. Press 2 again since this is obviously not an installation issue - rather the opposite as I have now been permanently "uninstalled" from life.
C. Press 1 if you tried to solve the mystery yourself by accessing ADOBE's® incrediby useful (if you are an ADOBE® tech) website before calling this number.
***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.
2. Call 1-206-675-6311 if you believe it was ADOBE® InDesign that eventually did me "in".
and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.
3. If you suspect that ADOBE® Photoshop was the specific cause of my demise, dial 1-206-675-6303 and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.
4. It may be that you have surmised the entire ADOBE® Creative Suite 2 has conspired to snuf me out. If this is the case, dial 1-206-756-6330, follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE and be sure to reference Case #171650945 or have the serial number handy.
5. Wait two hours for an e-mail response to your long-distance telephone inquiry.
6. When you are sure nothing is coming by e-mail, go back to the website www.adobe.com and search the document numbers you jotted down as the tech muttered them under his breath.
7. Watch your back, they may be coming for you next.
[caption id="attachment_176" align="alignnone" width="180" caption="God bless the U.S.A. and Dell"]
[/caption]
Friday, July 22, 2011
Just Another Tuesday
Bonus Audio!
He put his right arm over her waist
and tucked his fingers between the bed and the spot on her hourglass frame where
time slowed to a trickle.
She loved that spot and he knew it.
His arm was heavy and strong
against her. She arched her back and pulled him in tighter than a corset string
around her waist.
Her hips called to him and he answered dutifully.
He could feel them where the flesh of her soft belly met
with bell-curved bone. He kept his forearm pressed against her, but let his
hand open and close, grasping her tiny waist between a thumb and four fingers.
She was almost asleep. He had that effect on her. Her muscles relaxed and she exhaled beneath him letting her mind wander up his arm to the deep cut of his bicep, around his broad shoulder and through the hair on his chest.
No void was left between them.
As he pressed his arm deeper into her every breath, she rotated her thighs outward and lifted her lower back from the bed.
He wanted her, but he also wanted to see what would happen next.
He moved his hand down to the uppermost part of her left thigh letting his thumb graze what it pleased and squeezed. First with his pinky, then the ring finger, then all the way through to his thumb which was by now burrowed deep inside her inner thigh.
It went around and around like that until she felt his fingers were no longer separate entities. She moaned and shuddered against him.
He straightened his arm between her ribs and felt the heat between her legs spread with every gyration. I haven’t even touched her! He thought. But he wanted to. Her passion was contagious. His thick cock swelled at the thought of it.
She felt him rise against the bed sheets and let her hand fall gently in his lap. Her small fingers lazily found their way around and up and down the shaft of his penis, the round head of his pink cock. So big! She thought. Too big. She loved the feel of it, so soft and yet so hard. She wanted him inside her. But she also wanted to see where this was going.
He brought his hand back up to her left breast filling it up with her flesh then slowly dragged a heavy hand across her nipple, down into her ribs and over her abdomen. Changing direction, his hand turned fingers down prone like the antennae of a worker bee honing in on a volcano of molten honey.
She pressed his palm into her pelvis. She felt his fingers brush against her mound and held him tight there prolonging the anticipation. Her fingers laced in his just like the walk in the park they had earlier. At the thought of that innocent public embrace she could bare it no longer and released his hand knowing full well this was a one way street.
He kept up the façade as best he could by moving his hand to her right thigh first. He extended his fingers until his pinky breached her labia and squeezed again. On the out swing her lips opened for him and he sank his pinky into her clit and over the fiery gap he wanted so badly to penetrate. At that moment, he wanted to take her more than anything
he ever wanted in his life. Still he wondered.
She desperately desired him inside her. Her pussy throbbed and ached to be filled. Her shorts were damp where his pinky slid easily up and down along the perimeter. There seemed to be no end to the searing sugar flowing freely from her body. So sweet; he could smell her like he smelled a storm coming. And after, it seemed like he could still smell her for days.
They began to sweat.
He couldn’t resist letting his pinky fall into her and he didn’t regret it. She gasped and pulled his hand toward her, pushing his little finger as deep as it would go, pressing the third knuckle of his right hand into her clit.
Her grip tightened around him. She tugged him hard toward her but he didn’t budge except to flex his huge cock in her little hand. Her body began to writhe. She flexed her toes; feverishly stroking his cock with her ring finger turned inward to tighten her grip and provide some drag along the large vein that lifted itself from him, pulsating with his frenetic heartbeat.
Her pussy was so hot and so wet. He had never felt anything like this before. He let himself imagine what it would be like to be inside her and instantly began to cum. His excitement so aroused her that she could hold back no longer and let out a moan so hard and deep they were certain it would wake the neighbors. They both giggled at the thought.
In the next pull, they seizured into orgasm simultaneously. They were two solid rocket boosters effortlessly propelling the last space shuttle into orbit where fantasy becomes one with reality.
They lay there sweating and breathing for a moment. Then she leaned over him so he could see her satisfied smile. She breathed the words good night into his mouth as she kissed him then sank back into her pillow with a great sigh of relief. He grasped her hand, pulled it to his lips and held her there for a second before saying good night then let himself float peacefully back into orbit.
Click here to LISTEN NOW
He put his right arm over her waist
and tucked his fingers between the bed and the spot on her hourglass frame where
time slowed to a trickle.
