Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Taking
Blind. The seam of its eyelids had long since scarred over. A sloppy, jagged looking seam where skin met skin and now joined to itself below center of its closed eye. The stitching remained though. Woven with metal and the threads from Spanish moss, its eyes had been stitched long ago.
It remembered also, the sound of its own teeth while they were being reshaped. The scraping, gritty, filing. Its tongue lolling to and fro in an involuntary response. Snagging on its teeth. Sticky blood and saliva running down its jowls.
It took ages for its feet to scar. For so long they blackened with rot as it lay helpless enduring the procedures. Bone fusing with bone. The stench. It could smell the bodies. They were being stripped of their flesh. Their bones were being shoveled into the cauldrons. It could smell the cauldrons. It could hear the shoveling. All the time. The bones knocked against each other while they were lifted from the earthen floor, dumped into the cauldrons and mixed together in the resevoir of juices.
But not the skulls. The skulls lined the wall and were filled with the broth from the cauldron. Their mouths were stuffed with the skin of their own bodies. Each time it was about to fade away into death, it was fed from those skulls. The putrid life-giving broth poured down its throat. It could taste sin, and sorrow. It could taste the dismal despair of hundreds. Coughing and sputtering, it rallied back just above the brink of death. The stone sledgehammer driving the bone composite into it's flesh. Its own bones smashing to pieces from the impact. Feeling the pool of its own blood as it lay there.
Full moons waxed and waned. Over and over....over and over. It didn't remember the pain specifically. And it didn't remember the sorrow. It only remembered the anger. It remembered the anger and its own screaming. Those screams became its world. Those screams were all it had for a very long time.
Once it had been so innocent. It had been so full of life and was a gentle, playful creature. It lived in the forest and grazed in the meadow. Its eyes. So clear and bright. Brilliant blue and penetrating they surveyed the world with care and clarity. Its coat and mane shone brightly in the warmth of the sun. It's gentle eyes regarded the world with kindness. Regal and glorious it beamed with benevolence. Its tail was lush. Its thick black coat sparkled with the majesty of midnight on a Summer's equinox.
The sparkle was gone now. Its hair was matted. Its tail stripped of its glory and its mane hung like a shroud upon a coffin. Its wounds did not permanently close with time and age, but would systematically ooze and clot. The stench and blackened drippings left smears upon everything they touched.
Its loomed up out of the rock, an imposing and foreboding figure perching on the cliff overlooking the mist in the valley below with its sense of smell and its far reaching mind. Its embedded talons dug in the Earth and left marks in the rock. It surveyed the land. It snorted the damp air through its mighty nostrils and cocked its ears to the east. Its eyes sewn shut so long ago, but its mind could see. So clearly.
Muscles were taught, almost bursting through the mats of hair. They did not twitch in anticipation. Emotional depth had been depleted and then destroyed outright. Space for anything that could be considered frivolous such as anticipation had been left to die long ago. Anticipation breeds wonder. Wonder knows hope, empathy, beauty, and chance. Wonder had no place here.
Its enormous black feathered wings unfolded and spread wide in a sudden show of intent. They lacked shine and were not the ethereal wings of an angel. They were demon's wings. Thick and dark, they were the wings in a child's nightmare, the mere sight of them sending the world's bravest creatures to bolt and cower beneath shadows. To be brushed by them as the creature moved passed you would leave you clutching your throat and gasping for breath. Its equine form leapt from the rock and the squeal of terror from a thousand animals rose up and hung in the air, a deafening siren of fear and alarm.
It flew.
It remembered also, the sound of its own teeth while they were being reshaped. The scraping, gritty, filing. Its tongue lolling to and fro in an involuntary response. Snagging on its teeth. Sticky blood and saliva running down its jowls.
It took ages for its feet to scar. For so long they blackened with rot as it lay helpless enduring the procedures. Bone fusing with bone. The stench. It could smell the bodies. They were being stripped of their flesh. Their bones were being shoveled into the cauldrons. It could smell the cauldrons. It could hear the shoveling. All the time. The bones knocked against each other while they were lifted from the earthen floor, dumped into the cauldrons and mixed together in the resevoir of juices.
But not the skulls. The skulls lined the wall and were filled with the broth from the cauldron. Their mouths were stuffed with the skin of their own bodies. Each time it was about to fade away into death, it was fed from those skulls. The putrid life-giving broth poured down its throat. It could taste sin, and sorrow. It could taste the dismal despair of hundreds. Coughing and sputtering, it rallied back just above the brink of death. The stone sledgehammer driving the bone composite into it's flesh. Its own bones smashing to pieces from the impact. Feeling the pool of its own blood as it lay there.
Full moons waxed and waned. Over and over....over and over. It didn't remember the pain specifically. And it didn't remember the sorrow. It only remembered the anger. It remembered the anger and its own screaming. Those screams became its world. Those screams were all it had for a very long time.
