writing doodle - it was a dark and stormy night - chiromancer continued

Tuesday nights, I like to catch up on ironing and mending of laundry.  Yes, it speaks of the old poems of my grandmother and great grandmother's generations, each day of the week had its own chores.  But systems make getting things accomplished more efficient.  Besides, very little of my laundry needs to be ironed, but I like looking things over to make sure the seams are in good shape.  I can resew a button or clip the odd thread and I don't like going to put something on and realizing one of the seams has either just given up or is about to.  Sure, if I had a drycleaner, they might handle some of this for me, since most of my wardrobe could be considered to be disposable, it is a moot point.

The last of the pile to be put away was my lingerie, not that most people think of passion killers as lingerie.  I keep a few sentimental things in the bottom of that drawer, I don't display everything I own in the living room.  When I was a girl, it was where I hid my diaries, Christmas presents I was going to give my friends.  Nothing exciting, but private things.  Now the bottom of the drawer contains a couple of bridal magazines and an old cash ledger from the 1940s.  It wasn't like Grady (note to self, change name of Jacob to Grady - overuse of Jacob in a lot of fiction right now) ever opened any of the dresser drawers to do anything except extract his own clean clothes.  Left to his own devices, nothing would ever be put away; I, on the other hand, lived with my grandmother's white glove inspections from the time I was six or seven.  After I moved out, I read a book on Feng Shui, it was so much like living with my grandmother: everything has a place and everything to be in place.

Basically, if I couldn't put it away, I didn't keep it, and this was something I wanted to keep.  

I sniffed the book; it smelled of the lavender sachets I made during a crafty phase.  The olive drab volume was one of the few relics of my great-grandfather's Navy career.  He used ledgers instead of scrapbooks because they were cheaper, slimmer, portable, and wouldn't stand out in his trunk.  He was one of the few married guys who had actually known his wife for more than twenty minutes before the war; most of the other guys married the first girl who said yes after they got drafted.  

This was my favorite of the three ledgers.  This one had pictures from their second honeymoon; the trip resulted in the birth of my grandmother.  It also had pictures he'd sketched of the dream he had for the life they'd make when he finally left military service.

They looked young, happy, and vibrant.  The worst of the wars privations were over and so was the worst of the fear.

I looked into the mirror to see the differences between them then and me now; I looked younger and more naive, they looked wiser.  I credit cosmetics, hair dye, and better lighting.  Despite working two jobs and wondering when Grady would finally commit to a date to marry me, I still didn't feel ready to be in charge of my own destiny.

Would he ever?

A long time ago, Grady's mother, Sylvia, told me that he was someone who wanted everything in his life to be perfect before he got married.

What more did he want?  We carried virtually no debt except for the lease on his car.  He had health insurance through my job.  We already had stuff to more or less furnish a cottage.  I didn't want a big wedding, just one that was legal and wasn't presided over by an Elvis imitator   Well, maybe I'd cave on the Elvis thing if it was young, hot Elvis in black leather.