She loved that spot and he knew it.
His arm was heavy and strong
against her. She arched her back and pulled him in tighter than a corset string
around her waist.
Her hips called to him and he answered dutifully.
He could feel them where the flesh of her soft belly met
with bell-curved bone. He kept his forearm pressed against her, but let his
hand open and close, grasping her tiny waist between a thumb and four fingers.
She was almost asleep. He had that effect on her. Her muscles relaxed and she exhaled beneath him letting her mind wander up his arm to the deep cut of his bicep, around his broad shoulder and through the hair on his chest.
No void was left between them.
As he pressed his arm deeper into her every breath, she rotated her thighs outward and lifted her lower back from the bed.
He wanted her, but he also wanted to see what would happen next.
He moved his hand down to the uppermost part of her left thigh letting his thumb graze what it pleased and squeezed. First with his pinky, then the ring finger, then all the way through to his thumb which was by now burrowed deep inside her inner thigh.
It went around and around like that until she felt his fingers were no longer separate entities. She moaned and shuddered against him.
He straightened his arm between her ribs and felt the heat between her legs spread with every gyration. I haven’t even touched her! He thought. But he wanted to. Her passion was contagious. His thick cock swelled at the thought of it.
She felt him rise against the bed sheets and let her hand fall gently in his lap. Her small fingers lazily found their way around and up and down the shaft of his penis, the round head of his pink cock. So big! She thought. Too big. She loved the feel of it, so soft and yet so hard. She wanted him inside her. But she also wanted to see where this was going.
He brought his hand back up to her left breast filling it up with her flesh then slowly dragged a heavy hand across her nipple, down into her ribs and over her abdomen. Changing direction, his hand turned fingers down prone like the antennae of a worker bee honing in on a volcano of molten honey.
She pressed his palm into her pelvis. She felt his fingers brush against her mound and held him tight there prolonging the anticipation. Her fingers laced in his just like the walk in the park they had earlier. At the thought of that innocent public embrace she could bare it no longer and released his hand knowing full well this was a one way street.
He kept up the façade as best he could by moving his hand to her right thigh first. He extended his fingers until his pinky breached her labia and squeezed again. On the out swing her lips opened for him and he sank his pinky into her clit and over the fiery gap he wanted so badly to penetrate. At that moment, he wanted to take her more than anything
he ever wanted in his life. Still he wondered.
She desperately desired him inside her. Her pussy throbbed and ached to be filled. Her shorts were damp where his pinky slid easily up and down along the perimeter. There seemed to be no end to the searing sugar flowing freely from her body. So sweet; he could smell her like he smelled a storm coming. And after, it seemed like he could still smell her for days.
They began to sweat.
He couldn’t resist letting his pinky fall into her and he didn’t regret it. She gasped and pulled his hand toward her, pushing his little finger as deep as it would go, pressing the third knuckle of his right hand into her clit.
Her grip tightened around him. She tugged him hard toward her but he didn’t budge except to flex his huge cock in her little hand. Her body began to writhe. She flexed her toes; feverishly stroking his cock with her ring finger turned inward to tighten her grip and provide some drag along the large vein that lifted itself from him, pulsating with his frenetic heartbeat.
Her pussy was so hot and so wet. He had never felt anything like this before. He let himself imagine what it would be like to be inside her and instantly began to cum. His excitement so aroused her that she could hold back no longer and let out a moan so hard and deep they were certain it would wake the neighbors. They both giggled at the thought.
In the next pull, they seizured into orgasm simultaneously. They were two solid rocket boosters effortlessly propelling the last space shuttle into orbit where fantasy becomes one with reality.
They lay there sweating and breathing for a moment. Then she leaned over him so he could see her satisfied smile. She breathed the words good night into his mouth as she kissed him then sank back into her pillow with a great sigh of relief. He grasped her hand, pulled it to his lips and held her there for a second before saying good night then let himself float peacefully back into orbit.
Looking Back
Looking back
At a picture I just saw
Of you
And she, and she
Seemed so far away
So distant
And it wasn’t just the angle
Of the lens or your proximity
To the camera
Though you did loom large
In the foreground.
And you overlooking
Not only the snow-draped
Sunset of the painted desert
But the whole of it
The here, the now
And the what ifs.
Even the space between you
Knowing what I know now
Seems in transition
In flux
And the bonding so like the
Flat palms she pressed decidedly
Upon her thighs
And the curve of her waist
So delicate, yet strong.
You have deemed her fearless
But let’s not forget
That we are all human.
Pedestals are unworthy
Of living flesh; alabaster
Or otherwise.
I see decades of happiness
Knowing now what you knew then
Looking down upon her
And the vast expanse
Of other, not so knowable miracles.
At a picture I just saw
Of you
And she, and she
Seemed so far away
So distant
And it wasn’t just the angle
Of the lens or your proximity
To the camera
Though you did loom large
In the foreground.
And you overlooking
Not only the snow-draped
Sunset of the painted desert
But the whole of it
The here, the now
And the what ifs.
Even the space between you
Knowing what I know now
Seems in transition
In flux
And the bonding so like the
Flat palms she pressed decidedly
Upon her thighs
And the curve of her waist
So delicate, yet strong.
