100 words a day

A new coworker said she doesn’t like drinking alone.  We all laughed - newbie.  After a long day, I come home and have at least two glasses of wine to relax. 

Last week, as I was sipping a Bud, I challenged myself to a week without drinking.  The next day I didn’t have anything.  The day after that, I drank a lot.  Alone.  The following day I invited a guest over to partake. 

On the last day, I went home for a late lunch, thought about drinking, but refrained.  My colleague returned from lunch after having two Kahlua & creams.

Prior posts may indicate that the funniest person I know is my almost 3 year old niece, Erin.

This week, she shouted at the television, “That’s Obama!  He lives in the White House!”

I suggested that maybe, if she worked hard, someday she’d become president and live in the White House, too. 

She very logically said, “I CAN’T live in the White House.  I live in THIS house.”

After stealing all the Chapstick and Burt’s Bee’s Lip Balm I owned, she introduced a new gem.  I jokingly asked if I could sleep over.

She matter-of-factly answered, “Yeah.  Cause you’re cute.”

Sunday, and it’s icebox cold. I’m out with the hiking group, worried about my work, about G. It’s a hard trudge, shards of ice on the canal fitting together like a mosaic.

Snowballs fly. One of mine narrowly misses my friend I’s camera. He yells at me, it’s suddenly all too much and tears well up. I ram down my hat and pull up my scarf, hoping no-one will notice.

Too late. He spots me and is quick to comfort me. We both apologise, slightly embarrassed. The words tumble out, colliding.

In the pub at the end, I order tea.

Technology changes come slowly into my life.  I’m not naive about new things; quite the opposite.  I’m up on everything cutting-edge, be it a products, music or news.

I was in Chicago last Sunday and went to a reunion of my junior high class of ’73 (no typo).  I made it there by accident when an old buddy called (no texting) to tell me of the luncheon.  It was wonderful and nostalgic and I was the only one there without a facebook account.  A classmate immediately made one for me.

Friends from the past are suddenly in my life again.

I’m the one who initiates most of our time spent together.  I’m the one who invites him out.  I’m the one who asks to see him.  I’m the one, I’m the one, I’m the one.

I told him I loved him.  Three times.  He didn’t say it back.  Later, he said he wasn’t ready.  I really understood.  And yet here I am, in this unstable place of waiting.  When will he be ready to feel it, let alone say it to me?

I’m running an experiment.  How long until he contacts me without me prompting it first?

46:17:00 and counting…

When the gift and joy of parenting become a part of your life, instinct takes over and no matter what, NO MATTER WHAT, you protect, defend and do anything for your kids.  Giving them everything (the good and bad) just happens and it’s as natural and unconscious as breathing.

Maybe I’m just lost, but I no longer have any relationship with my teenage daughter who celebrates a rite-of-passage birthday tomorrow.

How can NO MATTER WHAT not apply?  I cannot do a single thing right, appropriate, significant or cool for her.  Our hearts should both be breaking.  I worry hers isn’t.

I sweep past the security guards at the place where I sign on as unemployed every fortnight. You’re supposed to say who you are, rather than infiltrate a government building unannounced. To my continuing merriment, this winds those guys up no end.

(‘Customer deaf. Must register her arrival at front desk’, they write on my card.)

I also pretend to a sales clerk at a local store that I can neither speak nor hear, and know I shouldn’t.

When you’re unemployed, when the weather is dire and an afternoon seems an eternity, you get your kicks as best you can.

Setting:  Taco Bell drive-through.

Me:  “I’ll have a #1 with a normal taco and a Diet –”

TB:  “Okay, I have a #1 with a soft taco and a Diet Pepsi.  Anything else?”

Me (annoyed):  “No.  Listen, please.”

TB (pause):  “I’m sorry.  Go ahead.”

Me:  “A #1, with a normal taco instead of a Taco Supreme, and a Diet Pepsi.”

The drive-through operator apologized again.  I pulled to the window, where I apologized for snapping.

I’ve worked fast food.  I know it can be tough.  But is it too much for me to expect them to listen to my order?

It’s Friday night, and I’m looking forward to an evening at the local bingo hall with some hiking friends after a long and solitary week. Two bus rides across town leave me close to death from frostbite, and have made me late, but I am determined to have my fun.

My enthusiasm is only mildly dampened by the old crone in reception, who demands all manner of personal information from me – mother’s maiden name, star sign – before allowing me to enter.

