Okay, the other story wrapped, so I wandered through my archives and came up with the following, which is the beginning of something I never finished. I figured it was as good a place to start as any. :)
Happy holiday weekend all.
************************
Ed – A Love Story
You probably know somebody who loves their car. Really loves it. Gave it a name; washes it once a week; waxes it by hand every sunny Saturday afternoon; and never misses a chance to make sure it is running perfectly. Yes, you probably know somebody who loves their car, or their stereo, or some other inanimate object.
You probably thought they were pathetic, an idiot.
And magic doesn’t exist.
Riiiiiiiiiiiight.
# # #
The bell rang, and I saw a small human female enter the shop. Petite and blonde, she was probably about sixteen, with milk-white skin and silver-gray eyes heavily outlined in black. She should have looked fragile, but the set to her jaw spoke of determination, and the tattoos and piercings hinted at a streak of defiance. Her low-cut jeans were a little loose, but it wasn’t a fashion statement. She’d missed a few meals. No surprise then, that she was shopping at a thrift store. This was the one. I knew it. A little electric surge rushed through my cables, making the screen flicker just a little.
The lighting here was bad, and every inch of the place was crammed full to bursting. Some of the stuff was valuable. Most of it was just junk. The last time any of it had been dusted was sometime during the Eisenhower era, and there was not enough room in the aisles to run a vacuum. Not good for me, of course, but Ethel, the owner didn’t care. What she knew about technology could be written on the head of a pin with room to spare for dancing angels. BUT Ethel knew people. Knew them well enough that she could tell you within a dime how much money was in their pockets and whether they’d be willing to part with it. She was almost never wrong. I saw her dark, button eyes narrow as she assessed the newcomer. Hefting her bulk from the stool behind the counter she lumbered forward, shoving her way through the overstuffed racks of clothing to approach the newcomer.
"How can I help you dear? Some vintage clothing maybe? A little jewelry? I have a couple of nice pins—"
"No thank you." The visitor looked around. "I was hoping you might have some books."
"Books?" Ethel stared at the girl as if she’d grown horns and a tail. I wanted to cheer. Books. The girl liked to read. Hallelujah! There might be hope for me yet.
"Yes, books. One of my friends said you had some books on writing." She sounded dubious. I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I knew the books existed. They’d come in at the same time I had, purchased wholesale from the estate sale of the crotchety old man who’d supplemented his meager retirement by writing articles on vacation destinations he’d never actually seen. Ralph had been a lonely man, quiet and reserved. A dreamer with a real joy for living. He loved animals, but was allergic to fur, dander, dust. So he lived alone with only a goldfish for company, talking to himself, to me, and to Goldie. The day after she went belly-up in her bowl, he went belly-up in his bath. Poor old man. I miss him.
"So you’re a writer." Ethel smiled, showing the sharp little white teeth behind lips painted a garish orange that clashed badly with her dark red dye job. She gave the girl a deceptively innocent glance. "I suppose you already have a computer."
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and her gaze followed Ethel’s gesture to where I sat.
If I had lungs, I’d have held my breath.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thanks.
Thanks to everybody who stopped by and read the past few days. I had a lot of fun posting this particular story. Heck, I had fun writing it. Tomorrow I'll need to come up with something new for y'all.Hmnnnnn... pondering... pondering.
Installment 4
4
The police arrived, with an ambulance. When the door opened instinct drove me to drag my feline form down the hall to hide behind boxes in the laundry room and die.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I woke hours later, naked and in agony. One side of my face felt bruised and swolen, and there was wicked bruising over my ribs.
It was hard pulling on the sweat pants and tee shirt I stole from the box of lost laundry on the shelf. I was sweating and swearing before I managed it. I had to rest before I could stagger upstairs.
A stranger let me use his cell phone to make a call. Not much later, I was headed to the hospital, then home.
# # #
The people at work keep whispering. I’ve overheard them talking about how much I’ve changed; checking out the bruises and bandages, then speculating as to just what happened to me on my vacation. The consensus is that I had a near-death experience that turned me into a better man. Which is pretty close to the truth when you come right down to it.
I make a point of calling and checking in with Bonnie’s parents about once a week. The doctor committed her to a psychiatric institution. Her father was understandably distressed, reluctantly confiding in me that she had some “unhealthy obsessions and delusions. Something to do with you . . . and a cat.” I hope they can help her. A part of me hates her for what she did to me. But if she hadn’t, I’d never have met Amber.
I see Amber nearly every day at the store where she works. We chat about pretty much anything and everything. She’s commiserated with me about my injuries. I’ve consoled her on the loss of her cat. It took a few weeks, but I eventually worked up the courage to ask her out.
Tomorrow night Amber and have our first date. I’m taking her out for sushi. For some reason I’ve been craving raw fish. Go figure.
The police arrived, with an ambulance. When the door opened instinct drove me to drag my feline form down the hall to hide behind boxes in the laundry room and die.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I woke hours later, naked and in agony. One side of my face felt bruised and swolen, and there was wicked bruising over my ribs.
It was hard pulling on the sweat pants and tee shirt I stole from the box of lost laundry on the shelf. I was sweating and swearing before I managed it. I had to rest before I could stagger upstairs.
A stranger let me use his cell phone to make a call. Not much later, I was headed to the hospital, then home.
# # #
The people at work keep whispering. I’ve overheard them talking about how much I’ve changed; checking out the bruises and bandages, then speculating as to just what happened to me on my vacation. The consensus is that I had a near-death experience that turned me into a better man. Which is pretty close to the truth when you come right down to it.
I make a point of calling and checking in with Bonnie’s parents about once a week. The doctor committed her to a psychiatric institution. Her father was understandably distressed, reluctantly confiding in me that she had some “unhealthy obsessions and delusions. Something to do with you . . . and a cat.” I hope they can help her. A part of me hates her for what she did to me. But if she hadn’t, I’d never have met Amber.
I see Amber nearly every day at the store where she works. We chat about pretty much anything and everything. She’s commiserated with me about my injuries. I’ve consoled her on the loss of her cat. It took a few weeks, but I eventually worked up the courage to ask her out.
Tomorrow night Amber and have our first date. I’m taking her out for sushi. For some reason I’ve been craving raw fish. Go figure.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Installment 3
He was there again on Friday.
Saturday was her day off. The snow had built up to a truly alarming level (from my point of view. Six inches of the white stuff may mean nothing to a human. In my new form it was a freakin’ blizzard.) Shuddering, I shunned the frost coated windows and curled up close to the space heater and watched her putter around the apartment before settling down on the bed with yarn and knitting needles. I swear I was tempted to go after that yarn. Instincts. Gotta love ‘em. But I controlled myself. She needed the scarf and mittens she was making. Her hands were chapped to the point of cracking.
