writing doodle - Love is a Battlefield

In the 1980s songstress Pat Benatar gave us an anthem:  Love is a Battlefield.

Whenever I go into my family room and look at the detritus on the floor, I realize that if love is indeed a battlefield, my house is ground zero for fighting.

It works like this:

Small Dog now owns the household.

Small Dog has a lot of energy.

No one is capable of playing 23 hours a day to keep Small Dog entertained and/or occupied.

Sacrifices must be made on a regular basis.

Thrift stores sell  items which can be sacrificed quickly, easily, and inexpensively.

At Christmas one of the holiday specials has a bit about the Island of Misfit Toys ... what really happens to them, they go to thrift stores.  Then I buy the unwanted stuffed animals.

The older dog liked to take his aggression out on them because it was safe and they didn't fight back.

Small Dog likes anything that smells like the older dog, will let her bite on it, and is well stuffed.

Unfortunately, I fit much of that criteria.  I allowed her to bite my fingers and my hands the first few days when she wasn't able to be consoled - she never broke skin and got bored quickly.  I am overly well stuffed (my weight would be ideal if I were almost 8 feet tall).  I have lived in the same household as older dog for years, so we smell a lot alike.

Small Dog has discovered all stuffed animals, unused pillows, and towels that haven't made it into the hamper ... therefore, all are toys to be sacrificed on the battlefield.

Just remember, size doesn't matter ... enthusiasm does.

writing doodle - escapee from the prom

"I look like an escapee from the junior/senior prom of 1987." No, she didn't.  She looked like the Michelin man covered in purple taffeta with really, really bad hair.

"Come on out of the dressing room."

"Nothing doing."

"I may have promised to stand up for you at your wedding, but there's no way I can do this."

"You have to.  If you don't do it, no one else will either."

That could have been a very good thing.  That might have meant that the wedding would be scaled back or at least a semi-decent dress would be chosen.

"Tell you what.  I'll pay for it and act like I'm going through with it, but I'll back out the day before."

"Nothing doing.  You have to do it.  Please?"

The please did it.  Whenever her cousin used the word please, Cindy found herself doing whatever her cousin wanted, no matter the consequences.

writing doodle - the Bobbsey Twins

There was no better way to describe them than as the Bobbsey Twins, not that anyone ever read that series anymore.  The two men were as alike as if they had been born to the same family.  The same height, stature, posture, mannerisms, and depth of caring.

From the back, especially when seated, the two were almost impossible to tell apart.  After more than twenty years together, they both wore the same color on the same day, let their hair grow about two weeks too long, wore the identical shoes, and knew every nuance of the other's life, better than their wives did.

Dave was two to three inches taller and apparently the more outgoing of the two.  His smiles were faster and his humor more broad.

Richard had more health issues, not that anyone ever knew, and hid his light under a bushel.

Each of these very private men impacted the lives of people they were never to know, would never recognize, would never develop true relationships.  Yet each day, these men made life and death decisions for countless people who would never know or thank them.

For all of the thanks you never received, please know how loved and respected you both were and shall ever remain.

The unintentional lessons you each taught were tremendous.

Thank you.

writing doodle - the game

"You don't really understand how to play cards," Grandma said.

"Sure I do," Betsy said.

"Ah, you might understand the rules of the game, but you don't really understand how to play cards."

"What are you talking about."

"The joy of shuffling the cards.  Trying to remember which card it was that got bent in the corner.  You don't even know how to read the face of your opponent."

"I'm only eight, Grandma. Besides, when I play on the computer, none of the cards get bent."

"Exactly my point."  Grandma smiled at her opponent, the erstwhile cardshark.  "I don't have any nines.  Go fish."

writing doodle - true romance

The house had finally gone to sleep and except for the sound of water dripping in the bathroom, all was quiet.  This was the time Selma waited for every night.  It was when she was free to engage her imagination and allow her mind to go elsewhere.

Selma turned back the comforter and slipped out of bed.  Her husband grumbled something incoherent.  After placing his hand over her pillow, she slid the room and gently closed the door.

Four steps and a pause. Which was the board that creaked?  Was it the board directly in front of her or the next one?  If she stepped on it, Frank would wake up and call to her. Just because she used to sleep walk in the past and fell down the stairs three years ago, he was over protective when it came to her night junkets.

