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.

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