She had almost finished the scarf by bedtime. Setting the needles and yarn onto the nightstand, she patted the bed beside her. I forced myself to be a gentleman, to wait until she’d snuggled beneath the covers before following. It wasn’t easy. I might be a cat physically. But my mind was human, and that mind wanted to see her naked, to run my hands over each and every one of those lush curves.
Dammit. Again with the no opposable thumbs.
###
I woke abruptly and totally. In the time I’d been living here I’d learned the sounds and smells native to my new home. I knew the scent and footfall of every resident of the building, from the frail old woman in 2A with her walker and her stinking, nasty-tempered little lapdog to the spoiled brat from 3B who entertained herself by running up and down the halls screaming at the top of her lungs.
No one from the building moved with such deliberate stealth. No one who belonged here smelled of whiskey and sour milk overlain with a heavy dose of cigarette smoke. He, because it was a he, stopped just outside the front door and I heard the delicate click of metal on metal.
I yowled, jumping onto Amber’s inert form, waking her rudely and totally. She yelped in shock and pain, I heard the front door of the apartment open, and quickly shut, the bolt of the lock snicking to.
Call 9-1-1. I wanted to shout, but all that emerged was a fierce feline yowl. Still, she got the message. Amber was grabbing for the phone on her nightstand when he burst through the bedroom door and knocked the phone from her hand before delivering a roundhouse punch to her jaw, knocking her back on the bed, and damned near knocking her unconscious.
I launched myself onto his back as he started to climb on top of her, clawing at his face, trying for his eyes. I bit hard at the bit of skin showing above his collar hot blood tasting copper in my mouth.
Shouting in pain, he grabbed for me, but I clung on with everything I had, digging claws in. He pried me off, tearing chunks of his flesh loose as he did and flung me against the wall with as much force as he had.
It hurt. God how it hurt. I tumbled to the floor. I knew my ribs were broken, it hurt to breathe. My head felt wrong. My ears were ringing; my vision was off, balance shot. I tasted my own blood But I dragged myself to my feet. He pinned her to the bed with one hand, his other pulling at the zipper of his jeans.
It took all my strength to drag the useless lower half of my body to where the phone had fallen to the floor. I couldn’t save her. Not in this form. There was only one hope. With the last of my strength I pressed 9-1-1 and send with my paw.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Opening my mouth I prayed, prayed that I’d be able to help her, be able to save the woman I’d come to love. “Help, there’s an intruder. He’s raping her. I can’t stop . . .”
I’d expected it to come out a feline yowl, but it didn’t. Words. Real words. I wanted to sob with relief.
“What the hell?!” A male bellow, and a size twelve work boot swung at my gut. I twisted, the movement hideously painful and bit at him, my teeth sinking uselessly into the thick denim of his jeans. My body was spasming, cramping. I couldn’t fight him. All I could do was scream.
But the distraction bought us time. Help was on the way. Amber was coming to herself. Grabbing a knitting needle from the bedside she screamed in rage and defiance, as she thrust it into the intruder’s back with all of her strength.
Saturday was her day off. The snow had built up to a truly alarming level (from my point of view. Six inches of the white stuff may mean nothing to a human. In my new form it was a freakin’ blizzard.) Shuddering, I shunned the frost coated windows and curled up close to the space heater and watched her putter around the apartment before settling down on the bed with yarn and knitting needles. I swear I was tempted to go after that yarn. Instincts. Gotta love ‘em. But I controlled myself. She needed the scarf and mittens she was making. Her hands were chapped to the point of cracking.
She had almost finished the scarf by bedtime. Setting the needles and yarn onto the nightstand, she patted the bed beside her. I forced myself to be a gentleman, to wait until she’d snuggled beneath the covers before following. It wasn’t easy. I might be a cat physically. But my mind was human, and that mind wanted to see her naked, to run my hands over each and every one of those lush curves.
Dammit. Again with the no opposable thumbs.
###
I woke abruptly and totally. In the time I’d been living here I’d learned the sounds and smells native to my new home. I knew the scent and footfall of every resident of the building, from the frail old woman in 2A with her walker and her stinking, nasty-tempered little lapdog to the spoiled brat from 3B who entertained herself by running up and down the halls screaming at the top of her lungs.
No one from the building moved with such deliberate stealth. No one who belonged here smelled of whiskey and sour milk overlain with a heavy dose of cigarette smoke. He, because it was a he, stopped just outside the front door and I heard the delicate click of metal on metal.
I yowled, jumping onto Amber’s inert form, waking her rudely and totally. She yelped in shock and pain, I heard the front door of the apartment open, and quickly shut, the bolt of the lock snicking to.
Call 9-1-1. I wanted to shout, but all that emerged was a fierce feline yowl. Still, she got the message. Amber was grabbing for the phone on her nightstand when he burst through the bedroom door and knocked the phone from her hand before delivering a roundhouse punch to her jaw, knocking her back on the bed, and damned near knocking her unconscious.
I launched myself onto his back as he started to climb on top of her, clawing at his face, trying for his eyes. I bit hard at the bit of skin showing above his collar hot blood tasting copper in my mouth.
Shouting in pain, he grabbed for me, but I clung on with everything I had, digging claws in. He pried me off, tearing chunks of his flesh loose as he did and flung me against the wall with as much force as he had.
It hurt. God how it hurt. I tumbled to the floor. I knew my ribs were broken, it hurt to breathe. My head felt wrong. My ears were ringing; my vision was off, balance shot. I tasted my own blood But I dragged myself to my feet. He pinned her to the bed with one hand, his other pulling at the zipper of his jeans.
It took all my strength to drag the useless lower half of my body to where the phone had fallen to the floor. I couldn’t save her. Not in this form. There was only one hope. With the last of my strength I pressed 9-1-1 and send with my paw.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Opening my mouth I prayed, prayed that I’d be able to help her, be able to save the woman I’d come to love. “Help, there’s an intruder. He’s raping her. I can’t stop . . .”
I’d expected it to come out a feline yowl, but it didn’t. Words. Real words. I wanted to sob with relief.
“What the hell?!” A male bellow, and a size twelve work boot swung at my gut. I twisted, the movement hideously painful and bit at him, my teeth sinking uselessly into the thick denim of his jeans. My body was spasming, cramping. I couldn’t fight him. All I could do was scream.