When I eventually get in, it turns out the hiking guys aren’t there any more anyway.

Great Friday night!

This is how I’d normally write this:

If you watch me closely at the gym you’ll see something rather extraordinary while I’m on the treadmill.  It usually happens after I’ve been on a while and have hit my stride.  My face twitches almost unnoticeably, then my gait changes.  I continue to run, but if you’re observant, you’ll see that I’m actually limping.  While running.  I should stop, and eventually do, but not until I finish the minute, the mile, or whatever goal I’ve given myself at the moment.

But these days I don’t joke about being watched at the gym.

Valentine’s evening and he’s in the kitchen before we go out for dinner. I feel almost faint with excitement at the prospect of our romantic meal. Then the bombshell.

‘Need to get back tonight, babe. I can’t stay over.’

‘What do you mean you’re not staying? It’s Valentine’s.’

‘I know, but I just can’t.’

He allows me to absorb the full horror of this before grinning and telling me he’s just messing.

My knee is between his legs harder and faster than a ball from a top bowler. He doubles up in pain.

It’s what I’d call a knee-jerk reaction.

“Weaksauce.”  I’d heard it before, but it never really registered until I saw it in print in a Wired blog entry.  As I thought about it, I realized I’d also heard “awesomesauce,” and “crapsauce” in conversation over the years.

Www.urbandictionary.com (occasionally NSFW) that online bastion of proper word usage, relates “weak sauce” to Taco Bell sauce packets and “awesome sauce” to the online animated character Strong Bad.

As a HomeStarRunner fan, I like the latter, but I can see where the former fits.  After all, any Taco Bell sauce is crapsauce compared to the awesomesauce that is Taco John’s Superhot.

Someone once told me “If you want something done, ask a busy person”.

I realized this is true the last time I was unemployed, and the pattern is upon me again.

Simple tasks that should take five minutes seem impossible to start.  Getting places on time never happens anymore.  Laundry from three weeks ago is in a pile on my desk.  I need a written daily list of “things to do”, even if the only ‘thing to do’ is “go to gym”.

I started this post at 8:55am and now it’s taken almost three hours to write one hundred words…

I took ballet for ten years when I was young. It was my first passion. When I quit, I told myself and everyone else that it was because pursuing ballet seriously, professionally, was too much of a commitment. The truth was that breasts were too big, my hips too wide, and my teacher let me know that. Years of staring at my imperfect body in the mirror and thinking I was fat has made a dent in my adult body consciousness. I have a ticket to Swan Lake at the SF Ballet next week. I expect inspiration or crushing regret.

The working title for the on-goings at the sharkboy household is “Dysfunctionalpalooza,” although I’m quite sure it deserves permanent title status.  The first sign of anything remotely normal or mainstream causes an immediate 180-degree turn back to the comfort of our chaos.  Coincidently, when things are going really strange, we often make a 90-degree turn toward even stranger pastures.

This behavior and lifestyle perfectly explains the newest member of our family.  Burnt Marshmellow (the name he came with) is our new bunny.

Because two dogs, work, air travel, teenage schedules, school clubs, boyfriends, and life in general just isn’t enough.

My name is Rose and I weigh 180 pounds.

It’s a situation that a person who previously lost seventy pounds should not be in.

I am at a six-year high weight.  Between my November 2 marathon and today, I’ve gained 20 pounds.  This is not the “95% of people regain the weight” statistic.  I DID keep it off, for six years. 

I know better. 

So I’m examining my options:  Keep climbing and lose control of something I know I can control, or examine my behavior and reverse course.

Stay tuned for “My name is Rose and I weigh 145 pounds”.

NaNoWriMo scares me.  I’ve registered for it three years in a row, but produced nothing more than a title.  Meanwhile, friends have cranked out three draft novels each.  Good ones, even!

There are alternatives, though.  I know a man who started his own short-lived group:  LoShoStoWriMo (Local Short Story Writing Month.)  That’s much more my speed.  In my busy life, I’m not sure I can pull off the 1,666 word daily average required for NaNoWriMo, but I bet I can write a short story in a month.

The real question is this:  Will I have the guts to submit it?

Someone once told me that I was “right up there with turkey and football” in terms of what he most looked forward to about Thanksgiving.

