writing doodle - as yet untitled - continued from the middle

My great-aunt Edna used to tell us about her mother's childhood during the depression.  The family lived near the railroad tracks, the house had a small farm, and they marked their house so men riding the trains looking for work or a place to start over and who needed something to eat or a safe place to camp could stay the night.

There were plenty of nights when the family ate thin soup because it had been stretched to feed three or four additional mouths.  The thinnest and the sickest men stayed in the garage and had to work on the place for a couple of weeks.  Some of them painted out buildings, others milked, some helped get in the harvest.  While they regained their health and their dignity, the family didn't have to hire extra workers for the farm.

My grandmother and her other siblings refused to talk about what the family did during that time.  Only  
aunt Edna used to tell this story because she wanted us to know that you don't talk about doing good, you do it and you kept your mouth shut.  And you hoped like hell nothing would befall you or your family that would make you reliant on the kindness of strangers.


Sometimes the men would arrive with the basic ingredients for Stone Soup and they just needed one more ingredient to fill their bellies.  They never left her table hungry or without a little something in their napsacks for later.

The recipe for stone soup is easy: one pot, some water, a stone, and whatever you can borrow from someone else.

That is what the interior of the guesthouse looked like, a decorator's version of stone soup.  Decent enough bones, but nothing went together.  It's not like I hoped to walk into a place that had all hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, perfect energy efficiency, and low e glass windows.

Everything except the appliances was pretty close to original, those were almond 80s vintage.  Functional, overstuffed, and ugly, like so much of the 80s.  The rooms all had some kind of a border at the top, chickens or roosters.  Probably someone didn't have enough cock in their life, or it was a reminder to eat only white meat.

The place was offered either furnished or not; cheaper if I took it with the furniture.  Since all I owned was a coffee pot, a king sized bed, a flat screen TV and a couple of tables, short term it would save me money and I could decorate as I went and put the original stuff in storage if necessary.

writing doodle ... delayed

My internet service provider must be bipolar.

The times it works well, it is great.

The times it doesn't work well, it is so slow if it were human you'd put a mirror beneath the nose to see if it was still breathing.

My foul mood with the current state of my connection is running a my keyboard for the moment.

I guess you could say I've put myself into time out for the moment.

to be continued ... (after they come to repair tomorrow)

L

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

I might have more ex-wives than most of my friends, three and a half, but who's counting?  The half, well, she's always been a little tough to explain.  That said, I've actually maintained civil relationships with them.  Just because we weren't destined to remain married doesn't mean we shouldn't be friendly; I don't extend that to babysitting the kids they've had in subsequent relationships.  There's only so kind I want to be.

When Cassandra and I were married, I put her through yoga school, massage school, and finally real estate school and helped her start her business.  A lot of house painting and carpet cleaning were part of helping her help her clients sell or rent their homes.  Not seeing her on weekends or most evenings just kind of went with the territory, the nature of the beast, you know?  But there are only so many open houses and private showings at eleven o'clock at night I was willing to accept as 'normal' because guy got off after the swing shift.  Not only did he finish work, he and Cassandra got off and did some swinging of their own.

All of that said, she always found great deals on houses and apartments in good neighborhoods.  So when Big Red and I had to move, Cassandra was a no brainer.  Besides, she was single again and I was sure we could work out her commission in my favor.

All of the high end condos either wanted incredibly high deposits because of Big Red or they turned me down completely.  There were some great bungalows, but they had no yard to speak of and were nowhere near a dog park.

"This is it?  Really?" I asked.  Even though I'd been committed to either an apartment or a condo, this was so much better.  I loved the house.  It was two stories, clapboard, very traditional, colonial feeling almost.  The neighborhood was a little dicey but it was in one of those historic neighborhoods where most of the houses were in some phase or another of renovation.

"The answer is yes and no," Cassandra said.  She took the keys out of the ignition and undid her seatbelt.  "There's a guesthouse in the back.  That's what is for rent."

I couldn't get out of the car fast enough.  If the house in the back was anything like this, Red and I found our new home.  She would have the safety of a fenced yard, a quiet street and we would be walking distance from a dog park.  Red wouldn't have to sleep on top of the laundry basket or on top of me; this was going to be fabulous.  Studio apartments are lovely things, but I lived in one for far too long.  When you can do everything except use the can from your bed, your living space is just too small.

"I want it."  There was no doubt in my mind.  Absolutely none.  I knew what I wanted and this was it. Freedom, space, and potentially even enough parking to buy an old KLR650 from Manny.  I'd done most of the work on it and it was a beater, but I resented leaving it at his place since my old complex didn't have sufficient parking.

"You don't know the price and I can't let you sign a lease until you've at least seen inside."