About six months a month ago, I thought I might go off the pill. An accidental pregnancy might have moved things forward, except Grady periodically monitors the pills left in the pack and when the count was two days off, he flew off the handle.  It wasn't even like we'd had sex more than once or twice a month in the last year.  Like the lottery phrases say:  you can't win if you don't play.  Well, you can't get pregnant if you don't have sex, much.

~~~ insert back story dialog with massive fight ~~~

** author's note ... images are from my FIL's military career ... WWII vet who survived the bombing attack on Pearl Harbor ...

keeping the habit ... sort of ... no writing doodle tonight

ACTUAL WORKING MICROPHONE!

I'm making an announcement,  if only to myself.   

Consistency is important.

Really.


I'm trying to make sure I write every night - and not just emails - I figured, I'd announce that I have nothing to say ... even though NaNoWriMo is less than two weeks away, butt in chair practice begins now.

MY OWN ROCK BAND!

Will the crowd go wild?

Probably not.  But they're just a rock band and hardly hear anything anymore anyway!

writing doodle - chiromancer's new beginnings

"No." My father's answer was short, sweet, to the point, and his favorite word.  Matthew Doyle was convinced that God only blessed him with 436,000 words to use with adult women and he'd used most of those before my mother left us.  Evidently when he used his quota, he was going to die.  Since he was only 52, the words he allowed himself declined each year.  As a result, he didn't mince words, engage in arguments, or even engage in conversations.  I think he got a special dispensation when he was at work, I heard a rumor once that he held conversations with co-workers and clients, but it was just a rumor.  He usually pointed at things he wanted me to do and tilted his head.

"You don't even know what I want to ask you," I said.  I put my hand on the center of his newspaper and  pushed down.  Looking him in the eyes seldom if ever made an impact, but where there's life, there's hope.

A lesser mortal would have been fatally wounded by the glare I received.  As a child, I developed armor that repelled his laser of potential destruction, now they glanced off and were absorbed by the potted herbs he kept in the kitchen.

Then again, I'm not fully realized and sometimes the looks caused more consternation than I'd like to admit.  If it hadn't been before seven o'clock, I would have inserted emergency chocolate.  You know the kind, it placates the nerves, calms the emotions, and should simply be adhered to the hips since it would be faster.

"It's not like I'm asking you to do any of the work or put up any money," I said. "I just want-"

He flicked his newspaper back into shape, turned the page, and said, "No.  Now's not a good time, Bernie."

At least it was Bernie this morning and not Bernadette; he only called me that when he was either introduced me to someone or he was really steamed at me.

This was day thirty-seven on my campaign to talk to him about rehabbing my grandmother's bungalow.  She'd been renting it out since I was a kid, my mom left, and she came to stay with us and provide a stable influence over my life.  The bungalow would have been perfect for Jacob and me to live in after he finished law school in three more months.  In six years there had been too many small, cramped, apartments with paper thin walls; I wanted to put down roots and live somewhere solid.  Not next door to the law library or the campus stadium.  Time had come to start to live like grownups and have a semblance of a real life.

All I wanted was him to talk to her about it, help me develop a punch list, and pass on his contractor's discount with some of his suppliers.  I got my first bubble level, hammer, and toolbelt when I was seven and my dad and I built the first of a housing development of birdhouses.  My first electrical drill was for my thirteenth birthday.  My own chop saw when I was eighteen.  Every summer, I worked side by side with him.  In the beginning, we were thrown together since after school programs were expensive and summer camps were prohibitive.

I knew the place was empty right now, the last tenant moved out two weeks ago and no one had been inside to do any prep work for new renters.  She hadn't done any advertising, talked to the property management company, or even seemed interested that the place was sitting empty.

"I really want to talk to her about letting me rent the house, update it just a little.  I'm not asking you or any of your crew to do any of the work, I just want your opinion on the punch list."  I took a deep breath and used the words that always reengaged eye contact, "Please, Daddy."

He folded the newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, and gave me a tight nod.  "Do you want to do this  for you or for Jacob?"

The real answer was both, but Dad never did like Jacob, neither did his dog.  I wanted to finally be more than spitting distance away from campus.  I worked two jobs since graduating college so that we wouldn't have to carry any student loan debt from law school.  I had enough of a nest egg that could be used to buy furniture that didn't come in flat boxes, scatter rugs, and matching dishes.  Or I could use all of that money and take him on a celebration vacation before his job started at the firm.  Of the two choices, I really wanted furniture that was made from wood and didn't have a picture of woodgrain stamped on it.  A vacation can be fleeting, but a real wood headboard could last for years. In one more year of renting, we'd have money and stability enough to finally marry.

"Me.  I want this for me."

"You know she doesn't like to do business with family."