Deep breath and a long step. The floorboard gave just enough that she could hear it, but because it didn't take her whole weight, the sound was somewhat muffled.

Six more steps and she would have wound around the upper floor and arrived at the landing.

Halfway down was a step that needed to be nailed down again.  She had marked the banister with a light scratch so she could tell by feel when she needed to tread gently.

Five more steps and she was safely at the bottom.

The light switch in the old kitchen made as much noise as someone breaking a pool cue, but it wasn't to be helped.  The house was old, the wiring incredibly out of date, and the expense to update extreme.  She tugged on the cabinet above the sink to get an old jelly-jar for a glass of milk.  The drawer beneath the milk held cheese, dated greens, and a paperback book she had started to read several nights ago.

The book? A romance.

After being married to Frank for ten years, what little romance they had once shared was now gone.  It had been replaced by a blase attitude that comes from living together forever.   Dirty diapers, in-law problems on both sides, and a twenty pound weight gain hadn't helped either.

The people in the books were perfect.  They only worried about how many condoms were in the night stand and which fancy restaurant to visit.

Two hours of escape and Selma knew she needed to go back to bed.  Just like Scarlet O'Hara, she knew tomorrow was another day.

writing doodle - the prisoner

As the guard walked the long hallway, he heard a low voice singing somewhat off key.  The tune was barely recognizable as Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

"Quiet in there or I'll call the warden," the guard snapped.

What was the warden going to do about it? The question was implied; the prisoner seldom spoke.  It didn't really matter.  The jail currently held two inmates; one was known for good behavior, the other, not.

Truly, there wasn't much the warden could do. The prisoner was already in an isolated cell far away from the other inmate. Short of gagging inmate 8102852 the radio could be turned up and that was about it.

The inmate grabbed a stick and began running it across the bars. It was a gentle clatter at first, and the angrier he got, the louder the noise.

"Ok. I'll be back after I call the warden."

The phone was answered on the fourth ring.  "Gburek."

"We're having problems again."

"Are you following protocols?"

"Naturally." The guard had been well trained but had only been on the job about two weeks. "I've followed the checklist, but it doesn't seem to be doing much good. He's back in solitary."

"What did he do this time?"

"Hurt the old man.  Pushed him around and wouldn't let up. This time there was a bite and it was bad."

"Great."

"Yeah, well."

"I've got a meeting and then I'll handle it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. In the mean time, just go about the rest of your day."

The clatter from inside the cell eventually slowed and ceased altogether.  Finally the only thing other than the sound of the electric fan and the crickets was the sound of snoring.

~~~

Jane Gburek returned home after a long day.  All she wanted was a stiff drink, her dinner and a little peace.

She kissed her husband on the cheek and asked, "How was your day, dear?"

"Do you really want to know?"

They both knew she didn't really care, but he needed to vent and quickly. When the diatribe was over she said, "You know he didn't mean it. He's still young."

"Yes, but that's no excuse."

"Maybe not, but I'll see what I can do."  She wandered down the hall, flicked the light switch, and went to the blanket covered kennel in the far corner of the room. The latch lifted and slid back, opening the kennel.  Placing her hand into the kennel, she retrieved the young pup from his confinement and said, "You really have to quit beating up on Jasper.  He's an old dog and doesn't understand that you want to play."

She looked the dachshund in the eyes and scratched under his chin.

"You know I love you, but you won't survive to old age if this keeps up. He'll offer you to friends and then you'll have to break in a new family."

The pup angled his head and licked her hand.

"I think we've come to an agreement."

For today.  Tomorrow?  Maybe he'd howl along to Amazing Grace.

writing doodle - the visit home

"Where did he go?" Sarah asked.  Her son and his brood had just arrived at her doorstep and he abandoned her with the lot of them.

"Eli said something about getting gas for the car so we can all go to the lake tomorrow." Betsy tried to smile at her mother-in-law, but after three long, stress filled days in a car with four children under the age of ten had taken its toll.

"Is he afraid the price of gas will go up between now and then?  I swear that boy would drive twenty miles out of his way to save a nickle on a gallon of gas."

"That may be, but he'll be back soon."

~~~

The old station wagon drove itself  outside of town, past several gas stations. The narrow road seemed to go on forever when in reality it was more like five miles.  In the past fifteen years, Eli had made this junket every time he came home, even if was just for a weekend.

