100 words a day

I wrote a short story about a girl who’s considering marrying for money.  It begins with a proposal and ends with an answer.  The story explores her shifting mental landscape in the time it takes her to respond.

I tried not to make her heartless, or mercenary, or any pejorative adjective my writing group used.

At one point she fantasizes about a world of and and not or.

I’m starting to think the world of and is not good.  It makes us soft.

I live a life fairly free of compromise.  And I think I’m the worse off for it.

Whenever I sit down to do anything on the computer – it doesn’t really matter what it is, either – it seems that an unseen force takes over me and automatically leads me to Facebook.

“Man, I’ve got to post” or “I need to Google that” or “Let’s check the movie times for Monsters VS Aliens” turns into me suddenly updating my status to “Mike is eating a delicious cupcake!” or leads me to perusing a friend of a friend’s engagement photos or accepting a Snowball Fight app.

Like I don’t get in enough Facebook time with it uploaded onto my Blackberry?

Tonight, while listening to Doc Watson’s flying bluegrass fingers play “Blackberry Blossom,” I thought of an old friend, a musician.  He plays a mean version of that tune.

About a month ago, he contacted me, out of the blue.  He had escaped a bad marriage and worse divorce with nothing but his instrument and clothing.  We traded a few e-mails, but I was busy and said I would get back with him.  Tonight, I found his address and sent him an e-mail.  I got an immediate reply.

“Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently.”

Oh God.  I hope he’s okay.

I don’t get people who use facebook as their vehicle for communicating big news.

My friend saw another friend’s status update, pertaining to being upset with her husband for getting a DUI when he was supposed to be the designated driver on her birthday.

Not the place for that, in my opinion, but, whatever.

Then yesterday-an old friend:  “can’t believe my Uncle Billy died”

(I can’t believe your grief is broadcast on Facebook).

Later the same day, a guy from high school: “Just found out my girl friend, Veta, died last night. Cause unknown. Still in shock.”

Facebook…the new obituary?

Three days ago, I wrote about my state quarter obsession, and how it helps me fend off the gathering gloom.

Since finding the Oklahoma quarter mentioned in that post, I have found two more Philadelphia Mint state quarters: Colorado and Montana.  In the preceding year, I only found three that I could add to the collection.

Part of me wants to attribute this to a mystical form of karmic fulfillment; my inner skeptic insists that it’s mere coincidence.

Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate my inner skeptic.  But when it comes to my emotional outlook, I gotta follow the karma.

Today was the last straw.

The rain, the amount of mail I was given in the morning, the surprise extra TWO HOURS of mail I was given at almost 6:00, the way I’m treated by Supervisors…it’s just the last freakin’ straw.

I have to start actively looking for another job.  I don’t like what this job has turned me into.  I cuss more than I ever have, I scowl more than I ever have, the thoughts that occupy the space between my ears are darker than they ever have been.

I’m angry, bitter, sick and exhausted.

Oh, but the money.

“It’s just a job.  It’s just a job.”

He repeats this over and over again.  Under his breath.  Aloud to everyone in the room.

He says it to himself.  He says it to me.  As if it’s a comforting refrain.  As if it helps.

“At the end of the day, we get to go home to our loved ones.”

It’s true.  At the end of the day (whenever that is) we get to go home.  No one dies.

I understand the words, but not the sentiment.

And while I don’t consider this a career, it’s definitely not just a job.

I received an Oklahoma state quarter as change the other day.  I got excited; it was a Philadelphia Mint, one of the ones I was missing.  Living in Denver, it’s easy to find Denver mint state quarters, but to complete the collection, I need both Denver and Philadelphia mint.

Some of you are probably saying, “This dude gets excited about finding quarters?  He needs to get a life.”  A fair conclusion, I suppose.

But I say that I must find joy in the little things.  It’s the only way to fight off the overwhelming, dark, rumbling things on the horizon.

After fending off a lunatic on 86th Street, arguing with a guy in the subway (material for future posts) I meet my mom in Penn Station (marking the first time she’s come to NYC just to see me) then meet my friends at Martha Stewart’s Yarn Show.