Once it had been so innocent. It had been so full of life and was a gentle, playful creature. It lived in the forest and grazed in the meadow. Its eyes. So clear and bright. Brilliant blue and penetrating they surveyed the world with care and clarity. Its coat and mane shone brightly in the warmth of the sun. It's gentle eyes regarded the world with kindness. Regal and glorious it beamed with benevolence. Its tail was lush. Its thick black coat sparkled with the majesty of midnight on a Summer's equinox.
The sparkle was gone now. Its hair was matted. Its tail stripped of its glory and its mane hung like a shroud upon a coffin. Its wounds did not permanently close with time and age, but would systematically ooze and clot. The stench and blackened drippings left smears upon everything they touched.
Its loomed up out of the rock, an imposing and foreboding figure perching on the cliff overlooking the mist in the valley below with its sense of smell and its far reaching mind. Its embedded talons dug in the Earth and left marks in the rock. It surveyed the land. It snorted the damp air through its mighty nostrils and cocked its ears to the east. Its eyes sewn shut so long ago, but its mind could see. So clearly.
Muscles were taught, almost bursting through the mats of hair. They did not twitch in anticipation. Emotional depth had been depleted and then destroyed outright. Space for anything that could be considered frivolous such as anticipation had been left to die long ago. Anticipation breeds wonder. Wonder knows hope, empathy, beauty, and chance. Wonder had no place here.
Its enormous black feathered wings unfolded and spread wide in a sudden show of intent. They lacked shine and were not the ethereal wings of an angel. They were demon's wings. Thick and dark, they were the wings in a child's nightmare, the mere sight of them sending the world's bravest creatures to bolt and cower beneath shadows. To be brushed by them as the creature moved passed you would leave you clutching your throat and gasping for breath. Its equine form leapt from the rock and the squeal of terror from a thousand animals rose up and hung in the air, a deafening siren of fear and alarm.
It flew.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Taken
Music dampened the air. The needle gracefully caressed the shellac. She'd had the old phonograph restored and played records she'd found in the attic of the house where her grandmother grew up. The box had been dusty, but untouched. Her mother had them appraised once. They were dated around 1901 or 1903. She liked the way the stylus made the air sound in between pieces of music.
Piano music. Soft. Beautiful. Sad.
She ran her fingers over the mahogany. So smooth. Such grace and life in that wood. Two tears fell. Two tears rolled over the lashes of her left eye, dropped down onto her cheekbone, and then descended impossibly slow. They reluctantly made their way down her fair skin leaving only the faintest trace behind. She wore no make up. Her lips had a natural blush to them and her eyes could penetrate steel. They were the color of forest moss. Not the moss you happen upon at the edge of the forest during a casual walk. The moss that hides itself deeply away where only fireflies spend time dancing in the moonlight near the waterfalls. Those deep green eyes shone so vibrant against her hair. Impossibly long and thick it was the color of the sea at midnight. Black as the heart of a raven.
Soft and ethereal, the white fabric clung to her gentle curves and spilled to the ground. She was stunning. But it didn't matter. She stared at the dust particles floating aimlessly in the stale beam of light that settled itself in the stagnant air of the room. The comforting smell of old pages in a library book hung in the room. She peered at the char in the fireplace. Wood and paper. Used and blackened. Materials that could once boast life and texture. Materials that were once firm and full of opportunity. At once, solid and pliable. Ready to be shaped by axe or by written word. Now they lay there as remains. They're not firm anymore. Their abstract forms bore little resemblance to what they once were and would crumble if you brushed by them with your finger. Just soot. Ashes.
She changed the record. The weight of it was pleasing in her hands. It was...tangible.
The dagger was at rest upon the phonograph. Its bejeweled handle fit in the palm of her hand as though it were crafted for her use. An array of gemstones encrusted the vicious arc. The blade curved in the same direction as the handle making the whole of it resemble a crescent moon. Slightly larger then her forearm, the dagger was an imposing image.
Still staring at the remains in the fireplace, she reached for it. Her fingers played upon the jewels lightly. The stones were cool to the touch. She let her fingers slide up and over the handle. Just before her hand closed completely around it the window glass smashed in spraying shards everywhere. Her eyes went wide with terror. Thousands of tiny, glinting, broken pieces sprayed the phonograph, her hair, her clothes.
Tiny droplets of blood immediately soaking through her gown in the hundreds, a testament to the shrapnel. One talon bolted toward her with unnatural speed and squeezed itself around her neck. The other gripped the window sill. She didn't struggle much. There was no screaming. She would have wept but she couldn't; one of its claws was digging into her flesh. It yanked her through. There was an obscene snapping sound that came from somewhere in her body as she was ripped through the gaping hole. The dagger clammored to the floor. Glass everywhere. Small tears of fabric clung to bits of broken glass still stuck in the window frame. Blood pooled on the oak floor and ran along the corridors of the natural grain. So much darker than in the movies.