My great-grandfather had been horribly taken advantage of in the first third of the last century by his own family members. Joseph O'Brien had a small farm and saved his pennies.  His brothers speculated on small retail stores that hadn't fared well.  Rather than see his own nieces and nephews go hungry, he lent money to his brothers.  Money borrowed was never repaid and when he needed the money, each had declared it to have been a gift.  He would have been better off giving them produce from the farm, the children would have had full stomachs and he wouldn't have lost the farm due to tax burdens years later.  That lesson had been hard learned and subsequently taught to all of his children.

I nodded.  I knew the chances weren't great, but I had hoped.

"I'll talk to her tonight, pumpkin.  Don't be late for work."

I leaned over the kitchen table, kissed my father on the cheek, darted out the door for the bus stop. Maybe things would go smoothly with Grandma.  Maybe the punch list wouldn't be too long.  Maybe I'd be home tonight before eleven o'clock and actually see Jacob before I went to bed.

Maybe this was a new page in a new chapter in my life.

writing doodle - Gabe's wife's backstory ... needs editing

"That has got to be the ugliest tattoo I've seen in quite a while, and my step son has some horrific things on his arms ..."

Gabe rubbed the scraggly Christmas tree with only three ornaments and a blanket around the base that had long ago been inked over his heart.  

"You should have it covered over," his companion said.

"Nope."  

Never. It was never going to happen.  He drew his knees up, clasped his arms around them, and lowered his face. Sure he'd covered over the tattoo of his second wife's name on his bicep, now it was an ugly tribal tattoo, but at least you couldn't read XXX on it anymore.  The one on his chest would stay like it was as a memorial of Suzanna Schmidt, the stories about a little girl that taught him how to live with his heart wide open.    A little girl he had never met and never would.

According to his uncle, the primary storyteller, a Charlie Brown Christmas was the most influential television special in Suzanna Schmidt's life.  Because of the love given to a scraggly tree, what people saw was a beautiful creation of nature.  It was never the fullest tree, the fanciest, or even the most symmetrical, but it was the most loved.  So from the time she was six or seven, she loved all things lopsided, poorly painted, neglected, or out of date.

When they were kids, you might say that Suzanna's life embodied the spirit of a Charlie Brown Christmas.  As she grew, she saved her pennies to buy partially completed craft projects at garage sales, because someone had loved it enough to start it, she could love it enough to finish it.  Many times the projects turned out a little tattered or uneven, but she completed them and loved them all the more.


She sought out kids at school who ate lunch alone, smiled and waved to everyone when she rode her bike.  After high school, she volunteered all of her spare time at an animal shelter.  Cleaning up the messes in the cages was not as much fun as working on obedience with the new arrivals, but she always did the necessary.  Always.

The stories ended abruptly when she was twelve eighteen/twenty-one/pick a number any number.  Depending on the teller, the ending changed.  She died in a bicycle accident delivering flowers to a nursing home.  She was beaten to death by bullies who had harmed a younger child at school.  She got on a school bus; no one saw her get off and she wasn't there at the bus yard.  No one ever saw her again and she became small town legend.

It was a high standard; putting others first.  Leading with the heart.  Doing what was right.

He'd heard the stories from the time he was five until he was a pre-teen. Later he heard the stories being told to his nieces and nephews.  But now the stories were more grandiose, more important, somehow more significant.

When Gabe was seventeen, one of his sister's friends had been invited to the prom by Tom Kennedy, the biggest jerk in the school.  He asked six other girls from other schools to go, knowing all of them would accept and he would be able to choose the prettiest one.  Sarah wasn't pretty but she was smart, funny, and nice, geeky around the edges, but nice.  When he found out that Tom had asked Lacy Ravenscroft as a joke, he tried to get her to agree to go with him.  He couldn't convince her; instead, he waited around the night of the prom and when her date didn't come, it took him two hours to convince her to go bowling with him.

Five years later, when he married ABC (or same as above - who knows), it was a small wedding in a bowling alley. In lieu of presents, they asked money be given to 123 charity instead.  They had their lives ahead of them, that was all the celebration they needed.

Who would have believed that same disease would kill her six months after they wed?

as yet untitled - bungalow - writing doodle

Three days, fifteen condos, apartments, guesthouses, trailers, and shanties, and finally XXX found the only place Big Red and I could possibly call home.

The two bedroom bungalow had a small yard in back and white picket fence in front.  There were a couple of mature trees, some rosebushes that had seen better days, and enough room to rough house in the backyard.  If it had been two stories, it would have been the Mayberry ideal, but one floor I could definitely work with.

The house came with the barest of basics.  The refrigerator was just this side of a beer cooler.  The stove had two burners.  The showerhead was handheld, if I didn't like it, I could always take a bath.  The whole place had linoleum  not the vinyl stuff from the 60s and 70s, but from the 30s or 40s.  Other than that, the place had zero amenities.   Sure it was ugly, the floors all looked like they belonged in a service station, but they would be low maintenance and until we got all the way through the puppies, low maintenance was good.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - dog park dad

