Just a Northern Girl

Explosive personality

2012-01-11T15:13:00.000-06:00

In the month of December I go through an internal inventory of sorts, determining where I am, what I’m doing, how it’s going and whatnot. It is a very informal process and is entirely too connected to the holidays. I usually find that I’m still too riddled with bad habits to consider the previous year a success, but I’ve also gotten to the point where I know better than to make resolutions I’ll just break within a week of the New Year. So, there’s that saying about having 6 of one and half-a-dozen of the other, but I’m no good with math.*

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My younger daughter’s hair is amazing. Thick and long and the color of sun-bleached wheat right before the harvest. I love braiding it. Combing it. And she is still of the age where that isn’t uncool, to have your mom play with your hair. My elder daughter’s hair is a wild mob of red ringlets that falls to her waist. Heavy and soft at the same time. If I so much as reach for her hair, she flinches, like I’m coming at her with a branding iron. The randomness of genetics is fascinating.

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The picture is from my window, yesterday morning. I took it with my new phone, which is really a stupidly expensive, yet tiny little super computer I manage to lose several times a day in my purse.

===

In a moment of weakness, I signed up for CodeAcademy’s little program called CodeYear…where you give them your email address and each week they email you a link to a lesson in writing code. Like, computer programming code. In Java. Which is supposed to be super-easy and my 12-year-old kid could probably figure it out in about 5 minutes, but Holy Mother of Confusion Batman, that first lesson taking me out behind the woodshed for a beating like none-other.

What little I know of code is HTML code and I cheated heartily when learning even that little bit by just modifying what was already there. Swapping colors. Changing sizes of things. Stuff like that. In CodeYear, I actually have to THINK like a computer, which is nine kinds of silly because OF THE MATH!*

===

*I have decided that 2012 is going to be The Year. This Year is My Year. If my math is correct, 2012 is the Year of the Dragon and it is about damn time.

Balance is a myth

2011-12-02T12:53:00.001-06:00

So Tanner was put down on October 26. The night before, I took a call from a sobbing (youngest) daughter. She had tried to help Tanner get up to go outside and they had slipped, falling hard. Tanner could no longer stand and from what I could understand, had probably broken something. Follow that with a pissed-off call with The Boy because I was about 200 miles away and he would have to deal with all the drama at home.

Sorry.

The next day, I talked to the eldest daughter and she was holding it together quite well. And then I went out and read her Twitter feed. No wonder she is an actress.

After all that and much more I’m not interested in writing about, much less think about, we’ll have her buried this spring in the pet cemetery where Rex is. I like to think that will make Tanner happy.

***

I hate this Google+ bullshit. While I’m not nearly as concerned with anonymity online as I once was, I like having a blog that isn’t directly attached to my name. Although, I’m sure it is an easy connect the dots exercise for most.

Google+ requires real names attached to real people. Where is the fun in that? I like my nom de plume.

Facebook is different, as is LinkedIn, ad nauseam. But my blog was where I could howl or bitch or just blabber without having to worry it would blow back on me. Much. The part I really dislike is that I can no longer “share to blogger” on the sidebar here like I used to from Google Reader. Now everything is a “re-post” if I want to share. Do. Not. Want.

Google? If you are listening? I loved you once. Now? I’m kinda having second thoughts.

***

I put 3000 miles on my Jeep this month. Ever since I took a job that had me on the road, I’ve often wondered how many times around the world I could have traveled had I not zig-zagged about the region. Now, I’m starting to wonder how many times to the moon and back I could travel, would my Jeep allow for interstellar jumps.

I’ve also found the Book channel on my Sirius XM radio. Love. A great break from all the Octane and Alt Nation rock I suddenly know all the words to. I swear I could memorize the entire Library of Congress if you put it to music. Homer’s got nothing on me…provided there is a chorus.

Thank You

2011-12-02T11:35:00.000-06:00

Thank You:

Here are more chickens getting fired.

I don't know what that means

2011-10-11T15:45:00.000-05:00

Where are we going?

I’ve started investigating alternative schools for Muffy. The Boy, who cannot keep a secret to save his life, leaked this intel before I was sure of what road to take. Now - I’m on the road to Changing Schools whether I like it or not.

In regional news, I’m still spending the majority of my day starving to death. Or - at least thinking I’m starving. I’m not. My pants are still too small.

Because I read good things about them on the internet - and therefore it Must Be Gospel - I am now a devoted fan of Larabars. Good to the YUM. I’ve not met a Larabar flavor I don’t devour like a starving animal. Which I kind of am. But then not. I’m all kinds of conflicted about this whole diet thing, in case you are not a student of the obvious.