Large pool of blood. Large dagger. One did not beget the other. The acrid smell left behind. Rotting flesh. Those talons had the stench of rotting flesh. One last shard of glass could take it no longer and fell from the window sill leaving only a few jagged pieces behind. It landed in the blood with a flat, wet sound devoid of life and of shape.
A tiny flame ignited itself among the ashes in the fireplace.
The piano music played.
Piano music. Soft. Beautiful. Sad.
She ran her fingers over the mahogany. So smooth. Such grace and life in that wood. Two tears fell. Two tears rolled over the lashes of her left eye, dropped down onto her cheekbone, and then descended impossibly slow. They reluctantly made their way down her fair skin leaving only the faintest trace behind. She wore no make up. Her lips had a natural blush to them and her eyes could penetrate steel. They were the color of forest moss. Not the moss you happen upon at the edge of the forest during a casual walk. The moss that hides itself deeply away where only fireflies spend time dancing in the moonlight near the waterfalls. Those deep green eyes shone so vibrant against her hair. Impossibly long and thick it was the color of the sea at midnight. Black as the heart of a raven.
Soft and ethereal, the white fabric clung to her gentle curves and spilled to the ground. She was stunning. But it didn't matter. She stared at the dust particles floating aimlessly in the stale beam of light that settled itself in the stagnant air of the room. The comforting smell of old pages in a library book hung in the room. She peered at the char in the fireplace. Wood and paper. Used and blackened. Materials that could once boast life and texture. Materials that were once firm and full of opportunity. At once, solid and pliable. Ready to be shaped by axe or by written word. Now they lay there as remains. They're not firm anymore. Their abstract forms bore little resemblance to what they once were and would crumble if you brushed by them with your finger. Just soot. Ashes.
She changed the record. The weight of it was pleasing in her hands. It was...tangible.
The dagger was at rest upon the phonograph. Its bejeweled handle fit in the palm of her hand as though it were crafted for her use. An array of gemstones encrusted the vicious arc. The blade curved in the same direction as the handle making the whole of it resemble a crescent moon. Slightly larger then her forearm, the dagger was an imposing image.
Still staring at the remains in the fireplace, she reached for it. Her fingers played upon the jewels lightly. The stones were cool to the touch. She let her fingers slide up and over the handle. Just before her hand closed completely around it the window glass smashed in spraying shards everywhere. Her eyes went wide with terror. Thousands of tiny, glinting, broken pieces sprayed the phonograph, her hair, her clothes.
Tiny droplets of blood immediately soaking through her gown in the hundreds, a testament to the shrapnel. One talon bolted toward her with unnatural speed and squeezed itself around her neck. The other gripped the window sill. She didn't struggle much. There was no screaming. She would have wept but she couldn't; one of its claws was digging into her flesh. It yanked her through. There was an obscene snapping sound that came from somewhere in her body as she was ripped through the gaping hole. The dagger clammored to the floor. Glass everywhere. Small tears of fabric clung to bits of broken glass still stuck in the window frame. Blood pooled on the oak floor and ran along the corridors of the natural grain. So much darker than in the movies.
Large pool of blood. Large dagger. One did not beget the other. The acrid smell left behind. Rotting flesh. Those talons had the stench of rotting flesh. One last shard of glass could take it no longer and fell from the window sill leaving only a few jagged pieces behind. It landed in the blood with a flat, wet sound devoid of life and of shape.
A tiny flame ignited itself among the ashes in the fireplace.
The piano music played.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Quite A Day
Warning: At the risk of freaking you out on several accounts, I'm pasting an email onto this blog. The email was written almost exactly one year ago, about a month before I left Washington DC. I originally sent this email to a VERY small bunch of people. I am reprinting it here with absolutely NO edits. If and when you see me next, please...I'd rather not discuss or laugh about...certain elements of this. I just think editing something like this for "public access" is a little like watching Pulp Fiction on TBS. What's the point? So Dear Reader, I choose to expose myself a little bit with this unabridged and very personal view into a random day. (And gentlemen, please hang in there for the first couple paragraphs. In order to get the story, you need to read the beginning of it.)
From August of 2010:
From August of 2010:
Yesterday, I remark to Jeb that my ankle only has probably another week or week and a half before it starts to feel okay. (you know the ankle. it's the one i hurt right before my wedding and have re-injured it four times since then- the latest was three weeks ago when i fainted at a concert.)
Been having horrendous PMS for almost two weeks. Bad. I'm all, what's wrong with me, already??? where's the freakin period for shit sake?
I look in my calendar. It says the last time I had my period was seven weeks ago. what? Did I forget to record it last time? I've gotten really sloppy about it in the past year because at first i wasn't having sex with anyone and then once I did.... Jeb has had a vasectomy- like YEARS ago. To be clear, I occasionally have small anxiety attacks about the vasectomy- that it isn't going to work and so forth....