We show off my fantastic, “unique” pillow to any staffers who pass, hoping to get my fantastic, unique pillow on national tv.

Then get seated in the back row.

And watch “Segment Seven”, where someone’s crocheted a life size lawnmower, a faux-bearskin rug, and a urinal.

Making my pillow a little less “unique”.

Saint Patrick’s Day, Chicago.  My brother gently grabbed my cheeks, kissed me and said “today, from now on we will always tell each other the truth.”

I agreed.

My brother has a dark cloud over him, hiding lots of truths.  I have enough horrible past to severely cloud both our skies. 

We both hide, lie, scam, care, sacrifice, hurt and love; not only for one another, but for our family, friends, our women and our Father.

Enough already.  He said it best with his kiss.  I said it better a thousand times before.  Be nice, tell the truth and flush.

Despite my “unemployed person inertia” lately, finally tomorrow I have a productive day scheduled:  tickets to be in the studio audience of the Martha Stewart Show!

One of my dreams in life is to get paid to knit.

Tomorrow’s show is a knitting themed one, and the audience coordinator emailed to say we should bring projects we’re working on.

I emailed back that I have a successful knit pillow business (honestly, my first one will barely be finished before we get in line tomorrow)

So, by this time tomorrow perhaps I will be brought onstage to discuss it with Martha!

I can’t place him at first.  I know exactly who he is, but it takes me a moment to position him in the proper context of my history.

Why am I dreaming about him now? My curiosity grows and I go to the one place that sates most curiosities: google. I scan through the results, sifting through the snippets, discarding the red herrings.   The options range from random to ridiculous: a cop, a plaintiff, an arm-wrestling champion.

But google can’t tell me what these men were doing 15 years ago.  Which one is the painter? Which one made me laugh?

I wonder if Skype has brought me close to my Mum.  Now I can see her face, blown up via webcam, Star Trek style, it’s easier for me to hear her, and I call her up most afternoons.

She frets or laughs so much at every little thing I say. My brother’s web cam has a feature allowing you to put a crown on, or an arrow through, your head. That made her laugh so much she almost needed medical attention.

“Stop picking your nose,” I told her, last time we spoke.

“I’m scratching,” she replied, just a little defensively.

MySQL error:
Table ‘not_really_named_this’ doesn’t exist (Errno=1146)

This is the last straw. Over the last year, I’ve had repeated downtime problems with my web hosting company, and this morning, one of my clients sent me a note, saying that his site was down. Sure enough, his blog database is down, as are all the other blogs I host.

Not just down, though. Gone. All of the MySQL tables in all of my hosted databases, just gone. I’m posting this while I wait for them to restore from backup, assuming they have one.

Anybody know a reliable, inexpensive web hosting company?

Have you ever tried walking with your eyes closed?  I used to do it a lot when I was a kid.  While walking home from school, backpack thumping at my back, I would close my eyes and count the steps I took before fear overtook me.

It was both terrible and thrilling.  At any moment some uneven pavement or low tree branch could jolt me back into reality.

My life, as of late, feels a bit like walking with my eyes closed.  I’m in the dark and unsure of where to go, but at least I’m moving in a direction.

My name is Juliet, and I am a Doctors-aholic.

Doctors is a British lunchtime soap, aimed at the housebound, the lonely, the desperate. (In other words, at most freelance writers.) It is truly compelling in its awfulness, its stereotyped characters – the uptight receptionist, the fruity older (male) doctor.

Yet still, I watch, anticipation mounting daily as 1.45pm approaches. Will George and Ronnie really move to China? (Say it isn’t so!) Will Vivien and Lionel and Heston and Lily finally get together? Please, God, let it happen.)

Doctors is an illness. One for which there seems to be no known cure.

In the interest of health and public safety, the city of Atlanta has limited smoking to designated areas inside the terminal…” 

I’ve heard that recording a kazillion times, having spent too much time in my hometown airport over the years.  Today, while fighting massive weather delays trying to get to Chicago, I actually listened to the whole public service announcement again and again.

