Lumberjack Barbie

Guest Writer

2007-10-14T15:36:00.000-04:00

Tyler Lane [Beth’s youngest son] 10/13/07

WWE

[World Wrestling Entertainment]

Explaining WWE:

The WWE is a very popular global industry. It is just packed with WWE superstars. There are more than two-million fans who admire the industry. I am one of those fans. WWE is very… “hardcore.” I think it is very interesting.

So what are some of the characteristics of WWE?

Well, there are three brands of WWE. There is Monday Night RAW, Tuesday Night ECW, and Friday Night SMACKDOWN! Each brand is made up of varieties of WWE superstars. There are also many different kinds of matches like a Hell in a Cell match, Hardcore match, Bra and Panties match, [only for WWE Divas], and even pay-per-views like Wrestlemania, Unforgiven, and Summerslam. Every pro superstar has a theme song. The theme songs are really fun to sing to. The superstars have entrances, too. Those are only SOME of the characteristics of WWE.

What makes WWE so interesting to you?

I used to watch WWE when it was the WWF when I was a little kid, but not every night it was on. After a couple years past, I was flipping through the channels and caught eye with a superstar and the WWE logo. I thought it was still WWF when I saw it. Anyway, I started watching when I figured out the appropriate times it was on. Once I got into it, I started to love it. What makes it so interesting to me is the matches, the style of wrestling of the superstars, and the superstars themselves. Their outfits, their personalities, and of course, how they wrestle. There are so many things I love about it, that I made watching WWE my hobby.

[Closing] So are you going to do anything WWE related in your adult future?

Yes. It is my dream to become the most beloved superstar in the WWE. I want to make money, have lots of fans, and hear my fans cheering for me whenever I do something that entertains them. I want to continue loving WWE for many, many years.

Another Final Draft...

2007-10-08T19:48:00.000-04:00

This piece has been floating around in varies forms for years and a rough original appears on this blog. The final copy has been published a couple of times and can be found at the moment on Absolutewrite.com in the humor section.

Final Draft:

The Writing Life...

Often young aspiring writers ask me,

“What’s it like to be a writer? Is it difficult to come up with ideas? How DO you find the time?”

OK. I made that up. No one has ever asked me those questions.

However, if anyone ever did bother to ask me, I would be happy to tell them that the writer’s life is in fact the glamorous, rewarding and profitable existence they imagine it to be. At least I imagine it is. I’ll let you know if I ever find out.

Though it may appear to be an exciting whirlwind of talk shows, book signings and stalker fans, it is so much more than that. The writing life is a life of deep commitment and personal sacrifice.

Sacrifice? Am I speaking of the blood and the sweat? The vulnerability of bearing one’s soul to the masses?

Nah…I’m talking about real sacrifice

I’m talking about having the guts…no, the moxey, to take that final step towards propelling yourself past the mere dabbler and into the world of the serious artist.

Give up your clothes.

No, I’m not talking nudist. Try to stick with me folks.

You may have heard that Einstein owned seven identical suits in order to keep his brilliant mind free of such mundane tasks as having to decide what to wear each morning. We’re working with the same principle here.

In order to become a writer of great caliber, sitting in front of your computer all day in flannel pants and a tie dyed, “Jesus Is My Health Insurance” T-shirt is not an option. It’s mandatory. The bathrobe is optional however, depending on both modesty and weather conditions.

This is where the sacrifice comes in.

Even a high powered writer has a life beyond the muse, however limited it may be. The successful writer soon discovers that no matter how rich or famous you eventually become, at some point, you will need to go to the DMV.

Only a true artist is willing to show up at the bank, parent teacher conferences and Christmas dinner with the in-laws in the proud uniform of the professional writer. If you are sincerely devoted to the idea of becoming a “real” writer, you must be prepared to spend the rest of your life answering the question,

“Do you have the flu or something?“

So stand tall. Puff out your chest, and declare your proud identity to the world,

“I am not a bag lady, I AM A WRITER!“

And remember future writers, it is not illegal to drive while wearing bunny slippers in most states.

On Writing....

2007-08-03T10:02:00.000-04:00

I usually only post rough drafts on this blog, but I have decided to post two pieces here that are now in their final form and published elsewhere for comparison with the originals.

This piece is now titled, "Why I Don't Write Fiction," and I have placed them side by side.

Final Draft:

Why I Don't Write Fiction...

I don't write fiction.

That's not to say that I can't write fiction. I just don't. It's not my thing. When you're born destined to be one of those artsy fartsy types, you really don't have much say in the talent you get stuck with. Think about it. Isn't that really the only logical explanation why someone with musical talent would be drawn to the bagpipes? Those of us gifted with a writing bent may aspire to be the next Stephen King or Tom Clancy, but you get what you get. If you're a right brain-er and lucky, you'll get something other than handcrafting centerpieces from old toilet seats. Still, we creative types can always make a little scratch with all the niche markets on the Internet these days.

Unless you're a poet of course...poor saps.

Fiction also tends to be a bit long and quite frankly, there's not enough Ritalin stockpiled in the free world to allow me to focus long enough to turn out a manuscript of any length. My attention span seems to hover somewhere between 400 and 1000 words before the AD/HD kicks into high gear. At this point, I will inevitably find myself out in my car, digging through a heap of moldy coffee cups, ripped pantyhose and court appearance tickets so mountainous, it is truly life threatening in its avalanche potential. I am almost positive that this is where I left that valuable coupon for half off of a dog waxing...

Later, as I wait for one of the kids to discover me trapped beneath the fifty pound bag of kitty litter, I use this valuable time to contemplate my story. Humming along with the ear worm that has been persistently distracting me since word 800, I start to suspect that this may be why I get so many "weak ending" comments from editors.

"We're gonna dooo it oooouuur way...yes oooouuur way...make all our dreeeeeams coooome true..."

What was I...? Oh yes...

What I do write, my thing, is something called creative non-fiction. Basically, I tell true stories that really happen to me and I get to be a smart ass. I have no control over this aspect of the process as smart-assery happens to be my own personal version of the bagpipes. The "creative" part of the writing takes considerably more work because it involves improving the flow of a true story by using complicated literary devices that take years of dedicated practice to master.

My particular specialty is replacing the lame thing I actually said with the extremely witty thing that I realize, on the drive home, I should have said.

The "non" part of the fiction is easy. I simply describe the details surrounding the events that consistently demonstrate to the rest of the world what a dork I am.

Fortunately, my life generates a lot of material.

Original Draft:

I don't write fiction.
That's not to say that I can't write fiction. I just don't. It's not my thing. This is one of the problems with being one of those right brained, artsy fartsy types. You don't have much say in the creative talent you get stuck with. Who knows why one person is drawn to the bagpipes and another does pen and ink drawings of old barns. Most writers would love to be the next Stephen King or Tom Clancy, but you get what you get. If you're lucky, you get something that you can actually make a decent living at, but even if your "thing" turns out to be handcrafting centerpieces from old toilet seats, you can usually find a market and make a little scratch.

Unless you're a poet of course...poor saps.

What I do write, my thing, is something called creative non-fiction. Basically, I tell true stories and I get to be a smart ass. The "creative" part involves improving the flow and comedic value of a true story by using literary devices such as "For-shadowing" or manipulating a "Story Element" to create "Symbolism." My particular specialty is replacing the lame thing I actually said with the extremely witty thing that I realize, on the drive home, I should have said. I also have a tendency of over using "Italics" to "emphasize" whatever point it is I think I'm trying to make.

The non-fiction part is the true story where I describe, in detail, what a dink I am to the rest of the world.

Fortunately, my life generates a lot of material.

Letters to John...

2007-07-23T14:32:00.000-04:00

The Loveboat...

The carnival "liberty" was garish and tacky...what those of us who were raised in poverty recognize as "white trash elegant"... it reminded me of an old Italian woman's living room...all powder blue crushed velvet(minus the clear plastic covers) with crystals dangling off of literally every surface and the big portrait of Jesus with the fake gold frame...(I found one of those at a church rummage sale once and brought it home and hung it in the hall outside my bedroom - it's kitchy) The ship was something that bumpkins would think was "classy" and actual classy people would be appalled at...we fit right in I think!!!!

Anyway...

My mom and aunt go cruising every year and as two mature single ladies, they were "a couple"... My sister Jeanette had Jeff and the kids were all paired with a cousin...so I was the odd man out. Steve and I had broken up about 2 months earlier and I was kind of lonely. I didn't even have a real bed. We had three rooms: mom and Ann with 2 beds, Jeff and Jeanette with 2 big beds for them and the 2 kids to share and a third room for all the (4) boys...2 beds and 2 bunks... I had to sleep on the secret pull out bunk in my moms cabin but there was no room for any of my stuff so I had to keep it all in the boys room and constantly go back and forth...it sucked...

I'm sure some cruises are "singles" type cruises but this was not one of them. It was mainly old people, families with kids and couples. I saw a few single people roaming around but they all looked like college kids. The men my age were there with wives and/or kids...the only guys I saw my age that were single were gay couples rubbing oil on each other by the pool!

In St.Thomas, we were set to take a catamaran excursion to snorkel at "turtle cove" to see (duh) turtles. Just the adults and Michael were going. The little kids stayed on board (they have tons of stuff for kids). The deal with these tours goes thus : you ride out for about an hour to the place. The crew on board (3 guys) try hard to be incredibly entertaining and put on a "show" while they explain all the ins and outs of snorkeling and keep everyone laughing and having a great time (you tip them when you leave of course). You get there. Snorkel...then when its time to get back on the boat the crew breaks out the rum punch and gets everyone stinking, staggering, slobbering drunk for the ride home. The purpose of this is not only for the tip...but the fact that the boats all disembark at a STORE/BAR back at the dock (ah ha!) and when you arrive, you are REQUIRED to visit this store (and now you are drunk of course) before you can go back to the ship. Get the gist???

OK....As much as the crew tried to give the impression that this was a "WWooooooooo!!!! PAR-TY!!!" boat...I noticed right away that underneath the "animal house" atmosphere...they were not screwing around with the safety of their passengers.When we converged on the dock, they were late arriving and we had to wait out there for about 20 min. It was, oh, about A MILLION DEGREES out there with NO shade. People were slathering on more sunscreen and frying anyway. I was getting VERY nervous because I have low blood pressure (80/50 normally) and I get overheated very quickly and pass out if I'm not careful. I have had heatstroke more than once and I get SICK as a dog.

By the time the boat arrived, I was dizzy and nauseous and I was having heart palpitations. I wasn't the only one wilting I'm sure. The SECOND we got on the boat, the crew started clowning around. They had jugs of cold water and ice that they started throwing around on everyone and they made everyone start drinking water. No booze until AFTER the snorkeling. One of them - Joe...saw me sipping my water and looking sick (there wasn't any room for me to sit under the shady awning as everyone rushed to those seats). The music was blasting and people were screwing around... he came over to me and whispered "are you OK? You look a little green." I just shook my head. I was feeling really faint. He looked concerned and then...he threw ice on me! Then he threw ice on some people sitting in the shade and when they screamed and dodged out of the way...he quickly dragged me over and plopped me down on the space he had made. He hovered near me the whole way out and refilled my water 3 or 4 times and made sure I drank it. By the time we got to the cove I felt much better and I prepared to snorkel. I didn't think anything of it. He wasn't being flirty or anything. They all were "secretly" keeping an eye on everyone. Not just me. That is why there is NO alcohol BEFORE the snorkeling...only afterwards. He was cute though... short and Italian. Very nice looking and overly tan from being on the boat all the time. He had dark curly hair and the whitest teeth I've ever seen. Still, I really didn't think anything of it.