I spend four days obsessing over the lack of period. I convince myself I'm pregnant. All the slurred speech, clumsiness, sore boobs, pain in Fallopian area, HORRENDOUS food cravings, bouts of emotion...that's all because I'm pregnant, not because I'm PMSing and just forgot to record my period the last time. Yesterday I google up some information about pregnancy with a partner who's had a vasectomy. ........I'm reading through some of these articles and ................OH MY GODDESS!!! IF I'M PREGNANT HE'S NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THAT THE VASECTOMY DIDN'T WORK. HE'S GOING TO THINK I CHEATED ON HIM!!! (sigh....... )
Work myself into a complete tizzy. 24/36 hours of this.
Drive to CVS in ghetto.
Store is packed.
Pregnancy tests locked up.
Exasperated. All huffy. Leave store.
Go across street to supermarket.
Find tampon isle. Bolt up isle.
Someone has spilled.....conditioner? moisturizer? sex lube? all over the floor.
It's the same color as the floor.
I don't see it.
Of course.
I take the header of all headers.
Cacophony so large that it actually measures on the Richter Scale.
Remember, I don't wear underwear.
Ever.
Skirt on.
Short one.
It wasn't funny until RIGHT NOW while I'm writing this.
Two people in isle saw the whole thing go down.
They are old.
Thank goddess.
I try to get up.
It's very difficult.
Oh no.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh no.
Ankle.
Pain.
Shooting up my leg and into my knee.
Ankle swelling.
Quickly.
So frustrated. I start to tear up.
Like an asshole.
They sit me down at the pharmacy near where I fell all the way in back of store with some ice and take my information.
I'm angry and upset and in pain. (I'm not being very nice.) But honestly, neither were THEY, all things considered.)
Manager asks me what item I was going for.
I tell her, "I'll get it myself!"
Crying.
Like an asshole.
Make up is everywhere.
When they go away, I get up.
I sort of walk (looks really bizarre like I'm some sort of zombie) to the isle next to the one I fell in.
I lumber around like a jackass.
Can't find pregnancy test.
Go to pharmacy. A little aggravated, "Excuse me, where are the pregnancy tests?
The answer: Oh, they're all the way at the front of the store behind customer service.
Really?
Go back to front of store.
Customer Service looks through the locked case and says, "Oh we must be out of them."
REALLY?!?!?!?!?!!!!!
I go back to CVS.
It is still packed with people.
I go to the pregnancy test isle. There is a locked case with a large button that you have to push to get someone to come and unlock the fucking things.
I press the button.
Intercom: A CUSTOMER NEEDS ASSISTANCE IN FAMILY PLANNING.
Everyone in line at the pharmacy turns and checks me out.
No one comes.
I press the button again. I'm in the middle of a fucking WORK day here.
Intercom: A CUSTOMER NEEDS ASSISTANCE IN FAMILY PLANNING.
I'm really starting to get bitchy.
I turn to my left and sort of wave my wedding ring-less hand in the general direction of the pharmacy counter audience. FUCK YOU. DO YOU HEAR ME, MOTHERFUCKERS? I SAID F U C K. Y O U.
No one comes.
I hobble to front of store.
Mob scene.
Me: Hey! Hey you. (swear to you) Do you have KEYS to unlock the PREGNANCY TESTS?????
Him: Uh, yeah.
Me: Let's go!
I get home.
I take test.
I am not pregnant.
Hellooooo? Jeb has had a VASECTOMY.
He happens to call right at that moment.
I tell him everything.
Jeb: Well, I can't top that story.
Me: yammer/stammer/tears
Jeb: Do you want me to take another test and they can see if there's any active sperm getting through?
Me: No. I know you did all that already. I started to freak out because I was reading all these things on line about these men finding out that their wives or partners get pregnant after they've had vasectomies and of COURSE they think she's cheated on him!
Jeb: Well, yeah! Look, it would take an act of GOD for you to get pregnant. And if that happens then guess what. That kid is going to be an ASTRONAUT or something. He'll be the first person to walk on the SUN.
(*i'm cracking up. you gotta hear the inflection of his speech- Patti, you can picture this, right?)
I get a call from a customer.
He's a dick. Then I make him feel like a dick because he was blaming me for something that someone else did and I was able to prove it while we were talking.
Get an emergency call from another customer.
Have to go out to Maryland in afternoon rush hour.
I get back to apartment.
Get out of car.
Bird takes a huge shit on my head and left arm.