In other news, iTunes has decided it must be close enough to Christmas to start including Holiday Music in my shuffle. Intolerable. And what is this Ping it keeps asking me about? Not all that interested, really, unless I can set it to send me the free song downloads every week without having to navigate the iTunes Store. That I’d sign up for.

***********************

Assisting the Socially Neotenous

Unlike some people I know in real life (or on Facebook - as real as that can be, I guess), I don’t gauge my value on the planet by how many Facebook “Happy Birthday” greetings I receive. Am I the only person on the web to think such blasphemous thoughts?

If I may directly address a tiny segment of the population: The only person who should be miffed about you getting or not getting Birthday Greetings is your MOM. She’s the one who suffered your birth, childhood and puberty. Go thank her instead of demonstrating your mastery of passive-aggressive behaviors.

Of course, watching this play out has me slowly shaking my head at my computer screen…grown-damn-adults acting like children online. Of course, we didn’t need the internet to make fools of ourselves. I should know.

On dogs

2011-10-04T13:46:00.000-05:00

This household is home to two dogs. Old Dog - Tanner and New Dog - Smoke.

Tanner is old. She turns 15 this fall and is showing her age with selective hearing and questionable eye sight. And arthritis. Poor thing. I didn’t believe she would make it through last winter, yet here we are staring down the barrel of another cold and flu season. But there she is… napping on her dog bed, quietly snoring.

Tanner came to us in a sad state. We were looking for a dog - something small-ish and easy maintenance, as dogs go, for Banana. We were in a new town and in our first Real House and it just seemed time to Get A Dog.

I don’t know. Logic fails me when it comes to animals.

Anyway, we went looking in all the right places for an animal: the paper, animal shelters, the bulletin board at the local Alco. Believe it or not, we ended up at a pet shop (THE HORROR, I know). But there in the middle of the back room was a portable fence barely corralling three sick looking puppies.

The shop clerk kind of sniffed at me when I asked about them and said, “Someone brought in 12 of those puppies. Found them in a box in the middle of a field when he was hunting, I guess. These three are in pretty rough shape.” While she talked, one of the puppies was making a valiant effort to climb the fence. I reached down and pulled her off the rungs.

That was it. She was ours.

We have no idea what breed she is, so when people ask we tell them she is a “Field Boxer” and tell her story in homage to what we do know of her heritage.

Smoke is of not so humble beginnings, being pedigreed and papered and officially registered. Silver Smoke, as His Highness is formally called, is a Silver Lab. The existence of such creatures I had no knowledge of until he arrived in the house last year about Thanksgiving time.

He is such a… boy. Rambunctious and nosy, nothing happens in the house without his knowledge. Nothing happens in the 5-mile radius surrounding our house without his knowledge. And he usually comes in from outside smelling of his, um, knowledge.

Smoke likes forks. He will take a fork - just the fork - from your dinner plate, all ninja stealth and then give you the “WHAT? I LIKE FORKS!” look when you take it away from him.

He loves anything plastic that he can systematically destroy. I had a nice little collection of Tupperware-esque containers and such until Smoke arrived. Now I’m finding pieces of gnawed plastic strategically placed about the property. I pity my children’s Barbie Dolls as they are second only to rolls of Toilet Paper as the drug of choice for The Royal Pooch.

And rolls of paper towel? Puppy heroin.

Sadly, the Labrador brain does not fully engage until around age three. So I have two more years of his nonsense. But what lovely nonsense - when he leaps onto my lap, licks my face and, after getting comfortable while simultaneously staying as close to me without actually being ON me, promptly falls asleep.

I miss Rex. We had to put him down in the fall of 2009.

Wait. What?

2011-10-03T11:04:00.001-05:00

Grade 7 is kicking my ass.

It is painfully obvious to me why I no longer teach. Aside from being emotionally draining, mostly thankless work, I hated it. Trying to engage kids, dealing with behavior issue, planning lessons, grading papers, attending endless committee meetings and teacher workshops, and relating to blahblahblahkillmenow.

Suddenly I’m one of “those” parents, hovering two feet above and slightly behind my child…emailing teachers, asking questions about lesson plans, taking my kid to “Morning Math” (which is nothing more than a glorified study hall in the math teacher’s classroom), demanding better for my daughter because she deserves it, goddamnitalltohell.

