Sunday, January 27, 2013

When They Come Home

All sounds in the night look like this to your  mind... and they will eat your brains and drink your blood.
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Admittedly, I am the worst person to ever let choose a movie. If it has rave reviews from everyone, and you ask me what movie we should watch prepare yourself to be let down or completely bored out of your mind. In October a date and I went to see Alex Cross. My choice, my fault. "Hated it (Men on Film - In Living Color)!" We didn't even make out, and to be honest, that might have made the movie worth sitting through. Totally prime dark theater make out session time. Fail. 

This night was no different. Not only is it impossible to have a make out session with yourself, but my cinematic selection skills prevailed. I scrolled through the movie titles and found what should have been right up my alley. The Virgin Murders. My tendency toward mysteries, the supernatural, religious intrigue, and foreign settings made it the obvious choice. There's always a sense that I might stumble upon some unknown independent film that no one has heard of with actors that shock and surprise you with their abilities. I blame my early addiction to IFC for this. Either way, I choose something just scary enough to freak myself out. 

I hit play and snuggled into my mountain of pillows and prepared to be disappointed. Somewhere about the time the lead actress falls into a dream of a dead girl giving birth to snakes (something to do with Medusa and Caravaggio) the outside world interrupted my boredom. No one was in the house except me. Jacob was staying with a friend. Alex had disappeared into the night with friends. I was the sole occupant. Why in the hell was I hearing noises? Intruder. Obviously. Brain eater, possibly. Knife wielding, probably. Killer, certainly. 

Barefoot and clad in underwear and a tank top, I slipped from my bed and walked lightly across the room. Should there be a burglar, nothing would scare them more than a half naked middle aged woman with her hair a pillow matted mess of bad frizz. Careful to avoid the known squeaky floor boards, I made my way down the steps. As I stepped off the last stair and into the dark dining room I noticed a faint glow from the main floor bathroom. No shadowy movement came from inside, so I chalked it up to childish misuse of electricity. 

Had I been paying more attention to my surroundings I would have noticed the mass moving toward me. When I spied the movement from the shadowed man, fear gripped my chest and the heart inside beat so quickly it felt it was actually trying to escape. When my rib cage would not give way, it began to move up my throat... choking off my ability to actually speak. Instead I let out a gurgling scream and threw my hands in the direction of the intruder. 

When you're scared... really terrified... it sometimes takes a moment for your brain to process what your ears are hearing. As I swatted at the man, who now backed away shouting, I pushed forward. Moments later, moments that felt like a slow motion kill scene in a bad D list movie (go figure), my brain recognized the words being shouted at me. "MOM! STOP IT'S ME!" Then, I shoved him. "Me" could be anyone. Wait, "Me" called me Mom. 

How dare he be home? It was uh... 9:15 PM.  I mean what the hell? I was supposed to be alone! My brain rationalized my irrational panic. He was supposed to go out with his friends. Teenagers don't come home early. Well, sometimes they do when they work until 9 and don't feel like wearing their work uniform for a night out on the town. I suppose. Freaking kids. 

This night proved to me exactly how people get defense wounds on their hands right before they die. Had my son been a knife wielding murderer, my flailing arms and slapping hands would have caused me to bleed out before he even got to the killing part. I would essentially have wounded myself to death. There was a time when I was alone that I carried a steak knife with me around the house at night in the event that I came across someone trying to attack me. My kids find that quite humorous. They know that if that had in fact ever happened, my limp-wristed knife skills would have ended up causing any intruder to fall into fits of hysterical laughter. 

This was originally titled, "Really trippy shit that happens when I eat sushi and go to bed with a really shitty horror movie." It seemed a little long, sort of like this post. 

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Mother's Promise

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She sipped her wine, waiting for the next assault. "Of course it's my fault. You're right. It's all me. I'm to blame. Again." she thought to herself. She didn't dare to actually speak the words. Being vocal at this point was going to do nothing but open a flood gate she wasn't sure she could close. Countless times she had done the same thing. She held the argument in her head while the real argument happened in front of her. Of course it never played out the same. Changing things would mean speaking her mind.

Instead she rode it out. After twenty or so minutes she noticed the talking had dwindled. With a slight hesitation, she looked up from her lap, raising her head only enough to signify that she had indeed been listening and now awaited more. When nothing came, she stood and approached the now emotionally exhausted being in front of her. "If only he could learn to have these fights with himself this could be avoided." she said to herself. "It's the same fight every single time. We both know it's not going to change."

"I made dinner. It's meatloaf. I can make you a plate." she asked. "There's beer in the fridge." she added, hoping to placate him.

"Whose recipe did you use? Yours, right? What do you care if I'm hungry. It's probably cold." he snapped.

The clock read ten o'clock. "Well, the plate will be in the fridge if you decide to come down." She left the room and smirked to herself at her choice of words. He had been high on something when he got home and they both knew it. Whether she'd made any outward acknowledgement or not, she had no idea. Perhaps that's what had set him off this time.