But the distraction bought us time. Help was on the way. Amber was coming to herself. Grabbing a knitting needle from the bedside she screamed in rage and defiance, as she thrust it into the intruder’s back with all of her strength.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Second Installment
Okay, because the finger still is a little sore I'm going to cut and paste the second installment of the story here rather than write a bunch. If I do this right, it will continue through Saturday. If not, I'll have to post something else. :) Yes, it's a change of plan. I do TRY to be flexible.
****************************
3
I learned a lot over the next few days.
Life is hard for animals. Opposable thumbs are important. With opposable thumbs you can open doors and windows, cans of food. You can cook, turn on things like the water faucet. Without them, you’re pretty damned helpless. Unless you can catch rats and mice.
I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to figure out how to catch them I wasn’t positive I’d be able to eat it, no matter how hungry I was. And I was hungry. Famished. And cold. The first night I’d managed to get back in to my house through the open window. But when the cleaning lady came in on Thursday she closed and locked it. I was out in the elements when the weather turned, fighting wild animals for any sort of shelter that could be found. Fighting—and losing badly.
Kids threw rocks at me. Most adults were no better.
Freezing to death was a real possibility as the temperature plummeted and snow blanketed the city. I might have human intelligence on my side. But I didn’t have the instincts and the survival skills of the wild dogs and alley cats.
I wound up in a rough neighborhood. By pure luck I managed to find a basement window that had been taped over with cardboard. With a combination of claws and brute strength I managed to tear enough of an opening to worm my way through. Exhausted from the effort and lack of food I collapsed atop the clothes dryer, sleeping to the sound of clothes tumbling and the comforting smell of fabric softener.
“And just what do you think you’re doing in here?”
A warm feminine voice woke me with a start and I panicked, diving for cover, backing into the space between the back of the clothes dryer and the wall.
“Easy buddy. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” The woman squatted down a little ways away, giving me room, but staying close enough to get a good look at me. Which gave me a chance to look her over as well.
She was pretty. Not beautiful. Her features were a little to harsh, her nose a bit to large for traditional beauty, her lips just a little too big for her heart-shaped face. And she weighed a bit more than is considered acceptable. But her skin was like porcelain, white and flawless, and her hair was so dark it was nearly as black as my fur. It fell in waves almost to her waist. Her eyes were midnight blue. Those eyes stared at me in sympathy.
“You look as if you’ve been through the wringer bud.”
You have no idea.
She laughed. “I swear, it’s almost as if you understand me.” She rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can’t scrounge you up something to eat.” I stared after her, watching the soft sway of her hips in her faded jeans as she walked down the hall to the door of her basement apartment.
You are an angel.
I’ve never been a big fan of tuna, but I swear to you no steak or lobster I’ve ever eaten tasted better. I devoured every bite, licked the plate, and begged for more by giving her wide, pathetic eyes. It made her laugh, a warm, musical sound that dragged a purr from my throat before I even knew what I was doing.
That first night my bed was a bath towel still warm from the dryer. I slept, safe and warm, and dreamt of an angel with midnight blue eyes.
Day two I got lucky. Very lucky. The woman had just enough money on hand to buy a litter box, cat food, and to get me my shots. She did not have enough money to have me neutered. Halle-fricking-lujah. When that appointment date came around I was sooooooo not planning on being home. The name she gave the vet was “Mister,” after the cat in her favorite books.
Day three was Saturday. The first week of my vacation was gone, and there was no sign of my getting my old life back. I fretted, wondering what if. What if I never got my life back. What if I was stuck like this forever? Would anyone miss me? Elaine, my cleaning lady, would miss her checks. The folks at the office would bitch about the extra work. But would they miss me?
I didn’t know.
Which was pretty freaking sad.
I paced the apartment while my benefactress was off at her job, cashiering at the local food mart. With her hair pulled back, in her unflattering uniform she looked plain, ordinary. I realized with a start that she’d probably waited on me a dozen times or more and I’d never even noticed her.
The apartment was tiny, but clean. The furniture was worn, but well tended. Everything was in order. The bills were stacked neatly on top of a small, roll-top desk that was scarred from years of use. There were a lot of them, some of them with the tell-tale pink and red color that universally denotes past-due. Her name was Amber Scott, and her pay stub told me that she was barely making enough to survive. Barely enough, but she’d been willing to take in a starving stray, share her food and get him to the vet. Foolish, but good-hearted, and more appreciated than she could possibly know. I felt a rush of warmth for her, and wished there was something, anything, I could do. But of course, there wasn’t.
I hate feeling helpless; hated the humiliation of using a litter box; having to clean myself with my tongue. In fact, there was only one thing I didn’t hate about the situation: Amber.
Ironic, a woman I’d never have noticed in a million years in my previous life was now the center of my existence. Every evening I waited inside the main door, watching through the frosted window next to the door as she trudged home from the bus stop, hands jammed in her pockets, body hunched against the frigid wind that cut through her thin coat. Even from the distance I could tell she was weary from a hard day’s work.
I was at my usual post Thursday night when I saw him.
I told myself it was nothing; he wasn’t following her; wasn’t stalking her. But something about the way he hid himself in the shadows, his body language as he watched her, made my blood run cold. I yowled, scratching at the window. She looked up, smiled, and hurried her steps.
He didn’t follow.
But he watched.
****************************
3
I learned a lot over the next few days.
Life is hard for animals. Opposable thumbs are important. With opposable thumbs you can open doors and windows, cans of food. You can cook, turn on things like the water faucet. Without them, you’re pretty damned helpless. Unless you can catch rats and mice.
I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to figure out how to catch them I wasn’t positive I’d be able to eat it, no matter how hungry I was. And I was hungry. Famished. And cold. The first night I’d managed to get back in to my house through the open window. But when the cleaning lady came in on Thursday she closed and locked it. I was out in the elements when the weather turned, fighting wild animals for any sort of shelter that could be found. Fighting—and losing badly.
Kids threw rocks at me. Most adults were no better.
Freezing to death was a real possibility as the temperature plummeted and snow blanketed the city. I might have human intelligence on my side. But I didn’t have the instincts and the survival skills of the wild dogs and alley cats.
I wound up in a rough neighborhood. By pure luck I managed to find a basement window that had been taped over with cardboard. With a combination of claws and brute strength I managed to tear enough of an opening to worm my way through. Exhausted from the effort and lack of food I collapsed atop the clothes dryer, sleeping to the sound of clothes tumbling and the comforting smell of fabric softener.
“And just what do you think you’re doing in here?”
A warm feminine voice woke me with a start and I panicked, diving for cover, backing into the space between the back of the clothes dryer and the wall.