You have deemed her fearless
But let’s not forget
That we are all human.
Pedestals are unworthy
Of living flesh; alabaster
Or otherwise.
I see decades of happiness
Knowing now what you knew then
Looking down upon her
And the vast expanse
Of other, not so knowable miracles.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Dream 06/22/2011
I’m in a convenience store like Circle K and I’m sure that I need to run away but the moment I realize this my body goes completely limp. Other customers see this and point and say look at that. I catch the attention of one man, I can barely talk but I manage to mouth the words, “Escape. Please. Help.” He senses the fear in my eyes and picks me up but the moment he does, he starts to become weak. He can’t hold me anymore. Soon he reluctantly puts me down and collapses on a pile of light blue soft water pellet bags stacked in the corner next to the sports drinks. Now we are both stuck in the store but I have some power back now and I tell him he can’t do that again for his own safety. Just touching me will drain his power and he just looks at me like how the hell did that little tiny thing just drain me of everything I have. He was a big, strong man too. Like Paul Bunyan big.
I still need a way to get out of there and it doesn’t matter where to, so I ask some people to lift me into a grocery cart thinking I can roll myself away. Whatever. It doesn’t matter how. Three young men pick me up and put me into the cart kind of laughing and thinking crazy white girl, she’s not going to get very far in a grocery cart but whatever. I have the use of my legs now and ask them to put a floor mat under me so it won’t hurt so bad going over the bumps. I stick my legs out the front under the handle where it hinges for storage and start pumping Flintstone style. It’s surprisingly easy and I make quick progress down the hill away from the store and the farther I get from it the stronger I am.
Soon, I am in one of my flying dreams. Taking off the first time is always the hardest part and this one is a low flyer. I spend most of my time about 5 ft. from the ground but occasionally gain 15-20 ft. enough to fly over telephone poles and see owls perched on top of roof tops. Inside peoples’ houses. Flocks of birds I identify in the dream are startled and scatter on my approach. HUGE owls. Pruning, flying, hunting, sitting.
One flies into a house through a tiny porthole and I follow it. It perches on a ladies wardrobe – five rows deep and 8 ft. long. It’s like a mini department store. I want to look at the owl so I sort of lay my body down on top of own of the shelves and feel myself become awkwardly big, not that I was small before I just FEEL my size now and I feel way too big to be in the place I’m at. I look back at the portal we came through. Did I come through there? Now I am so big feeling that I fall off the shelf. The lady hears me and comes into the room. Is that you? She says, talking to the owl like a mother talks to her baby. Oh, how I’ve missed you. You were gone for so long this time. Where are you my sweet? Come to me so I can see you. And then she sees me and her voice turns mean and she says, YOU! So you want to see MY owl do you?
I am afraid of being caught by her and hide behind a curtain but it is no cover. Somehow I end up at my aunt’s house and she is chastising me for breaking into her friends homes to look at birds. At first I am submissive and bow my head a little to her and then I realize she is reading from a list of addresses that SHE gave me to BREAK INTO AND IDENTIFY BIRDS. So I say that to her and she gets this really proud look on her face and smiles and I say, You ENCOURAGED me to break into your friends houses to identify birds and now you are PUNISHING me for it!
The end.
I still need a way to get out of there and it doesn’t matter where to, so I ask some people to lift me into a grocery cart thinking I can roll myself away. Whatever. It doesn’t matter how. Three young men pick me up and put me into the cart kind of laughing and thinking crazy white girl, she’s not going to get very far in a grocery cart but whatever. I have the use of my legs now and ask them to put a floor mat under me so it won’t hurt so bad going over the bumps. I stick my legs out the front under the handle where it hinges for storage and start pumping Flintstone style. It’s surprisingly easy and I make quick progress down the hill away from the store and the farther I get from it the stronger I am.
Soon, I am in one of my flying dreams. Taking off the first time is always the hardest part and this one is a low flyer. I spend most of my time about 5 ft. from the ground but occasionally gain 15-20 ft. enough to fly over telephone poles and see owls perched on top of roof tops. Inside peoples’ houses. Flocks of birds I identify in the dream are startled and scatter on my approach. HUGE owls. Pruning, flying, hunting, sitting.
One flies into a house through a tiny porthole and I follow it. It perches on a ladies wardrobe – five rows deep and 8 ft. long. It’s like a mini department store. I want to look at the owl so I sort of lay my body down on top of own of the shelves and feel myself become awkwardly big, not that I was small before I just FEEL my size now and I feel way too big to be in the place I’m at. I look back at the portal we came through. Did I come through there? Now I am so big feeling that I fall off the shelf. The lady hears me and comes into the room. Is that you? She says, talking to the owl like a mother talks to her baby. Oh, how I’ve missed you. You were gone for so long this time. Where are you my sweet? Come to me so I can see you. And then she sees me and her voice turns mean and she says, YOU! So you want to see MY owl do you?
I am afraid of being caught by her and hide behind a curtain but it is no cover. Somehow I end up at my aunt’s house and she is chastising me for breaking into her friends homes to look at birds. At first I am submissive and bow my head a little to her and then I realize she is reading from a list of addresses that SHE gave me to BREAK INTO AND IDENTIFY BIRDS. So I say that to her and she gets this really proud look on her face and smiles and I say, You ENCOURAGED me to break into your friends houses to identify birds and now you are PUNISHING me for it!