Minutes later she could smell the smoke through the vent. He wouldn't have anything else to say tonight. She climbed the stairs and quietly opened the door to her daughter's room. She had fallen asleep with headphones on. A part of her was glad for it, while the rest of her looked forward to a time when she wouldn't have to do a nightly check in. She tiptoed in and kissed her lightly on the forehead, carefully slipping the headphones off in the process.

She padded softly to her son's room and opened the door and her heart sunk. His eyes locked with the almost silent TV. He didn't look up to meet her gaze and her heart broke for him. He had heard it all, as her daughter had before. She stepped inside and lowered herself to the bed. "Do you have room for me?" she whispered. His only reply, a faint nod. She slipped beneath the comforter and cuddled him close. "Go to sleep honey." she said softly.

In her heart, she knew the time for wishing had come and gone. As she lay there in the dark, holding a tiny five year old boy, she whispered into the night, "I'm sorry." She knew it would never be enough, but she hoped that it would be a start. She squeezed him closer and wordlessly promised them all that tomorrow she would make it better.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Wine Is Bottled.... I Forgot What I Was Saying

I wasn't exactly invited, but I got permission to kick down the door of the man-cave and hangout over at DudeWrite for a bit. I'm taking full advantage of it because they have the best snacks and beer in the fridge! So a big THANK YOU (see it's bigger than the other letters) to the men of DudeWrite, who I'm told will soon be coming out with a naughty calendar.

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When I was a little girl, oh who were we kidding, I was never "little"... anyway, I'm off track already. So way back at the dawn of time, I remember looking in the fridge and seeing a bottle of Mogen David Concord wine in the fridge. It's easy to remember because it was there for 3 years and I opened the fridge a lot. We were not a wine family. Our alcohol inventory held the following:

- Beer (Old Milwaukee- the cheaper the better and less likely to be stolen by your kids)
- Black Velvet (Grandpa liked that at the end of a long day in the field)
- Peach Schnapps (which I am assuming is the same bottle my parents have in their full service bar right now)

Robert Louis Stevenson is quoted as saying, "Wine is bottled poetry." What he failed to mention is that, just like different whiskeys or spirits create different moods, different wines evoke different poetry. I thought that perhaps it was just me. I even went so far as to hide my wine poetry from others because I was ashamed of what it said about me as a person.

Wine is supposed to be sophisticated. Unfortunately, depending on the wine, your poetry might range from sad Sylvia Plath type stuff to dirty limericks. Personally, I've written all sorts of wine induced drivel. Everyone is different and everyone has their "writing" preference. However, there are some commonly held round holes where we can put the respective corks. For example:

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Franzia- It's tag line boasts that it's the most popular wine in the world. Perhaps that's because you have to buy 3 bottles worth at a time, contained in a bag, protected by a box, accompanied by a tap. Slutty girls call themselves popular too. They also have plenty to put out and are cheap and easily accessible. This wine lends itself to people who are looking to get blitzed without counting their glasses. "I only had one (box)", sounds better than, "I only had 15 glasses." This is not poetry. Occasionally you might get a haiku out of a Franzia drinker, but it sure as hell won't be intentional. Notice how the picture even shows tiny plastic cups? Uh huh, pretend you drink your Franzia from a wine glass. I'm not going to tell.

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White- Whites are usually a starter wine. By that I mean, if you've never had wine before, you need to start with a sweet white and work your way through the dry whites to the reds.. etc. Some of you might consider white wine your starter drink of the night. I'm not judging. I do it. Whites are also the carefree, happy, smile-at-everyone wines of the world. You don't often find people kicking anyones ass on a white wine bender. Whites are the Irish Pub poet of the wine world. There will be laughter and winking and a general sense of merriment. The white wine drinker is also more prone to reciting rhymes from back in nursery school and trying to start up a conversation about how nursery rhymes are so weirrrrrrd. This may or may not be followed by the "do you know what I mean?" face and a random grin with wide eyes.

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Red- Ah red. It's the color of love. It signifies passion. It's emotion personified by color. Red wine is the wine of the "Oh my God my life fucking sucks" poet. The stanzas coming from this drinker will cause you to be completely bummed out. This crap usually rivals The Bell Jar. On top of all that, it seems from my research, red wine is the wine most likely to make me others cry when consumed above the recommended amount. Whether we they choose the wine based on the mood I'm they're already in, or the wine chooses me them, anything more than 3 glasses is sure to bring at least one bout of (hopefully) repressed tears. Red wine can also be marked by fits of 'pity me' and long periods of 'no one loves me'. This is drunken Shakespearean poetry at its... um... drunkest. Studies show that more "f*ck you!" and "Why don't you love me?" text messages are sent while the sender is holding a glass of Cabernet. Doubt me all you like, but it's a true story.

