Handlebars in ASL...A+

Bingo:

what's going on in there?

The arguing escalated to a deafening silence.

Sensing that he had neither a care nor a plan for how to deal with the impending photographer, she silently decided they would proceed with taking the portrait. He silently agreed.

The fragment of hope that, maybe he would be better soon, kept her awake at night. That and the gaping emptiness of 2,000 count Egyptian cotton lying next to her. Their guest room hadn't housed visitors in 3 months and their bed no longer housed him.

The fragment of hope that, maybe she would leave kept him awake at night. He fantasized about her being the one to pull the trigger. Too fearful to leave and too apathetic to try, he progressed on, lifeless and hypnotically vacant. His erratic anger that once demanded her submission had evolved into an eerie calm. She restlessly awaited the next quake, not knowing when or if it would come.

The photographer arrived 5 minutes early.

And so they sat, unattached, uninterested, and unlovingly apart from one another as the photographer whistled politely to himself in between sputtering rants of nervous babble.

"Alrighty there, now let's have one where you sort of tilt your knees over to the le--ahhh, yes. Ok now can you come down just one step there, mam, alri--ok, no ok then just sit right there, goooood, yes, just perfect, perfect. There we go and a smile from you sir would be--alri-ok then, that's fine, ok now, alrighty and a 1, 2..."

As they sent the photographer away, she choked up so hard she had to pretend to sneeze and ran to the bathroom "for a tissue."

The first time he noticed she hadn't come out of the bathroom was 6 hours later when he was mowing the yard. His lawnmower chewed up a piece of broken glass that had fallen from the bathroom window when she pried it open. She'd gotten out.

I rode the bus to work!

At approximately 11:02 last night I said, "Rita (I call myself Rita...no I don't. Just kidding) you've got to just get on the bus and do it. No more 'I wanna ride the bus someday,' tomorrow is your day. Look up the schedule and ride."

So this morning at 7:30 as I was listing reasons NOT to follow through, a small bird flew through my window and chirped, "follow your dreams, get on the bus." So I did. And NOW, instead of a list of reasons NOT to ride, I formulated a list of reasons why I WANT to ride the bus all the time:

1. the walks from my house to the bus and from the last stop to my office were brisk; just what I need in the morning. That and a couple shots of Cuervo. Ohhhh, Sarah!
2. Riding the bus reminded me of when I lived in New York. All these memories flooded back of being completely reliant on public transit. I remembered scurrying down the street every morning to 86th and Lexington, hopping on the 6 and flying to 51st street. I can still smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the tiny Hispanic girl that inevitably made her way in front of me at least 3 times a week on the walk across Park and Madison over to 30 Rockefeller Plaza...and yet, despite the fondness of those sights, sounds and cancer inducing smells, I have no doubt or reservation that Austin > New York. By far.
   
3. I will save at least 8 million/year in gasoline if I ride the bus a couple times a week.
4. another reason I want to ride the bus is people watching...and randomly talking to (at) the people I've been staring at. Today I was nervous about missing my stop so I kept quiet and focused, but I have grandiose visions of becoming best friends with my fellow riders and eventually being able to introduce them to the greatest news of all time: Jesus loves them.
   
5. I want to ride the bus so I can bring donuts or breakfast tacos for people. I was on the bus with the same people for 20 minutes. No additions, no subtractions. Just me, Louie, Marie, Candice, Jared, Cathy, wait I'm making all these names up. But really, I think it would be SO fun to bring breakfast for my busmates! (DANGIT, my coworker just told me that you can't have food or drink...hmm...maybe if I pass out tacos discretely he won't notice. What can he do, throw me off?! uhh, probably)
   
6. The less I get behind the wheel of a vehicle, the better.
7. It will force me to get up when my alarm goes off because if I miss the bus, I have to wait 30 minutes for another one and well, I can't do that.
8. It's FREEING not having to weave in and out of traffic and flip people off while trying not to hit pregnant ladies as they cross the street--I just got to sit back and ride! PLUS, the reason I got to SIT is because two fine gentlemen gave up their seats so that me and another girl could sit down. I love that! Thank you, Ernie and Leon! Or whatever your names were!
   
9. Riding the bus is a good reminder that it's not about me. I don't have any control how fast he drives, and I don't have any control over whether or not the guy next to me bathes and/or deodorizes himself. That being said, riding the bus was a great test of my new deodorant. I smell like flowers and it was in the upper 80's this morning so I think it passed the test.
   
10. Finally, the last reason I want to ride the bus is: IT'S FREE BECAUSE I'M A "STUDENT" (I'm going to school at night to get a degree in american sign language interpreting)
    

Another Short Story

Ronnie Filmore was blind. We used to test him to make sure he wasn't lying and sure enough, every time, we'd end up with his candy or his baseball and he'd just be sitting there glossy-eyed and happy, not knowing that he'd been burgled. Now the reason we kept thinking he might be a liar is because his twin brother was.