Might’ve been the nicest compliment I have ever received.  Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday.  There are no presents.  There is no god.  No billion-watt lawn extravaganzas.  There’s family, and food. There’s laughing, and (only if you want) praying.  There’s an abundance of thanks.

I’m thankful to have once meant so much to someone. Someone looked forward… to me.  For that, I am grateful.

Valentine’s Day never was a big deal for me.  Growing up in Chicago, I was more interested in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre and Al Capone.  Grade-school meant being forced to give cards to everyone in class instead of only who you wanted to.  Throughout high school and college, February 14^th gifts were more about the “cover charge” for extracurricular carnal knowledge.

Married life continues the idea of giving gifts in equal exchange for some fun vs. the joy of just giving.  My Mom, ex-wife and an ex mother-in-law all born November 14 or 15, so do the gestational math. 

Start with your feet hips width apart.

Lower yourself into a squat and put your hands on the floor in front of you.

Shoot your legs backward and land in a plank.

Lower your body until your belly reaches the floor and then push back up.

Now jump your feet forward so you’re back in the squat.

Then, instead of simply standing up to return to starting position, jump up and clap your hands above your head.

It’s called a burpee.

I did one on January 1st, two on January 2nd, and so on.  Today I have to do 44.

I accompanied my dad to an appointment with his eye surgeon today, thanks to my new unemployed person’s schedule.

When the receptionist went buzzing past, he said, “This is a field you should try!”

“At 40 I’m supposed to become an eye surgeon?” 

“No!  Go get a job at Manhattan Eye, Ear, and Throat, walking the patients around to their appointments!”

“Dad, how does my experience as an interior designer factor in?”

“How about that wind energy thing that Barack’s always talking about.  Do that!  That’s big business!  Whatever it is, it’s big.”

He really thinks I can do anything…

Thank you for the advice on [feeding; the birth process; marriage after children; tax-deferred education funds; the best in prenatal vitamins; sex on our sides], but I do not know you. At all.

I’m sorry to hear about [your fear of your upcoming epidural; how your baby changed your body forEVER; your 20-year-old’s new nose ring; your husband’s new 20-year-old] but I don’t know you. At all.

If I want advice, my mother will let me know I want it and she will let me know what it is, I am sure.

And, please, Kind Stranger, stop touching my belly.

Is it possible to have too many hobbies?  Too much to do?  Can I become so entangled in commitment that I reduce my capacity to absorb, countering my efforts to grow?

I live in a world of instant communication (or at least connection), with HD-this, G-Twit that, and www.TheOtherThing.com, and to a geek like me, it all seems very bright, shiny, and irresistible.  Everything is iDesirable, 3G-licious, and I’d give my eye-bluetooth to have it all.

In the drive to expand my digital horizons, can my internal structure collapse under its own weight?

This morning’s panic attack tells me, “Yes.”

She leaves me a voice mail.  Halfway through, she breaks down, crying,
complaining that no one is helping her, no one is telling her what to
do.  I feel my blood pressure rise with the pitch of her sobs, but I
don’t feel compassion.  I feel angry, manipulated, like I need to
take care of a situation that she’s created herself.

Guess what, sis?  You’re almost 54 years old.  No one should have to
tell you what to do.  You need to fight your own battles.

Later, I’ll feel guilty for my anger.  But right now, it just … is.

This past Sunday’s paper was filled with pink and white ads of chocolate, diamonds and lingerie; three items I personally enjoy and have often purchased.  My book stores are hawking “erotic and enticing” reads for the romantic holiday and every hotel is offering “getaway spa dreams.”

Every year I am sucked in, but now things are much different.  The chocolate will be half-priced on February 15^th, there are enough non-worn diamonds in our jewelry boxes and I haven’t seen anything non-cotton or see-thru in a decade.

Why no Valentine’s deals at Home Depot, BoatUS or BillyBob’s Package and Bait Emporium?

I frequently check the weather forecast.  Sometimes multiple times in a day.  I like to be in the know, know what’s coming up.

Last night, the Weather Channel said “Rain/Snow tapering off into light rain by noon.”

What actually happened:  snowflake clusters the size of silver dollars dumped on Tacoma until 3:30 leaving two inches of snow on the ground and one angry mailman.  Red-faced and pummeling the steering wheel, I shrieked at the sky and the rotten, bloody meteorologists from Hell who deserve every imagining of unhappiness for the lies they have fashioned and pushed upon their hapless victims!