Good day.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Smoke Signals
I keep trying to ignore this potholder that's floating around the kitchen. It's old. I only have a few. I've got one "glove style" holder that I never use because it freaks me out. And I've got two square holders. They've been in the kitchen since before I moved in. That glove holder...I just have an aversion to sticking my hand inside that thing. Gives me the willies. (It might help you to understand why it gives me the willies but a post describing my move to lovely Hunt Valley in Baltimore County is for another time. For now, suffice it say that the glove pot holder gives me the willies. I know I could throw it in the washing machine but I just never do. I think for some reason (armchair psychologists take note) I need that glove to give me the willies. I need to occasionally see it lurking around at the back of the drawer and sort of leering at me from the shadows.
It's just awkward, that's what it is. He sits back there trying to goad me into a confrontation. Hi Jen. I'm still here. And I'm still creepy. Go ahead...open me. Check out my lining. Stick just a finger in; I know you want to feel ballsy enough. Go ahead. I nervously avert my eyes and shift him only with the very tips of my thumb and index finger if he's in the way of a more welcoming pot holder or dishtowel. And how can he still be somehow in the way occasionally? If I've moved him in the past, and I never choose him over the others, then how does he end up on top of them?!?! I shudder a little when I have to move him. Just a little. It would be almost imperceptible if not for my quickened pace as I beat a hasty retreat over to the sink to wash my fingers off. Fucking asshole glove. And I'm too chickenshit to throw him out. He's obviously in better shape then these other potholders. I'll probably need him one day. If I throw him out, I don't want to suffer the charma of what is essentially a murder and unceremonious burial. I better just leave him back here.
So the other two potholders see a lot of action. I am a klutz. A big one. But I cook a lot, so even though I sometimes leave the kitchen with a random burn or cut, I often employ the use of all the usual kitchen suspects and the pot holders are no exception. These two potholders...they don't match. They aren't even the same thickness. I notice that it's still possible to burn the shit out of my fingers while these little soldiers are at battle. They're just old. But they aren't as creepy as Glovey. (I can't help it, I swear.)
So one morning maybe a week ago, I walk into the kitchen after I get out of the shower to heat water on the stove for the coffee maker. I do this naked, as is my habit every morning. I don't know what to tell you; I leave the shower with my hair wrapped in a towel, report to the kitchen to put water on the stove, and then retreat to the bathroom to put moisturizer on my legs, gel in my hair, etc. Since we are living in a condominium that is about one third to one half underground, we are often a subject of interest for the voyeuristic senior citizens who live among us. (Yet another future post....) Anyhoo, by the time I'm done with the gel, the water is boiling and I can travel back to the kitchen and deal with the french press. (Yes...all of you coffee snobs; I know I'm not really supposed to boil the water before I pour it. Make your coffee your way, I'll make mine my way.)
On this particular morning, when I return (with my naked self...yow!) to the kitchen I smell something. I don't see anything, but I smell something sort of burning. I sort of shrug my I-haven't-had-any-coffee-yet-obviously-so-dealing-with-any-sort-of-drama-at-this-point-is-not-desirable shoulders and just go about the business of preparing the coffee. A small tendril of smoke appears. It curls off of the burner (remind me about a forthcoming post regarding hatred for electric cooking) and it smells awful. I sort of wave at it. I'm all aggravated that I have to spend time on this as my morning free time is very precious.
The tendril turns into a slightly thicker snake of smoke. Just a garter snake at this point, but never-the-less a snake. Sigh....fucking burner. So how come I never ever notice that when the kitchen is producing smoke either by toaster oven (another future post) or by oven, or stove, it's the whole kitchen that fills up sort of quickly, and not just the concentrated area where the snake is? You know... smoke... it has its way of filling up a room and all.
Yes indeedy. Smoke detector. Goin off. Loudly.
The smoke detector (we don't get along....ever.) is now alerting me that there might be a problem. Thanks asshole. My boyfriend is still in bed. He will occasionally be up and ready to roll out at the same time as me but he certainly doesn't have to leave at the same time- our jobs are much different. And you should understand that he is 1) a musician and 2) a vampire. This means (for now...but I'm betting you'll hear more about this at some point) that he is almost completely nocturnal. He is most productive between the hours of five or six o'clock in the afternoon to five o'clock in the morning.
I am (naked) madly trying to wave off the smoke. I have the sliding glass door off of the kitchen wide open, and I have no way to disable the smoke detector (I know that's what you were thinking) The noise in concert with the early rising community of senior citizens provides a mildly entertaining, and mildly stressful blend of "I know those bastards can see me through the fucking window."
A very small but evident yellow little flame ignites at the source of the smoke. I grab one of the two square potholders (see how that came around? Told ya I have a propensity for making short stories long...) and try to slap out the flame as the towel is unraveling from it's turbon like perch upon my head. Through the forest of fabric that is now dangling in my line of vision, I notice the potholder ignite. Oh, for shit's sake. "Motherfucker!!!!" I continue to aid the poor thing to safety and smoush all the flames out. I toss it across the kitchen (one of the ancient villiagers is going so slowly by my kitchen window as she walks her stupid little dog) and it lands in the sink, its scar of concentric circles still warm to the touch.