I want to scream…

When the English teacher (bless her heart) tells me about the conversation she had with my daughter about why education is so important (because you need a good job so you can plan for retirement…Wait. WHAT? Is that what and education is for? Jesus.)

When the math teacher stares at his computer instead of helping a kid - who is in his classroom at 7:30 in the damn morning for extra help with assignments.

When lesson plans for science class say M: notes. T: notes. W: quiz. Th: Notes. F: Lab (Ok - but for what CHAPTER, for the love of god.)

When my kid cries every night because she does not want to go to school in the morning.

On the drive up to the school this morning, I considered hiring a private tutor. Or what about a private school? Or maybe I just move to another country where the education system isn’t broken beyond repair? Where would THAT be and how long would it take me to learn the language? I can’t afford any of those options - and quite honestly, the ‘system’ needs to be less of a system and more of a process.

How do I fix this before my kid turns 16 and runs screaming from the school without a diploma?

Polyvore

2011-09-28T19:00:00.000-05:00

All Day Everyday by tgullickson featuring a zip hoodie

T shirt
$23 - buckle.com

Bench zip hoodie
£50 - houseoffraser.co.uk

Quiksilver patch jeans
$88 - quiksilver.com

Converse flat sneaker
£40 - houseoffraser.co.uk

Natasha Couture sparkle jewelry
$45 - nordstrom.com

Pyramid jewelry
$45 - pyramidcollection.com

This Polyvore stuff is kinda fun.

Not for pu**ies

2011-09-15T11:16:00.000-05:00

So I’m dieting.

But I’m trying to trick myself into the whole “losing weight” thing as an honest attempt to get healthy.

Yeah. Right. Who am I kidding? I want to fit into my dress up clothes again. That, and I don’t want my ass to scare people when I’m at the beach or the pool.

There. I said it. Vanity.

Since I’ve been in business for myself for over a year now, I didn’t give a hoot what I wore to meetings or whatever. I’d show up in blue jeans, Converse All-Stars, a v-neck t-shirt and hoodie, looking all Mark Zuckerberg minus the bad hair, and make no apologies. Hey. I worked for The Man for too long, following some effed-up dress code that required panty hose and blazers. I own this company (ok - co-own, but still); I can dress however I flipping want to.

Except when I shouldn’t.

I tried to pull on a pair of my goes-with-everything dress pants and - how do you say it, Rootie? - I PLOTZED. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked in horror at the reflection. “Where did THAT come from?” I demanded, pointing at a loaf of bread conveniently wrapped around my middle*. When my upper arm stopped wobbling, I turned to see the reverse view. Mother of God, when did I sprout an ASS a-la-JLo? And what is that! Back Fat? Oh, HELL no!

Of course, I had to complain about it for a while. Then I started feeling sorry for myself, too. But the whole SNAP OUT OF IT hit when my biggest pair of blue jeans got a bit too snug. Enough, already.

I cleaned out the snack cabinet (oh how I miss you, crackers and squeeze cheese, Cheetos, Doritos, CARBS!), stocked the veggie bin in the fridge, and started keeping track of everything I eat. Gone are the days of frozen pizza, home made mac and cheese, and spaghetti with butter. I am hungry. All. The. Damn. Time.

Sigh. I’ve lost eight pounds. Eight. Doesn’t sound like much except that I’m on day number 12.

Of course, I did have an Oreo Blizzard from the Dairy Queen for supper the other night.

*Now - I’ve never had a waist. Even at my lightest, I’ve never had a waist. I remember distinctly the lady at the “Prom Dress” store suggesting a girdle or control-top panty hose to help “define your shape a little bit.” I weighed 130 pounds, stood as tall as I am right now (5’6”) and was 16 years old. I was a multi-sport athlete. Could wrestle my brother into screaming Uncle. Could see my biceps and triceps without flexing my arm. And I needed a girdle in order to fit into the prom dress I wanted. And we wonder why girls/women have body issues.

Google Reader killed me

2011-09-06T15:40:00.000-05:00

For the love of Pete, I follow entirely too many blogs, feeds, what-have-you on Google Reader.

Once upon a time I kept a tight grip on the edge of the internet rabbit hole, but now I’m in a competition with myself to see how fast I can fall to the bottom.

There are the yummy blogs I follow, like Because It Really Is Personal, Mimi Smartypants, Plain-Jane, Dooce (Yes, Jane, I put you and Heather next to each other in the SAME SENTENCE) and Black Hockey Jesus. I like them. They make me laugh, or think, or snap-out-of-it-already.