The “City Too Busy to Hate” cares enough about my health to provide huge smoking rooms inside the gates so I can sit with smokers and their smelly clothes on the tarmac for a four-and-a-half-hour delay.  Yuck!

I wonder what happened to my wedding dress. What happens to dresses that get sent back? At the designer’s workshop, is there a room in the back with half-finished dresses of brides who changed their minds? I picture seams half-sewn, embroidery abandoned. Dress forms forced into long-term servitude by dresses that may never move on to adorn a human form.  Maybe they wait for another bride in my same size to order that dress. Isn’t that bad luck? I just went back and tried to edit that to not make it so sad, but it’s just sad.

It was only 11 in the morning, but suddenly it looked like dusk.  All of space turned a dark gold color, like we were all wearing tinted glasses.  Even the locals were shocked at how day had become night. Captured on film, it looked like a tsunami sand wave, one of the worst sandstorms in a long time. 

Those who had to go outside donned face masks, reminding me of the SARS epidemic.  The airport closed down.  The post office closed down.  The whole city has been covered with the finest, softest, most powdery sand ever.  We need some rain.

Six weeks of being unemployed has flown by in what feels like six hours. 

It’s been a productive time with Martha Stewart, Kathy Lee and Hoda, 4am panic attacks, pinot grigio, knitting, facebooking (yes it’s a verb now), daytime gym workouts, day trips with a car-owning unemployed friend, making a daily 12-cup pot of coffee and only drinking 6 of them, planning home improvements that make absolutely no sense in a rental apartment.

And, yesterday, attendance at the required “NYS Department of Labor’s Unemployment Seminar”.

33 additional weeks of benefits for a total of 59 weeks of the above activities.

The young checker seemed to be struggling a bit that particular Friday morning.

“How you doin’?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m … fine,” he replied.

“Just ducky, eh?”

He looked up at me.  “Ducky?  Is that a word?”

“Uh … it was in my generation,” I said.

“Hmmm.”  He looked back at his scanner.  “Expanding my vocabulary,” he said.

“Yep.  You’re learning how to speak ‘Old Fart.’”

He tried to contain the chuckle, unsuccessfully.  “That might come in handy some day,” he said, grinning.

Yeah, I’m an Old Fart, but he was frowning when I got there and smiling when I left.

Am I becoming a Skype obsessive? Some nights, I am so desperate for the orange bar on my screen to start flashing, I imagine it, like a mirage. I check my contacts incessantly to see who’s there.

Without Skype, there would be no relationship.

Sometimes, I thump the desk in frustration, wondering why he hasn’t replied to my message.

He was mad the other night, at my curt ‘Good night’. (‘Did we spend last night together?’ he fumes.)

For some reason he was once blocked for messaging me, but called then hung up instead, sending me a plaintive little signal.

When he dropped me off, we kept the outer wall and front doors open as we kissed good night.  We heard a car on the street stop, and he went outside to inspect the scene.  Peeking  from the neighbor’s outer wall door, I saw a cop.  Then another police car came. 

I freaked out.  Dating is a crime here, and I thought he’d be arrested.  I tried to listen but couldn’t understand the quick Arabic.  He asked me to come out.  I spoke to the cops, and they told me I could go back inside.  Then they cheered him on.

He left me no choice.  What else was I supposed to do?  He WOULD NOT return my phone calls or my texts.

I had thoughts of him being in traumatic accidents, unable to respond to me.  But seeing as how he could text my best friend and ask about who she voted for on American Idol, I realized he’s just a big, wet flapping douche bag.

Via text, I told him he broke my heart, that I never expected behavior like this from HIM and to send my things to my address.

That’s when the pain unleashed and I ruptured.

100wordsaday is good.

No more, no less, even if we could.

100 means you make it tight,

Say your piece and get it right.

There isn’t any time for pause; you simply need to state your cause.

Don’t go over and break the 100 rule,

But-made-up-words-with-dashes-work-very-very-cool.

100words is all I need, to make a point, to beg, to plead and pass along a humble read – not for money and not for greed.

100words is good for me, kind of like cheap therapy.