The end.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Letter from the editor
Dear men in my life,
I recently ended communication with all of you to commit to one person. I have decided that one person is me.
Tower—this is One Niner-Seven-Three requesting the option.
I am requesting the option—the privilege—to find out more about you, explore your life, your interests, your values and allow you the privilege to explore mine too. I value you as a person. However, I will not commit to anything but me at this moment, my responsibility to be safe and treat others how they would like to be treated and this is totally fair and normal and healthy.
You value me because I am my own person, free-will intact, with an abundant life that I created for myself despite the obstacles we all face.
I spent the last ten years of my life with a man who almost made me believe that everything you find so endearing about me is bad, wrong and crazy. I’ve spent the last six months undergoing a major life change, the last four months in therapy two times a week and my entire conscious life in pursuit of self-awareness, knowledge and happiness. I would say I have been lucky to do so or that it is a luxury but the fact is I made it a priority in my life. I am grateful for the reality I created for myself.
I am not a psycho-path or a sex-addict. I am a woman who has been loved, honored, befriended, abused, controlled and driven to the brink of insanity by men who wish to impose their will on me for the last 38 years. No more. I am taking control of my life back.
I’ve struggled these last few years and made mistakes but I can’t regret it because it got me where I am today.
No matter how you may have known me in the past, today I am a mature woman with a secure sense of self who knows what she wants and constantly strives for personal growth. I am a confident individual capable of providing myself with everything that I require. I have a healthy appetite for food and sex and love and companionship in moderation and I embrace and adore these things about myself regardless of what you or god or society has to say about it. I am also human and fragile and require support from others at times. I am grateful to you for that.
You like these things about me, but can you accept me for who I am? You claim to have this modern view of a woman’s right to be exactly who she is and be with whomever she wants and then you try and claim me for yourself. Just stop. Stop trying to change me into something I’m not. That girl will make you want to run for your life. Stop trying to win me—win abundance in your own life. That is more attractive than anything to me. Be yourself. You are an amazing man just as you are. Be with me when we are and be happy alone when we aren’t. You like me best when I take care of me. I like you best when you do the same.
Respectfully,
Woman in your life
I recently ended communication with all of you to commit to one person. I have decided that one person is me.
Tower—this is One Niner-Seven-Three requesting the option.
I am requesting the option—the privilege—to find out more about you, explore your life, your interests, your values and allow you the privilege to explore mine too. I value you as a person. However, I will not commit to anything but me at this moment, my responsibility to be safe and treat others how they would like to be treated and this is totally fair and normal and healthy.
You value me because I am my own person, free-will intact, with an abundant life that I created for myself despite the obstacles we all face.
I spent the last ten years of my life with a man who almost made me believe that everything you find so endearing about me is bad, wrong and crazy. I’ve spent the last six months undergoing a major life change, the last four months in therapy two times a week and my entire conscious life in pursuit of self-awareness, knowledge and happiness. I would say I have been lucky to do so or that it is a luxury but the fact is I made it a priority in my life. I am grateful for the reality I created for myself.
I am not a psycho-path or a sex-addict. I am a woman who has been loved, honored, befriended, abused, controlled and driven to the brink of insanity by men who wish to impose their will on me for the last 38 years. No more. I am taking control of my life back.
I’ve struggled these last few years and made mistakes but I can’t regret it because it got me where I am today.
No matter how you may have known me in the past, today I am a mature woman with a secure sense of self who knows what she wants and constantly strives for personal growth. I am a confident individual capable of providing myself with everything that I require. I have a healthy appetite for food and sex and love and companionship in moderation and I embrace and adore these things about myself regardless of what you or god or society has to say about it. I am also human and fragile and require support from others at times. I am grateful to you for that.
You like these things about me, but can you accept me for who I am? You claim to have this modern view of a woman’s right to be exactly who she is and be with whomever she wants and then you try and claim me for yourself. Just stop. Stop trying to change me into something I’m not. That girl will make you want to run for your life. Stop trying to win me—win abundance in your own life. That is more attractive than anything to me. Be yourself. You are an amazing man just as you are. Be with me when we are and be happy alone when we aren’t. You like me best when I take care of me. I like you best when you do the same.
Respectfully,
Woman in your life
Friday, April 1, 2011
World’s Best Veggie Omelet
It wasn’t the cheerful waitress.
It wasn’t the way you simultaneously flirted with me by flirting innocently with her.
It wasn’t even that smile you gave me. The one that said, “remember last night” and projected a future filled with many more.
It was the veggies, I swear!
And the butter, I’m guessing loads.
And was that paprika?
It definitely was not the way you put your hand on my knee or when you needed both how your knee migrated closer to mine.
You’re a toucher and I love to be touched.
It couldn’t have been any of that though.
That omelet was just too good!
It couldn’t have been the moment you saw my hair fall across my face mid-bite and swooped in with your middle finger to brush it away as you let the other four whisper across my cheek.
No, no. It couldn’t have been that.
I’m telling you it was most certainly not that!
The cauliflower had just the right amount of crunch, you see.
And the broccoli was bright green.
And the peppers were lightly grilled.
And the tomatoes were not too soggy.
And the squash…Oh!
These are the ingredients of the perfect veggie omelet.