Then there are the pictures - Oh, mah lawd, the pictures: The Sartorialist is a favorite. Flak Photo. I also liked Ground Glass before the hiatus.

Gah - I'm done with the linking. Google the guys I mention from here on, if you so choose.

The How-to’s/marketing/design sites which either inspire or piss me off: Awesome Content, Copyblogger, Seth Godin, Design Happens, PhotoJojo, Brand New.

The ‘why do I follow this, they post so much STUFF’ category: IO9, Lifehacker, etc…

I am down to only one comic: Savage Chickens.

And finally, The News (and I use that term loosely) : Fast Company, NPR, USAToday, local and regional rags, etc.

All-in-all, I follow about 2 hours worth of internet reading every day. I don’t have that kind of time, so I’m off to do some much needed pruning.

What publications (internet or otherwise) do you read everyday?

Digging

2011-08-25T17:14:00.000-05:00

I’ve found reference, recently, on several blogs I follow regarding their start dates.

That got me curious, and since I can’t just go to my online archives anymore - having purged all that in a fit of, what, rage? embarrassment? disgust? does it matter? - I found an old hard drive I keep for as a reference or for a paperweight. Whatever the need it meets, I guess.

July 6, 2005 I wrote my first post on Whaling Season (Whaling Season eventually evolved into Just a Northern Girl when I thought it was cool to have a vanity url. I’ve since changed my mind about the vanity part, but not the url.)

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, a friend from college joked about summer...in a northern town such as we were in...that it was like Whaling Season: short...but with a lot of large, white bodies beached on the sand, baking - unappealingly - under a colorless sky. So. Here we go. It's whaling season.

Such humble beginnings. And still, here we are. Or here I am. Or…oh, hell. Who cares.

**************************

Muffy started seventh grade today. I helped her pack her bag, took her picture, and waved as she boarded the bus…all kind of in a haze. Normally, I feel a bit of nostalgia or sentimentality or homesickness for my own misspent youth. Not this time.
I don’t want to go back to seventh grade.

I remember the first day of that school year very well. My house was the closest to the school of all my “friends who must walk to school everyday” friends. All three showed up on my front porch at the same time that sunny morning; I joined them there, pony-tailed and backpacked, and we stood there in the anticipation together, grinning. I was anxious - mostly about upperclassmen (the junior and senior high were under one roof). My friends, far more studious and clear of thought, were worried about teachers and homework and balancing athletics with confirmation classes and Other Important Stuff.

As we walked to school that morning, I worried about different things. I didn’t want to take a wrong turn and get lost in a maze of ‘squared circular’ hallways. Or get pantsd (having one’s PE shorts yanked down to the ankles) during co-ed PE. Or made to work in collaborative groups on science experiments. Or asked to recite poetry in front of my peers.

All of those things happened to me at one point or another that year. And yet, I lived.

Disqualified

2011-08-23T16:58:00.000-05:00

Well. Hell.

I spaced off posting on Sunday night. I spent most of the weekend cleaning. Oldest child moved out and left a room full of dust dragons that had to be slain or otherwise subdued.

And then I just gave up the NaBloPoMo ghost yesterday all together. This is probably a good thing as I got all kinds of snotty with the rules and such. I wasn't a fan of the writing prompts either. Once I got looking through the other posts out there connected to NaBloPoMo, I realized I took the directions far to literally, wrote some gothically dark prose and probably managed to scare off any casual readers. Ah, me.

Anyway, I'm back to flexing my blogging muscles. They've atrophied a bit, here and there, but the muscle memory will come back.

Finding time

2011-08-20T22:06:00.001-05:00

I procrastinate. Didn't write at all today. I did clean the house a bit. Watched movies. Napped. Exciting here, I know.

If you get the chance to watch the movie Country Strong, it had better be your only option. Unless slow-moving train wrecks are your thing. That's two hours of my life I'll never get back.

Road day

2011-08-19T22:58:00.001-05:00

I should have tomorrow afternoon to myself to do some reading and much needed creative and business writing. And laundry. Of course.

By finding and using this Blogger app, I've lost the sense of urgency I need to sit down and really write. Why should I when I can just slap up a blog post while half asleep in bed?

Disappointing, I know.

Obligatory "prompt" post

2011-08-18T19:09:00.002-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

I suck at taking direction, following direction, or generally being told what to do. Often times you’ll find I do what is asked/necessary only because what I want to do is ON THE OTHER SIDE OF whatever it is I must do.

So.

I want to be eligible for the prizes and recognition of NaBloPoMo - because I’m just that much of a competitive freak of nature - so I’m answering one of their prompts. BLAH!