Keeping Victoria, Ruth, Amy, and Ginger straight was a challenge, manageable, but a challenge.  The players have been known to change, but pattern will always be the same: blond, brunette, redhead, and some kind of streaky thing, lather, rinse and repeat.  Ok, so sometimes I'm not so great at names.  Probably this is why they all get some kind of a diminutive when we are together; anyone can be sweetie or honeybunch.  I have a friend, who shall remain nameless, but his mother calls him Gus, who only dated women named Linda; didn't matter what they looked like as long as their name was Linda.  He never wanted to call out the wrong name either in passion or in anger. His collection of Lindas past was a motley crew at best. How his current wife's name turned out to be Pam is beyond my understanding.

When the smallish bundle of fur moved in with me, I had no idea Red didn't share.  She was more possessive than Victoria, Ruth, Amy, and Ginger combined.  When they all had PMS, there was no chocolate, and not enough sugar in the house.

I had heard that an alpha bitch could be territorial.  For some reason, I thought it had to do with her puppies, toys, and, possibly, her food dish.

In this case, not only was I wrong, but it had been spectacular.  She could have given my second wife lessons in h ow to be suspicious.  Whenever I went somewhere with new or different smells, I was sniffed slowly and methodically from stem to stern.  Perfume rated extra time playing before bed. Different soap or shampoo and she wouldn't look me in the eye.

When Tammy, or was it Amy, came over to watch a movie, Red, who had never so much as been on the sofa before, at least to my knowledge, sat between us and wouldn't be moved.  We moved to the floor to let the dog have the sofa, she joined us for a few minutes.  When I turned off the additional lights in the house, the dog was gone, presumably to her kennel.

Red found the pharmacy bag, opened the box of condoms, and chewed on the packaging destroying most of them.

The one night I stayed over with Veronica, or was it Victoria, I came home to massive destruction.  New blankets, new sheets, and new underwear all required before the weekend was over.


Manny encouraged me to go to the dog park. Said it was a panacea and that all would be forgiven.  He has a thing for forgiveness and confession.  Me?  I'm claustrophobic and have no intention of hanging around a broom closet telling a man anything important.  A broom closet with a cutie with cleavage, that's a horse of a different color.

The dog park isn't the worst place I've ever been.  A lion's share of the people walk around talking into their cell phones ignoring their dogs.  It is the six and seven year olds who engage with everyone's dogs.  Red apparently likes kids and likes other dogs; female dog owners are not on her list of people to meet.

After about a month, I know a herd of dogs that Red approves of, the owners only by sight and not by name.  No one knows me either.  I'm just Red's dad.

I miss my sex life.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - misc spot

"There's only room for one bitch in my bed." I cringed as I said the words.  But I meant them.  Despite the fact that Audrey was fun to go to a game with or fun to play games with, she was flighty, ditzy, and didn't listen.  Ever.  I tried for two weeks to gently break to her that our non-exclusive relationship was not only going to remain that way, but that we were no longer even close enough to be non-exclusive. Considering I only knew her for three weeks, this disentanglement was excessively long, even for me.  "And you're not the bitch I want in my bed."

"What's she got that I haven't got?" Audrey asked.  "Gabe, I'm waiting."

She pouted, stomped her feet, and her boobs jiggled.  Usually the jiggle could turn the tide in her direction, but I was going to remain firm.  Not that she couldn't get me firm, but well, you know what I mean.  Resolute.  That's it.  I was going to remain resolute.  Both me and my Johnson.  Not a problem.  If only she'd worn a bra when she was stamping her feet, it would have been easier to remain firm.  I mean resolute. Decided.  Determined.

"I can't afford the upkeep," I said.  Going into the non-relationship, non-commitment, I knew that much of Audrey had been enhanced, I just had no idea quite the degree until she asked me to kick in.  She said it was for my enjoyment and since I benefited, I should participate in the overall cost.  Fifty bucks wouldn't have bothered me; the cost of a decent meal and a couple of beers.  No big deal.  When the tally came to six hundred fifty dollars, my mouth went dry, my wallet snapped shut, and my penis shrank.  Three sizes.  Then she said it didn't include clothing, special lingerie, or toys, I about flipped.  Sure Toys for Tots at Christmas, no problem.  But why the hell does she need an Xbox anyway?

I am not now, nor have I ever been a tightwad when it comes to important things.  I helped my sister pay for daycare when she had to change jobs and took a paycut.  I bought my former mother-in-law tires for mother's day because "XXX look up the Michelin ad for this space" ... For Christmas I co-sponsored my nephew's Little League team.

"I can afford her upkeep."  No fancy gym membership.  No wardrobe to replace each season.  No hairdresser to send to Europe by my tips alone.  No fashion trends to watch or be quizzed on later.  Simple.  Easy.  Frugal.

"Right.  That's what they all say. What about?"

I needed to get a better line. Something more effective than ignoring her phone calls, selling my car, changing jobs, or moving.  I considered writing her a check to cover this month's beauty routine, but if I paid and didn't receive the benefits, why would I pay and not receive the benefits? Peace of mind.

"No.  It's been lovely.  But our time is over." I placed my hand on her head and forced it out of my car window.  "You know better than to violate the restraining order."

Red let her presence be known at that moment by placing her head on my shoulder and her paw in the middle of the steering wheel.

Could I do better than my Irish rose?  Probably, but the loyalty of my Irish setter was at that time priceless.

writing doodle - unrelated location - as yet untitled

ok - incredibly messy - but working on getting words out ... a blank page can't be edited or corrected ... sad but true.