Finally, he reached his destination.  He gently closed the door and walked gingerly over the uneven ground. Jordan Matthew Rogers.

Standing before the marble marker that denoted the brief life and death of his first child, the tears flowed.  His pregnant girlfriend hadn't taken care of herself and avoided all medical care, hoping that nature would take its course and the pregnancy would end on its own.

It had.

The baby was born prematurely and clung six days to life. 

From the moment he knew of the baby, he wanted it even if she hadn't.  She wanted nothing to do with him once the stick showed a plus sign.  He talked to the campus legal aide clinic about getting her parental rights severed once the baby was born.

Only he and his parents attended the memorial in the hospital chapel.  Ruth hadn't cared enough to show up even though Jordan was as much her son as his.

When Eli and Betsy got married struggled to have children, Eli knew that God was punishing him for not being active enough in Ruth's pregnancy.  He knew that if he had pushed for more and better medical care, Jordan might be in high school today.

Betsy's first pregnancy was fraught with problems.  Eli fretted over each bout of morning sickness.  He massaged her feet nightly and her belly at least twice per day.

"Eli, you can't wrap me in cotton wool. I'm fine."  She smiled up at him.  "We're fine."

"As long as you're sure."

"You need to quit being so over protective.  If you keep it up at this rate, the baby will be thirty before she's allowed to cross the street by herself."

"I can't.  I'm afraid something will happen and I won't be there."

"What could possibly happen?"