Monday, August 8, 2011
Do you always tell the truth?
No.

(Oh, yeah. I'm also a smartass. Sorry. I'll get better, promise. Or -- am I not telling the truth?!?)

Again with the brevity

2011-08-17T22:02:00.001-05:00

Lord love a duck I'm sucking at this whole NaBloPoMo thing. This happens to me - or maybe this is just what I do: start strong and then get distracted by something shiny and I'm off to something else.

Good thing, this mobile blogging thing.

Verklempt but then not

2011-08-16T20:44:00.001-05:00

Just moved Banana into her new house. I'm so happy for her. Now I have to console Muffin...she's having a bit of a meltdown missing her sister. "My sissy is gone forever and she's never coming back."

When is the little sister more upset about such things than the mom? Strange times I live in.

Like cheating but not

2011-08-15T21:47:00.001-05:00

Having this mobile app in my phone allows me to procrastinate blogging for NaBloPoMo like nobody's business. I feel like I'm cheating but then not.

I drive a lot for work (still...but now it is for my company - and my partner's company) and that being on the road doesn't promote deep thoughts that transfer well into posts. Oh-don't get me wrong...I have deep profound thoughts while driving all the time. But by the time I get to a place where I can write it down I've lost it to the ether between my ears.

More soon...ish. And I owe Rootie an email. Sooner...ish.

Another short one

2011-08-14T11:48:00.001-05:00

This mobile stuff is kinda fun.

Made it home late last night and now plan to get back into the car to see the house Banana will be in this year at college then drive out to the lake to check the cabin for the parents. They are on vacation.

So that will be my day. What are you up to?

Testing mobile blogging

2011-08-13T18:47:00.001-05:00

Wonder if this counts as a post for NaBloPoMo?

On the road

2011-08-12T11:41:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

No fiction today either. Oh well. What I've posted for fiction up to this point is a bit dark, and that's being more than kind.

I'm traveling for work. For my company. For my companIES.

Wow. This entrepreneurial stuff is a bit surreal.

**********

Completely off topic: SPANX? Horrifying. Yet sadly required, of late.

Break from make believe

2011-08-11T16:46:00.004-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

And here is where I take a break from all the fiction and, I don’t know, freak out just a little bit? Naw. Everything is great. Fabulous even.

Both girls are getting ready to go back to school, thank the gods that be.

Muffy will be in 7th grade, and that is causing some righteous angst. I remember Middle School. Torture, it was.

Banana, my College Sophomore, (lawd hep meh!) is dealing with potential house mates, leases, jobs, a monster class load, and a really interesting boyfriend. So far, so good.

We’ve added to the household with a new dog: Smoke. Also known as “Smokey-Bear,” “Destructo-Dog,” or “Jack Ass” depending on how cute he looks, what he’s managed to destroy, or how expensive said destruction is to fix/replace. A Silver Lab, he has to have more personality than most people, and a range of emotion that screams “Oscar Winner,” I swear. Originally, Smoke was to be The Boy’s Dog. But Smoke spends way too much time at home with me and so he’s kind of my dog. The Boy housebroke him, but I’m teaching him manners. And I’ll ruin him for any kind of hunting, I’m sure.

*****************

I don’t think I’m doing the whole NaBloPoMo thing correctly. I surfed around some of the other participant sites, and the one’s I looked at, they are just posting stuff. I may have taken the whole “fiction” theme a bit too far. Even the writing prompts posted here don’t have much to do with writing fiction. Ah me.

Regardless, I’m writing again. And good thing, too, as my partner and I just relaunched our website which requires activity in the site’s “news” area along with Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and the Chamber site we have access to. I already have a list of stories I need to write and I’m absolutely giddy about the whole thing.

Conversation

2011-08-10T13:47:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

I sat on a hard bench, mentally talking to myself when I should have been paying attention. Remembering every word that was said. I would need these words later. In the dark. When I could be alone. Instead, I sat still, surrounded by people in uncomfortable clothes, pretended to listen, and stared at an urn. What is in there? Rocks? Or is it a flower vase that someone left behind? No. It has a lid. Vases don’t have lids.

I can feel you there. You cannot hide from me.

I hate things like this. Why did I do this? Because I had to. Because she wanted it. But her way. Dammit, how I wish I could listen. Important things were being said. I would need to remember. I would want to remember. Why didn’t I have this taped? No. That is just isn’t done. Stop it! Listen.