I flew up the sidewalk, up the stairs to the front porch of the main house, and peered through the window next to the front door.  I might have seen more if the curtain hadn't been closed.

...

writing doodle - as yet untitled - not in an order, but the muse wants to talk

a shoe eater from my past

"You sound like a woman moaning over your shoes like that," Manny said. He opened the cabinet next to the sink where I keep my stash of junk food.  I only restock it once a month so I can maintain my diet, but yesterday was the day to stock and I had gone a little wild at the grocery.  He pulled out a can of Pringles, popped the top, and poured about half the can into his hand.

"Leather is expensive," I said.  "And this isn't the first time."  It was, in fact, the third time this week I ha come home to discover someone had gotten into the closet and consumed the left work boot.  Always the left and always a new pair of boots.  Pretty soon I was going to resort to ebay to find replacement shoes.  Wonder if anyone ever sells just the left boot?

"You could try blocking the closet door," he said.

Right.  The last time I did that, yesterday, she ate the pillows on the bed and had eaten all four corners on the comforter.  I was lucky she hadn't gotten to the mattress.

I raised a bottle of water to my lips and shrugged.

"What about consequences?" he asked.

I shrugged again.

"Come on, you of all people know that there have to be consequences."  He stared at me like he'd never seen me before.  "Reward and punishment?"

I took a big gulp of water, recapped the bottle, and shoved away from the kitchen counter.

He heaved a sigh so loud you would have thought his wife had announced they were going to visit relatives for fun. For a month.  His.

"How are you going to be the alpha in your own home if you can't periodically step into authority with, how big is the dog?"

"Forty pounds."

"Kind of small for six years old, isn't she?"

"Not six years old, six months old." Turned out that when I adopted the dog a little less than a week ago, her owners lied about how old she was, how much training she had had, and the state of her overall health.  The bitch was in heat and neither one of us were sleeping.  "She's getting spayed tomorrow." Provided she wasn't already pregnant, then life was going to get really interesting.

To make matters worse, after the third day, I found a notice on my front door.  It was a Notice to Quit, also known as an eviction notice.  I'd lived in that complex for eight years.  I'd been an exemplary renter. Turned out that in previous years the owner didn't care about animals on property, but the last lease I signed had a no pets clause.

When I called the office, I stated my case.  I'd been clear and concise.  None of it mattered.  The landlord wasn't going to budge.

"But-"

"No but about it, Gabe.  It doesn't matter how long you've lived here or how wonderful you've been in the past."


"But-"


"Either the dog goes or you both do."


"But-"


"You've got a week.  Well, six days to make a decision."

"What about a deposit?"

"A week, Gabe.  I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"Me, too.  I've really liked living here."

"Your father and I will miss you, dear, but times are changing. Will we see you at dinner on Sunday?"

No. "Sure, Mom."

writing doodle - as yet untitled - continuation

Three days after Big Red, and I moved in together, I heard her barking all the way in the parking lot.   She was announcing to the world I was home, she needed to pee, and dinner was late.  I’d just like to know who names a dog Mandy Manilow anyway?  I tried out several names, and for now it was Big Red, tomorrow it could be anything else.  My ego wanted to think she was excited I was home and she could devote herself to me, if only for a little while.  The reality was more like it had been over ten hours since she had the chance to relieve herself and she was getting a little desperate.

If only it hadn’t been past midnight, I wouldn’t have felt so guilty.

The key wasn’t quite in the lock when I found a sheet of paper that had been taped to the door now fluttering in the breezeway. It looked like a form letter and the apartment manager had probably taped one to each door in the small complex.  The notice, most likely of parking lot resurfacing, was something I could read and ignore later after I attached Red to her leash and I took her on a constitutional.

“Who’s my precious girl?  Who’s Daddy’s big girl?” Ew.  Ok, so I swore years ago that I would never, ever, speak in baby voices to any animal.  It was my personal standard, one I swore I would uphold my entire life.  I’d made an oath, a troth, to that effect when I was sixteen.  I broke my word in under three damn days.  As long as no one heard me, it didn’t count.  Did it? I was still good.  Hell, I was better than good.  I was amazing.  Provided I didn’t get caught.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - Gabe