He says the word, “balance” and my right eyebrow arches in wait for I hope is not coming

He continues, “You work from the minute you get here until you leave.  And you bring work home on the weekends.”  Yes, and?

“I’m afraid you’re going to burn out.”

I squint through his words to see what’s behind them.  My problem is… I work too hard?

It takes a while for the bile from my liver to crawl up my throat.  I contain it, but only barely.

I can’t help but think he wouldn’t have this conversation with an ambitious man.

Why why why can I, at any moment, know PRECISELY what is happening with anyone I have ever (or never) known?  There are people on my Gchat I‘ve never met.  Yet, I know when they are “Bored!” I know their politics (through links to other’s politics).  I know who’s feeling :- ) and who’s feeling ;-(

(These are feelings now?!)

Twitter?  Pardon my not giving a hoot about your ham sandwich for lunch.

Facebook!  My ex-cousin’s (long story) new fiancé repeatedly asks me for money, because she’s “Training hard!” and updates me about that and “her cause”…. constantly.

Tell me why.

Immediately.

There have been many times I’ve sat at my keyboard or (yes, back in the day) my typewriter and went blank.  The same thing happens to every kid in school and no doubt from time to time vexed even Hemingway.

Sometimes I try to break the curse by thinking profound thoughts such as “why when something heavy falls on your head it makes a bump instead of a dent?”  Most times I just wander about.

I’ve just realized the solution to my writing block has been mine for a year now.  WWWD?  What Would Walden Do? 

I miss his words.

After Dad’s triple bypass, we drove to Vegas to visit.  While grocery
shopping, I saw some Cottage Doubles.  Remembering that he liked
cottage cheese with a bit of sugar on top, I bought a few and took
them home.  He tried the Apple Cinnamon flavor first.

“Not bad,” he said.  ”How much was it?”

“$.99 on sale,” I replied.

“Seems to me a guy could buy a big tub of cottage cheese and a jar of
apple butter for a few dollars and have the same damn thing, and it
would last longer.”

Thus was born the Lyle Johnson Special.

I’m not a gym fan.  I prefer running in Central Park, but I’m injured.  I’m stunned by some of the costumes on gymgoers lately:

• Fiftysomething gal wearing a Jane Fonda-inspired thong leotard with ipod stuck inside, which slides down to where we don’t need any more attention inside the leotard.
• Kramer lookalike wearing tan corduroys…like he forgot he might need workout wear.
• hip-hop dork bopping over, wearing a sideways baseball hat, gesturing “cut it” across his throat.  I crack up, turn off the music, and hear, “Ya gotta go!  We’re closed!”

Too bad.  I’m enjoying the show.

In my gym this afternoon, I am greatly taken with the notice in the place I understand Americans term ‘the bathroom.’

‘In the interests of hygiene’, it begins, to great fanfare and maybe a little drum roll, ‘We clean these toilets regularly.’

Waves of relief wash over me. Gosh, but it’s great to have that one cleared up! There was me, all this time, thinking that maybe they scrubbed away at those toilets in the interests of spreading germs and dirt.

I know I’ll breathe more easily now, and sleep a little more easily in my bed at night.

1. I have my first chronic pain. Realize I might not be indestructible.
2. The prospect of a crushing hangover impeding my next day’s activities actually tempers my drinking.
3. Expensive, sexy shoes that I can barely walk in seem like a waste of money.
4. I have recently worried about covering my grays. There are freakishly many of them on my head for a late twentysomething.
5. At a local show, I recognized the “rockstars” for what they are: middle-aged, frustrated guys with bad day jobs.
6. Any bar that makes me stand in line or pay a cover is out of the question.

I’m an attorney.  I’m bored when I say that.  I’m a dancer and a weekend napper.  I’m an improvisational comedian, a lover of the dinner party, an often-uncontrollable giggler, and desperately awkward in front of my bossman.  I’m a fiancé, most times a good one.

I love to “love running” more than I love to “go running.”

I love bad television and good books.  I cross my fingers when I write a check.  I love letters and send them often.  I hate the telephone, and use it never.

I’m a rule-follower: I counted, rewound and hyphenated, to make this 100-words-for-toDAY.