I want you to understand a few things, ok? Just listen, hon; you don’t have to talk. I don’t want you to talk. If there was anything I liked most about you it was your ability to just listen and not interrupt, so do that for me now, ok? Just sit there. Be quiet for me. And listen.

What about all those goddamn flowers? I don’t want them. I’ll just leave them here. Someone will take care of it, right? Where did they all come from? For stupid. Flowers are so damn inappropriate. I’ve always thought so. She always thought so. Beautiful flowers cut from the plant just at the peak of life. There is something rape-like about ‘cutting flowers’ that I could never understand. So inappropriate.

Learning to love you was a life-long process and I’m not sure I ever got it right. You are so much a part of me, but when you got out there, beyond my control, I have the feeling you were gifted to me. As soon as I unwrapped you, you started moving away from me. First in small steps, then bigger, until you were flat-out sprinting in the direction I didn’t want you to go. But you’d come back. Tell me stories, censored for my protection, I know, but you’d share pretty pieces of yourself with me and I so loved you for it.

When will everyone be done talking? Don’t talk to me. Words mean nothing now. Not anymore. Words are loathsome and bitter in my mouth. Don’t ask me a question that I can’t answer by nodding or shaking my head – you don’t want me to open my mouth and let the words fall out. They are heavy and awkward rolling around in my head. It would be worse if I turned them loose on this room. This awful ‘now’ that I have to endure.

If I could open my mouth, I would tell you it really isn’t that bad, hon. The weight exists, but then not. Sensation is exaggerated yet muffled and distant. I’m sorry. I was never very good at telling you how I feel.

How do I do this now, without knowing I can yell at you? Sit with you. Hold your hand and just exist in the silence. Please – oh – please make the talking stop. This awful place.

If I could unstop my ears, I would overhear the conversations no longer needing to take place behind my back and laugh and laugh with you at the silly things people say when they don’t know what to say but must talk to fill the silence. Nobody could sit in silence with me like you could and I must tell you now how much I needed that. Just your presence, filling up a void without the noise of conversation.

Oh, my God, just let me out!

If I could open my eyes and look at you – just look at you – I’d be humbled by this daughter I’ve created and once again feel the stone crushing the air out of me when you started to move away from me and become your own person. Killing me over space and time and distance.

I stood up, took the urn holding my mother’s ashes from the minister, and followed everyone out of the church.

Mom would have loved a day like this.

These were the reasons to stay

2011-08-09T13:46:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

The wind was blowing – hard – out of the west. But that was best. The cold November gusts could not shoulder its way through the dense shelter-belt behind the house.

The gas tank was full. The cash was in her bag, along with some hurriedly packed essentials: toothbrush, a change of clothes and a lipstick. She was ready. It was time. She paused abruptly and faced east, the house behind her, the wind around her, and stared, keys in hand, at a drop of blood-red moon undulating just above the horizon.

The house lights were off, as were the yard lights. Dark is somehow darker when the wind blows. More difficult to hear anything beyond the moan of the trees as they stand stalwart, protecting the house. Gravel pressed under work boots crackles dirtily, but that cannot be heard above this wind.

Keys still in hand, she stopped looking at the moon, stopped listening for bogeymen in the dark and slipped the key into the door lock, turned it quickly and popped open the door.

Again, she paused, looked at the moon, now strangely higher in the sky, no longer sitting on the horizon, but lifting itself a step up to a stray cloud.

Somehow, in just those few seconds, she could feel the earth turning beneath her. She swallowed hard, trying not to taste the bile in the back of her throat and found herself clutching the car door just to remain standing. Was the earth spinning that fast? Willing herself not to retch, gagging quietly next to her car, she stared back up at the moon, now even higher in the sky.

A feeling of what she imaged to be vertigo battered her body like surf pounding sand. She felt herself erode beneath the beating, the dizziness overtaking her, buzzing her senses, even her vision, at the edges.

The feeling would not pass; she would have to vomit before it would pass. She leaned over the backside of the car and heaved. Nothing came. Just bile.

Still leaning on the car, she lifted her head to face the sky. The moon, no longer red, was nearly half way through its evening rounds and stars poked through the frozen black of space. Not trusting the moon to stay still, she picked a star and focused on it, willing the seasickness to subside. She had to leave. She had to get away. It was time.

The moon was setting when she finally found her balance. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and squared her shoulders. In one liquid motion, she tapped the door lock and spun on her heel slamming the car door shut. Turning to face the house, she stopped to listen to the west wind stubbornly stumbling about in the trees.