We all snorkeled. It was great yada yada...The turtles were awesome blah blah...We get back on the boat and the booze comes out. I had my first drink in my hand and I needed to use the bathroom which was "below." The problem was that the STAIRS to go below weren't really stairs. They were planks of wood only about 2 inches wide and they went down the five or six feet at almost a 90 degree angle.I had a drink in one hand and I was clutching the towel at my waist with the other. Now, what I SHOULD have done was STOP - knot the damn towel better and set my drink on a table but hey...this is ME were talking about here right?I turned sideways and got part of one heel planted on a step... slowly stepped out with the other foot...

And promptly fell down the stairs!

Fortunately, Joe was just coming around the corner and ACTUALLY CAUGHT me as my feet hit the ground. The look on his face! He was petrified!"OMG! Are you alright!!!"He was patting me all over like you do to a child when they accidentally do something stupid and narrowly miss killing themselves. I had banged up my elbow pretty good but otherwise I was fine. Poor guy looked like I gave him a heart attack! That was when I really "noticed" him. Paternal gestures like that melt me like butter in July!

So now we have determined that I'm OK and I'm standing there in his arms mortified! Suddenly, I was so embarrassed that I had fallen in front of him!He looked a little embarrassed too and he let go of me and grinned -"Look...you didn't even spill your drink."And I hadn't either!

Later...when we were all drunk. They came around with the tattoo's..The boats all have a tattoo they put on you so that when you get to the store you get a 10% discount - and the people in the store know which boat you came from so they can give the proper kick back.When Joe came over to me, he made a joke about "where did I want it" and did the eyebrows and the lecherous grin...the whole boat was laughing at "ooooooo"ing at us. I played along and vamped back at him a little and batted my eyelashes. I pointed to the spot on your stomach between your belly button and your hip bone but he just shook his head and made a big show out of sticking it to my (ahem...) chest area...kind of on my cleavage...the whole boat : OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Jeanette whispered to me : "I think he likes you!"

Hhhhmmmm!!!

By the time we got to the store everyone was STAGGERING drunk and we were laughing until we were ready to puke! The crew came through and were saying goodbye to everyone before they departed again and... I don't remember exactly what happened but people were chanting "kiss-kiss-kiss"!!!!I figured I would never see him again so I planted one on him and everyone cheered.Then he was gone.We all staggered back to the ship (Jeff has some hysterical video footage off our "walk???" back!)

I made it to the cabin, threw up and crawled into my bunk and passed out.

That is the most action I have had in while...

the end :0

Gone...

2007-04-24T21:40:00.001-04:00

“Gone”

By Beth Lane

They were long gone.

I stood, scanning the boardwalk for any sign of them in the driving rain but they had been running fast and I had fallen behind. Way behind. They had probably made it back to the car by now and were wondering where I was, why it was taking me so long. How would I explain? What was I going to say? A renewed sense of urgency washed over me with the force of the downpour that was drenching my hair and my clothes. Determined, I broke into a slow, awkward jog, heading in the direction of the car. My knees were plastered together and I must have looked ridiculous. I felt it slip again and I froze in terror. A defeated panic settled over me with an almost audible thud and I heard a desperate sob escape my throat. I was trapped as surely as an animal in a cage and the overwhelming reality of it all was crushing if not bizarrely surreal

A few hours ago, I was sitting on a plane. One of those old Delta’s that were featured in all the 70’s disaster movies, playing cards with my younger sister and pestering the stewardess for more peanuts. I had been looking forward to this trip even more so than any July before this. I was anxious to see my father. Not only because this week, this summer, was the only time that I would be able see him all year. That was important of course, but the main reason, the real reason, was because I was thirteen now. Well, almost thirteen.

My parents had divorced when I was three years old. My sister at the time was just a baby, maybe six months old. I have no recollection of ever living with my father or any man at all until I was married myself. For a few years after the divorce, we went and “visited” him every month or so before he moved out of town. His parents, my grandparents, lived in New Jersey and I think he needed to be closer to them so they could bail him out of both jail and whatever mess he landed himself in financially at the moment. I must have been six at the time because I remember vividly my mother getting quite hysterical and screaming at my maternal grandparents, “She’s just a baby! How can a court tell me that I have to put a three year old on an airplane alone!” She was referring to my little sister, who wouldn’t actually be alone with me there, and the fact that even at six years old, my mother considered me completely irresponsible and untrustworthy. Just like my father

But a court order is a court order and off to New Jersey we went every summer for a week only to return and regale her with horror stories of exactly what we did there. That was the best part. The very first summer we went up, Dad brought us to a friend’s house and while they were busy drinking in the garage, we wandered off into the back yard. The house was on a small bay and my sister and I decided to swim off the dock in the shallow, garbage filled water. I am pretty sure we were out there for hours before anyone noticed we were gone. Actually, I think it was the screaming that brought my father out back to find us. My sister had cut her knee on a broken beer bottle and my dad was afraid to take her to the hospital for stitches. “Don’t tell your mother,” was something we heard often. She still has a scar.

One summer, we were dropped off at my uncle’s house so he could watch us while dad had to work for a few hours. My Uncle Jeep lived with a “wiggler” named Tawny at the time. A “wiggler” was my dad’s way of referring to someone who did a little dancing, usually on a table and always topless. Jeep had a huge fish tank in the living room, underneath the lighted “Budwiser” sign. In this fish tank was something that fascinated us. A real live Piranha! The Piranha was really creepy looking. It didn’t move very much and its eyes were dead looking. Almost as if it was trying to fool you into sticking your hand into the tank and poking it to see if it was still alive. There was always a teeny, tiny fish cowering in the corner of the tank. I could almost see it shaking with fright, knowing that at any second, the Piranha might decide it was time for lunch. The thought of the little fish sitting in that tank, terrified, maybe for days, before it was eaten bothered me. I used to tap the tank, trying to startle the little fish enough to make it swim and dart in front the Piranha. I figured that the big fish might just be tempted to hurry up and eat the little one and at least the suspense would be over for the poor little guy. He never fell for it. I guess nothing I could do could scare that fish into moving when he knew there was a mouth full of teeth waiting on the other side of the tank.

I loved going to my uncle’s house. There were always people coming in and out and they weren’t just regular people either. They were motorcycle people and they usually let us sit on their bikes. They talked to us like we were grown up and they didn’t care if they swore in front of us either. My sister and I thought it was hysterical when they called us “little dudes”, as in “Hey little dude, bring me a beer would ya?” There was always something to do at Jeep’s house. In between serving his friends beer while they smoked bongs all afternoon, we chased the geese that lived in the pond in the side yard.

“Do not tell your mother that your sister was bitten by a goose!”

My favorite summer was the year that my dad just couldn’t get out of work and he had no one to watch us. His solution to this problem was to drive us out to the boardwalk in Point Pleasant at 7:30 in the morning in our pajamas and bare feet. He handed me, as the older child, two hundred dollars and told me to use it to buy what ever we needed for the day and to take care of my sister. I was eleven years old and I had two hundred – 1978 - dollars in my pocket! I took my little sister by the hand and led her down the boardwalk in search of breakfast. We feasted on fried dough and cans of soda, then wandered into a souvenir shop and hit the mother load. This was the place! The cashier looked at us a little funny, but when we left, we were laden with bags. We bought bathing suits and towels, flip flops, suntan lotion, tote bags and magazines. We spent the day shooting Skee Ball, lounging on the beach and talking to strangers. Other than the blistering, third degree sunburn we both had from being left out in the sun for twelve consecutive hours, it was the best time of our lives. My mother was not pleased.

We usually went up two weeks before my birthday and the Miss Universe pageant always took place while we were there. The three of us would watch it and dad would make lewd and disgusting comments about the girls. I figured that meant he thought they looked good. Last year, when I got off the plane and he saw me, he restrained himself somehow and kept the rudeness to a minimum. This was a major feat for my father, a man who threw around words like “Mother Fucker” in casual conversation just as if he was asking you to please pass the butter. I had grown over seven inches that year and stood about 5’ 4”. I was still as straight as a boy but I was tall and I my breasts were newly “in training” for a future in a real bra.

“Holy shit girl! Look at you! I was looking around for a little kid and here you are lookin’ like that! I didn’t even recognize you. Jesus Christ you’re gonna be hot like your mother!”

I was mortified! I had been unaware how different I looked.

That was last year. This year, I needed to hear it badly. Not only had I started my periods, but I had grown another inch and graduated to a 34B cup bra. After years of therapy, I understand now why I was so desperate to get his approval but at the time, all I knew was I needed him to say something. Even if it was rude or filthy, I needed to know that I had done ok. That I was “there” and that I was attractive to a man in some way. He didn’t disappoint me. At the airport gate, he did a double take and let loose a string of foul language that out did anything I had ever heard him direct at a Miss Universe contestant. When the three of us went to lunch and the conversation turned to all the guys I was going to have “trying to get in my pants” I was only vaguely aware of what that meant. I was embarrassed but secretly thrilled! He never exactly said I was pretty but I was starting to believe that maybe I wasn’t unattractive either. I felt grown up and I liked it.

After lunch, we started back to the house and then decided to make a quick detour to the beach on the way. The three of us walked down the boardwalk and out onto the sand. My sister kicked off her shoes and Dad peeled off his shirt as they ran into the waves together. I hung back. As pleased as I had been with myself a few moments earlier, I was about to have my very first brush with the Universal Law of Womanhood – “Thou shalt always have thy period on every vacation, every ObGyn appointment and every major holiday, especially wedding anniversaries and Valentines Day - Amen.”

My father shouted from the water,

“Come on girl. Get in the water. What you waitin’ for?”

Crap.

Now what?

I slowly wandered towards the shore line and let the surf rush over my feet. “I am not telling my father that I can’t swim because I have my period.” I thought to myself.

“I don’t feel like it.” I called back and proceeded to sulk on the shore.

They cajoled. They taunted. They started a spectacular mud fight that looked like so much fun I completely forgot about the dignity of womanhood and I was treacherously lured towards the water. First my ankles and then my knees, I was up to my waist before I knew it and I didn’t care. Childish play quickly canceled out any thought of the non water proof strip of glue that had a tenuous hold on the recently acquired and thoroughly bloody symbol of my passing into the realm of the “adult”.

Our fun was cut short by a rumble of thunder, followed by a pattering of drops on the water. We hurriedly made our way back up the steps to the boardwalk and I felt it just as the clouds opened up and pelted us with golf ball sized drops of rain.

It had come loose.

We made it up the stairs and Dad and my sister took off running. I tried to follow but it quickly became obvious that a few more steps would cause a disaster of teenage proportions and I froze in terror. I looked down the boardwalk and was horrorstruck to realize that hundreds of people had lined up on either side, under the awnings of the arcades and shops, to escape the storm and wait it out. I stood alone. Center stage. My audience had no idea what they were about to witness.