By day, Stace Johnson is a mild-mannered Systems and Network Administrator, but at night he becomes a freelance writer, musician, and general computer geek.  He has published nearly thirty articles in computer publications like ComputorEdge and Rocky Mountain TechLine, and lives with his family and pets in a north Denver suburb.  He is hopeful that 2009 will be the year he adds a fiction publication or two to his writing résumé, and he enjoys the challenge of strong limitations like a 100 word blog posting limit.  You can find out more about Stace and his writing at his website:  www.lytspeed.com.

“Rose, can you come in here please?”

(‘I’m totally going to get laid off when I go in there’)

“Can you please close the door?”

(‘Here comes the layoff’)

“So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, I know you have too, and, I have no choice but to lay you off.”

(‘I am so freaking smart to have predicted this, isn’t that reason enough to keep me?’)

…and then, “Well I really loved working here.”

“Yes, everyone loves…” (is he going to say ‘Everyone loves working with you’ ?)

Except he says, “…yes, everyone loves working here.”

Thanks.  That’s helpful.

I’m still in shock.  And sad.  And shocked that it isn’t out there yet.  I’m sure “they” are just gathering information, but it had better make the news soon.  On the surface it seems disrespectful.  Digging deeper it may be professional, even helpful. 

We all know.  Friends are cooperating, sadly, but hopefully there will be answers soon.  This is the biggest, and quietest, grapevine on the planet. 

Two in less than a year.  I don’t think that’s normal. 

It’s making me more aware – and fearful, though I don’t think I have anything to fear.  It is just the universe working.

It’s the thought that plagues me most.  Whether I’m tucking myself in or pressing my snooze button for the third time, it’s there like a fat, pungent elephant lumbering around my small living space.  He never trumpets, just looks; looks at me with those wet, lashed eyes of his.

“I know, I know.  I need to write.”

But more often than not I don’t.  Why?  What’s holding me back?  My physically and mentally taxing job?  My friends?  My boyfriend?  Sure they all demand time, but all of them inspire me to do just what that stinking elephant urges:  to write.

Catherine:  I hope you find an interesting way to demolish that clover one day.

Cesika:  I’ve been wondering if I know anyone braver than you…and I don’t think I do.  Please be safe.

Juliet:  My mind insists on reading your posts with a British accent.  Post more!

Rose:  Rotten-Roommate + Writing Skills + Sense of Humor = RomCom Screenplay.  Go for it.

Sharkboy:  You and I, in a boat, plus beer, and sooner or later someone will be calling the cops.

M.R.Renz:  Two words.  “Dear March”

Stacy:   In another life, we have children.  They’re sassy, but they write very well.

It’s what they say.

Every time.

And it pisses me off.

Every time.

It makes me think of the short stories and the poems and haikus, the creative writing classes and the writing groups and my status amongst friends and coworkers as the designated proofreader and go-to scribe for hire.

I am a writer, nitwit.

What do I have to do to prove it?  Sell a million copies, go on Oprah and talk about my “process”?

Screw that noise.  I’m just going to keep typing away.

Because when it comes to talent, absence of proof is not proof of absence.

“Oh shoot,” she says, standing in my cube, staring at her blackberry.

“He’s canceling again.”  This was the second day in a row.  Today his daughter got in a car accident (she’s fine) and he had to go get her.

She sits down exasperatedly, “It’s just easier to be alone.”

She’s looks at me expectantly. As if anything I say can help.  I want to tell her I completely understand.  And I actually agree.   But I see my future self when I look her and I don’t want that future self to give up.  I’m rooting for her.  And myself.

As I left the party, I looked around the room.  There was only one person I recognized – a colleague – an  acquaintance, really.  Since he’s European, I kissed him on both cheeks before heading out the door.

My Arab boyfriend became enraged.  Thinking I had gone out of my way to say good night to someone else, a player who had greeted me earlier, he demanded to know why I “cheated.”  Finally, I yelled back.

I don’t want him impinging on my freedom, my ability to have friends of the other sex.  Obliging him would not have been a good precedent.

I know it’s your first day, so I thought I’d give you a refresher course.

So far we’ve been giving them 3 inches of ice and sleet every 6.2 days.  It’s just enough to make sure that the media goes crazy with each storm that approaches.  Epic pronouncements and hand waving and pot-stirring.  People stack up to buy bread and milk without really knowing why.  Then there’s that letdown, the sighing of school children, the slipping on ice for days.

What’s that?  Of course this is psychological torture.  Cruel? What do you care?  You’re not even working a full shift.