“Easy buddy. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” The woman squatted down a little ways away, giving me room, but staying close enough to get a good look at me. Which gave me a chance to look her over as well.
She was pretty. Not beautiful. Her features were a little to harsh, her nose a bit to large for traditional beauty, her lips just a little too big for her heart-shaped face. And she weighed a bit more than is considered acceptable. But her skin was like porcelain, white and flawless, and her hair was so dark it was nearly as black as my fur. It fell in waves almost to her waist. Her eyes were midnight blue. Those eyes stared at me in sympathy.
“You look as if you’ve been through the wringer bud.”
You have no idea.
She laughed. “I swear, it’s almost as if you understand me.” She rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can’t scrounge you up something to eat.” I stared after her, watching the soft sway of her hips in her faded jeans as she walked down the hall to the door of her basement apartment.
You are an angel.
I’ve never been a big fan of tuna, but I swear to you no steak or lobster I’ve ever eaten tasted better. I devoured every bite, licked the plate, and begged for more by giving her wide, pathetic eyes. It made her laugh, a warm, musical sound that dragged a purr from my throat before I even knew what I was doing.
That first night my bed was a bath towel still warm from the dryer. I slept, safe and warm, and dreamt of an angel with midnight blue eyes.
Day two I got lucky. Very lucky. The woman had just enough money on hand to buy a litter box, cat food, and to get me my shots. She did not have enough money to have me neutered. Halle-fricking-lujah. When that appointment date came around I was sooooooo not planning on being home. The name she gave the vet was “Mister,” after the cat in her favorite books.
Day three was Saturday. The first week of my vacation was gone, and there was no sign of my getting my old life back. I fretted, wondering what if. What if I never got my life back. What if I was stuck like this forever? Would anyone miss me? Elaine, my cleaning lady, would miss her checks. The folks at the office would bitch about the extra work. But would they miss me?
I didn’t know.
Which was pretty freaking sad.
I paced the apartment while my benefactress was off at her job, cashiering at the local food mart. With her hair pulled back, in her unflattering uniform she looked plain, ordinary. I realized with a start that she’d probably waited on me a dozen times or more and I’d never even noticed her.
The apartment was tiny, but clean. The furniture was worn, but well tended. Everything was in order. The bills were stacked neatly on top of a small, roll-top desk that was scarred from years of use. There were a lot of them, some of them with the tell-tale pink and red color that universally denotes past-due. Her name was Amber Scott, and her pay stub told me that she was barely making enough to survive. Barely enough, but she’d been willing to take in a starving stray, share her food and get him to the vet. Foolish, but good-hearted, and more appreciated than she could possibly know. I felt a rush of warmth for her, and wished there was something, anything, I could do. But of course, there wasn’t.
I hate feeling helpless; hated the humiliation of using a litter box; having to clean myself with my tongue. In fact, there was only one thing I didn’t hate about the situation: Amber.
Ironic, a woman I’d never have noticed in a million years in my previous life was now the center of my existence. Every evening I waited inside the main door, watching through the frosted window next to the door as she trudged home from the bus stop, hands jammed in her pockets, body hunched against the frigid wind that cut through her thin coat. Even from the distance I could tell she was weary from a hard day’s work.
I was at my usual post Thursday night when I saw him.
I told myself it was nothing; he wasn’t following her; wasn’t stalking her. But something about the way he hid himself in the shadows, his body language as he watched her, made my blood run cold. I yowled, scratching at the window. She looked up, smiled, and hurried her steps.
He didn’t follow.
But he watched.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
First Installment of Breakfast Serial
Okay, here's the first section. Second section comes at the usual time on Saturday morning. Hope you enjoy it.
1
It was taking me a long time to fall asleep. I felt rotten. Really guilty and a little bit angry. I hadn’t wanted to break up with Bonnie. But what had started out as a fun, light-hearted romp had changed. She wanted more. Commitment—with a capital “C”. I couldn’t. Because while I liked her, enjoyed her company, she wasn’t the one.
It wasn’t that there was anything obviously wrong with her. She was intelligent, good-looking, from a good family. If I could’ve made myself love her I would’ve. But I couldn’t; and didn’t.
I lay on my back, staring at a crack in the ceiling, a soft autumn breeze blowing through the open bedroom window remembering the ugly expression on her face and the bitterness in her voice when she said:
You’ll pay for this. You don’t know what love is. Pure, unselfish love. All you care about is yourself. Well, you’ll pay until you learn. And if you don’t . . . well, then you’ll just pay.
Okay, that was creepy. Seriously, scary. Because she hadn’t looked even a little bit sane when she’d said it.
At times like this I wished I wasn’t such a movie buff. Visions of Glenn Close and cooked rabbit came unwillingly to mind.
To think it all started because I didn’t want to visit her folks on my vacation.
My hard-earned vacation. Two weeks, taken to recover from fifty weeks of overtime, stress, and office hell. The past two months had been particularly bad. I’d almost forgotten what my house and my bed looked like. I was seriously sleep deprived and in no mood to spend my time off doing anything I didn’t want. And I didn’t want to meet her relatives in person for the first time. That spoke of commitment. A commitment I wasn’t ready to make to Bonnie.
All I wanted was to do nothing, and do it vigorously. I’d warned my co-workers not to even try to reach me. I wouldn’t be checking e-mails; I was turning off the cell. Maybe I’d go to the beach. Maybe I’d just be a couch potato, lying prone and watching classic movies and only getting up to eat and go to the toilet.
If that’s selfish then, yeah. I guess I am. So sue me.
I rolled over, punched the pillow a couple of times and tried to settle in deeper into the mattress. I needed sleep damn it.
Rolling over was a mistake. Lying at this angle I could watch as the red lighted display on the digital clock ticked off the minutes to midnight with excruciating slowness.
Shit.
I rolled onto my back again. I was exhausted, but sleep apparently wasn’t an option. So, fine, I’d watch a movie—maybe play a couple of computer games or read a good book. Whatever.
Throwing back the covers I sat up and swung my legs off of the side of the bed.
Two things happened simultaneously. The grandfather clock in the hall started striking midnight; and the mother of all muscle cramps hit me.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Because it wasn’t just one muscle. It was all of them. My entire body pulled in on itself, contorting in the kind of pain that made a charlie horse pale in comparison.
I fell forward onto the floor, unable to move—barely able to catch enough breath to keep screaming, the thick plush of the carpet rough against the skin of my face.
I needed help.