I tried to run, in desperation with my knees locked together, but it was no use. I sank down to the ground and sobbed in defeat. I didn’t care anymore if my father knew or not. I didn’t want to be a grown up anymore. I was just a little kid and I wanted more than anything to have my dad come back, pick me up and just carry me to the car. Ignorant as I was to my future of exam tables with stir-ups and childbirth in front of a crowd, I fully expected some miracle to magically save me from this humiliation.

Nobody came.

The rain was coming down hard enough to sting my skin and I slowly accepted the idea that I was on my own. I had to pull my own little red wagon and be a grown up about this. I was shivering from both fear and my drenched clothing, but I stopped crying and slowly stood up. I looked long on that endless line of faces and tried hard to stop my legs from shaking. This was it. This was going to happen and there was no way to avoid it. In that moment, as I started off in a run, I was both assaulted and comforted by such inner truth epiphanies such as; “Life is hard – suck it up,” and “You are ok even if you’re not perfect.” I cringed as I felt that bloody, water soaked piece of cotton slide out of the leg of my shorts and fall to the ground with a sickening splat, and the greatest truth of all descended on me with an almost spiritual power. It was a truth that would serve me often and well, long into adulthood.

I am never, EVER, going to see any of these people again as long as I live.

The Name Essay

2007-04-20T21:37:00.000-04:00

Name Essay –

Rubber baby buggie bumper.

My given name is Beth Bierbrauer. Try and say that one three times fast and it’s tougher than the tongue twister. This explains why, after my divorce, I never went back to my maiden name even though I would have loved to ditch my married name purely out of spite. It was the lesser of two evils. After fifteen years of not having to re-live the nick names every time I said it, I just couldn’t go through the readjustment period again. Flashbacks of “Beer-boobs,” “Beer-breasts” and every other mammary reference you could possibly think of, keep me, to this day, from filling out the name change form at the social security office. Disturbing memories of one year in particular, where I was known primarily as “Mount Ever-Breast,” come to mind. There’s an amusing little limerick that explains the rational of that charming endearment but I will decline to repeat it at this time. You might think I would be mature enough to handle it at forty, even if I wasn’t at fourteen. Of course, you might also think all the other forty year olds would be mature enough to not immediately giggle “Beer-belly” before I have even finished shaking their hand. Sadly, they are not.

Still, I should be grateful. My mother fought, and won, a fight to the near death with my father over naming me Roberta. You may have guessed his name is Robert. The only name that could have been more “rubber baby” than Beth Bierbrauer is Roberta Bierbrauer. The fact that she saved me from a fate worse than “Roberta” is what will keep her out of a nursing home someday. Remember that when you’re pouring through baby name books in the future, looking for the “perfect” name. It may be the difference between involuntary Bingo and strained prunes or your son installing a ramp and a shower seat so he can take care of you.

My mother has her faults, but at least she kept to the baby naming rules. If you read the tips for naming a baby, they always say that you should only name a baby with a one syllable first name if the last name has at least two. Two names with only one syllable sound weird. This was the lesser of the “Bierbrauer” evils I was referring to earlier. I had a brief marriage to my high school sweetheart when I was twenty. So brief, in fact, that I never even marked it in my score book. At the time, I was torn between the joy of ridding myself of the dreaded “Bierbrauer,” and the silly sounding double-single syllable name. Beth Statt. Fortunately, the marriage was over before I could even decide which to use. My second marriage was doomed from the start. I was young enough to believe I could make it work this time! Hey, I was in love. This time I was Beth Lane and I stuck with it to the bitter end and beyond. Now, several years later, I am working on my “third time’s the charm” relationship with a man who is utterly perfect except for the tragic fact that his last name is “Mark.”

To be honest, I really would rather just have my own name. “Bierbrauer” is my father. “Lane” was my husband and “Mark” is my boyfriend. I am just me and I’m starting to think that Cher and Madonna have the right idea.

I am Beth.

A Dish Best Served Cold...

2007-04-15T21:42:00.000-04:00

“A Dish Best Served Cold”

By Beth Lane

John is trying to pat my face with one of those bright yellow napkins you get from the fast food places but I’m not helping much. I’m laughing so hard, my head is bobbling around and he keeps missing, which makes me laugh even more. Coffee runs down the side of my nose and I erupt again because he looks so funny shaking with “non-laughter.” When John laughs hard, he doesn’t make any noise. He just makes this goofy wheezing sound. The funnier it is, the less noise he makes.

“What’s that smell?”

“Defeat.”

“What?” He doesn’t get it of course.

“No seriously”, I point across the parking lot, “Its chicken wings. See?”

There is a Sal’s Birdland on the other side of the street.

“It smells like ass!” John laughs as I roll up my window. The smell of rancid grease and various unidentifiable chicken parts brings back my focus and suddenly, I’m anxious to get inside.

When we pulled into the parking lot of the Super Wal-mart, John didn’t realize it was a mine field. He never saw the pot hole, which explains why I have coffee dripping from my eyebrows. I take the napkin from him and finally wipe it off myself.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Somehow, we manage to roll out of the Jeep and begin the long trek, still giggling and wheezing, across the devastated asphalt towards the store. We fall into our usual step, cheek to cheek, hip to hip and dodge the craters in unison. A warm autumn wind is twirling tired, dirty looking leaves along with the candy wrappers and garbage. There is a dirty diaper lying sodden near the cart return. It’s too heavy for the wind to twirl it much.

I stop and twirl myself, arms outstretched, like Mary Tyler-Moore.

“I told you it was a dump!” I declare proudly.

It’s not that John has never seen a Super Wal-mart before; he has. But he has never seen THIS Super Wal-mart. This one is mine, and it’s not particularly super but I have my reasons. He eyes me with suspicion and does “the eyebrow” at me. This thing he does where he raises first one and then the other eyebrow in rapid succession while wearing a comical quizzical look on his face. Grinning, I just shake my head. Not yet. He shrugs and we continue walking towards the store. He knows me well enough to know that I’ll tell him when I’m ready.

At the entrance, the electric doors almost seem to hesitate before laboriously sliding open. I pull out my list: cat food, Count Chocula, light bulbs. We grab a cart with the prerequisite broken wheel and dive into the swirling sea of shoppers. As I navigate the familiar aisles, I play tour guide and point out the more interesting sights.

On your right are filthy floors with the linoleum missing in great peeling chunks. To the left, you will see the clothes dripping off of hangers on every rack. They fall into colorful puddles to be marked later by muddy footprints. The thing that impresses me the most though, are the re-shop carts. Kept brimming by the inhabitants of the never-ending check out lines, they crowd every available open space with mountainous heaps of discarded and disorganized merchandise.

As we pass the produce section, I tell John about the time I came around the tomato display and narrowly missed running over an old man lying on the floor. His face was pressed painfully against the scarred floor and a thin trickle of blood had dribbled from his mouth. I didn’t panic or worry. The stores alert staff had already taken charge of the situation by placing four orange “Caution – Wet Floor” cones around his crumpled body. Someone had run a double length of bright yellow “Danger” tape around the cones for good measure before had they all, presumably, run outside to direct the ambulance.

We round a corner in search of light bulbs and are stopped by a family with at least twenty kids blocking the aisle. They are too distracted by the discount DVD’s to notice we need to get by them. John just smiles and shrugs at me so we start thumbing through the movies to kill time while we wait for them to move along. He’s great like that. He never loses his temper or his patience. He says he does, but I have never seen it happen.

John holds up a DVD for my inspection. It’s a copy of “Alice in Wonderland.”

“Do you recognize this girl?” I can tell he is teasing me about something.

“No. Who is it?” I play along.

“It’s you. Remember?” and suddenly I do.

***

His name was Tim and he lived down the street from me while I was growing up. He was a paper boy and I remember him watching me and following me around
on his bike. I knew that he liked me, thought I was pretty, but I thought he was ugly and obnoxious.

When we were ten years old, he wanted to kiss me. I said “No way!”, so he just knocked me down in the snow and kissed me anyway. When we were thirteen he would come to my door every day and “ask me out.” I would say no and he would go do something awful, like smash out all the windows in his garage. His dad would come to my door and yell at my mom to keep ME away from his son. As if somehow it was my fault that his kid was a spoiled brat and a bully. When we were fourteen, I grew tired of arguing. He finally wore me down and I agreed to go out with him. I think I started to feel almost guilty. Here was someone who just wouldn’t give up, someone willing to do the crazy things he did, because he loved me. How could I say no? Didn’t everyone want someone to love them like that? Who was I to reject someone willing to love me? Wasn’t that what I had always wanted?

The first time he hit me was three days later and I broke up with him. He came to my window in the middle of the night and refused to leave until I explained once more WHY I wouldn’t go back out with him. He begged and promised and threatened until I was exhausted. Finally, I would break,

“Fine! I’ll be your girlfriend again! Can I go back to sleep now?”

This became the pattern of my teenage years. I couldn’t seem to get away from him. He was everywhere I went. We hung around with the same group of losers and no other group would have me. The “druggies” and the “Heads.” This was my place and always had been. They were stupid and mean but they were all that I had, unless I wanted to be alone. Sometimes I would try to date someone else. Someone from a better clique, but whenever I tried to escape, Tim would inevitably show up, pledge his undying love for me and start a fist fight. I would quickly find myself alone again and alone was much worse to me than Tim. Defeated, I would always come back.

Until I met John.

We met at a party in March of senior year. He was everything that my friends were not. John was smart and funny, honest and decent. He came from a two parent family for Christ sake! How could he possibly like me? Me. The girl in the work boots, with the big hair and all the thick, black eyeliner. He played ice hockey and wrote for the school paper. What the hell did I think I was doing? I must have been crazy to think that I could combine our worlds. That I could spend time with him and his friends discussing literature and he could spend time with me and my friends smoking pot. Still, for a while it worked. John saw through my circumstances. He saw the real me. The girl that was underneath all the big hair and the mind that was at work behind the cigarette smoke screen. He knew I was smart and he told me so often. He tried to fit in with my friends and I tried to fit with his. We were madly in love and seventeen. We thought we could do anything. Even go to prom.

I never dreamed I would ever go to a prom. I made a really big deal of it all and I’m sure I drove John crazy with the details. He just smiled and indulged my girliness. He was always a good sport like that.

A couple of days before the big night, I had him drive me over to K-Mart so I could look for shoes. We pulled into the parking lot with “Pink Floydd” blaring, climbed out of the wagon and started towards the store. We had been in a silly mood all day and for some reason John decided to come up behind me and ducked down to scoop me up so I was sitting on his shoulders. I screamed and laughed and demanded he put me down but we were having fun so he started running instead. I don’t remember now if he tripped on something or just stumbled from my weight but I do remember falling and hitting that pavement hard.

When prom night came, I stood before him in my ball gown. My long blond hair tied back and one elbow length white glove on my left arm. It matched the white, elbow length cast that covered the right. I remember John reaching out and trailing his fingers down the cast to clutch at my fingers. His eyes were shiny with tears as he whispered,

“I am so sorry.”

“Why? I’m not. I am going to the prom with the best friend I have ever had. What more could I want? See? The glove matches perfectly. It’s barely noticeable.”

“But I broke your arm!” He looked so distraught!

“No! It was an accident. We were having fun. John, I have never had as much fun with another person as I have had with you.”

He stood back from me, looked me up and down and finally he smiled.

“You look beautiful. You remind me of Alice in Wonderland.”