~~~

attempting to put my nose back to the grindstone

There was no comfortable position except standing or sitting, all I could do was pray my back wouldn't get tired.  Problem was, my feet hurt after being on them for close to eight hours and unless I was in a brace of some kind, my posture was going to fail in the chair and I was going to slump and touch something.

If that happened, I'd no longer be tired, just cranky and in a lot of pain.

Never again.

Never again will I refuse pain medication when it is readily and freely offered by the emergency room physician.

Sure, my shoulder has been dislocated before.  I was younger then and I had a woman/girlfriend who would take care of me when I got home.  At least that had been the plan. Turned out the last time, she was taking care of someone else and in the biblical sense, so I was on my own then and pretty much now.  

Red broke through the screendoor and escaped at the same time the plumber showed up to fix the slow drain in the bathroom.  Turned out that Strange and Sons Plumbing was related to Strange and Sons Rentals, my landlords, only everyone I've met so far named Strange is a woman.  And the one I have run into, today, literally, seems a little too familiar. 

If there is a god, she isn't the woman who had a thing for electrical tape, bungy cords, and whipped cream.  It took nine months for the hair to grow back and my memory is still sketchy.

Then again, there probably is no god because she is the one who took me to the ER, sat with me until Manny could pick me up.  Seems that there is a policy about adult supervision after some procedures are done, for now Red is still growing and won't count as an adult for quite some time.

I had hooked my fingers in Red's collar and was walking her back to the house when she saw a pigeon and took off after it.  I felt like something out of a slapstick comedy, but it didn't feel funny.  She dragged me about five feet, broke the collar, and then walked back to the house leaving me bruised and bloody on the sidewalk.  I admired the leaves on the tree above me, tried to get my breath back, and definitely recognized the pain in my shoulder and back.  My shoulder had only just healed a month before Red adopted me and the doctor didn't want to go through this again.

Neither did I.

He used horrible, terrible, and terrifying words:  consent forms, needles, surgery.

I gladly give consent to any number of things. Fun things.  Happy things.  Once in a while necessary things.  Not life changing things, not unless it is life threatening.

Needles.  Never do I volunteer for needles, my most recent tattoo is an exception.  A portrait of Red on my forearm.  Once I put the name of the woman I thought was the one over my heart, I got the ring back within a week.  I figure Red is stuck with me for the duration.  Besides, she can keep a secret even if she can't keep to her own side of the bed.