Not including the fact that you said my name in at least a dozen ways I’ve never heard it said before.
Jessica. Jessie. Jess.
They’re all me and you know it.
Now you say, “You’re so cool.”
And I blush but I blame it on a hot onion. Spicy too!
You look away. It’s that thoughtful look I love about you. The one that says I’m pondering something very deep while you compose yourself and when you’re ready I can’t wait to share it with you.
But here, let me draw it on this napkin instead.
The perfect veggie omelet.
Your simplicity is brilliant in the pre-noon light.
You’re magic!
How do you get your eyes to sparkle like that?
You’re glowing.
No, it’s the peppers. I assure you.
More blushing. More deep thought. “More drawings,” I exclaim!
But the pen is dry.
The veggies are all eaten up and there’s a mess of yellow left on my plate.
“Save it for later,” you ask?
Nah, these things are never quite the same the next day.
You just can’t recreate the perfect veggie omelet.
It wasn’t the way you simultaneously flirted with me by flirting innocently with her.
It wasn’t even that smile you gave me. The one that said, “remember last night” and projected a future filled with many more.
It was the veggies, I swear!
And the butter, I’m guessing loads.
And was that paprika?
It definitely was not the way you put your hand on my knee or when you needed both how your knee migrated closer to mine.
You’re a toucher and I love to be touched.
It couldn’t have been any of that though.
That omelet was just too good!
It couldn’t have been the moment you saw my hair fall across my face mid-bite and swooped in with your middle finger to brush it away as you let the other four whisper across my cheek.
No, no. It couldn’t have been that.
I’m telling you it was most certainly not that!
The cauliflower had just the right amount of crunch, you see.
And the broccoli was bright green.
And the peppers were lightly grilled.
And the tomatoes were not too soggy.
And the squash…Oh!
These are the ingredients of the perfect veggie omelet.
Not including the fact that you said my name in at least a dozen ways I’ve never heard it said before.
Jessica. Jessie. Jess.
They’re all me and you know it.
Now you say, “You’re so cool.”
And I blush but I blame it on a hot onion. Spicy too!
You look away. It’s that thoughtful look I love about you. The one that says I’m pondering something very deep while you compose yourself and when you’re ready I can’t wait to share it with you.
But here, let me draw it on this napkin instead.
The perfect veggie omelet.
Your simplicity is brilliant in the pre-noon light.
You’re magic!
How do you get your eyes to sparkle like that?
You’re glowing.
No, it’s the peppers. I assure you.
More blushing. More deep thought. “More drawings,” I exclaim!
But the pen is dry.
The veggies are all eaten up and there’s a mess of yellow left on my plate.
“Save it for later,” you ask?
Nah, these things are never quite the same the next day.
You just can’t recreate the perfect veggie omelet.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Gestalt of a River
Oh, melancholy blue
Your ripples cast shadows
O’er impermanent sands
Revealing patterns
in well-worn paths.
Oh, royal violet
Intermediary of earth and sky
Gentle ruler
Of that transcendent place
Between past and future.
Oh, leaf
Oh, earth
Oh, ground beneath
All that which is reflected
Above
All that which is contained
Below
All that which moves
Within.
[caption id="attachment_132" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Photo by Lissa Martinez"]
[/caption]
Your ripples cast shadows
O’er impermanent sands
Revealing patterns
in well-worn paths.
Oh, royal violet
Intermediary of earth and sky
Gentle ruler
Of that transcendent place
Between past and future.
Oh, leaf
Oh, earth
Oh, ground beneath
All that which is reflected
Above
All that which is contained
Below
All that which moves
Within.
[caption id="attachment_132" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Photo by Lissa Martinez"]
[/caption]Thursday, March 3, 2011
Ace of Cups
Have you ever been so thirsty that you dreamt about drinking a tall glass of whatever?
In Gestaltian dream analysis you are supposed to place yourself as each object or subject in the dream.
You are really thirsty. You go to the kitchen. You open the cabinet.
[caption id="attachment_1948" align="alignleft" width="274"]
Even when we all get the same amount of something, some of us still need more to be full.[/caption]
Now imagine you’re a glass. Specifically, a tumbler—the tall one. You can easily hold 6-8 ounces of whatever. You are sturdy and robust. You’re the biggest glass in the cabinet. The last glass anyone wants to break and the first one chosen for use unless of course you’re all in the dishwasher or on the night stands or left outside on the patio after last night’s double vodka and Pellegrino conversation turned you into a prop and then abandoned you as still life. You are the hero of summertime, yard work and soda pop. You are made for adult hands. People are careful with you. They take care not to drop you when you dew up and get sweaty from a hard day’s labor. You’re the working man’s glass. Literally, a tall drink of water and you know it. It feels good to be first. You get set out on coasters for dinner parties (unless they use the crystal – damn those crystal tumblers). No one ever goes thirsty in your presence. It doesn’t even matter how much the other glasses hold, it always looks like more in you.