As it is now fairly smoky (even I can recognize that), I leave the kitchen which is now pretty much under control (I guess) to steal the fan from the bedroom. Upon entering, I realize this whole debaucle ( a word I am fond of and for some reason reminds me of a word my brother-in-law might use) has probably awakened the vampire. And said vampire is not a fan of my smoke detector follies.
I enter the room. "Sorry. I don't know why it's going off, there isn't anything on fire...." (Yes, I lied twice in one sentence, fuck off.)
Boyfriend: (faintly) "mmphgh chgmthfg...."
Alrighty then.
The potholder -the one with the concentric circle branding- stayed on the rim of the sink for four days. Four. Days. Why you ask? Because I know it should be thrown out. It's old. And I have a perfectly good glove style pot holder in the drawer.
Glovey.
...nope. What's a little burn on a potholder? Adds character, right? You know the owner of a pot holder with battle wounds has been busy in the kitchen. I consider that potholder a badge of honor. (It'll be between you and me that I wasn't actually cooking anything when the aforementioned battle wounds were inflicted.)
* I swear this blog won't be entirely populated with kitchen screw ups. Glovey has been on my mind for a couple weeks and it just seemed appropriate to get it squared away.
** I love to see comments pop up after I write, but please goddess; don't remind me of the serious nature of the kitchen and fire saftey. I know. I swear.
It's just awkward, that's what it is. He sits back there trying to goad me into a confrontation. Hi Jen. I'm still here. And I'm still creepy. Go ahead...open me. Check out my lining. Stick just a finger in; I know you want to feel ballsy enough. Go ahead. I nervously avert my eyes and shift him only with the very tips of my thumb and index finger if he's in the way of a more welcoming pot holder or dishtowel. And how can he still be somehow in the way occasionally? If I've moved him in the past, and I never choose him over the others, then how does he end up on top of them?!?! I shudder a little when I have to move him. Just a little. It would be almost imperceptible if not for my quickened pace as I beat a hasty retreat over to the sink to wash my fingers off. Fucking asshole glove. And I'm too chickenshit to throw him out. He's obviously in better shape then these other potholders. I'll probably need him one day. If I throw him out, I don't want to suffer the charma of what is essentially a murder and unceremonious burial. I better just leave him back here.
So the other two potholders see a lot of action. I am a klutz. A big one. But I cook a lot, so even though I sometimes leave the kitchen with a random burn or cut, I often employ the use of all the usual kitchen suspects and the pot holders are no exception. These two potholders...they don't match. They aren't even the same thickness. I notice that it's still possible to burn the shit out of my fingers while these little soldiers are at battle. They're just old. But they aren't as creepy as Glovey. (I can't help it, I swear.)
So one morning maybe a week ago, I walk into the kitchen after I get out of the shower to heat water on the stove for the coffee maker. I do this naked, as is my habit every morning. I don't know what to tell you; I leave the shower with my hair wrapped in a towel, report to the kitchen to put water on the stove, and then retreat to the bathroom to put moisturizer on my legs, gel in my hair, etc. Since we are living in a condominium that is about one third to one half underground, we are often a subject of interest for the voyeuristic senior citizens who live among us. (Yet another future post....) Anyhoo, by the time I'm done with the gel, the water is boiling and I can travel back to the kitchen and deal with the french press. (Yes...all of you coffee snobs; I know I'm not really supposed to boil the water before I pour it. Make your coffee your way, I'll make mine my way.)
On this particular morning, when I return (with my naked self...yow!) to the kitchen I smell something. I don't see anything, but I smell something sort of burning. I sort of shrug my I-haven't-had-any-coffee-yet-obviously-so-dealing-with-any-sort-of-drama-at-this-point-is-not-desirable shoulders and just go about the business of preparing the coffee. A small tendril of smoke appears. It curls off of the burner (remind me about a forthcoming post regarding hatred for electric cooking) and it smells awful. I sort of wave at it. I'm all aggravated that I have to spend time on this as my morning free time is very precious.
The tendril turns into a slightly thicker snake of smoke. Just a garter snake at this point, but never-the-less a snake. Sigh....fucking burner. So how come I never ever notice that when the kitchen is producing smoke either by toaster oven (another future post) or by oven, or stove, it's the whole kitchen that fills up sort of quickly, and not just the concentrated area where the snake is? You know... smoke... it has its way of filling up a room and all.
Yes indeedy. Smoke detector. Goin off. Loudly.
The smoke detector (we don't get along....ever.) is now alerting me that there might be a problem. Thanks asshole. My boyfriend is still in bed. He will occasionally be up and ready to roll out at the same time as me but he certainly doesn't have to leave at the same time- our jobs are much different. And you should understand that he is 1) a musician and 2) a vampire. This means (for now...but I'm betting you'll hear more about this at some point) that he is almost completely nocturnal. He is most productive between the hours of five or six o'clock in the afternoon to five o'clock in the morning.