The lying brother, his name was Albert, once told our principal that Darcy Clements, the most hated do-gooder in the 2nd grade, exposed herself to him on the playground. He claimed that he and his brother were sitting near the oak tree coming up with words that rhymed with "match" when Darcy suddenly appeared and lifted her dress up plum over her head. With the only witness being his blind brother, it was Albert's word against Darcy's.

Ronnie knew better than to cross his brother--he'd learned enough times in their 7 years of life that bloody noses hurt and it's better to keep quiet even if it meant silently contributing to a lie. But he also knew better than to think for a second that Darcy Clements would flash anything but the bathtub curtain. Still, aiding and abetting Albert's lies had become his full-time job.

When Principal Mulaney looked Ronnie in the wandering eye and asked, "Did you, uh, hear anything, son, that would lead you to believe that Darcy Clements was acting inappropriately with her, uh, clothing, in regards to your brother that day on the playground?," Ronnie softly nodded his head yes. When prompted for an explanation, he said in a mumbled whisper, "She told Albert that she had a couple of presents for him and then she...mmpullledupher mmher dress."

Albert tried not to smile as his brother forced out lies like a seasoned mobster. Darcy would be expelled--maybe even home schooled or sent to the special school for kids who threw rocks or had trouble keeping their clothes on. His heart raced at the thought of getting away with such a tremendous fabrication.

Just as Albert envisioned a standing ovation from all the boys who wished they'd pulled off what he so daringly had, Principal Mulaney picked up the phone. Then, in a moment they hadn't quite planned for, they heard the friendly squawk of their mother's voice saying "Filmore residence" on the other end. Unsure of what to think or do next, Albert wet his pants for the first time in 4 years...and then, Principal Mulaney handed him the phone.

"Go ahead, tell her what you did."

____________________


No one saw the Filmore Brothers after that.

A Picture and Some Words

Steve Martin (of sicolamartin) and I were talking the other day about how fun it is to mentally make up stories about people you see in random photographs at antique stores (what, you don't do that? hmm) Side note: I buy old pictures and cards at antique stores and give them to people. It's kind of my thing. Anyway, Steve said, "hey, you should actually write stories to go along with the pictures and blog about them." Good idea, right?! Well, last year I wrote this blog, a short story about a lonely self-amputee who stole her neighbor's cat. It's pretty much the only story writing experience I have--I've never been learned to do the story writin'--I just enjoy arrangin' words!

June Mathis was born May 7, 1949 just outside of Electra, Texas. Saying she was born "just outside" of Electra doesn't do nearly as much clarifying good as if it were "just outside of Dallas" or San Antonio. Electra's a small panhandle town surrounded by small panhandle towns. Only place up there worth a pushpin in a map is Amarillo.
June was born to John, a welder and Claire Ann, a book keeper who worked up until about the third trimester when June's wiggling began to impede her ability to get a good breath. Claire Ann found it hard to keep her eyes uncrossed and her head clear when standing for more than 5 or 10 minutes at a time, so she resolved, without much deliberation and almost with extreme anticipation, to idleness and sleeping for the rest of her pregnancy. Had she not been with child, this cross-eyed predicament was likely to manifest at some point; Claire Ann had grown to be a bit of a weary and paranoid soul. This baby was Claire Ann's "get out of doing anything free" card. Understandably, this frustrated her husband, John, because he'd grown quite accustomed to her hand battered, hand fried, hand served chicken each night.
Rest assured he was still fed mighty well--Mrs. Barefoot, their widowed and persistently cooking neighbor, came by their 3 bedroom 2 bath house every night at 6:25 sharp with one of two meals: green bean casserole with mashed potatoes and a pitcher of sweet tea or fried green beans with squash and a pitcher of sweet tea. Mrs. Barefoot believed in sweet tea as much as she believed in America. She didn't as much believe in green beans, but her deceased husband did. Their pantry (and cellar and bedroom and part of their living room) was a living example of Cold War stockpiling. Since he was finally (she'd deny the word "finally") gone, she could start to get rid of the stacks of canned clutter that blocked creamy yellow paint he'd brushed onto their walls 3 summers before.
At 6:15 every night, Claire Ann would roll off of the couch and waddle to the powder room in a usually futile attempt freshen up her drab, lifeless face. At 6:24 each night, against her will but knowing it was their only hope of a hot meal, Claire Ann would tap and tug at her hair one last time in front of the entry hall mirror in anticipation of Mildred's delivery. The mirage of being put together was something Claire Ann would chase to the grave. She kept a tube of cherry red lipstick in her apron pocket for moments like this. That most of it ended up on her teeth was the irony. At exactly 6:25, she'd open the door, take the food, say thank you, and flash an insincere smile. Their relationship had been strained, to say the least, ever since Mildred's husband Ernie's funeral.
Claire Ann was a savvy girl. She knew a lingering pair of peepers when she saw them. As the casket descended into the ground, and every watered eye at the graveyard watched intently as if to make sure no one dropped it, Claire Ann turned, chin to shoulder, to clear her throat. That's when she saw Mildred look at John, that way, for the first time. Claire Ann had known that their neighbors' marriage was not the most loving institution, but until that day, she'd never thought Mildred was a shifty-eyed whore of a husband stealer. Granted, John didn't seem to reciprocate the romantically ophthalmic advancement. But still, Claire Ann's suspicions were ignited...