Slowly, reluctantly, she walked to the door, ducked inside.

And stayed.

Regret

2011-08-08T13:34:00.002-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)
Regret

The lawyer said, “Give yourself some time to heal.”

The friend said, “I’ll bring over a bottle of wine. We’ll have a girl’s night, watch movies and eat popcorn. It will be fun.”

The boss said, “You know, I have this big project I could give you. It might help – you know – keep you busy…” His voice trailed off, not finishing the sentence, not giving voice to the thought. The thought being, of course, “keep you busy so you don’t think about your failed marriage, your failed family, your failed life.” He would never say that. Never. But that is what she was thinking. What he was thinking.

No amount of time, wine, work, or life would make this go away. Her marriage was done and like a death, it had to be mourned, grieved, accepted and dismissed so that the next part of her life could open to her. But this was no book, where she could turn the page, skip the dry exposition and get into the good parts. This was not a movie that could be fast-forwarded to the action scenes. This was her life – every God damned breath she took reminded her that she was divorced.

Single.

After 20 years together, starting again was beyond frightening. It was paralyzing. They made so many mistakes. So many opportunities were turned to ruin. So many failures. But still, 20 years is a long time. There was so much she would miss. And despite the hurt in her heart, she kept memories locked away, taking them out mentally, turning them over in her mind. The way he could always make her laugh, no matter how upset she was at him or at work or at the world. His smile – she always joked it could disarm Nuclear Russia. His loud and bumbling way he would tackle projects around the house. His massive bear hugs gave her the secure feeling she craved, that she needed every day like water, like oxygen.

The depression on his side of the bed where he would sleep every night, the pillows arranged just so, snoring, keeping her up all night long. The coffee pot he would never clean, left on for days until the carafe boiled dry and cracked. The dirty clothes piled next to the laundry basket because it was just too much trouble to pick them off the floor.

Despite all the detritus of the day to day, how could she possibly live without him? He took care of her. He loved her.

But not anymore.

Internally, she was grasping at whatever…

Maybe I should move away, she thought. Start somewhere new – fresh start. New job. New friends. New scenery. Sell the house. Sell the furniture. Sell the car. Move to a big city and lean on it – find a tiny apartment and public transportation and crowds of people, and just get lost. Get a job pushing papers around sitting at a desk in a room with no windows.

No more garden to tend. No more empty house to clean. No more animals to take care of. No more clothes, dishes, garbage to deal with that isn’t just hers. Just her.

That is what I’ll do, she thought excitedly. I’ll start over. I’m still young. I can do this. I can. I will. I have to.

I have to get away to do it, though. Or I’ll never get my mind away from it.

Remember

2011-08-07T13:29:00.009-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

Hon? Hon, I need you.

I’m here.

Don’t page anyone. I can’t stand anyone else. Just hold my hand.

What’s the matter. Are you scared?

No – everything is fine, hon. Fine. Just sit here with me, please? Don’t talk. Just sit here.

I sat. I held her hand. Her bony, fragile, paper-thin skinned cold hand in my warm meaty ones. I was quiet.

But in my head I was telling her to keep breathing. Remember?

Remember that afternoon a summer long ago? The neighborhood kids were playing in the alley, ignoring me again. You were getting ready for a neighborhood barbecue by fixing salads made of gelatin and suspended raisins and carrot shavings. I sat alone at the picnic table in the backyard. The backyard before we chopped down the apple tree and paved the grass.

I could smell fresh-cut grass mixed with charcoal smoke. The cars raced past our front door, teenagers behind the wheel, testing the limits of their freedom. The sun, still hot on my face. I could see the orange glow behind closed eyelids.

I sat alone at the table and waited. Ever patient. Ever quiet. Ever alone.

When your preparations were done in the kitchen, you came out and sat with me. We sat a full ten minutes together without talking before you asked why I wasn’t playing with the kids in the alley. What was my answer? I’m sure I lied.

Do you remember that day? Do you remember the sun on your back? The warm wind on your face? Do you remember? The day was flawless. Endless.

I was little and you were big and my whole world revolved around the house and the yard and the people in it. You were ever-present but always stepping back, pushing me forward, out into the world until I finally flew away.

You were always there when I would come back, hoping for shelter. You’d give it me. Sit with me in the silence that we held between us like a glass that is too full.

Are you still there?

Yes. I’m holding your hand. I’m here.

Avenues of escape

2011-08-06T13:27:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

Everything in her life had happened to bring her to this very point in time. Her storybook childhood. Her predictable rebellion as a teen. Her finally growing up and getting on with her life.