Surgery? Not unless someone is dying or there is absolutely no other alternative.  With a little PT, I could avoid surgery.  Again.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - follows the last

Red and I fell into a pattern, she called the shots and I obeyed.  Who am I to argue with an alpha bitch? Besides, it wasn't like she was all that demanding and I could always overpower her if necessary.  The mornings consisted of breakfast, a walk, a short game of tug, and I went to work.  The pattern repeated after I came home from work, except in the reverse order. Damn good thing she couldn't talk or I'd have to learn to do something more challenging than make scrambled eggs and tuna salad sandwiches for two.

Things were fine until my first date since Red and I moved in together.

She wasn't amused, actually neither she was amused.  Red was used to my undivideds all night, unlimited playing, belly rubs, and a very specific bedtime.  Francine and I hooked up at the sports bar (XXX) and she allowed me to console her after her team lost.  Hell, I would have felt honor bound to console her no matter whose team lost; it'd been weeks since I'd had long legs wrapped around my waist and I had a woman writhing and screaming beneath me.

Turned out I haven't missed it all that much.

Red was creative when she was bored or ignored.  Who knew that a teenie, tiny pair of lacy undies could be devoured in under three seconds? The bra didn't take that much longer to completely destroy.  It wasn't like she needed them, I mean silicone doesn't sag or sway too much and her nipples weren't responsive anyway, so there wasn't much loss.  (fix this part later) Sure, I've played around and cut off a couple of pairs in my time.  Who hasn't?  My efforts were usually well rewarded.  Red's efforts?  Not greeted with enthusiasm.  Greeted instead with the promise of a bill from a place called Agent Provacatour.  (sp - look it up later) ... almost anything else would have been cheaper.  I'm lucky I lived when I offered to pay for her next Brazilian.  What?  Things seemed to be growing back in and that shit's expensive to take care of.  At least I don't bruise too easily.

(need to work in the contents of the purse the dog destroyed and the cries of outrage when the dog eats: lipstick, cellphone, cellphone case, diaphragm case, package of cigarettes, birth control pill package, wallet???)

There was a minor problem when I took Francine back to her car.  Red likes the view from the front seat; if I still owned a truck with a split bench instead of bucket seats, there wouldn't have been much of a problem.  Red started in the back and crawled into Francine's lap three times on a five mile drive.

"I guess she's not the one for us," I said as I ruffled Red's head.  Not that I was looking for the one now or ever.  "Want to get a burger?"

writing doodle - as yet untitled - no idea where it fits

Three days, fifteen condos, apartments, guesthouses, trailers, and shanties, and finally XXX found the only place Big Red and I could possibly call home.

The two bedroom bungalow had a small yard in back and white picket fence in front.  There were a couple of mature trees, some rosebushes that had seen better days, and enough room to rough house in the backyard.  If it had been two stories, it would have been the Mayberry ideal, but one floor I could definitely work with.  There was still an old rotary dial phone with the longest cord I'd ever seen sitting on the kitchen counter.  I picked it up, no dial tone.  Heavy enough to use as a weapon, it would be well worth keeping and no one would assume anything.

The house came with the barest of basics.  The refrigerator was just this side of a college beer cooler.  The stove had two burners that worked and two that took up space.  The oven had a series of cast iron skillets in it, no telling if it worked or not.  The showerhead was handheld, if I didn't like it, I could always submerge myself in the minuscule 1950s tub.  The whole place had linoleum  not the vinyl stuff from the 60s and 70s, but from the 30s or 40s complete with what looked like divets from a woman's high heeled shoe.  

Sure it was ugly, the floors all looked like they belonged in a service station, but they would be low maintenance and until we got all the way through the puppies, low maintenance was good.

The landlord didn't care about the dog's size or breed.  Apparently didn't care whether or not I painted, but wanted approval on wallpaper.  No loud parties, hey if a party of two gets too loud and the cops are called, I would be proud and she should at least be smiling, not a problem.  All utilities were on me, as I expected.  And the landlord could enter if I either granted permission or gave 24 hours notice.  Typical.