Then there’s good ol’ half glass. Half glass is there in a pinch. Hero of cookies and milk. More of you get broken then the others even though you usually bounce when you inevitably get dropped. It’s a simple law of averages. Half glass is actually a misnomer since you can fill three quarters of a tumbler. You are well-respected but you know the tall one will always be first choice. That hurts. Sometimes they even call you short glass. Which is worse you can’t decide. Being stuck in the middle is trying to say the least. You wish people could see your capacity for whatever. You feel it must be your fault somehow that they don’t. You’re not a glass that gets decided upon much. Most of the time you’re just the default go to when all the talls go missing. You think the talls must really have it great down there on the bottom shelf where even the kids can reach. Maybe that’s the problem. Oh, who knows. You probably don’t deserve to be used any more than you are anyway. I mean, why raise your expectations only to get disappointed, right?
Now imagine you are the juice glass. Under used and under-appreciated, you rarely get taken from the top shelf unless there’s a shortage of both halves and talls. You think maybe people would use you more frequently if they didn’t have to stand on their toes to reach you. You never break though and you’re the only one still playing with a full set. You are silently revered as the sacred vessel of nectars and juices—the purest forms of liquid refreshment. Not so silently, you long to be appreciated for the jewel you are but somehow you never end up getting rinsed out and even the purest nectar leaves a ring way down deep where no one old enough to do the dishes can reach without a bottle brush and there haven’t been any of those around for years. You never feel quite as clean as the others. Good thing you know the etymology of “top shelf”. It keeps your spirits up. You fill exactly half of tumbler and three-quarters of short but no one seems to notice you’re easier to hold and drink from without ice spilling over or making milk mustaches.
Now imagine two glasses develop a relationship. Say one of the glasses is a tumbler and one is a short. If tall pours all it has into short what happens?
Does short drown in the excess of does he bask the over-abundance of whatever?
Does tall really want to pour her entire self into anything or should she save some whatever for herself?
Does half feel the need to fill tall to the rim?
Is a glass half full of another glass’s whatever every really satisfied?
Should juice glasses only mix with other juices? Shorts with shorts and talls with talls?
Does any of this matter if each glass is happy with whatever it holds?
In Gestaltian dream analysis you are supposed to place yourself as each object or subject in the dream.
You are really thirsty. You go to the kitchen. You open the cabinet.
[caption id="attachment_1948" align="alignleft" width="274"]
Even when we all get the same amount of something, some of us still need more to be full.[/caption]Now imagine you’re a glass. Specifically, a tumbler—the tall one. You can easily hold 6-8 ounces of whatever. You are sturdy and robust. You’re the biggest glass in the cabinet. The last glass anyone wants to break and the first one chosen for use unless of course you’re all in the dishwasher or on the night stands or left outside on the patio after last night’s double vodka and Pellegrino conversation turned you into a prop and then abandoned you as still life. You are the hero of summertime, yard work and soda pop. You are made for adult hands. People are careful with you. They take care not to drop you when you dew up and get sweaty from a hard day’s labor. You’re the working man’s glass. Literally, a tall drink of water and you know it. It feels good to be first. You get set out on coasters for dinner parties (unless they use the crystal – damn those crystal tumblers). No one ever goes thirsty in your presence. It doesn’t even matter how much the other glasses hold, it always looks like more in you.
Then there’s good ol’ half glass. Half glass is there in a pinch. Hero of cookies and milk. More of you get broken then the others even though you usually bounce when you inevitably get dropped. It’s a simple law of averages. Half glass is actually a misnomer since you can fill three quarters of a tumbler. You are well-respected but you know the tall one will always be first choice. That hurts. Sometimes they even call you short glass. Which is worse you can’t decide. Being stuck in the middle is trying to say the least. You wish people could see your capacity for whatever. You feel it must be your fault somehow that they don’t. You’re not a glass that gets decided upon much. Most of the time you’re just the default go to when all the talls go missing. You think the talls must really have it great down there on the bottom shelf where even the kids can reach. Maybe that’s the problem. Oh, who knows. You probably don’t deserve to be used any more than you are anyway. I mean, why raise your expectations only to get disappointed, right?
Now imagine you are the juice glass. Under used and under-appreciated, you rarely get taken from the top shelf unless there’s a shortage of both halves and talls. You think maybe people would use you more frequently if they didn’t have to stand on their toes to reach you. You never break though and you’re the only one still playing with a full set. You are silently revered as the sacred vessel of nectars and juices—the purest forms of liquid refreshment. Not so silently, you long to be appreciated for the jewel you are but somehow you never end up getting rinsed out and even the purest nectar leaves a ring way down deep where no one old enough to do the dishes can reach without a bottle brush and there haven’t been any of those around for years. You never feel quite as clean as the others. Good thing you know the etymology of “top shelf”. It keeps your spirits up. You fill exactly half of tumbler and three-quarters of short but no one seems to notice you’re easier to hold and drink from without ice spilling over or making milk mustaches.
Now imagine two glasses develop a relationship. Say one of the glasses is a tumbler and one is a short. If tall pours all it has into short what happens?
Does short drown in the excess of does he bask the over-abundance of whatever?
Does tall really want to pour her entire self into anything or should she save some whatever for herself?
Does half feel the need to fill tall to the rim?
Is a glass half full of another glass’s whatever every really satisfied?
Should juice glasses only mix with other juices? Shorts with shorts and talls with talls?
Does any of this matter if each glass is happy with whatever it holds?
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Made in the U.S.A. - First Blush
So my first big purchase for the apartment other than the used couch from Finland is a bed. I go to IKEA, several random mattress slingers and finally settle on using Sam’s Club online because they say they will deliver for no extra charge to my third floor apartment while everyone else wants at least $65 and some as high as $110.