People read - they let me know; they say nice things and also tell me where to go.

Another Sunday, and I have fallen behind with a guy I’ve never seen before, the others vanished. He guides me across a treacherous expanse of mud.

Last time there was a new man in the group, his opening gambit (never mind the preliminary pleasantries or introductions) was ‘Are you struggling?’ With the walk, I guess he meant, I snapped ‘No!’

Anyway, this guy is gentler, but odd, the sole of his boot hanging loose like a flap of skin on an open wound.

It’s almost romantic, being left behind like this together, almost a shame it’s not going to happen.

W-  hy is your mouth moving?

H -  ow can I possibly show less interest?

A -  re you still talking?

T  - ell someone who cares.

E  - njoy the sound of your own voice?  I know I do mine.

V  - ery busy thinking only about me.

E  - asy to pretend listen.

R  - epeat what you said?  I was never listening from the get go.

Saying “whatever” to me is an invitation of choice.  You are giving me the green light on my next thought or action toward you.  So, the invitation is declined for good.

190 hours, 35 minutes and 43 seconds.  That’s the amount of time that has passed since I last heard from my boyfriend.

My experiment: stop all contact with him to see if he contacts me, in order to prove whether he gives a shit.

When three days transpired, I was distraught.  When five days transpired, I was angry.  When it hit the week mark, I called him and left him a simple, “we need to talk, call me” message.  He ignored it.

Tonight I sent him a text: “It’s really important that you call me immediately.”

I’m preparing for heartbreak.

Confusion overtakes me as my alarm goes off.  I scold myself for setting it for a Sunday. Then I realize its Monday, curse, and drag myself out of bed.

As I begin my daily ritual vague recollections of last night’s conversations about a snowstorm come into focus. I remember telling everyone it wasn’t going to happen. I humor their memory and peer out my window.

The street is painted white, with nary a track of a tire. I turn on the television and it confirms what I already know: everything is closed.

I smile sleepily and crawl back in bed.

He was handsome.  Too much so.  And popular, in that charming way.

She, slightly nerdy.  Smarter than she was pretty.

He, Big Man On Campus.

She, recently broken-hearted.

He, totally, unfathomable, inexplicable IN to her.

She, confused.  In disbelief, actually, of this.

But, she took the plunge.

And, she watched him score touchdowns; he read her thesis.  She brought him protein bars; he took her to the best restaurants in town.  Cool girls wondered what he was doing with her.  She wondered what she was doing with him.

And then one night, in a part-passionate-part-storytelling moment, he asked her what language they spoke in France.

And she knew.  The cool girls were right.  And, heart unbroken, she kissed him deeply.  And they never spoke again.

I burnt my arm seriously on a wood-burning stove the other night. It’s the first injury I’ve had in a while that I couldn’t treat myself. I was scared. I needed somebody else’s help. My savior was an individual I didn’t expect to step up to the plate, one who doesn’t normally offer help. It felt lovely to be taken care of. I was surprised at the overwhelming rush of love and gratitude I felt for a simple task that one human wouldn’t normally hesitate to perform for another. What does that say about what’s missing from my life?

“Fall with injury.  Elderly woman, middle of the street, bleeding from the head.”

The dispatcher spoke in even tones, as she was trained to do, but when I heard the last four words, my heart sank and my eyes welled up.

I didn’t follow up on the call; I know the paramedics got there quickly, and I prefer to think that they were able to help her.

It’s ironic.  Had I been the dispatcher, the same emotions that drive my compassion would have slowed the call response and threatened the elderly woman’s life.

Thank God I’m just a computer guy.

I’m feeling rather lonely one evening when a Skype call comes in on my laptop. And, there they are on my machine, Mum, Dad and my brother, at home while in the area for work.

Their little faces peer into the screen, beaming, the loneliness falls away, and for a moment I could cry. It must be the cheap wine I am drinking. Mum sees the glass and frowns. Now the poor woman is convinced I have become an alcoholic.

‘What’re you drinking?’ she asks, next time we chat via webcam.

I raise my mug. It’s a cup of tea.