I am (naked) madly trying to wave off the smoke. I have the sliding glass door off of the kitchen wide open, and I have no way to disable the smoke detector (I know that's what you were thinking) The noise in concert with the early rising community of senior citizens provides a mildly entertaining, and mildly stressful blend of "I know those bastards can see me through the fucking window."
A very small but evident yellow little flame ignites at the source of the smoke. I grab one of the two square potholders (see how that came around? Told ya I have a propensity for making short stories long...) and try to slap out the flame as the towel is unraveling from it's turbon like perch upon my head. Through the forest of fabric that is now dangling in my line of vision, I notice the potholder ignite. Oh, for shit's sake. "Motherfucker!!!!" I continue to aid the poor thing to safety and smoush all the flames out. I toss it across the kitchen (one of the ancient villiagers is going so slowly by my kitchen window as she walks her stupid little dog) and it lands in the sink, its scar of concentric circles still warm to the touch.
As it is now fairly smoky (even I can recognize that), I leave the kitchen which is now pretty much under control (I guess) to steal the fan from the bedroom. Upon entering, I realize this whole debaucle ( a word I am fond of and for some reason reminds me of a word my brother-in-law might use) has probably awakened the vampire. And said vampire is not a fan of my smoke detector follies.
I enter the room. "Sorry. I don't know why it's going off, there isn't anything on fire...." (Yes, I lied twice in one sentence, fuck off.)
Boyfriend: (faintly) "mmphgh chgmthfg...."
Alrighty then.
The potholder -the one with the concentric circle branding- stayed on the rim of the sink for four days. Four. Days. Why you ask? Because I know it should be thrown out. It's old. And I have a perfectly good glove style pot holder in the drawer.
Glovey.
...nope. What's a little burn on a potholder? Adds character, right? You know the owner of a pot holder with battle wounds has been busy in the kitchen. I consider that potholder a badge of honor. (It'll be between you and me that I wasn't actually cooking anything when the aforementioned battle wounds were inflicted.)
* I swear this blog won't be entirely populated with kitchen screw ups. Glovey has been on my mind for a couple weeks and it just seemed appropriate to get it squared away.
** I love to see comments pop up after I write, but please goddess; don't remind me of the serious nature of the kitchen and fire saftey. I know. I swear.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Here Is The Ball. See It Begin To Roll
Well here I am; after years of being told, "You should start a blog!" by various people, I've started one. (Thanks Melissa.) I can't promise good capitalization or spelling. Nor can I promise concise, brief writing. (*insert snarky remark here if you know me well enough to know my talent for making a short story long) I often ignore these things when "getting it all out." I can't promise even, consistent posts. I am just not an even, consistent person and after 38 years I am finally quite comfortable with that. I will often (I imagine) be fairly prolific, and then there might be a spell where I am missing from the self indulgent, virtual world of thought sharing.
In addition to the absence of prim and proper typing and responsible consistency, I can't promise grace, diplomacy, or other more sophisticated attributes. For this is more of a diary for me. If you like it, and like reading it I will be overjoyed. I love attention. And I love entertaining people. Some of the people reading this will no doubt already be aware that my favorite compliment is the one in which I am praised for being or deemed funny. I love to make people happy. If you don't like my diary, stop reading it. I have an emphatic compulsion to beg for your mercy where judgement is concerned, but I don't come here to edit myself. If you can't take cursing, or unsavory subject matter then don't torture yourself. I know myself too well to believe that those things won't make an occasional (read: frequent) appearance here. But guess what! It's my sandbox, not yours. I'm pretty sure I'll invite my Mom to follow these posts. I know she'll do it. I know she won't like everything she reads. Probably many of you won't like everything you read. But if your going to open some one's diary...
I will not keep my opinions to myself. I will not reshape my opinions to be popular. I will not reshape them to be unpopular. I will not make them on behalf of you, I will not eat them in a stew. I will not place them up for vote, I will not row them in a boat. You can judge them if you must, or you can shove it where your butt crusts.
Self indulgence. That's what I'm here for. And if I get some attention out of it...Sweet.
I also know myself well enough to know that I will occasionally fire something off here and in reading it later.... will regret having written it. Or perhaps I'll feel totally different with a little time and perspective. I do these things less now then I used to, of course. I might write an open apology or explanation if I feel so compelled but I might not. I certainly won't be writing the aforementioned apology for any one's sake but my own.