I actually struggle over the descriptions because one sounds much nicer than the other and is less expensive but in the end I go with the one that says, MADE IN THE USA all over it and touts its “natural-based ingredients which support environmental sustainability”.
Side note: You can’t make this chit up.
Sounds great, right?
Anywho, I get the box today and I think I must have gotten someone else’s order because it clearly says MADE IN CHINA on the box. So I go back to the website and double check. Yes, I ordered the Aerus – as advertised Made in USA. NOT the Night Therapy mattress as advertised Made in China.
Blah, blah, blah. Blah, Blah, blah. A couple paragraphs later and I see the catch. “Memory Foam Made in the USA. Produced using the most environmentally-friendly process in North America.”
The box also says……….you guessed it - Aerus by Night Therapy.
[caption id="attachment_104" align="alignnone" width="225" caption="What's a red-blooded gal who wants to buy American supposed to do?"]
[/caption]
I actually struggle over the descriptions because one sounds much nicer than the other and is less expensive but in the end I go with the one that says, MADE IN THE USA all over it and touts its “natural-based ingredients which support environmental sustainability”.
Side note: You can’t make this chit up.
Sounds great, right?
Anywho, I get the box today and I think I must have gotten someone else’s order because it clearly says MADE IN CHINA on the box. So I go back to the website and double check. Yes, I ordered the Aerus – as advertised Made in USA. NOT the Night Therapy mattress as advertised Made in China.
Blah, blah, blah. Blah, Blah, blah. A couple paragraphs later and I see the catch. “Memory Foam Made in the USA. Produced using the most environmentally-friendly process in North America.”
The box also says……….you guessed it - Aerus by Night Therapy.
[caption id="attachment_104" align="alignnone" width="225" caption="What's a red-blooded gal who wants to buy American supposed to do?"]
[/caption]
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Hint: It's not about a bag lady.
Bag Lady’s Bliss
One woman’s quest for happiness in the land-fill of life
So, I’m thinking I want to do my part to save the world and all and I have even have this awesome red t-shirt that says, “Change the universe. Start with yourself,” or some such simply profound thing and it – the t-shirt ‑ attributes the quotation to the French philosopher and mathematician Renè Descartes. You know Descartes, right? Sure, you do. You don’t have to study metaphysics to be familiar with the phrase: I think; therefore I am. Or for the lofty: Cogito ergo sum. So, here I am and I think okay I’ll start small like always putting the grocery cart back in the stall or smiling at a stranger or picking up a piece of trash in my path. And that all goes quite well and I’m feeling good about it. Quite good, actually. I’m making a difference. Every day I’m just walking around making the world a better place and I don’t even have to try. I mean what’s the cost to me? I get a little more fresh air returning my cart. I smile more. I kneel to pick up some trash and find a shiny penny. I feel great.
So, what if I could do more? How great would that feel? I start carrying a small plastic grocery bag in my car and when it gets filled up with parking lot debris or whatever else I’ve seen fit to pick up that week I toss the full and bulging bag of my contribution to the planet in the big black bin conveniently picked up weekly and taken away out of sight. (I have a separate bag for recyclables.) I feel complete. I have found my peace.
Now, my first thought after that is of course I have got to share this feeling with the world. If everyone could feel the way I do there would be no war, no injustice, no poverty, no pain.
But, there is a problem. Sometimes I come across items that are too big to fit in the small plastic grocery bag, so I start carrying a large kitchen trash bag in my trunk. You can’t stash those things in the door panel. So, here I am with my 15-gallon trash bag, and I can’t seem to fill it up anymore. There doesn’t seem to be enough garbage left in my path. Well, that’s strange. Where has all my garbage gone? My happiness wanes. I must not be doing my part if my bag is not full of trash at the end of every week. I’ll never fill the big black bin at this rate! What can I do?
Oh look! That person has tons of trash in their path. Lucky bastard. I’ll just go see if he would like some help. Absolutely? You were just thinking how nice it would be to have someone help get you started? Great! I have this 15-gallon bag that can hold big items too. You are SO welcome. Really it’s my pleasure. You know, that small plastic grocery bag you have is nice but sometimes it’s just not enough to get the job done right. Ah! There. Now we are done and you are trash-free my friend! How wonderful. What a gift. We shared the joy of picking up trash together and made friends out of strangers. Ah, this is bliss. No, thank YOU!
So, now I’m carrying this large kitchen trash bag all around town with me and taking it along with me to everyone’s house just in case they can’t bend over anymore or they’re too tired or too lazy and picking up their trash just because it feels good and I can and most of them seem to really like it. I’m just a big ball of trash picking bliss. Smiling and cheerful I point out all of the trash you seemed have missed in your life or maybe you just forgot. But don’t worry, I’ll pick it right up for you, take it away. And not a nod or a thank you do I require for this service. It just makes me feel good. Some people seem offended when I suggest that what they’re holding on to is really just garbage, but I don’t mind. Not everyone can appreciate the favor.
I’m picking up broken things – things I think I can fix.
I’m picking up old things that have outlived their usefulness to others but who knows when I might need it or know of someone who might need it.