It took every ounce of strength I had to drag myself across the floor and reach for the phone on the bed stand. My arm was stretched painfully toward the receiver when the next spasm hit. I curled into a fetal position, my body twitching and spasming uncontrollably, sweat and tears pouring down my face to drip onto the carpet.
Each spasm seemed to last an eternity, but the chiming of the clock told me only seconds were passing. The phone was inches away. It may as well have been miles. I gathered my strength for another push and froze, staring in horrified fascination at my hand and arm.
It was curling in on itself, the thumb and fingers shortening, pulling back. Hooked claws sprang from the blunted ends of what had once been my fingers. At the same time long, thick fur poured out of the individual pores like water flowing over the bare skin.
Terror chased away awareness of the pain. “What’s happening to me?” I tried to shout the words, and only managed an animal yowl. The kind you hear when a pair of tom cats are fighting in an alley.
The pain was fading, but I feared my sanity was fading with it.
The room loomed large, my perceptions changing along with my shape. I swung a paw at the cord connecting the phone to the wall. Hooking a claw around the thin wire, I dragged the heavy plastic instrument to the floor. The receiver bounced loose, the dial tone painfully loud to my sensitive ears. With exquisite care I fought to control my arm and its unfamiliar extension punching 9-1 and 1.
When the voice came on the line I wanted to weep with relief.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”
I tried to talk, to explain what had happened, knowing I would sound insane, and not caring a bit. Let them think me crazy. They’d send an ambulance. I needed an ambulance. I opened my mouth to speak, and all that came out was a piteous mewling.
She kept asking if there was anyone there, but try as I might, I couldn’t speak.
“A cat. It’s a goddamned cat.”
“Probably just knocked the phone off the hook. We’ll have to send somebody to the address to check it out anyway.”
“Whatever.”
She hung up the phone with a bang.
2
I stared at the receiver for a long time. Long enough for it to start buzzing, and then for it to stop. Long enough that the police arrived at my door in response to the 9-1-1.
I dashed downstairs just as the cop flashed his flashlight through the window beside the front door. The light pinned me like a spotlight. I could hear him clearly through the door. “Dispatch you’re right. It’s just a cat. We’ll check around the house, but so far it looks clear.”
NOOOOOOO! I yowled.
I followed them from window to window, trying to get their attention, to make them understand. Of course it was no use.
I was a cat.
A very male, long-haired, black cat.
In time, they left.
Disbelief was followed by despair. It was impossible. Incredible. But, impossible or not, my body was not my body any more.
They say cats have natural grace. I didn’t. I staggered and stumbled, trying to figure out how to make this foreign shape that housed my mind move.
I needed to fix this. . . . Whatever this was.
Bonnie’s words echoed through my mind, the malice in them almost palpable. Could she have done this to me? If it had been possible she would’ve. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Of course it wasn’t possible. Except, here I was.
I managed to make it up the stairs, but it wasn’t pretty. Then I jumped on the bed. If I didn’t think about it too hard, if I just let my body do the mechanics, I actually did better.
I needed to see Bonnie, try to figure out if this was her doing and, if it was, get her to undo it. Goal firmly in mind, I padded across the bed, leapt to the dresser, and climbed out the open bedroom window.
# # #
Bonnie’s apartment complex was only a mile or two from my house. An easy jog. For a human. Two miles is a long damned ways for an animal the size of a house cat. Oh, they can do it. But it takes time. By the time I got there I was tired, thirsty, and sore. Sore, because I still apparently wasn’t good enough at this cat thing to be climbing trees. Contrary to popular myth, cats do not always land on their feet. At least this one hadn’t. Ow.
I limped my way down the sidewalk, dogs barking furiously as I passed. The neighbor’s rottweiller charged the fence, growling and snapping. A board began working its way loose as he slammed himself against the wood, trying desperately to get at me.
I hurried on. That dog had frightened me as a full grown man. What he would do to a twelve pound cat if he caught it didn’t bear thinking about.
About a block from her building I saw the lights, the flashing red and white of the ambulance, along with the strobing blue and red police lights. No sirens, thank God. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. Everything was so loud. Bright, too. I could see into the deepest shadows, hear the small sounds of mice and insects scurrying into hiding at my passage. Smells I’d never even knew existed wafted to me on the night air, each perfectly distinct.
I froze in place, staring in horror as a pair of uniformed EMT’s wheeled a gurney out of Bonnie’s door. They moved with brisk efficiency, but didn’t hurry. There was apparently no need. She wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t hurt them, even though she was shrieking and thrashing, fighting the restraints that held her fast—right up until she caught sight of me. In that instant she stilled. A slow, pleased smile crossed her face. She smiled, and as the ambulance doors were swinging closed I heard her croon in a weird, high-pitch voice, “here, kitty kitty.”
1
It was taking me a long time to fall asleep. I felt rotten. Really guilty and a little bit angry. I hadn’t wanted to break up with Bonnie. But what had started out as a fun, light-hearted romp had changed. She wanted more. Commitment—with a capital “C”. I couldn’t. Because while I liked her, enjoyed her company, she wasn’t the one.
It wasn’t that there was anything obviously wrong with her. She was intelligent, good-looking, from a good family. If I could’ve made myself love her I would’ve. But I couldn’t; and didn’t.
I lay on my back, staring at a crack in the ceiling, a soft autumn breeze blowing through the open bedroom window remembering the ugly expression on her face and the bitterness in her voice when she said:
You’ll pay for this. You don’t know what love is. Pure, unselfish love. All you care about is yourself. Well, you’ll pay until you learn. And if you don’t . . . well, then you’ll just pay.
Okay, that was creepy. Seriously, scary. Because she hadn’t looked even a little bit sane when she’d said it.
At times like this I wished I wasn’t such a movie buff. Visions of Glenn Close and cooked rabbit came unwillingly to mind.
To think it all started because I didn’t want to visit her folks on my vacation.
My hard-earned vacation. Two weeks, taken to recover from fifty weeks of overtime, stress, and office hell. The past two months had been particularly bad. I’d almost forgotten what my house and my bed looked like. I was seriously sleep deprived and in no mood to spend my time off doing anything I didn’t want. And I didn’t want to meet her relatives in person for the first time. That spoke of commitment. A commitment I wasn’t ready to make to Bonnie.
All I wanted was to do nothing, and do it vigorously. I’d warned my co-workers not to even try to reach me. I wouldn’t be checking e-mails; I was turning off the cell. Maybe I’d go to the beach. Maybe I’d just be a couch potato, lying prone and watching classic movies and only getting up to eat and go to the toilet.
If that’s selfish then, yeah. I guess I am. So sue me.