this one is about the time biff's dog ate a box of chocolate

Last night, while the Young family was at Christmas Eve church, Barkley Mae, Lindsay's mentally underdeveloped maltipoo, unwrapped and subsequently ingested an entire box of Russell Stover chocolates. Here for you, today only, is an actual, word for word transcription of the transpiration, including a fascinating inclusion of Barkley Mae's INNER THOUGHTS:

Disclaimer: this will make no sense at all unless you've met Barkley Mae. If you haven't this won't be funny. If you have, it'll make complete sense. The dog is needy of attention like a child who's been locked in a closet for 10 years.

BARKLEY MAE: Mom mom mom mom mom mom mom don't leave mom don't leave me mom please don't leave me mom mom mom please don't leave me grandma grandpa ryan mom please don't leave me mom mom mom

LINDSAY: Barkley Mae, we'll be right back my little angel of the Lord

(DOOR SHUTS)

BARKLEY MAE: (making a b-line upstairs to urinate on something) I'm going to pee on mom's bed I'm going to pee on mom's shoes I'm peeing in the corner right now. I'm peeing. I'm barking at the fan. I peed. I'm peeing and barking simultaneously. Attention. Give me attention. Someone pet me. Where is everyone?

Kibbles give me kibbles no...chocolate. I smell chocolate. I'm barking because I smell chocolate. bark bark. chocolate. Use your sniffer, Barkley, use it. Find the chocolate

(Barkley Mae finds Lindsay's bag in the pitch black)

I DON'T HAVE OPPOSABLE THUMBS! I'M BARKING BECAUSE I JUST REALIZED I DON'T HAVE OPPOSABLE THUMBS. Use your teeth, Barkley. Bark Bark. Pee a little in excitement. Bark...rip the celophane off. Yeah, get that corner. Ok it's open it's open mommmmm mom mom bark bark mom it's open. You got me chocolate! I'm so excited! I love chocolate. Bark bark. HEY NEIGHBOR'S DOG WHO I HATE AND BARK AT CONSTANTLY: I GOT CHOCOLATE! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME!

Chew chew bark bark swallow...MOM! Is this caramel?! MOM, bark bark mom! This is so good! Burp! Bark bark! Ahhhh this is is so fun I just ate the whole thing! AHH I FOUND MORE CHOCOLATE! MORE CHOCOLATE! THANKS MOM! Bark bark! (inhales more chocolate)

LINDSAY: We're home, my beautiful little butterfly lover with a heart of gold whom I love named Barkley Mae!

LINDSAY: (screams bloody murder when she sees remnants of chocolate) BARKLEY MAYFLOWER! WHAT DID YOU DO?! (calls vet in panic and finds out Barkley didn't eat a lethal amount...waits all night/all day for her to throw up or have diarreah. Nothing. The dog acted completely normal. So bizarre.)

The end.

Cooking with Class

Short Story #1

Lillian worked from home. She wasn't much for meandering about town. Her apartment was quaint and required no outside maintenance, so no one needed in. Her countenance was quaint and required no outside maintenance, so she didn't have to let anyone in. Her groceries were purchased online and delivered to the doorstep; she was always "in the shower." She'd never actually seen or tipped the delivery boy. The mild fever she had in 2002 was remedied with a cold bath and 2 days of bed rest. Bills were sent and paid online. Her family consisted of one newly-married and newly-religious sister who moved to Utah when one of her husband's wive's mothers fell ill and required constant care. Lillian cut her hair with the scissors in the bathroom drawer, the reflection from the bathroom mirror and the hand she'd purchased from Prosthesis.com after the incident. She calls it an incident but if anyone knew what'd really happened, they'd call a lawyer.

Lillian never called for an ambulance. She Googled "self amputation" with her good hand and followed the directions meticulously while chewing on a piece of leather and waiting for the Tylenol to digest.