“Alice in Wonderland? Geez, I think I would rather look like Cindy Crawford.”

“Naw. Alice was beautiful and so are you.”

“Who are you then if I am Alice?”

He grinned, “The Cheshire cat I think. Thank you for forgiving me. You are my best friend.” And he kissed me.

Parked by the creek after prom, we were busy steaming up the windows of the old Malibu Wagon when the beginning of the end came.

That huge brown Lincoln was moving so fast when it passed us the first time, it rocked the wagon on its axles like it was a toy. His brakes squealed as he came around for another pass. The headlights were blinding and I could smell the rubber of his tires. This time, he actually took the side mirror off and pushed the wagon a few feet to the left. I was terrified he would kill us both. Over the blare of the horn and the sickening sound of grinding metal I heard him loud and clear.

“You WHOOOOORE!”

It was Tim of course.

It was then that I knew I couldn’t keep him. John was the “anti-Tim” in my life. He positively radiated goodness. I didn’t belong with him and I knew it. I had the whole, “Abused Teenage Girl Abandoned by Father” thing that I was sure I was destined to live out to the bitter end. I would poison him somehow. Drag him down with me if I tried to hang on to him. Fear for myself. Fear for him. I had to give him up.

It was awful. I didn’t even give him a reason. He begged to know why and I just shook my head, unable to look him in the eye as he stood on my porch steps confused and hurt. I was mean. I deserved what I ended up with, and what I ended up with was Tim. John left town for college and I married a man I didn’t even like.

Tim loved to tell me how stupid or ugly I was depending on his mood at the moment and how much beer he had consumed that particular evening. Once, after he had “slipped on some ice” and broken his leg, I refused to go pick up his beloved chicken wings for him at midnight. I figured he was harmless in his cast and crutches. I was wrong. He chased me up the stairs and used his crutch to break a hole in the locked bedroom door so he could get to me.

The only good thing about my marriage was how little he was home. He spent every night drinking at a bar down the street and I tried to be asleep before he came home. I would find him in the mornings, passed out on the couch, balancing his styrofoam container of chicken wings on his bloated beer belly. His shirts were typically covered with sauce stains and he always bought enough to have leftovers for the next day. I would try to throw them away before he woke up but he would catch me and fish them out of the trash. It made me nauseous to see him chewing on the stale, greasy bones. He said they were better when they were cold.

When I discovered I was pregnant for my first child, I was horrified. I realized that this self imposed abuse had to stop. It was one thing to live out melodramatic teen angst and my “I don’t deserve anything better,” delusions for myself, but quite another thing to condemn a helpless child to suffer along with me.

The night I made my escape, I waited until he passed out, carefully removed the box of wings from his belly and brought it to the kitchen. I pulled a bottle of bleach from under the sink, doused the greasy morsels and put them back on his lap.

I stayed in hiding for a few months and when I felt safe, I looked for John, but it was too late. He had left town for college, a new life and presumably, a wife. He says he looked for me as well, but the computer, as we know it, hadn’t been invented yet. It took twenty years, a divorce under each of our belts, and the aide of internet technology to make this day, shopping in this crappy Wal-mart, possible. I am deliriously thankful.

***

“I’m going to buy this.” John tosses the DVD in the cart.

“My niece’s loved it but whenever it was on, I always had to leave the room. It reminded me of someone I missed very much.” He smiles his sweet smile at me, “I think I would like to watch it now.”

We finish our shopping and wheel into the shortest of the endless check out lines. This is my favorite part. Someone has put something that looks and smells utterly vile down in the bottom of the biggest pile of re-shops. There is an evil looking puddle spreading under the cart. How wonderful!

“Sweetheart, I don’t understand why you don’t just shop at the store across town? I think it’s even a little closer. Seriously, why are we really here?”

I shrug and go back to watching a bald, stoop shouldered clerk dig hopelessly through the pile of sticky, contaminated re-shops in the overflowing cart. The front of his shirt is covered with the faint traces of what looks like some kind of sauce and I smile.

I have my reasons.

Prof. Smith,

As I said before, fiction was something I thought was impossible for me. In this particular story, I attempted to write fiction that reads almost like memoir. In preparing for the revision, I went over your comments and did several exercises from the book. I included a sentence from page 225 in the “opening up your story” section. While I couldn’t make it fit as the first sentence, it is at the beginning.

The exercise that was the most helpful to me was actually on page 230. In the section, “A Little Gardening, A Little surgery,” I printed out a copy of the unfinished story and cut it up. It was great! I rearranged the pieces a bit and I could really see what was missing and where it needed to be.

The exercise, “Dynamic Scening” helped me with the ending as it made plane how I would establish the change of power in the characters. The “revenge” aspect of the plot needed to have the narrator clearly coming out on top.

To be honest, this story still doesn’t seem finished to me. The length limit was six pages and I have already exceeded that limit. I feel as if it still needs a little more in order to feel complete but I didn’t want it to run any longer. This is something I will take out and play with until I think its really done.

Finally, the mechanics are not usually my strong point and I know this. I did try to go over it and fix the errors and hopefully it isn’t too bad. I have trouble seeing the errors myself.

Thank you and I hope you enjoyed the story.

Beth Lane

Journal Assignment

2007-04-10T21:43:00.000-04:00

Journal ex. –part 1 pg. 62

The shovel makes a satisfying “scraaaatching” sound as I chop it repeatedly into the soil to loosen it. The baby imitates my movements with his little plastic shovel in the grass. We squat together in the front garden of the “new to us”, but very old ranch house. I breathe deeply the smell of green things and sunshine. We pick out the fat red grubs, slimy and plump and examine them as I turn over the now loose dirt and make a place in the crowded bed for the newest addition. I name the flowers for the baby as I do everyday: Columbines, Painted daisy, Purple coneflower, Bee balm. “This?” he asks pointing at a plant I had forgotten to mention. “Sweet pea. Like you!” I answer as his chubby little hands join mine in patting down the dirt around the thick, green stalk of the newcomer. The sun beats heavily on my back, making me sweat and I worry about sunscreen on the baby. We are almost done. “This?” He asks again. “Heliotrope.” I say, “It’s a sunflower baby. A mini one that will never get tall.” Gravel crunching in the driveway. We both turn to see the white truck stopping in its place in front of the garage. “Daddy!” We call out together. A handsome man in work clothes and boots comes around the side of the truck. The baby runs to him and is lifted high with kisses and giggles. The smile he directs at me makes the sun seem a cold thing. “Look!” The child points at the sunflower in the center of the bed. “Wow! That’s pretty! Did you do that buddy? Good Job!” I stand, brushing dirt from my bare knee’s and return his smile. “Not as pretty as mommy though…” I lean into his kiss. “Honey, I mean this, the yard looks great. You don’t know how I feel, when I come home and pull into the driveway after working all day and I see how pretty this all looks. It looks like…home. You’re doing a great job. I want you to know that I notice.” I bask in his praise as we walk arm in arm towards the house. I live for his smile and life is good.

***

The shovel makes a dull “thunk”ing noise as I stab the wet, muddy dirt in the back garden. The one in the corner, under the black walnut tree. There is just enough light left to see the holes. Cold wind bites my ankles, exposed from my crouching position as I hack out small holes to drop the bulbs into. Tulips. The freezing rain that has been falling all day drizzles down my hair and drips in my face. My nails are caked with black mud from clawing the earth with my hands. I hear the truck door slam in the driveway but I don’t stand up. I just keep digging and humming. A tuneless angry note that I keep repeating without trying to. I hear the squishing sound of work boots coming towards me in the grass but I pretend not to notice.
“What the hell are you doing out here? It’s raining for Christ sake!”
“I have to get these in the ground if I want them to come up this year.”
“Did you see what their doing in there? There are matchbox cars all over the place! It’s a mess!”
“They can’t help being bored. It’s too cold to play outside. I’ll make them pick up before bed.”
“You can’t even walk in there! Did you make anything for dinner? I’m starving.”
“It’s in the oven. We ate a long time ago. “
“Yeah…I’m sorry. I had an emergency.”
“You always have an emergency.” What’s her name this time? I wonder but I don’t say it out loud.
“I said I’m sorry. Ill spend time with you guys this weekend. I promise.”
Yeah right.
“Go eat. I need to finish this before it’s completely dark. We can talk later.”
But we won’t. We never do.
His smiles don’t live here anymore. He saves them for other people now.

***

The shovel lays silent on the ground, where it has been for several weeks. Pink climbing Fairy roses. That’s what this used to be. Now it is just an almost dead, knarled stump in the trunk of my car. I pace back and forth in front of this place looking for a spot to put it. The shovel waits on the cold dirt but I have yet to pick it up. To warm the smooth wood handle with my flesh and crouch, knee’s pooping, down to the ground. I tell myself I just need to make a decision on where to put it and then I will really plant it this time but it’s a lie. I have ripped the plant from its home at the ranch house and smuggled it around for weeks in the trunk of my car. This is a temporary place. How many times will I have to dig it up and move it if I dare put it in the ground? It doesn’t belong here and neither do I. Do I want to take it with me everywhere I go? Do I want to look at it everyday and be reminded? If it stays in the trunk much longer it will die. I pace. I kneel. I stand up again. I walk over and slam the trunk closed. I think it would rather be dead than be torn from its home. I think it would prefer to lay down and die, than to move around, homeless, for as long as I think this is going to last. I know I would. No one smiles anymore.

***

The shovel makes a soft sighing sound as I slip it effortlessly into this soil. I walk the empty clearing and randomly crouch to turn over patches of grass and dirt. This is good soil. Good for planting. My eye wanders the overwhelming empty green canvass before me. It is big. A lot of work needs to be done here if it is to become a proper garden. There is a perfect spot for raspberries and a hole already dug for a fire pit. I imagine sitting out here in the evening with a fire burning in July, apple tree’s and giant Sweet pea blossoms climbing the trellises I could weave with all these sticks. I hear footsteps in the grass behind me.
“I’m just looking.” I answer before he can even ask me.
“This year?” He asks anyway.
“Maybe,” I turn and look at the place where I will put an arch covered with tiny climbing fairy roses.
“If not this year, then definitely the next.”
I take his hand and we walk back towards the house, the shovel in my hand feels warm. It feels good.
“What will you plant first?” he wonders.
“Sunflowers.” And I smile the smile he says makes the sun feel cold.

Taking Risks...

2007-04-08T21:45:00.000-04:00

“Go ahead.” She said, “We have plenty of time.”

“Naw…I really shouldn’t.”

But I really wanted to. Everyday, at lunch, I stood
out here smoking and pretending not to look at it.
It’s a little Rebel. A chick bike and I covet it
desperately.

“I trust you. Here…”

She tosses me the keys and I immediately drop them.
She laughs when I bend down to pick them up and
nervously bobble them twice before I manage to grasp
them in my shaking fingers. Before I can change my
mind, I swing my leg up and over and settle onto the
seat. This is perfect, this tiny little bike to fit my
petite frame. We were made for each other I am sure.
There is no need to tip toe or strain as I back slowly
out of the parking space. When I turn the key, my
heart roars with the engine and I come alive with the
sound. As I maneuver carefully out of the lot, I pass
my own crappy car. I stick out my tongue at it. I
believe it is jealous. Almost drunk with excitement, I
grind my teeth at the light before I can finally
signal and turn onto open road. I’m free. Second gear,
then third, the wind shuts out the oppressive sounds
of life and buffets my helmet with a kind of mindless
peace. I’m alone and I’m flying. All clear so I pass a
red car, then a truck before I open it up on the now
empty highway. I squint my eyes against the rush of
happiness, oblivious to all but the road ahead. We
develop a slight shimmy and I realize that freedom
does have a limit after all so I throttle down slowly
to a more reasonable speed. I exhale heavily and only
then do know I have been holding my breath. I laugh
out loud and come back to myself. Lunchtime is almost
over.