I rolled over, punched the pillow a couple of times and tried to settle in deeper into the mattress. I needed sleep damn it.
Rolling over was a mistake. Lying at this angle I could watch as the red lighted display on the digital clock ticked off the minutes to midnight with excruciating slowness.
Shit.
I rolled onto my back again. I was exhausted, but sleep apparently wasn’t an option. So, fine, I’d watch a movie—maybe play a couple of computer games or read a good book. Whatever.
Throwing back the covers I sat up and swung my legs off of the side of the bed.
Two things happened simultaneously. The grandfather clock in the hall started striking midnight; and the mother of all muscle cramps hit me.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Because it wasn’t just one muscle. It was all of them. My entire body pulled in on itself, contorting in the kind of pain that made a charlie horse pale in comparison.
I fell forward onto the floor, unable to move—barely able to catch enough breath to keep screaming, the thick plush of the carpet rough against the skin of my face.
I needed help.
It took every ounce of strength I had to drag myself across the floor and reach for the phone on the bed stand. My arm was stretched painfully toward the receiver when the next spasm hit. I curled into a fetal position, my body twitching and spasming uncontrollably, sweat and tears pouring down my face to drip onto the carpet.
Each spasm seemed to last an eternity, but the chiming of the clock told me only seconds were passing. The phone was inches away. It may as well have been miles. I gathered my strength for another push and froze, staring in horrified fascination at my hand and arm.
It was curling in on itself, the thumb and fingers shortening, pulling back. Hooked claws sprang from the blunted ends of what had once been my fingers. At the same time long, thick fur poured out of the individual pores like water flowing over the bare skin.
Terror chased away awareness of the pain. “What’s happening to me?” I tried to shout the words, and only managed an animal yowl. The kind you hear when a pair of tom cats are fighting in an alley.
The pain was fading, but I feared my sanity was fading with it.
The room loomed large, my perceptions changing along with my shape. I swung a paw at the cord connecting the phone to the wall. Hooking a claw around the thin wire, I dragged the heavy plastic instrument to the floor. The receiver bounced loose, the dial tone painfully loud to my sensitive ears. With exquisite care I fought to control my arm and its unfamiliar extension punching 9-1 and 1.
When the voice came on the line I wanted to weep with relief.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”
I tried to talk, to explain what had happened, knowing I would sound insane, and not caring a bit. Let them think me crazy. They’d send an ambulance. I needed an ambulance. I opened my mouth to speak, and all that came out was a piteous mewling.
She kept asking if there was anyone there, but try as I might, I couldn’t speak.
“A cat. It’s a goddamned cat.”
“Probably just knocked the phone off the hook. We’ll have to send somebody to the address to check it out anyway.”
“Whatever.”
She hung up the phone with a bang.
2
I stared at the receiver for a long time. Long enough for it to start buzzing, and then for it to stop. Long enough that the police arrived at my door in response to the 9-1-1.
I dashed downstairs just as the cop flashed his flashlight through the window beside the front door. The light pinned me like a spotlight. I could hear him clearly through the door. “Dispatch you’re right. It’s just a cat. We’ll check around the house, but so far it looks clear.”
NOOOOOOO! I yowled.
I followed them from window to window, trying to get their attention, to make them understand. Of course it was no use.
I was a cat.
A very male, long-haired, black cat.
In time, they left.
Disbelief was followed by despair. It was impossible. Incredible. But, impossible or not, my body was not my body any more.
They say cats have natural grace. I didn’t. I staggered and stumbled, trying to figure out how to make this foreign shape that housed my mind move.
I needed to fix this. . . . Whatever this was.
Bonnie’s words echoed through my mind, the malice in them almost palpable. Could she have done this to me? If it had been possible she would’ve. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Of course it wasn’t possible. Except, here I was.
I managed to make it up the stairs, but it wasn’t pretty. Then I jumped on the bed. If I didn’t think about it too hard, if I just let my body do the mechanics, I actually did better.
I needed to see Bonnie, try to figure out if this was her doing and, if it was, get her to undo it. Goal firmly in mind, I padded across the bed, leapt to the dresser, and climbed out the open bedroom window.
# # #
Bonnie’s apartment complex was only a mile or two from my house. An easy jog. For a human. Two miles is a long damned ways for an animal the size of a house cat. Oh, they can do it. But it takes time. By the time I got there I was tired, thirsty, and sore. Sore, because I still apparently wasn’t good enough at this cat thing to be climbing trees. Contrary to popular myth, cats do not always land on their feet. At least this one hadn’t. Ow.
I limped my way down the sidewalk, dogs barking furiously as I passed. The neighbor’s rottweiller charged the fence, growling and snapping. A board began working its way loose as he slammed himself against the wood, trying desperately to get at me.
I hurried on. That dog had frightened me as a full grown man. What he would do to a twelve pound cat if he caught it didn’t bear thinking about.
About a block from her building I saw the lights, the flashing red and white of the ambulance, along with the strobing blue and red police lights. No sirens, thank God. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. Everything was so loud. Bright, too. I could see into the deepest shadows, hear the small sounds of mice and insects scurrying into hiding at my passage. Smells I’d never even knew existed wafted to me on the night air, each perfectly distinct.
I froze in place, staring in horror as a pair of uniformed EMT’s wheeled a gurney out of Bonnie’s door. They moved with brisk efficiency, but didn’t hurry. There was apparently no need. She wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t hurt them, even though she was shrieking and thrashing, fighting the restraints that held her fast—right up until she caught sight of me. In that instant she stilled. A slow, pleased smile crossed her face. She smiled, and as the ambulance doors were swinging closed I heard her croon in a weird, high-pitch voice, “here, kitty kitty.”
Monday, May 24, 2010
I'm Back
Okay, I'm back. The finger is healing. It's still painful, but it will be for a while.
Nox and the kittens have settled in and are happy and doing well from all reports.
I have a lead on a possible job in Denver. I have been taking the steps necessary to move forward in that direction. Keeping my fingers crossed is counterproductive, but I AM hopeful.
Our newest book, the first in the Blood Singer series (Blood Song) is shipped and getting terrific reviews. It is YA friendly, and we are very excited. It technically hits the shelves on June 8, but you may catch a glimpse of it sooner since it wasn't a hard release date.
The quilt is up at the Brenda Novak diabetes auction. It is gorgeous. Please bid early and often.
And because I feel like I haven't done enough with the Breakfast Serial lately (or any posting with the finger hurting like it is) I'm posting a short story tomorrow morning. Look for it here. :)
Oh, and if the Posse would, send me e-mails. I'm feeling neglected as an NSEO, and you wouldn't want me heading down the dark path because of that sort of thing would you? BWAH HA HA HA.