Despite her condition, embroidery and similar examples of threaded craftiness were a hobby and a livelihood. A strangely vibrant website showcased her myriad of hand-made goods. One would assume, when perusing her site, that she was a 30-something-and-entrepreneurial stay-at-home mom of 3 trying to make some money on the side for the kids' college funds. Professionally and colorfully crafted for a seamless product ordering experience, it was the antitheses of Lillian's personal carriage. An excess of personal time, or an exclusive reservation for it, allowed Lillian to learn the trade of Java Script and interactive web design from the comfort of her laptop and floral print velvet couch. This, combined with competitive pricing and quick turnaround made her the local go-to for all things personalized and commemorative.

Lillian shipped all orders and ironed all details via email. The only ringing in her home was the bell at the top of Jubilee's scratching post.

Jubilee was adopted from the shrub beneath Lillian's window prior to the incident. The air was crisp and light when Lillian heard gentle purrs on the other side of her living room wall. At 3 a.m., she cracked the non-screened window and invited the feline inside for the first time. Her new friend curled in her lap and yawned, leaning her head back to expose her plaid collar and sufficiently descriptive tag. Her shots were up to date and after an instinctive web consultation, it was confirmed that she was void of ringworm. The web consultation also confirmed that the cat was under the care of a veterinarian 2 miles away.

Lillian had been alone, by force, then choice, for 6 months. As she ran her fingers along the spine of the furry guest, she convinced herself that this nomadic feline was somehow a paid debt by the powers that be. She decided the cat's rightful owners could surely replace or make do without her. They surely were strangers to the isolation she felt day after day. She needed the company of a beating heart. She recognized the stereotype immediately and dismissed it, believing that it would take at least 2 more to be deemed a "cat lady."

The sparks of light outside Lillian's window brought instantaneous fear. She knew exactly what was going on. The search party whispered, "Betsy" in varying degrees of loudness, hoping to attract the missing cat and leave the sleepers to their dreaming.

If Lillian's sheet curtains hadn't already been drawn, this would have been her cue. She felt the simultaneous pull of guilt and freedom. For the first time since he left, she smiled. Silently she sat, with the missing pet nuzzling affectionately, for the next hour. When no looming threat remained, Lillian and her tangible, breathing confidante retreated to bed. Lillian slept soundly for 5 whole hours, marking the second "first" of the evening.

Quotes From This Crazy Girl in Defensive Driving

This blog is about Defensive Driving.

I was framed about a month ago and given a speeding ticket so I gave Ceaser what Ceaser was due and decided to take defensive driving. Around the same time, I found out that one of my best friends in the whole world was a traffic offender, too! "How fun," we both said! We could do defensive driving together!!

So we marched right on down to Capital City Comedy Club at 9 a.m. this morning and sat through 6 hours of painless reiteration of important driving laws presented by a standup comic. We learned a lot and felt really bad for the people who do it online.

p.s. this blog isn't about defensive driving class. It's about a GIRL who was IN our defensive driving class who I'm going to guess had an LSD addiciton.

Per the teacher's request, the students did a lot of talking. After "Amy Winehouse" opened her mouth the first time, I knew it would behoove me to write down every word she said so that I could post a blog about it later...I had a sense that her first comment wouldn't be her last. And as the day progressed, her anecdotes seemed more and more drug-induced, as if the horse tranquilizer she took at 9 had an "extended release" layer that disolved around 1.

So without further ado, the quotes in context:

1. On littering:

"Yeah and don't throw old apple cores out your window either because they'll think you put drugs inside the apple and search your car."

2. On driving while tired:

"I get tired when I ride in cars or when I drive cars and so one time I just closed my eyes for a second and ran into someone."

3. Still on driving while tired:

"One time I was with my friend and I fell asleep while I was driving and my friend was like 'whoa I couldn't even tell you were asleep'"

4. On hitting animals while driving:

"One time in Alaska, I hit a moose. A big ass moose."

5. On driving under the influence:

"The difference between a DWI and a DUI is...one is for drugs."

6. On bikers taking up lanes:

"I hate that bikes have the right to the road here."

7. On Alaskan thoroughfares:

"In Alaska, the road goes two ways."

8. On road rage:

"I watch True TV a lot and on almost every episode a cop gets runover."

"I think it's real stupid when people get mad at you."

"I'm not a bad driver, I just get angry."

9. On collisons:

"Airbags hurt. Plus you have to pay way more to get your car fixed when the front's bent in...but, I guess living is worth it."

10. On running out of gas while driving:

"When I ran out of gas, my brakes didn't work anymore, and I had to run into the thing you take your order on at Sonic to stop the car."

I found this old board in our mail room last week and have subsequently gone nuts making fake menus for the front desk. Humor.