A black truck tries to clip me as I swing back into
the lot but I just wiggle my rear end deftly out of
the way. Nice try. She is sitting on the curb smoking
her cigarette when I reluctantly drop the kick stand
and the chattering silence of life returns.

“So you want it?”

I am not ready to be separated from it yet so I cling
to the warm leather seat and stall by lighting my own
smoke. I love this bike.

“How much?” and I smile cause I already know it’s
mine.

The Breakfast Poem

2007-04-05T21:46:00.000-04:00

The morning inquisition takes place in the sunny yellow kitchen.

Our feet swing high above the orange floor tiles and

our chins hover close to the empty breakfast space. We bang forks

and wait for the space to be filled with food and the question.

Oatmeal and a voice as sweet as the crumbly brown sugar

that tops the steaming bowls. Grandmother pounces,

“What did your mother make you for dinner last night?”

Not fooled, we chant “Pork chops and broccoli trees!”

Pancakes with golden butter melting beneath the heavy syrup,

legs kicking, we dutifully recount pot roast, potatoes and

the hated carrots that swim in the onion floating gravy.

We don’t forget to mention the homemade cake this time.

The sunny side up faces, witness our unforgivable crime.

We completely forget our instructions to never, ever, speak

of drive through french fries. The triumphant look halts our swinging legs,

silences the banging forks and clenches our now sour stomachs.

The morning inquisition takes place in the sunny yellow kitchen.

Our feet swing high above the orange floor tiles and

Our chins hover close to the empty breakfast space. We bang forks

And wait for the space to be filled with food and the question.

Family Snapshot

2007-04-01T21:49:00.000-04:00

A Family Snapshot

Unruly child sits alone atop her mountain slide,

on a dead autumn any day of childhood.

Shy smile and scraped palms

proof of her exposure to the black and white world.

Portraits of “good,” “should,” be quiet” and “sit still.”

Her instinct is to tumble forward but she will sit frozen,

hair blowing, eye’s squinting against the wind,

until the photographer is satisfied.

She has begun to fear the negative.

Enough to curb the impulses that drive her

with headstrong distraction each day.

Slide!

There is no time to pose with dainty hands

and shadow smiles. Wide grins and hard fun

will keep the scrapes from turning into the hard calluses

of the photographers hands.

People From the Past...

2007-03-24T21:52:00.000-04:00

His name is Tim and he lived down the street from me
all the years I was growing up. He was a paper boy
and I remember him watching me and following me around
on his bike. I knew he liked me but I thought he was
ugly. When we were ten years old, he wanted to kiss
me. I said no, so he just knocked me down in the snow
and kissed me anyway. When we were thirteen he come to
my door every day and “ask me out.” I would say no and
he would go do something awful, like smash out all the
windows in his garage. His dad would come to my door
and yell at my mom to keep ME away from his son. As if
it was my fault somehow. When we were fourteen, he
finally wore me down and I agreed to go out with him
at last. He hit me three days later and I broke up
with him. All through high school, whenever I dated
someone, he would inevitably show up and start a fist
fight. He often would come to my window in the middle
of the night and wake me up to tell him once more WHY
I wouldn’t go out with him. Then he would beg and
promise and threaten until he got tired and went home.

I know exactly where he is today. He is back living in
that same house with his parents after being married
and divorced three times. He has a couple different
kids with a couple different women and he is a drunk.
He hangs out every night at the same dumpy
neighborhood bar we hung at as kids and probably
passes out each night with the Styrofoam chicken wing
container balanced on his giant beer belly

Interview with Tyler

2007-03-20T21:53:00.000-04:00

Journal ex – interview

Tyler Lane is eleven years old. He likes to ride scooters and play basket ball. His favorite food is Mexican pizza. He loves his cat shadow and the most important thing to him is his family. In ten years, Tyler sees himself married and would like to see his own child. He thinks he will be working at a computer warehouse. He wants to be a YMCA councilor, work at a hardware store and go to college. When Tyler is thirty years old, he will have three children. One older boy and two younger girls or vice versa. “I don’t want to be rich. I just want to be one of those people that can afford a nice wood paneled house and a pool. Just like normal people.”

Tyler doesn’t think he is good at math but he is “the bomb” at science and social studies. He hates when other people are sore losers or tattletales. Tyler thinks he needs to learn how to “just keep going” when he loses. The best thing that has ever happened to Tyler was when he was able to start visiting his dad after he moved three hours away. The worst thing that ever happened to him was when he lost his house after his dad left. Tyler misses his pool.

Coffee

2007-03-10T21:54:00.000-05:00

Coffee

My love is a cup of coffee.

Drip, drop, drip

Kisses brewing on my face.

I brush them away and hold tight to sleep

but his whispers pour into my ears

bubbling over to run down my cheek.

I breathe deeply the sweet, aroma of his flesh

and slightly I stir.

His warm, liquid kisses reach my lips,

tempting me to face the day.

I open my eyes,

and drink

Lumberjack Barbie Goes Fish'in....July 2003

2005-08-24T14:14:00.000-04:00

My soon-to-be-ex-husband was born and raised in the Thousand Islands. All of his family still lives there and being married to him caused me to spend a lot of time in a little place on the St.Lawerence River called Cape Vincent.
"How wonderful!" You say, "Most people pay a fortune for crappy little trailers up there to "summer" in and you had a place to stay with family for free!"
Yeah. Wow.
We went up there A LOT!!! And I'm here to tell you - It wasn't no vacation.
We had two choices of accommodations. His Mom and Dad had moved out of the family farmhouse and into a 2 bedroom trailer. Yes, That's SIX people crammed into a trailer where you can't drink the water and Tuesday was the only "Hot water showering day." Of course, there was only enough hot water for one person to take a shower and it was NEVER me.
Our other choice, and where we usually ended up because it had more space, was the farmhouse.
Mom and Dad had bought their little trailer in order to let Cary's sister and brother-in-law and their FIVE kids live at the house.
Let's do the math, shall we???
That's eight kids...four adults...Cary's little sister Holly who was in highschool at the time and his brother Michael on the weekends that he came home from college...Plus all their various friends who were "spending the night."
Ok, I lost count...But at the very least, there was ALWAYS a minimum of twelve people staying in this house.
May I reiterate....Wow...
Now, you are probably envisioning a great big, quaint old farmhouse...and you would be dead wrong. The house was just of medium size and (This is the God's honest truth) was built for one of the guys that was under Napoleon when he came down the St.Lawerence River WELL OVER a hundred years ago. Of course, you couldn't drink the water but even worse was the fact that VERY LITTLE had been done to maintain this house over the last century.
The floors sagged so much, you had to start at a dead run from the living room to climb the hill into the kitchen. The toilet NEVER worked and NO ONE was allowed to flush it except my brother-in-law who had a special relationship with it. I found out eventually that all the pipes were no good and when the toilet was flushed...It just emptied into the old stone basement and filled it with sewage. Sometimes someone had to go down and shovel it all out.
All the years we went there, I NEVER took a shower once or allowed my kids to get in that tub. It was literally hanging by a thread, so sunk down into the rotting floorboards that it bounced up and down when someone was standing in it. I had no intention of being the one to crash through the floor and land in the sewage filled basement - No matter how much B.O. I might be emanating.
Live wires hung out of the walls and the woodstove that someone had stuck in the kitchen (It was the only source of heat) was NOT up to code and regularly started fires in the walls. Not a smoke detector in sight I might add.
Again, I say, Wow...
Cary knew I loathed going up there. Not because of the people, but because of the living conditions, dragging all my babies up there and the chaos.
So, Knowing I had never been fishing before, he decided to take me out in a rowboat on the lake and teach me.
It was April, 45 degrees outside and pouring rain. The fact that I jumped at the chance shows how much I wanted to get out of that house, especially when you consider I was five months pregnant at the time. Besides, I figured that cold rain was better than a cold and deadly shower at the farm.
We drove to a friends cabin to borrow his rowboat and launched out into a little bay area that led into the lake. Cary baited my hook and showed me what to do. In about five minutes, we had caught four fish!! This was great!!
We rowed out to the very edge of the Lake and dropped anchor. Man, were the fish biting that day. We soon filled up the bottom of the boat and I was baiting my own hook after the first five minutes. I LOVED IT!!
Cary was facing the shore and I had a beautiful view out onto the lake. In a while, I noticed a huge ship out there but I paid no attention, I was busy fishing. A few minutes later, it was closer...and closer. I watched it with disinterest until it was practically on top of us then I became concerned for the occupants of the giant vessel.
"Hey Ray?" I said, "That giant boat isn't going to try coming into this shallow bay is it?? They'll never make it."
Cary's head whipped around and when he saw who was behind us he screamed,
"Get rid of the fish!!! NOW!!!"
I had no idea what he was talking about but the panicked and sick look on his face made me join him in chucking them over the side as fast as I could.
The water around our little boat was positively littered with dead floating fish. Evidence of our guilt. Once we emptied the boat, Cary started rowing for the shallow waters of the bay for all he was worth!! Man, those oars were flying!!!
The ship came within twenty yards of us and I noticed all the dead fish were STILL floating around our boat. A loud speaker was turned on and we were told to:
"REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. DO NOT TRY TO ENTER THE BAY. PUT DOWN THE OARS."
Cary was purple with exertion and I had been screaming to him over and over but with the wind and the loud speaker booming he couldn't hear me. Humiliated, he finally gave up and the big boat pulled up next to us.
After receiving our tickets for fishing without a license, we rowed in silence back to the shore. Finally, I could stand it no longer and I erupted into laughter. I Kept picturing his face as he was frantically rowing towards escape.
"You could have told me." He said.
I couldn't stop laughing,
"What did you think I was yelling my head off about?" I choked out. "It's not my fault you couldn't hear me. I really liked fishing though...When can we go again?"
He Shot me a deadly look...
The anchor had been down....

The Boardwalk Story....