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Champagne- This one really depends on if the drinker is buying it on their own or if they are getting it free at a party. Free champagne is rarely good. Good champagne can be a bit spendy. The free sort lends itself most to dirty limericks and wanton flirtations with hints of fun frivolous sex in the office/bar/airport/ bathroom. It doesn't really matter. By the time champagne gets anyone drunk enough to make poor decisions with regard to their genitalia, it's also giving them a headache that only sleep can cure. The only thing harder to get rid of than a nasty champagne headache is that sofa your cats have been sleeping on for 2 years. People who drink expensive champagne usually drink less. Do you know why? Because it's freaking expensive.

Personally, I like to diversify my poetry. My family is very poetic. We like to spread it around. Hell, at Christmas we made this...
Disclaimer- We DID make this, though we didn't drink anywhere close to
this many bottles of wine over the holidays. We like to pretend to though.
Also, notice there's not a Franzia tapper on the wreath. 

So what's your "poison"? What makes you poetic? What's your poetic style?

Tonight's post was brought to you by Pinot Grigio.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Place Holders

"No matter what, I'll always want good things for you. I only want you to be happy and I hope you find what you're looking for." she wrote. Her finger hovered over the send key, and for a second she considered allowing herself the satisfaction of saying what she really felt. Instead, like she had in the past, she saved the truth. She practiced the art of the mature breakup. Smile until it becomes genuine and the glimmer in your eye is not brightened with a tear struggling to hang on.

There wasn't any point. The more she thought about it the more it seemed like there hadn't ever been a point. Of course there had been love, in some strange intangible form, but they were just holding spots for other people. So friends they would be. The conversations would dwindle and they would reach out in moments of sadness, desperation, or obligatory well wishes on special occasions. She knew the game and was well practiced in pretending the hurt wasn't her own doing.

Her mind drifted to a mid-February day from years ago. She had known then what she wanted. There wasn't a single moment of that day that hadn't felt right. In all her years, she had never been more sure of anything. From the way he smiled at her to the way his mere presence settled her and excited her at the same time, she held every moment with him marked with an asterisk. The bar had been set. The spot had been reserved.

There were brief moments in the years that followed when she caught that feeling again, but they were so fleeting that she brushed them aside and chalked them up to nostalgia. Every man she met or toyed with the idea of developing anything more than a surface level friendship with was measured against a level of perfection they would never be able to reach. Deep down she knew it was unfair. How could they compete against an unknown rival?

It would almost be fair if he had been perfect. Even through the gauzy haze of idealistic stylings that memories are prone to, she knew he wasn't perfect. He never had been. His compliments were often marked with inappropriateness and his brief moments of tenderness were carefully layered between jokes and sarcasm. There was only enough visible to make her want to run her fingers over the surface, to make her wonder what else existed beneath.

As much as she had often wished he would lay himself bare, she knew that he was an artwork meant to be taken in slowly. There was depth and texture that deserved appreciation, colors and contrasts that played off each other, and glimpses of movement when looked at from different angles. Yet you could see marks that the artist had attempted to cover up. Perhaps an over aggressive brush mark here and there, and in some places, if you looked closely, there were parts of the canvas that simply didn't hold the paint. Those small imperfections gave the piece feeling.

While the walls of her world held many works of art, the most amazing piece was one that was conspicuously missing. While she had attempted to fill the space with works from other artists, none fit. There was always an outline of where he had been, a slightly different color to the display, a place meant only for him.

Friday, January 4, 2013

2013 More Disney Less Grimm

"Everyone needs a love story. I want one that isn't tragic. More Disney. Less Grimm." I said.

"Go out and have a good time. Gather your girls. Find your fairy tale. Don't forget the bread crumbs. They help with the walk of shame. Night Gretel." 

"Funny. Night Hansel." 

After spending money and a little time playing with this dating profile business, I have come to the conclusion that I simply don't like it. To be honest, I think I am just really bad at it. I don't check my email. I don't respond in a timely fashion. I'm fairly certain that some of the men who messaged me have gotten married and had kids since they sent the message. Yes, I realize it's only been a couple of weeks. People move fast these days!

As I'm finding, I am terrible at first dates. I'm awkward enough as it is. My head is totally not in the game. How in the hell have people been doing this for all these years? It boggles the mind. It seems to be a lot of nodding, staring, and "right, of course, yes, no, I see" conversations. I am far more fun in text than I am in real life. If you put me on the spot I'll probably insult your grandma or find myself completely incapable of making eye contact. "No, I wasn't staring at your crotch. I was just... okay I might have been, but I didn't see anything... I mean.. Oh God. Help me." - My best impression of me on a first date

I have decided to go back to the old fashioned way of doing things. Not MY old way... which was not dating at all. I mean going out and meeting people in unplanned settings where I don't feel like I need to perform. That's what I'm going to do. Soon, but not this weekend. I'm still exhausted. Not next week either, because I have plans. Maybe next weekend... if people are free, because I'm not going out alone. Plus this is a hectic month at work so I'll likely be really busy and stuff. So maybe starting next month. Or something. Shit, this sounds a lot like my old way.

Girl's night out anyone? Sushi? Maybe I'll meet a nice Asian guy at the... DAMMIT! And here we are right back where we started.

It's time to find my love story... I think I'll leave the bread crumbs at home.

My Zimbio
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