Then, slowly and painstakingly, he told her.  She held him as he wept yet again for the loss of life, love, and future his son might have had.

~~~

"You know, he really should stop going there," Sarah said.

"You know?"

"I know.  I go, but only for holidays and not for very long."

writing doodle - pressure and the prude?

"John, you have to go." Diane was breathless and rumpled and knew that if she didn't make him leave now, he would spend the night and all hell would break loose the next morning. The cycle of guilt, grief, and pain would start all over again. She'd played his game before, but it had been years ago.  Shouldn't she have been wiser now as well as older? Would the power play ever really end?

"You know you don't mean that." His index finger crept down the collar of her shirt and into the open V at the neckline.  He brought it back up her neck, just under her ear to hear her shudder.  "I think I should stay."

Before she could get in an additional word, much less take a deep breath, he said, "All of the nightmares will stay away if I'm here.  I know how much you hate sleeping alone. I know all of your secrets."

"This isn't about what I want.  This isn't about what you want."  She placed her palm against his sternum and gave a gentle push.  "This is about what's right.  You staying isn't right and it never will be."

"I never would have taken you as a prude."

The words stung, she always prided herself on her being open minded and accepting.

"I was wrong to have invited you back here tonight.  It was my mistake.  I won't do it again."  If he continued to touch her anywhere, it would be like getting lost at sea.  The loss of control.  The inability to make it stop and get back to safety.  Everything was escaping her grip.

"If I leave tonight, sweetheart, I won't be back."  The anger and hostility were clear.

"I know.  I think it is for the best."

"In that case, we will discuss the school's budget tomorrow morning after mass.  Good night, Sister Diane."

"Good night, Father John." 

writing doodle - love letter

She lifted the letter out of the delicate envelope slowly and meticulously.  Each time she breathed on the paper, it seemed to become more fragile, more delicate. One day, she would open the envelope and find nothing but tattered remains.

The letter was written in tiny, cramped script.  Blue ink on what had once been unlined white paper, now yellow with age.  The page still smelled of his aftershave lotion.  Even though forty-five years had past, she kept this one letter in a shoebox with a cotton ball she periodically soaked in the same brand.  She inhaled and smiled.  How much she loved the smell of him, the feel of him. The memory of him.

Now this is all she had.  One letter, a shoebox, a cotton ball and her memories.  It wasn't enough and yet it was everything.

Running her right index finger over each word as though she was writing them herself, she smiled.  He had taken the time to write her once more before he left school to return to Switzerland. 

Dearest Lindsey,


These many months have been the world to me.  Though words can never express it adequately, know that I will love you forever.


If only your parents had understood.  If things could have been different.


Perhaps it is better this way. Live the life they have planned for you and be as happy as you can.


Always yours,


Fritz

A light tap on her bedroom door let her know that her brief return to a different time was now over.  Her grandchildren were going to go home the next day and she needed to make the most of her time with them.

"Come in," she said.

"Grandma, can I ask a question," her seventeen year-old granddaughter asked.

"Of course.  I always have time for you."

"I think I blew it with Andy at school..."

A lifetime passed as the girl told the tale of a love that might have been but was allowed to escape, probably never to come again.

"I understand perfectly," the grandmother said.  "The same circumstance happened to me, but a little differently."

"Really?"

"Sure.  It took me a long time to let go of the one I let get away.  The one who could have been everything I thought I wanted. I want you to know that I've never told anyone else about it."  She had lived the life with the man her parents had selected and done her duty by him for forty-two years until he died.  With each move, each horrific family loss, each unfathomable circumstance, she had hidden away with her letter and her shoebox.

"How long did it take you to get over it?"

"Ah, that's the thing.  It isn't a matter of letting time heal anything.  It is what you do with your time that counts." 

write post-wrong blog ... or is it right post?

I have an alternative blog where I posted something about Brenda Ueland ... should have put it here instead of there - it is more in the right lines here - or is it write lines.

Anyway, in her book on writing, she talks about the importance of writing daily ... and being somewhat messy about it. 

According to the instructions, one should write every day for some period of time, or until the muse tires, and not re-read the bits and blurbs for up to six months.   The exercise is supposed to free the mind, silence the inner critic, and show the writer insights in his/her own character.

Her initial recommendation was to start with a whopper like you would tell a small child.

The purpose of the whopper is to expand upon the details and the experience of the vignette you are writing.

My goal is to write at least five minutes a day, every day, and do it here.

I don't know that the bits will be any good.  Nor do I guarantee that I will check for spelling, grammar, syntax, or punctuation. 

Let's see what happens and if there are any gems that are worth scribbling.

Meditations on Violence ... Rory Miller

Much of romantic suspense and 'regular' suspense or mystery has a violent element.  Sometimes it is direct violence (the reader gets to see what is going on inside of the head of the attacker) or it is indirect (the reader 'sees' the aftermath of the situation).

About a year ago, I found a book called Meditations on Violence by Rory Miller.  

He has the background to thoroughly and completely explain not only the mechanics of violence and the psychological factors involved (both in creating the situation and some in the de-escalation of it).

Why mention this here?

I've been fighting with the muse about how much violence needs to be shown in my writing.  I have usually just had the implied threat - the fight that isn't engaged in - the preparation and planning of a thing all hope will be avoided.  I've been criticized for it because there isn't enough tension.

I've been fortunate to have very little first hand experience with it. Not to say I haven't felt threatened or been in bad situations, but I have avoided actual fights outside of a dojo.  The staged fights I did participate in resulted in several cracked ribs, broken toes, and a dislocated finger.  And these were 'fights' with men I knew who liked me.  It made me cringe at what I knew could happen if I were ever on the wrong side of some of these people. Not to mention actual bad guys.

My (limited) martial arts experience emphasized the best fight is the one avoided.  And there is no such thing as a fair fight, except in Hollywood. Take the advantages you can, the other guy will.  Train as though your life depends on it, it just might. 

Turns out, I'm in good company.  Mr. Miller is of that school of thought and so are several police officers I've had the privilege of knowing.

Every woman should read it to learn about the psychology of violence, what can make it escalate, and the importance of survival.

a rose is a rose ...

I have never been good at contractions. That's not quite true - in writing exercises at school, fine.  On various jobs when a new alphabet soup was needed, ok.

Blondie is part golden, part retriever, and a mix of about 20 other dogs.  What do we call him? Cute.  Easy and only four letters.

Peabody, Blondie's former partner in crime, would have been a shep-ollie based on current contractions.  He was a German shepherd and collie mix.  What did we call him?  Gorgeous (because he answered to it).

Now everyone is contracting their dogs and mixing them like they are hip designer accessories. Now there are golden-noodles, labra-doodles, chugs, and the like. 



What ever happened to mutts?

Dogs that are/were loved who are/were of indeterminate breeding?
We will probably never know with certainty what Goldie is - but based on this image I found tonight on the web, chances are she's a Puggle.

Does this mean she needs her own shades and pearls?