2005-08-08T14:09:00.000-04:00

My parents were divorced when I was three and Nenny was just a baby. My Dad left Rochester and moved to New Jersey so he could mooch off my rich Grandparents (His Mom & Dad),so we only saw him once a year. In July we would get on a plane and go to NJ for a week and visit. It was a blast cause my Dad was an idiot and literally let us do whatever we wanted.
We spent a lot of time at Point Pleasant Beach. Complete with a long boardwalk lined with arcades and restaurants. Dad would drop us off in the morning with a HUGE wad of money and go to work. We often didn,t even have shoes on or a bathing suit with us, but he would give us a couple hundred dollars and we would go into the shops and buy towels and flip flops and sunglasses and stuff.As I said , It was a blast. We were only 8 and 10 yrs old at the time and we were free on a boardwalk with 200 dollars. A kids dream come true.
The summer of the "incident" was the last summer we ever went there. The following year, Dad migrated with all the other dead beat Dads to Florida back in the day when it was the only state that you could hide out and not pay child support. I never saw him again until I was married and had a kid of my own.
I was 11yrs old - Nenny was 9 and My 12th B-day was a few weeks away. Now most of you women will realize this but for the men I will remind you that the year between 11 & 12 is an eventful time for a girl. I had my first real bra and 5 or 6 months earlier I had entered into that "Magical realm of womanhood" that involves having a monthly visitor if you get my drift. The initial excitement had already worn off and I was experiencing that law of the Universe that says : "Thou shalt always have your period on every vacation , major holiday, wedding anniversary and ESPECIALLY valentines Day." - You women know what I mean.
We arrived in NJ and the day was beautiful so we went straight to the beach. I wanted to get in that water soooo bad!!! - But NO WAY was I going to tell my Dad why I couldn't. He had already made a remark about my bra and embarrassed me. My mouth was shut!!!
Jeanette, who was well aware of my situation grinned at me - neck deep in the ocean - and splashed water at me. I hovered at the edge of the water with just my feet in and Dad kept yelling " Come on Girl , we can't stay long , get in the water." I was in a total panic and positively seething at the "unfairness" of it all.
Rather than "fess up", I edged into the water. First up to my knees then my thighs....And of course a huge wave came and hit me and soaked me from head to toe.
Everything still seemed to be in place so I stayed where I was and splashed around with Nenny until it was time to leave....
As we headed back up the beach towards the boardwalk I noticed a strange sensation. My "apparatus" was shifting around !!! These were the days before super sticky tape and wings and all that crap and the "Sticky" was no longer sticky from getting wet. I walked VERY slowly and every couple of steps I had to look around and quickly "readjust" when No one was looking. I knew I was screwed. It was a LONG way down that boardwalk to the car and Dad kept telling me to hurry up.
Just at that moment, as it only does in NJ every afternoon in July, A "sun storm" started. torrential rain comes down as big as golf balls and actually stings when it hits you. The sun keeps shining and it only lasts about fifteen minutes but this was definitely the WRONG time!!!
DAD yelled "RUN!!" and he and Nenny took off down the boardwalk. I froze. Everyone else at the beach that day was waiting under the awnings that lined the boardwalk. A line of people about a mile long stood along both sides of me - all facing out and watching as I stood - alone - in the completely empty middle of the damn boardwalk while the rain was pelting me -(Getting me even MORE soaking wet!!)
I started to shuffle -hop with my knees together. I must have looked like an idiot but I could see Dad and Jeanette fading in the distance and they were calling me - "Hurry up!!"
Faster and faster I shuffled along, desperate to get to the car but It was starting to become clear to me I was NOT going to make it. My "apparatus" was just as desperately trying to make its escape from my shorts and I would be damned if I was going to grab myself in front of all these staring people to "Adjust" it!!!
Defeated - I stopped dead. I stood in the rain. Dad and my sister were no longer visible to me so at least I wouldn't have to explain this to my DAD... My eyes scanned the LONG line of faces - all staring back at me - and I remember thinking to myself , " You know , Beth , Your NEVER going to see any of these people again and none of them know you....."
I abandoned any feminine dignity I may have had and once again became the Tom Boy I had been a year earlier - before the "Magic of Womanhood" had got ahold of me.
I took off like the star center soccer player I used to be - knees to chest - I POUNDED down that boardwalk!!!
Within a few steps I felt it slithering out. Then I heard it as it hit the ground with a wet splat.
I envisioned the looks on that wall of faces and in my minds eye, I could see it lying there, smack in the center of all eternity, but I held my head up high and I NEVER looked back.
When I got to the car Dad said " Where the hell were you??" I think I said I stubbed my toe or something and I know my face was probably purple but he just backed the car out and before we even got out of the parking lot....
"Oh look , The rain stopped..."
OF COURSE IT DID... TOO LATE NOW ISN"T IT????
Very Funny God..... HA - HA .....

Oswego...Satan's personal Hospital....

2005-07-25T15:25:00.000-04:00

I don't know if you have ever had an accident or been seriously hurt. I've had the misfortune a few times in my life and I guess I had become a little spoiled by the high quality of the health care we get around here. There is always a moment, when help has arrived and you know someone is taking care of you, when you relax and let the "shock" just take over. You close your eyes and just start to drift away, feeling safe after the stress and fear of the initial injury or accident. The paramedics had assured me that they were going to get me out of the car and into the ambulance, sending me on my way to the hospital, just relax... so I did.

Strong hands grasped me...1...2...3...

Then they dropped me.

Not all the way to the ground but they banged me around knocking me into the car pretty good.

They tried again.
And dropped me again...and again a third time before finally manhandling me onto the stretcher. I was no longer "relaxed". In fact, I was doing a lot of yelling and screaming as I could feel the broken ribs grinding together with every movement. Once on the stretcher, getting me ON the ambulance also proved to be a problem. The stretcher refused to "fold up" as it was supposed to so it apparently was necessary to keep slamming it over and over again...

On the ambulance, I tried to close my eyes again, when suddenly I felt a terrible stabbing pain in my arm. Someone was trying to start an IV...not very skillfully either. Being strapped to the board with my head in a collar, my line of vision was only directly in front of my face. I couldn't see anything but the ceiling and I guess no one realized that I couldn't SEE what anyone was doing and no one felt obligated to TELL me what they were planning to do to me BEFORE doing it. This was apparently standard procedure in Oswego and I NEVER closed my eyes again.

In the emergency room, they proceeded to stab me with needles and press on my broken bones without ever warning me they were going to do it. Every time I screamed someone would testily yell back at me, "WHAT?"... To which I would scream "That hurts damn it!" and the Doctor kept nervously asking "Why? Why does that hurt?"

"Oh I don't know...maybe because ITS BROKEN you idiot!"

I had to pee REALLY bad and they couldn't let me off the board yet so a nurse prepared the catheterize me. I have had this done several times before and I know that if you do it RIGHT it is completely painless but if you do it wrong....Lets just say I think it was her first time and my yelling and swearing didn't endear me to her either. Once she managed to get it in, the entire staff apparently has a directive to make sure they get their feet tangled in every catheter tube/bag that they come into contact with in order to make sure "It's really in there good." Kicking your feet around violently to dislodge it is encouraged.
Also, my room apparently had a bunch of supply cupboards in it that employees used CONSTANTLY so while she was fumbling around down there at least 20 people walked in (leaving the curtain wide open mind you) to watch the show as they retrieved bandages and what not from the cupboard.
Anyone who missed the first show got to catch my second act "MY OTHER HALF" because when she was done, she had to cut off my shirt and bra so the doctor could examine me when he got around to it. Without covering me up in any way, she then left me there in the "supply room" for about an hour with my arms strapped down. All I could hear (but thankfully not see as I was still only staring at the ceiling) was people coming in and mumbling "Oh!...sorry..."

The x-rays and cat scans were the worst though. They sent me back four times and although there was a sheet under me and my neck hadn't yet been "cleared" NO ONE would help me get on and off the table. They made me wiggle excruciatingly across the stretcher onto the table screaming all the way. The tech was pissed that it took me so long and kept yelling at me to hurry it up. During two of the x-rays, when I couldn't get into the position that he wanted me to, he told me...
"Your not going to like it if I have to get someone in here to YANK those arms down for you!"
and
"Im just going to have to pull all your hair out if you don't get your head up higher!" (He was trying to shove one of those film things under my neck)

I did at that point go off on him and Im embarrassed to say I dropped a couple of "F" bombs. He just calmly leaned over my face and said "I can't work with someone who is so uncooperative" and left me there for twenty minutes....

Oh..there is more but these are just the highlights...

My main concern was that they were worried that my spleen was ruptured. I spent a lot of the time praying, "Please God, don't let me have to have surgery here. I'm too young to die!" When I found out it was just seriously bruised...hallelujah!!!!

When my mom arrived she argued with me. The doctor DID NOT want me released. She didn't think I should leave the hospital as I was seriously injured (I had a lot of lung bruising from chest trauma). I kept saying I was afraid to sleep because I thought I would wake up dead but I don't think she believed it was that bad until....

The nurse came back just then to remove my catheter because my neck was cleared as "not broken" so I could use a bedpan now. She actually just grabbed the tube and said " Grit your teeth! 1..2..3" and YANKED it out as hard as she could! (Did anyone in Rochester hear me scream at about 10:00pm the night of July 11?)

When the Doctor came back to the room my mom said " I AM taking her home NOW! "

Finally!

Biophobia.... March 2003

2005-05-05T13:26:00.000-04:00

BIO-PHOBIA

I have never minded having people read my writing but nothing intimidates me more than that little blurb at the bottom of the submission guidelines page - "Please include a short Bio at the end of your article".
Many of the Bio’s I have read ( present company excluded ), were -
1) Terribly pompous sounding
2) Frustratingly mysterious
3) Mind numbingly boring
I came to the conclusion that in order to really connect with my reader and get them to remember my work, a little intimate and personal information about my life was necessary. What kind and how much is up to the individual writer as long as it’s REALLY personal. I guarantee if you follow my example, people will never forget your writing or ( yawn ), dismiss you as dull.
So, with your kind support, I would like to finally conquer my fear of "BIO'S" and present to you here :
THE BIO OF BETH LANE
Ms.Lane resides in Hilton New York . She is 35yrs old, married and the mother of three boys. Her husband, aside from being an extremely handsome, wonderful, caring man, also suffers from OCD - (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Because he suffers from "The paranoid obsessive checker" kind as opposed to the "Germ fearing hand washing" kind, he can usually be found,(At 3:00am), in the basement with a stick and a flashlight trying to catch the rabid squirrel he is convinced lives in the ceiling.
Ms.Lane's oldest son is 15 and attending his first year of High School. He is tall, brilliant and handsome. Unfortunately, he has, of late turned into basically a sullen, smart mouth, 5'10" - 135lb hormone, coated in a thin layer of grease. - Nuff Said.
Ms.Lane's middle son is 12 and the most angelic looking, blond haired , blue eyed , apple-pie freckled face child you will ever see. He was also born ADHD, (As were BOTH his parents- the kid never had a chance). Because of the insecurity and low self-esteem of this condition, he quickly developed what is known as OPPOSITIONAL DEFIANCE DISORDER. This is a very polite psycho-babble term for a kid who would rather DIE than do anything someone told him to do.
The baby of the family is now 7yrs old. A sweet and very spiritual child who has developed an INTENSE interest in germs and how to get rid of them, - (OCD is hereditary).
Ms.Lane also shares her home with a dog named Caleb and four kittens that were abandoned under her bedroom window this summer. Over the years, It has also been home to numerous fish, lizards and frogs. One VERY large turtle and a chicken who refused to keep her end of the bargain by laying eggs in exchange for the corn and water she was fed. The aforementioned chicken was evicted and now resides at Lolly-Pop Farm despite Ms.Lane's repeated attempts at mediation.
When not writing, Ms.Lane understandably tries to "get away from it all". Last spring, she spent a week at St. Mary's hospital in the psych ward - heavily medicated. Although she does not remember much of her stay there, Ms.Lane highly recommends it to anyone seeking serenity as it is much more cost effective than, say, a week in the Dominican Republic and you don't need to waste money on new beach wear.
The Squirrel is still at large.