The title of the blog is Peephole. I like that title because of the visual you undoubtedly had when you read it. It's the perfect title for a diary and it also takes a little of the "virtual" out of it. I'm an old fashioned girl in a lot of ways. iPads and the latest developments in flat screen televisions are lost on me. Intentionally. (I just had to Google the word "iPad" to see how it is written...) I like the image of an old fashioned keyhole in an old fashioned door handle that's cool to the touch and ornate with engravings on its heavy metal plate. I like the image of a woman of some nondescript age but somewhere between eighteen and seventy (or maybe three hundred and seventy) seated with her back to the door at a heavy desk of solid wood beset with carvings and intricate hand etched detail. Her hair is curly and washed with the light that pours gently through the window that's off to her side. It spills past her shoulders and the locks are reddish in the late afternoon or early morning sun. You can't tell which part of the day it is, and it doesn't matter. She holds a quill pen and she is busy writing. There is music playing; it snakes its way out of the keyhole through which you're peeping. A goblet sits upon the desk along with a large candle that's never been extinguished with a breath of air but rather always with the candle snuffer that's resting on the window sill. There are a few other curios that sit seemingly idle near the candle and the goblet. You might hear about them another time.
A final note for my very first post:
Please read a blog called http://melissa-are-you-alright.blogspot.com/
My friend Melissa. She is amazing. She is one of those people who exude beauty. There is a light that shines through her whole body that warms you with its presence. She has boldly picked up, and moved to England for two years. I cried like a baby one evening on the telephone while I shared with her how much I didn't want her to leave me. Her company had a job position for her there and she is blogging about her move, her life and her other random observations. I am lucky to have her in my life, and lucky to be able to read about her thoughts and adventures in London and beyond.
Blog ya soon,
EdgarAllanWhoa (EAW)
Jennifer
In addition to the absence of prim and proper typing and responsible consistency, I can't promise grace, diplomacy, or other more sophisticated attributes. For this is more of a diary for me. If you like it, and like reading it I will be overjoyed. I love attention. And I love entertaining people. Some of the people reading this will no doubt already be aware that my favorite compliment is the one in which I am praised for being or deemed funny. I love to make people happy. If you don't like my diary, stop reading it. I have an emphatic compulsion to beg for your mercy where judgement is concerned, but I don't come here to edit myself. If you can't take cursing, or unsavory subject matter then don't torture yourself. I know myself too well to believe that those things won't make an occasional (read: frequent) appearance here. But guess what! It's my sandbox, not yours. I'm pretty sure I'll invite my Mom to follow these posts. I know she'll do it. I know she won't like everything she reads. Probably many of you won't like everything you read. But if your going to open some one's diary...
I will not keep my opinions to myself. I will not reshape my opinions to be popular. I will not reshape them to be unpopular. I will not make them on behalf of you, I will not eat them in a stew. I will not place them up for vote, I will not row them in a boat. You can judge them if you must, or you can shove it where your butt crusts.
Self indulgence. That's what I'm here for. And if I get some attention out of it...Sweet.
I also know myself well enough to know that I will occasionally fire something off here and in reading it later.... will regret having written it. Or perhaps I'll feel totally different with a little time and perspective. I do these things less now then I used to, of course. I might write an open apology or explanation if I feel so compelled but I might not. I certainly won't be writing the aforementioned apology for any one's sake but my own.
The title of the blog is Peephole. I like that title because of the visual you undoubtedly had when you read it. It's the perfect title for a diary and it also takes a little of the "virtual" out of it. I'm an old fashioned girl in a lot of ways. iPads and the latest developments in flat screen televisions are lost on me. Intentionally. (I just had to Google the word "iPad" to see how it is written...) I like the image of an old fashioned keyhole in an old fashioned door handle that's cool to the touch and ornate with engravings on its heavy metal plate. I like the image of a woman of some nondescript age but somewhere between eighteen and seventy (or maybe three hundred and seventy) seated with her back to the door at a heavy desk of solid wood beset with carvings and intricate hand etched detail. Her hair is curly and washed with the light that pours gently through the window that's off to her side. It spills past her shoulders and the locks are reddish in the late afternoon or early morning sun. You can't tell which part of the day it is, and it doesn't matter. She holds a quill pen and she is busy writing. There is music playing; it snakes its way out of the keyhole through which you're peeping. A goblet sits upon the desk along with a large candle that's never been extinguished with a breath of air but rather always with the candle snuffer that's resting on the window sill. There are a few other curios that sit seemingly idle near the candle and the goblet. You might hear about them another time.
A final note for my very first post:
Please read a blog called http://melissa-are-you-alright.blogspot.com/
My friend Melissa. She is amazing. She is one of those people who exude beauty. There is a light that shines through her whole body that warms you with its presence. She has boldly picked up, and moved to England for two years. I cried like a baby one evening on the telephone while I shared with her how much I didn't want her to leave me. Her company had a job position for her there and she is blogging about her move, her life and her other random observations. I am lucky to have her in my life, and lucky to be able to read about her thoughts and adventures in London and beyond.
Blog ya soon,
EdgarAllanWhoa (EAW)
Jennifer
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