Nox and the kittens have settled in and are happy and doing well from all reports.
I have a lead on a possible job in Denver. I have been taking the steps necessary to move forward in that direction. Keeping my fingers crossed is counterproductive, but I AM hopeful.
Our newest book, the first in the Blood Singer series (Blood Song) is shipped and getting terrific reviews. It is YA friendly, and we are very excited. It technically hits the shelves on June 8, but you may catch a glimpse of it sooner since it wasn't a hard release date.
The quilt is up at the Brenda Novak diabetes auction. It is gorgeous. Please bid early and often.
And because I feel like I haven't done enough with the Breakfast Serial lately (or any posting with the finger hurting like it is) I'm posting a short story tomorrow morning. Look for it here. :)
Oh, and if the Posse would, send me e-mails. I'm feeling neglected as an NSEO, and you wouldn't want me heading down the dark path because of that sort of thing would you? BWAH HA HA HA.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Doing the Right Thing is Hard
Doing the right thing is hard.
First, KNOWING what is the right thing is a challenge.
Then, doing it, when it's going to be painful, is hard. And somehow the right thing always seems to be a little painful.
For example.
A stray set of adolescent cats wandered onto my porch. Still kittens, but no longer in that fluffy stage. I got the ones I could catch their shots, and was going to get them spayed and neutered on the next paycheck, but they wandered off again. (Extremely unhappy about the shots I suppose.) UNTIL the little female comes back HUGELY preggers.
SO, I set up a nest on the front porch. She has her litter there. (4 kittens. Nox is the mom, the kittens are: Tigger, Boots, Socks, and Callie Koh a/k/a Callie Fornia. ) She is raising them, they are adorable. Everybody starts getting friendly and affectionate (except Callie, who is just suspicious by nature). I start looking around for homes for them. Because, well, I have more cats than I can comfortably deal with. But I love them, so I want good SAFE homes.
Nox's brother (Cinnamon) starts coming by again too, and he tames up, but he's small, and he's not so good at the whole fighting thing. But he babysits the kittens and snugs with them and Nox and they're a great family. And he fits in with my cats and comes inside some, so we're good.
But there are too many cats here. Really. And I find a home that is willing to take mom AND the kittens as a group. (A friend's brother bought twenty acres and needs cats to sleep in the barn and keep the premises rodent and hopefully snake free. They can all be together with someone who will love them and keep them fed and in their shots and vet treatments, etc.)
The kittens have gotten old enough too now that they are exploring, in the form of running toward the street (ACK--since they moved the high school by my house people drive through the neighborhood like a bat out of hell), and climbing inside the underside of my truck. (ACK! I mean really! ACK!!!) If they stayed some at least will end up run over and killed. They just would.
So, yesterday I packed up mom and the babies and drove them out to my friend's house where her brother's wife was going to meet us and pick up my little darlings.
And it is the right thing to do. Nox can teach the little ones to hunt and protect them until they're big enough to protect themselves. The little ones will have 20 acres to run on and an access road that has next to no traffic.
But I keep crying. Because I will miss Nox running up to greet me every time I drive up to the house. And I miss the little furballs climbing on me and playing with my shoelaces. And Cinnamon is heartbroken. But damn it, he can't even take on the local tom cats, so he wouldn't be big enough to do well on the farm. And he's too tame now too. He's a housecat. And I love him, and can at least keep him, or perhaps my son will take him when I get up to Denver.
It was the right thing to do. Dammit. I know that. But I HATE it.
I'll get over it. I know. They'll forget me and be happy in the new digs eventually. But today it is very, very hard, and very quiet on the front porch.
First, KNOWING what is the right thing is a challenge.
Then, doing it, when it's going to be painful, is hard. And somehow the right thing always seems to be a little painful.
For example.
A stray set of adolescent cats wandered onto my porch. Still kittens, but no longer in that fluffy stage. I got the ones I could catch their shots, and was going to get them spayed and neutered on the next paycheck, but they wandered off again. (Extremely unhappy about the shots I suppose.) UNTIL the little female comes back HUGELY preggers.
SO, I set up a nest on the front porch. She has her litter there. (4 kittens. Nox is the mom, the kittens are: Tigger, Boots, Socks, and Callie Koh a/k/a Callie Fornia. ) She is raising them, they are adorable. Everybody starts getting friendly and affectionate (except Callie, who is just suspicious by nature). I start looking around for homes for them. Because, well, I have more cats than I can comfortably deal with. But I love them, so I want good SAFE homes.
Nox's brother (Cinnamon) starts coming by again too, and he tames up, but he's small, and he's not so good at the whole fighting thing. But he babysits the kittens and snugs with them and Nox and they're a great family. And he fits in with my cats and comes inside some, so we're good.
But there are too many cats here. Really. And I find a home that is willing to take mom AND the kittens as a group. (A friend's brother bought twenty acres and needs cats to sleep in the barn and keep the premises rodent and hopefully snake free. They can all be together with someone who will love them and keep them fed and in their shots and vet treatments, etc.)
The kittens have gotten old enough too now that they are exploring, in the form of running toward the street (ACK--since they moved the high school by my house people drive through the neighborhood like a bat out of hell), and climbing inside the underside of my truck. (ACK! I mean really! ACK!!!) If they stayed some at least will end up run over and killed. They just would.
So, yesterday I packed up mom and the babies and drove them out to my friend's house where her brother's wife was going to meet us and pick up my little darlings.
And it is the right thing to do. Nox can teach the little ones to hunt and protect them until they're big enough to protect themselves. The little ones will have 20 acres to run on and an access road that has next to no traffic.
But I keep crying. Because I will miss Nox running up to greet me every time I drive up to the house. And I miss the little furballs climbing on me and playing with my shoelaces. And Cinnamon is heartbroken. But damn it, he can't even take on the local tom cats, so he wouldn't be big enough to do well on the farm. And he's too tame now too. He's a housecat. And I love him, and can at least keep him, or perhaps my son will take him when I get up to Denver.
It was the right thing to do. Dammit. I know that. But I HATE it.
I'll get over it. I know. They'll forget me and be happy in the new digs eventually. But today it is very, very hard, and very quiet on the front porch.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Friday? WOW.
Okay, it's Friday already. I'm not sure exactly how that happened.
Last week I got my stitches out Friday afternoon. The finger is healing nicely (slowly, but nicely). It does, however, still look like something of a Frankenfinger ("It's ALIVE!"), and may always since I get keloid scarring. BUT, it works. I'm still doing nine-finger typing because of sensitivity issues. (I mean "OW") But it WORKS.