My Secret Identity....Jan. 2003

2005-04-30T13:30:00.000-04:00

My Secret Identity

I cant wait to see the looks on their faces.
All their lives my children have assumed that their father and I were about as exciting as dry toast and plain yogurt. In reality we are more like salsa. A commonplace condiment maybe, but it is also a sneaky one. We often have a little more "kick" than you expected when you first scooped us up on the tortilla chip of your assumptions.
I'm getting hungry...
What I mean to say is that being a parent is a lot like being a superhero. You need a secret identity in order to keep your sanity.
Someday, when my boy's are all firmly established in their own households, I'm going to drop the bomb. I'll wait until they're secure and smug in the knowledge of their own "coolness." Then, I'll hip them to the fact that not only were we cooler than they ever imagined, but we were actually real human beings. The Brady Bunch, Stepford dork routine was just an act put on their benefit.
First off, I'm going to clear up the sex thing. I know intellectually they must realize we've had sex at least three times, but a sex LIFE? What a riot to tell them how we once made mad passionate love on a pool table during the wedding reception of our two closest friends,( I'll leave out the part about being six months pregnant at the time - it kills the romantic illusion). The shock of that little revelation could very well make up for all the times one of them came down with the stomach flu while sleeping in MY bed.
At some Thanksgiving dinner in the future, they'll start bragging about how they once put one over on us by having a party while we were out of town. I'll just have to let it slip that their father and I spent that vacation stumbling drunk around Toronto, singing on the subway and throwing up in fancy hotels. I'll make sure to do it when they've brought their new girlfriends home for the holidays. The humiliation of finding out your cookie baking mother was once thrown out of "The Hard Rock Café," should be more than adequate payback for all the cub scout jamborees I was forced to attend.
Revenge is sweet.
What about that time I went deep undercover trying to expose a guy who owed us money? He was claiming to be out of work, when in fact I knew he was operating a landscaping business off the books.
Borrowing my grandmother's beat up powder blue Impala, I decided to have myself a "stakeout". The plan was to snap pictures of his truck full of lawn mowing equipment as he left for work that morning. Not wanting to be recognized, I studied my reflection in the mirror. Tucking my long hair into a baseball cap, I donned a flannel shirt and dark glasses. I still looked like me only wearing a hat and dark glasses. I needed something more...
Cutting up some craft fur, I fashioned a brown mustache for myself and stuck it to my lip with tacky glue. According to my husband, who was laughing so hard I was afraid he might pee himself, I now looked like "Paco - The Columbian drug lord from hell." Perfect! Armed with a camera and very little sense, I waited outside the guy's house. Incredibly, his neighbor's never called the police to report a suspicious character hanging around and my disguise worked beautifully. I'm sure my prey knew he was being followed, but to this day, he has never realized it was me.
Long from now, I'll regale my little grandchildren with the tale of their granny desperately snapping pictures during a high speed chase while wickedly high on glue fumes. They'll smile and nod indulgently, while my oldest son asks if i've taken my medication today.
It's a good thing Grandpa took photos because no one will believe.....
I am Batman.

Hey....There's a dead guy in my car....Nov. 2003..

2005-03-09T13:33:00.000-05:00

HEY....There's a dead guy in my car!....

Sunday morning.
7:00am...
We were living in our crappy first apartment while we saved for a house and like all young mothers with small children -I had already been up for two hours and had at least three cups of coffee. Cary was blissfully sleeping away the morning and I was bored out of my mind.
"Hey Michael," I asked, "want to come to the store with mommy and get a newspaper?"
Michael was three at the time and totally engrossed in the Sunday morning "BARNEY-A-THON on PBS.
"Noooo!" He was adamant, "Want to watch Barney!"
I quickly ran through my mental repertoire of mom tricks and settled on an ancient ploy used by mothers from the beginning of time.
"Hey Michael," I called, "want to go get some doughnuts?"
"Doughnuts YEAH!!" Screw Barney.
Derek was just a baby so I removed him from his little swing and slung him on my shoulder. I took Michael's hand and we headed down the three flights of stairs to the parking lot. (Of course, if you have ever read any of my stuff you would automatically assume we were in our pajamas - and you would be right.)
It was early summer and the sun was shining brightly. Unfortunately it was still at an angle in the sky that caused me to squint blindly as I groped for the car door handle. I got the door opened and started my maneuver of leaning all the way into the back seat with the baby outstretched in my arms to place him in his carseat. Just as I set him down and started to turn to help michael in....
Now before I go any farther let me explain that I am not afraid of men in general as long as they stay where they are supposed to be. In elevators ect... But when one shows up where he is not expected - the first thought in a womans mind is he is there to kill her. Sorry guys but its true. For example : If a women goes out to her garage to put some garbage out and suddenly see's the shape of a man she will freak out. It doesn't matter that it turns out to be your nextdoor neighbor that you have known for ten years returning tools your husband lent him. He's not supposed to be there. Understand??
Good. I will continue...
So - out of the corner of my eye I saw the shape of a man sitting in my front passenger seat. Definitely not supposed to be there!!
I screamed and grabbed the baby up backing away so fast I knocked poor Michael on his little butt.
The door was open and now we could see inside.
"Who is that mommy?"
"I have no idea baby."
The man hadn't moved at all and I realized that he wasn't coming after me or trying to pull me in the car. I became a little braver and leaned into the door a bit. I was kind of afraid he would suddenly jump at me like a horror movie but I was starting to think the worst.
"HEY!!" I yelled into the car, "HEY MISTER!!"
Nothing.
I leaned even closer to look at him. He was dirty and scummy looking with long greasy hair hanging in his face and he looked like he wasn't breathing. He hadn't even twitched when I had yelled at him.
Knowing we didn't live in the best of neighborhoods, I assumed he was a junkie who OD-ed and crawled into MY CAR to die. GREAT!!
"Mommy, are we still gonna get doughnuts?"
"Hold on baby, I think we need to get daddy for this."
Back upstairs we went and though I intended to wake him up gently.... I sort of yelled -"Cary , There's a man in my car!!"
"Huh??"
"I said, There is a man in my car and I think he is dead!!"
Those caveman instincts to "protect your woman" sprang into action and I don't think I have ever seen Ray move so quickly. He jumped out of bed and into a pair of jeans. Barefoot and barechested , hair in a wild tangle of sleep cowlicks , he pointed at Michael and I and said "Stay here!"
He took off at a run. Michael and I looked at each other and immediately ran after him. We weren't scared anymore with superdad on the job. We wanted to see what he would do.
We caught up with him at the car. He was standing on the passenger side looking in and wearing the look of utter and complete indignation that only Ray can manage.
"Is he dead?" I whispered. Ray shot me a look that said "I'll handle this thank you very much." and he ripped the door open. Grabbing a double fistful of the guys jacket, he hauled him out of the car and slammed him against the window.
Nothing... The guy didn't move.
"I told you he was dead!" I said.
"He is not dead. For God's sake Beth can't you smell that?? The whole car stinks of Jack Daniels!!"
"I didn't smell anything. Why isn't he waking up then??"
Cary started shaking the guy vigorously and banging him against the car.
"Hey buddy!!" he yelled over and over, "Your in my car man. Wake up!!!"
"See! He is dead!! I told you!!"
AArrggghhhh...... said the dead man and Cary flashed me the "I told you so look."
"Hey! What the hell are you doing in my car??"
The dead guy cracked one eye open and surveyed the scene. He stood up - sort of - and mumbled " sorry man" and staggered over to the car parked next to mine. He got in and drove away.
Cary and I looked at each other. He looked like a wildman.
"Where the hell were you going this early in the morning??"
"To get some doughnuts daddy." Michael piped up.
"And a newspaper." I added.
Cary tore his hands through his hair in frustration. Now it looked even worse if that was possible. He took a Deeeeeep Breath...
"Is the coffee on?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Get me a couple of those peanut doughnuts that I like will ya??"

In the Belly of the Beast...

2005-02-28T13:38:00.000-05:00

IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST…….Laundry Day!!!
aahhh....Laundry Day.
Don‘t try to pretend., You know exactly what I’m talking about.
Everything else suddenly takes on new urgency.
You absolutely must alphabetize that spice rack right now and those toothpaste speckles on the mirror aren’t going to clean themselves are they?
You can delay and procrastinate and putter around all you want to sister, but you know at some point you are going to have to face the facts.
There is not ONE clean pair of underwear in this house. You and ONLY you stand between your family’s need for fresh smelling towels and your own terror!
IT’S LAUNDRY DAY!
That ominous day of the week you have been dreading and trying to forget.
It is time.
Cautiously you creep down the cellar stairs, the lump in your throat pulsing with the beat of your heart.
Slowly you open the door, eye‘s straining against the darkness, hoping against all hope that someone - ANYONE - has been on top of this during the week.
You step through the door,
(CCrrrreeeeeeekkkkk)
Breath rasping in your throat, you hear a soft chuckle in the blackness.
It’s waiting for you. It knows you are here.
Desperately fumbling for the light switch your suddenly blinded by the glare of the naked bulb. You stagger back in fear, crying out, "Dear God, What is that THING!!"
The Monster looms in front of you, grinning with wicked glee at your terror and you know there will be no negotiations or excuses this time.
You’re on your own.
Back straightening, you come out of your customary cringe and try to stare it down, show it who’s boss. This time you will be victorious!! Confident now you scan the room, trying to decide where to attack first. Kill or be killed is your motto today.
Hey…. Isn’t that the sofa slipcover that one of the cats chose for her unexpected attack of diarrhea???
RETREAT!
Mumbling out loud you wonder ,“Is that the phone ringing”?, while trying to back out of the room.
Too late!!
In a flash, hundreds of dirty sweat socks pelt through the air - slamming the door behind you. “Really”, you moan , “ I swear was going to come right back!”
A tentacle of nude beige pantyhose slithers slowly up your ankle and your trapped!
The only sound now is the bubbling laughter of the washer as it dances merrily off balance and the crazed sobbing as you beg for mercy….Mercy….MERCY!!!