example of not a free reign

So, it has been a bit since I've let the muse have reign ... don't know where this is headed ... but does it really matter?

~~~~~~~~~~~

I gently cupped her face and stroked her cheek.  Her brown eyes made me want to stay with her and cuddle, and I never, ever cuddle.  She leaned into my hand and breathed deeply as if in attempt to make her point.  She wanted to be with me and wasn’t shy about letting me know. 

“Sugar, you have to remember what I said.  Right?”  I searched her eyes to see if she understood what I said.  It was obvious she didn’t so I continued.  “I told you I really didn’t want a relationship. I’m just not in a place where I can do that right now.” I didn’t want any kind of relationship, serious or casual.  Why did everyone I knew go for that like it was the brass ring?  When did my friends all decide that monogamy and marriage were important? Whatever happened to variety? Choices? Freedom? Sewing wild oats? Hell, most of them gave up oats because they were all on God damned low carb diets so they could impress women with their six-packs; that a lot of them had their six-packs well hidden beneath pony keg of blubber was beside the point. 

Still nothing.  Not a sound.  Just a fucking look of hope mingled with what could otherwise be mistaken for love or possibly adoration.  My eye twitched.  I didn’t have time or desire for love and now wasn’t a good time to start something with consequences.  The redhead before me had already had consequences, bad ones and long reaching.  The price was high and I didn’t want to pay it.  Not today.  Not now.  Not for her.  Maybe in a couple of years, or in another decade.  Maybe. 

How did I find myself in this mess?  Easy.  My best friend’s wife, Jessie, is the one put me in this position, and payback was going to be hell.  Not only had she put me in this position, but she was behind me pushing, goading me into spending more time with the petite redhead before me.

“I don’t have the time,” I said.  This time I hoped that both of them were listening.  “There’s someone who will fill all of your needs. I’m sure of it.” I dropped my hand to my side and started to walk away.

Jessie grabbed my wrist stop me from leaving the room and said, “Gabe, you sound just like Manny before.  Always time and energy to sleep around.  Never time to get serious about anyone.”  She glared at me, then she glared at her husband.  “Manny, you tell him that this will complete him.”

“Honey, this isn’t some lame romantic comedy and it sure the hell isn’t a remake of Jerry McGuire,” he said.  Thank you very much for intervening, even if it isn’t enough and he wasn’t sounding convincing even to me.  “He gets to make up his own mind about adopting your sister’s Gordon setter.  Besides, he doesn’t even especially like dogs.”

Nope.  I’ve never felt the need to trap anyone into a relationship with me: female, animal, or mineral. It didn’t mean that I haven’t done the whole commitment thing in the past.  I’ve been married and more than once.  As they used to say, “Been there, done that.” Well, I’ve been there, done that, own the t-shirt, and had it so long there are holes in the seams and you can barely read what was written on the front: Chump.  At the present moment, I preferred to be monogamous one night and one woman at a time.  Nothing beyond the disposal of the condom and cab fare home.  Once in a while, breakfast at her place, never at mine. 

This.  This was going to be something completely different.  This reeked of what my last wife wanted: regular meals together, routine, jewelry from time to time, and snuggling in bed – with her.

“Come on, Gabe. After I fixed you up with Adele and you both had a miserable time, you gave me a list of what you said  you wanted.  This is the perfect compromise.”

Before Jessie, bless her meddling little heart, could tick off the list, I did it for her.  I even counted off the points on my fingers so she knew I’d paid attention to what I’d said to her.  For all of the times she has tuned me out in the past, this one time she had to not only listen but take notes.  “Healthy, a natural beauty, meaning no botox, silicone, or hair dye; an athlete who also likes to hunt and fish, and a girl who won’t be spending huge amounts of money on trivial bullshit.”

“All of her shots are current.”

Perfect.

“She won’t control the remote, whine about a bad hair day, talk incessantly about her cramps, argue politics or money with you,” she said.

“Sweetie, you’re laying it on a little thick.” Thank you, Manny.  “This is a lifetime commitment and he doesn’t have to do this.”

The dog in question, bumped her head beneath my hand and looked up at me.  Her eyes were pleading and my defenses started to drop.

“Trial period?” I asked. The answer I wanted was a definite no so I could walk away with no guilt and nothing hanging over my head.

“Sure.  If things don’t work out, I’ll adopt her.”

Damn.  I might have believed Jessie if I hadn’t see her hand move behind her back and notice that she crossed her fingers.

“Tell me again why your sister can’t keep her,” I asked.  Nothing had been spelled out and I deserved to know, at a minimum, if there was a big problem that no one had thought to tell me about. 

Manny took a deep breath and said, “Denise has three kids under the age of five. And she’s pregnant.”

I might have made a different decision if I had asked if Denise was pregnant or if the dog was.  Turns out it was the dog.

life is a blur ...

Life can, at best, be summed up as a blur.  Because either you aren't wearing your glasses (guilty), or because it moves at the speed or light. In the case of this image, it is the speed of the camera vs. the speed of wee small dog.

The last time I remember looking up, it was early June.

What happened to the rest of the summer?

Life.

Then again, I've been told, I'm always easily distracted.

Hmm.