I'm getting back to writing. I am WOEFULLY out of practice. Illness and injury can do that to you if you're not careful. But I got the two short stories off. (Whether the editor will like them or not is anyone's guess.) I've got some businessy stuff to take care of today, then this weekend I'm back to working on the book.
I'm actually fairly proud of myself. I've gotten a lot done in this past week. There's always more to do, but I can see myself making progress, which is cool.
We got the ARCs in for book 2 of the Blood Singer series -- Siren Song. They look quite good. That one comes out in October. Blood Song the first book, comes out June 8th. I'm REALLY excited. It's our first book to come out as a trade paperback, and it has been getting a lot of buzz. If you can, pre-order it. We really want that boost in first week sales.
Well, I have to get to the day job. Take care.
Cie/C.T. Adams
Last week I got my stitches out Friday afternoon. The finger is healing nicely (slowly, but nicely). It does, however, still look like something of a Frankenfinger ("It's ALIVE!"), and may always since I get keloid scarring. BUT, it works. I'm still doing nine-finger typing because of sensitivity issues. (I mean "OW") But it WORKS.
I'm getting back to writing. I am WOEFULLY out of practice. Illness and injury can do that to you if you're not careful. But I got the two short stories off. (Whether the editor will like them or not is anyone's guess.) I've got some businessy stuff to take care of today, then this weekend I'm back to working on the book.
I'm actually fairly proud of myself. I've gotten a lot done in this past week. There's always more to do, but I can see myself making progress, which is cool.
We got the ARCs in for book 2 of the Blood Singer series -- Siren Song. They look quite good. That one comes out in October. Blood Song the first book, comes out June 8th. I'm REALLY excited. It's our first book to come out as a trade paperback, and it has been getting a lot of buzz. If you can, pre-order it. We really want that boost in first week sales.
Well, I have to get to the day job. Take care.
Cie/C.T. Adams
Friday, May 07, 2010
OKAY
Okay, it seems some of you are just dying to hear about how I humiliated myself. SO, without further ado . . .
Previous entry in the OHMIGAWD you DIDN'T contest (the one I believed would never be topped.)
First day of a new job (long time ago in a city far, far, away). I had the stomach crud. But if you don't show up for the first day of work you don't GET a second day. So I went. The bathroom was on the far end of a loooooooooooong hall away from the office. I get one of those huge stomach cramps and take off at a dead run. As I am approaching the outer door I'm unfastening my belt. As I dive through the outer reception area I am unfastening my trousers. I swing into the first open stall dropping trou as I go and hear an EAR SPLITTING SCREAM.
Grabbing the partition I swing myself into stall two as my gut lets go.
Yes Gracie. I really DID moon my brand new boss on the first day of work. She was claustrophobic and didn't ever lock the stall so everyone just knew stall 1 was hers.
AND FOR THE NEWEST ENTRY --
I am in a ball gown and tiara, on stage in front of - oh, I dunno maybe a thousand or so people. The lights dim, the dinner is being served. I scoot my chair back a smidge away from the table and . . .
The back legs go off of the stage.
I have this moment of "OH shit" when I know I'm in trouble. I lean toward the stage to try to compensate. Won't work. SO, I fall. FORTUNATELY I used to be a skater. When you skate at high speed you learn how to take a fall. (on the meaty part of your hips/ass and shoulder, roll with it to ease the momentum). You also learn to get up quickly (so that the folks behind you don't (a) crash into you; or (b) run over you.) So I do this spectacular fall, and roll, and rise to my feet with my ball gown twisted around me, my tiara down over one eye, my shoes having flown beneath the stage and the metal brace for my finger 6 feet across the room.
Yup. That's me. Biggest formal event of my flippin LIFE thus far, and I put on a show.
SIGH.
Fortunately I only got a couple of spectacular bruises from it. But my pride suffered a serious blow.
Previous entry in the OHMIGAWD you DIDN'T contest (the one I believed would never be topped.)
First day of a new job (long time ago in a city far, far, away). I had the stomach crud. But if you don't show up for the first day of work you don't GET a second day. So I went. The bathroom was on the far end of a loooooooooooong hall away from the office. I get one of those huge stomach cramps and take off at a dead run. As I am approaching the outer door I'm unfastening my belt. As I dive through the outer reception area I am unfastening my trousers. I swing into the first open stall dropping trou as I go and hear an EAR SPLITTING SCREAM.
Grabbing the partition I swing myself into stall two as my gut lets go.
Yes Gracie. I really DID moon my brand new boss on the first day of work. She was claustrophobic and didn't ever lock the stall so everyone just knew stall 1 was hers.
AND FOR THE NEWEST ENTRY --
I am in a ball gown and tiara, on stage in front of - oh, I dunno maybe a thousand or so people. The lights dim, the dinner is being served. I scoot my chair back a smidge away from the table and . . .
The back legs go off of the stage.
I have this moment of "OH shit" when I know I'm in trouble. I lean toward the stage to try to compensate. Won't work. SO, I fall. FORTUNATELY I used to be a skater. When you skate at high speed you learn how to take a fall. (on the meaty part of your hips/ass and shoulder, roll with it to ease the momentum). You also learn to get up quickly (so that the folks behind you don't (a) crash into you; or (b) run over you.) So I do this spectacular fall, and roll, and rise to my feet with my ball gown twisted around me, my tiara down over one eye, my shoes having flown beneath the stage and the metal brace for my finger 6 feet across the room.
Yup. That's me. Biggest formal event of my flippin LIFE thus far, and I put on a show.
SIGH.
Fortunately I only got a couple of spectacular bruises from it. But my pride suffered a serious blow.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Threes
Threes
I have been told that things happen in 3s. The good luck is supposed to follow the bad. BOY do I hope that's true. Because the third thing happened at RT. In fact, I may just have bypassed my previous most embarrassing moment -- the one I said I didn't believe anyone could beat -- you know the one.
The one where I MOONED MY BOSS ON THE FIRST DAY OF WORK. (Not at this job thank heavens.) Yeah, really.
And this might just be more embarrassing.
OY!
I have been told that things happen in 3s. The good luck is supposed to follow the bad. BOY do I hope that's true. Because the third thing happened at RT. In fact, I may just have bypassed my previous most embarrassing moment -- the one I said I didn't believe anyone could beat -- you know the one.
The one where I MOONED MY BOSS ON THE FIRST DAY OF WORK. (Not at this job thank heavens.) Yeah, really.
And this might just be more embarrassing.
OY!
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