The Bob Mobile, Atomic Fallout and Half Eaten French Fries...Nov. 2003

2005-01-03T13:40:00.000-05:00

Did you know that cockroaches.....
Wait...Let me clarify first what I am talking about here. I am NOT referring to those wimpy ass Rochester cockroaches you find over on Joseph Ave. What I AM referring to are....
FLORIDIAN cockroaches!!!!
You know....the ones that used to star in those old horror movies after they were all caught in the radioactive fallout from atomic testing????
Yes...I see you are beginning to understand. Let me start again....
Did you know that cockroaches can not only survive the three day trek from Florida to Rochester but that they can also live quite successfully and thrive quite happily, undetected for over a month, in a 1988 Lincoln Towncar???
At least until they get careless and lose their footing anyway....
My whole life, my father has been in possession of at least one junk car that he bangs around in (Literally...he gets in an accident every other week)...affectionately and permanently named "THE BOB-MOBILE". When he found out that I was without a car recently, he very generously offered to drive his latest junker up from Florida so I could get back and forth to work. I did kind of wonder why he had recently purchased a NEW car....
One of the apparent "tenets" of said car let the cat out of the bag this morning when I discovered him, floating belly up, in a half drunk cup of Lipton's tea I forgot to remove from my cup holder last night. My guess is he was relaxing after a hard night of whatever it is cockroaches do for a living....You know....just having a nice cup of tea, when all of a sudden (!!!)... The Towncar was rocked violently by one of those 90 mile an hour gusts of wind that "Isabella" was supposed to be hitting us with last night and "Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma'am"....Game over for Senior cockroach.
His buddies probably spent all night trying to get him out of there before I discovered him this morning....
THE JIG IS UP...
On closer inspection I found something else that disturbed me deeply -(Considering I still had no choice but to GET IN THE CAR and drive it to work...)- Apparently an entire colony of those microscopic ants is living between the cushions of my front passenger seat. This bothered me a great deal until I realized that they REALLY WERE staying only on the passenger side...which makes total sense when you take into account that the passenger side FLOOR is where I store all those McDonalds bags and half eaten french fries that I am far too lazy to dispose of. Who could seriously blame them???
The time was getting late and I had to get to work so we kind of struck up a deal...
They could come along for the ride as long as they stayed on THEIR side of the car. The ants kept their side of the bargain but I really didn't trust them so I ended up itching and slapping my way down 390. When I arrived at my case, I was compelled by forces beyond my control, to preform a very amusing little dance (consisting of a lot of jumping around and brushing at my clothes) for the neighbors. After about 5 minutes...the applause died down and I did my job, however, I had to do the same little dance upon my arrival home. My neighbors were not as impressed.
Westsiders...."Been there...Done that"
Oh yeah!!!
I almost forgot....
Last night as I was preparing dinner, I had a craving for some Uncle Ben's. I Put the water in the pot...the pot on the stove....and I dumped in two boxes of that delicious wild rice....
Let's just say....
It's a good thing that meal worms float to the top....
The sheer Heebie Jeebie factor of the last twenty-four hours is enough to keep me itching and scratching straight through the fall and probably past Christmas....
Anybody need a ride???.....

This Is Only A Test...

2004-12-03T13:54:00.000-05:00

Relax.
I am not having a mid-life crisis or an empty nest crisis or any other kind of psycho-babble "syndrome". Although, I do admit this experience would come in handy if I ever was to go through one.
Thirty five is nowhere near mid-life, besides I absolutely love this carefree nirvana of freedom I've achieved by finally getting ALL my kids in school. Really, I've been meaning to get that lint picked out of my bellybutton for thirteen years and the alphabetized spice rack is a terrific time saver.
Just the other day - ( while I was working out an idea involving making holiday ornaments out of dust balls I pulled from under the sofa )- I remarked to my son's lizard how utterly peaceful it is around here now. A girl could get spoiled with so much "me" time on her hands.
Why, after clearing the breakfast dishes and scraping the toothpaste globs out of the sink, I still have OVER FIVE carefree hours to devote to nurturing my inner-self and creative talents. Just think of all the meaningful activities I can pursue. I could learn to draw and paint. I could take a yoga class or even learn to play the piano. The sky's the limit. Watch me fly!
True, the quiet in the house was a little rough at first but arguing with talk radio all day really helps cut the endless silence. I'm not complaining, honest I'm not. After all those years of not being able to accomplish anything with those kids under foot, you won't catch me griping about nothing to do. I relish my solitude. I've arrived! Just watch me go!
Say, that reminds me, I really do have to go. I promised Caleb the dog that we would have our tea party early today so we wouldn't miss the opening scene of Guiding Light. It's his turn to wear the green bridesmaid dress and he gets so testy when I'm late.
Really, don't worry about me. This is only a test for the day the kids leave home for real and I think I'm handling it very well.
When the time comes I'm sure I'll be fine...
Just fine.

The Writing Life...2003

2004-10-25T14:03:00.000-04:00

THE WRITING LIFE…
Often young aspiring writers ask me ,
“ Beth , What’s it like to be a writer?? Is it difficult to come up with ideas?? How DO you find the time??”
OK. I made that up. Nobody has ever asked me those questions.
If someone DID however, I would be happy to answer them.
( I will tell the truth this time - I swear )
Yes, the writer’s life is the glamorous , rewarding and profitable existence you imagine it to be. At least I imagine it is. I’ll let you know if I ever find out.
Oh, it may appear to be nothing but a whirlwind of talk shows , book signings and stalker fans but it is also a life of deep commitment and personal sacrifice.
Sacrifice you ask? Am I speaking of the blood and sweat? The bearing of one’s soul to be placed on public display, open to the scrutiny of the masses?
Nah…
I’m talking about REAL sacrifice.
“What does she mean?” You are asking yourselves.
OK. Maybe your not , but I’m going to explain anyways if you will kindly stop interrupting me.
I’m speaking of the kind of commitment to your craft that leads you to spend endless hours alone , developing a severe case of “computer neck” and “mouse shoulder”, drinking infinite cups of coffee and arguing out loud with talk radio guests.
I’m talking about having the guts -NO - THE MOXEY - to take the final step that will propel you past the mere “dabbler” and into the world of the serious artist.
Give up your clothes.
No, I’m not talking nudist , try to stick with me folks.
They say that Einstein had seven of the exact same suits in order to keep his brilliant mind free of mundane tasks such as having to decide what to wear in the morning. We’re working with the same principle here.
In order to become a writer of great caliber , sitting in front of your computer all day in flannel pants and a T-shirt is not an option. It’s MANDATORY. The bathrobe is optional depending on modesty and weather conditions, but the pajamas are absolutely essential.
This is where the sacrifice comes in.
Even a high powered writer has a life beyond the muse , however limited it may be. The writer soon discovers that no matter how rich or famous you become , you still need to go to the DMV.
Only a true artist is willing to show up at the bank , their child’s parent teacher conferences and even cub scout pack meetings , in the proud uniform of the professional writer.
To become a “real” writer you must be prepared to spend years answering the question :
“Do you have the flu or something? “
So be proud. Be strong. Puff out your chest , stand up tall and loudly declare to the world :
“ I am not a bag lady - I AM A WRITER ! “
And remember future writers , it is NOT illegal to drive while wearing bunny slippers.
I checked….

Lumberjack Barbie Meets Pepe....2003

2004-09-04T14:06:00.000-04:00

Lumberjack Barbie meets Pepe’…..
One hot summer night, my family and I were sitting around watching TV. Of course, the kids always pick the shows and we were watching one of those “When stupid people get too close to wild animals and poke them with sticks resulting in their faces being mauled off” shows. Seeing the stupidity of these people was getting me more and more agitated. When the last segment was shown I blew my top. A whole family, complete with Grandma, decided to pitch their camping tents on the banks of “alligator swamp” in the everglades somewhere. Of course, while they slept the ‘gators began dragging them out of the tents one by one for a midnight snack.
“These people are so stupid they deserve to be eaten!!!”
After loudly and NOT briefly declaring my total disrespect for these idiots we all went to bed.
3:00 am….
I was walking through the kitchen after one of my many nighttime trips to the bathroom - (I have a bladder the size of a dime) - when I heard a noise through the open window. I tried to see outside but it was black as pitch that night with no moon. I started to walk back to bed when I heard it again and realized what it was…
THAT DAMN CHICKEN!!!
How we ended up with a chicken is a story unto itself . We just had one OK??
I could tell now that the noise I had heard was the sound of the chicken running and flapping across the yard in agitation. Obviously, my son had forgotten to lock her up - AGAIN - and something was chasing her around the yard.
I picked up the little flashlight I keep in the kitchen and headed out back barefoot and in my night gown.
The grass was dewy and wet but the night air was warm. I scanned the yard with the light hoping I wouldn’t see her mangled body being munched on by something. Not because I cared for the chicken (I couldn’t stand her) but because I didn’t want to have to get rid of the body in the middle of the night so the kids wouldn’t see it.
There she was! Rubber necking back and forth in front of the garden , flapping and clucking her distress. I didn’t see any animals around and I figured I had come just in the nick of time to scare whatever it was away. Lumberjack Barbie to the rescue!!
I started clucking and shooing her back towards her chicken fenced enclosure with her little coop inside. She went willingly until we got to her fence. The opening was small and I shoved her into the enclosure but she refused to go into her coop. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled partway into the opening of the fence.I tried to grab her and push her towards the opening of the coop but she was freaking out and pecking at me. Swearing, I got a hold of her by the neck and started dragging her into the coop. I swear to God , she put her feet and wings out to grab the edge of the doorway like a little kid being dragged into their room. Right at that moment, lying in the dirt, halfway in the hole in the fence, It dawned on me that I was out here all alone. No one even knew I had left the house. I had a sudden flashback of those gators chomping on Grandma and I realized I WAS one of those “idiots”. Why did I suddenly break out into a cold sweat remembering we had Coyotes out here, rabid raccoons and foxes???
Some - THING was in the coop.
I heard it rustling in the straw as I was wrestling with the chicken and I froze. Slowly I turned towards the inky black opening to the coop. I lifted my flashlight and pointed it at the sound only to find myself looking into a pair of very black beady eyes. I had time to see the LONG claws that were clutching an egg that must have been laid earlier and an interesting white stripe that ran down the back of it’s head.
I was literally nose to nose with Le Pew !!!
A skunk two inches from your nose does not allow one to think calmly and clearly. Take my word for it.
I have no idea how it happened but the adrenaline must have taken over because my whole body actually LUANCHED itself backwards and out of the fence hole. I was sure the skunk was coming out after me and in a total panic I remember screaming and thrashing around on my back like a turtle that’s been flipped over. I just couldn’t seem to get my arms and legs to stop flailing so I could turn over and get up.
Miss chicken ran across my feet making her escape and I was sure it was Pepe’ coming after me. I managed to roll over and started crawling (and screaming) as fast as I could away from the coop. As fast as I was trucking, Miss chicken passed me at a dead run and dove into the bushes next to the house.
When I realized I still hadn’t been sprayed I (finally) turned around and looked behind me.
Nothing….
I stood up and pointed my light back towards the coop. Le Pew was still sitting inside happily munching his egg. He actually looked really cute - now that I was a safe distance away - but cute as he was I started to get pissed. Humiliated by my behavior for the last few minutes, I ran to the garden and picked up a pile of rotten tomatoes that lay on the ground. I started whipping them at the metal roof of the coop and let loose some colorful language designed to let Monsieur skunk know How displeased I was. The tomatoes sounded like a giant gong when they hit the roof and I was screaming obscenities in my bare feet, covered in mud and tomato juice.
Nothing….
He refused to leave and gradually I came to realize that even though every window in the house was open , no one had woke. No one had come to help me or see what all the racket was. Again I thought about the gators and how lucky I was that it hadn’t been a coyote. Not even the dog had heard me. How was this possible with me screaming and throwing tomatoes all over the yard. Now I was not only mad at myself but at my family of “men” who didn’t even come to my rescue.
I gave up trying to get Mr. Skunk to leave and turned back towards the house. I looked up as I passed the dining room window and there he was…
Caleb the dog. He had a HUGE doggy smile on his face and was wriggling in excitement but he had never barked even once.
We looked each other in the eye…
“Duh…What ya do-in Mom??”
Good dog… stay right where you are cause when I get in there…

Old crap...

2004-08-24T13:19:00.000-04:00

I have decided to post a bunch of old crap for the purpose of saving it here...

Disclaimer...

I am not responsible for any illness (especially intestinal distress) caused by reading articles that are past the expiration date....