I’m picking up rotten things and dead things and things people have spent decades of their lives, not to mention thousands of dollars in therapy trying desperately to discard.
I’m clearing the path for all mankind.
I’m picking up whole people, entire households of waste and refuse.
My bag is getting very heavy.
But, I’m still smiling from under the strain. I just wish someone would notice how hard I’m working. I wish someone would comment on how much progress I’m making. How much better the world is with me in it. No one does.
I’m picking up banana peels so no one slips and gum so no one sticks. I picked up all the dog poop in an entire neighborhood once with a Cheshire grin on my face so wide you would have thought it was the moon.
But now the bag is starting to smell and I would really like to get rid of it because this is getting to be a drag. No one even notices my efforts and some people have the nerve to tell me I shouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Can you believe that? They’re probably just jealous because they haven’t found their own peace.
I’m not smiling anymore. I need to find a place to dump this. It’s way too big for the big, black bin now. Who will take it all of this rot off of my hands? I mean it really reeks and I’m barely dragging it along and it’s not even mine. I resent this trash for stinking up my clothes and my life. I resent the people who made the trash even though they never asked me to pick it up in the first place. I did it out of the kindness in my heart. – for you. Not me. For you!
I’ve lost my peace. Somewhere back there, maybe on the street where you live? If you see it will you let me know? Because this trash is really reeking now and I’d like to get rid of it but I really can’t until I’ve found my peace. And not even a thank you or a nod in my direction. Now no one else wants to be around me because I stink of all this rubbish and who can I get to take it from me?
Who is strong enough to handle this immense pile of rubbish?
Who is the strongest person I know?
Who can I trust to get rid of it once and for all?
Who has proven they love me despite the wretched stench that follows me where ever I go?
Come here. Come closer. Let me tell you how much I love you. Let me show you how much I trust you. See? I still smell pretty under all this trash.
Oh? You love me too? Hooray for love! What a day for love! Let’s put on a parade for love and forget all about that gigantic bag of filth I brought with me. Although, as wonderful as you are, I still can’t quite find my peace. I might have left it somewhere. Hmmm.
Hey, I think something is wrong. Do you smell what I smell?
Oh, never mind. It’s just a passing garbage truck.
No really, I can still smell it. Can’t you smell it?
Don’t be silly. This place is immaculate. I picked up all the dog poop in the neighborhood weeks ago and brought it home and put it under the bed.
You WHAT? WHAT IS THAT SMELL?
Well, it’s NOT me! How DARE you ask! Are you saying I stink? Maybe you found my peace and you are keeping it from me until I deserve it. Maybe you think you’ll just hold on to it until I’m ready. But I AM ready. I had it before and now you’re making me earn it from you? I did my best for as long as I could without it and I thought I was pretty amazing. I thought I could do no wrong – even without my peace. So why aren’t you giving it to me?
Why can’t YOU give me MY peace? It’s MINE afterall.
YOU DIRTY, ROTTEN SCOUNDREL GIVE ME BACK MY PEACE!
Oh now you’ve done it. Now you DESERVE to have this bag of trash dumped right over your head and I won’t feel bad about dumping it on you all at once because you took my peace. You stole my peace and you are holding it ransom!
But I love you! I gave you everything! I gave you my peace and now you won’t give it back. And you still love me, right? I mean it wasn’t my trash to begin with. It was theirs. And they didn’t even say thank you and they all ran away from my stink.
Everyone ran away except you.
You’re the only one left. So you must have my peace. It must have been buried somewhere in that bag of hate I dumped on you so give it back. Dump the trash back on me…PLEEEEEASE. I mean it. I need you to dump the trash on me! I NEED you to give me MY peace!
Oh, please…can’t you see how I’m suffering? I’m begging you. I’m sorry I misbehaved. I’ll be good now. I promise. Just please, can I have just a little bit of my peace?
I’ll do better. I’ll earn it back. You’ll see. I’ll work harder.
And if that doesn’t do it, I’ll break every coffee cup in your house until you hand it over.
Give it to me! Give it to me! GIVE IT TO ME!!!
What do you mean you have nothing to give?
You have my peace. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. The way you look at me with love.
What do you mean you’re not strong enough? I know you are! I can feel it in your embrace. I can tell by the way you hold me when we sleep.
What do you mean I have to find it myself? Where did you hide it? Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just love me and be happy and GIVE ME MY PEACE
WHY do you torture me? Tease me with my OWN peace? Dangle it in front of me like bait on a hook and then swipe it away just when I’m about to strike? Why do you HATE me? I GAVE YOU MY PEACE!
Oh. There it is. It must have been buried there beneath all that trash. Here, look. It’s been right here the whole time. Right under my nose! Thankfully, it’s no worse for the wear. But for the stench I would have known it. Oh, bliss! Oh, happiness!
But now you are left holding my big empty bag, trash strewn all around you. Oh my! I’m so very sorry for the bother. And what WILL you do about that horrendous odor?
I can read the look on your face and between your tears it clearly says, fuck you. This stinks.
But, wait! Please don’t cry. Please don’t be angry with me. I can help you get out from under all the other peoples’ trash I dumped on you! I’m more than happy to help. It makes me feel good. Don’t you see? We can do it together and it will make us both happy again. Look, I have just the thing. Here is a small plastic grocery bag I found in my path…
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