Finding him.

Him finding her.

All the preparations were made. Months of dreaming, planning, budgeting, arguing culminating in this one day, this one event, this one moment. Everything would be perfect – not a hair out of place, as they say.

What is this feeling?

Dread filled her heart like so much oil in a crystal goblet, thick and uncompromising and wrong.

This should be the happiest day of my life.

And in a way it was, but she looked about the little room in the basement of a church where she stood and couldn’t help but wonder if this, this right now, this, was as good as it was ever going to be. Does every bride get nervous like this? But it was not nervousness. Nervousness comes from being ill prepared. She was prepared, and then some.

The flowers were flawless. The music was unusual but still very appropriate. Decorations were tasteful. Even the weather was cooperating, cool and dry: a perfect day.

The men were in their tuxedos with just enough of a western cut that her dad would wear it without complaining. Her mother was in beige and pearls. The women wore gowns that really could be used again. With eight dresses hanging in her own closet that she would never wear again, she made sure that her bridesmaids picked their own so they could be worn for other occasions. No taffeta, organza or satin.

Her gown – her perfect gown. She had thrown out convention and had him come with to approve the selection. It was all for him, after all. Her gown she had no intention of ever taking out of the drycleaners bag once this was all over.

What is there after this?

A wonderful life, her brain told her.

Her brain, rational and collected, listed the reasons.

You love him.

He loves you.

Is that enough?

She looked at her father. He was so handsome, standing, waiting for her at the bottom of the church stairs. Her friends, her family and him – they all stood waiting.

Her brain marched her feet forward. She took her father’s arm and kissed his cheek, her veil already down. Her brain, her body walked down the aisle.

Her heart was trying not to slop oil on her shoes as it ran for the back door.

Travel

2011-08-05T13:24:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

She wouldn’t talk, not until after the appointment.

I looked forward to after. After, we would go to the mall and grab something quick for lunch and wander around, window-shopping. Not until it was almost time to leave would she talk at all.

“The doctor says I’m getting better, hon.”

Really.

“Only have to go back for one more check up and I should be as good as new.”

Ok.

“If ‘good as new’ means anything at all.”

Appointments were emotionally draining, physically exhausting. But necessary. We would travel together, in silence, the 90 minutes to the hospital. Silence for miles, the landscape dry, brittle, and brown, dirty drifts of snow spotted the ditch. She’d check in while I parked the car. By the time I’d find my way through the labyrinth of hall ways, elevators and closed doors to the waiting room, she’d be in with the doctor. I’d wait. And wait.

The sterile hospital reminded me of a mortuary. Sanitary. Clean. Everything decorated in varying degrees of beige and brown, looking outside at the dead winter landscape was no different than looking inside. Everything monochromatic. Endless tiled hallways.

The waiting room was trying too hard to be cheerful. A huge frameless painting near the entry to the examining rooms was bright red, blue – abstract and joyful – if not for its surroundings.

Well-thumbed magazines and day-old newspapers littered the tables. The place smelled like hydrogen peroxide on cotton balls. And sickness.

No children were here today. Mom would always watch the children and speculate under her breath why they were here, if they were the sick ones or if they were just brought along with a sick relative. On really bad days, she’d make up stories about them, like we used to do when “people watching” in the mall.

“She’s sick. Look at her little eyes. So sad. I bet she didn’t sleep last night. Maybe she cried and wanted her blankie when it fell off the bed but was too weak to pick it up herself…she has a night-light, too. A Barbie night-light in a pink room with ruffled pillows.”

“What a naughty little boy he is. Look at his mother, all worn out and tired, and still, he climbs all over her. I bet he demands stories read, one after the other, and movies played – over and over – until he has them memorized. He looks like a biter. If you pushed the sleeves up on that woman’s arms, I’m sure she has bite marks from that little brat.”

How she came up with that stuff – in such detail I’ll never know.

After the doctor was done with mom and she was arranging herself in the examining room, he’d wave me back to his office and give me an update on the sly.

“She’s doing much better, but…”

Always ‘but’.

“Is she eating?”

Most of the time.

“Is she still going to church?”

I think so.

“Are you?”

What? Eating? Yes. Can’t you tell?

“No. Are you going to church?”

Why? What does it matter? All that matters is that she is alive. That she is functional. That she isn’t in pain.

Flowers

2011-08-04T13:10:00.001-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

I stood there awkward, clumsy and too big next to her petite, graceful frame. A full head and shoulders taller than she, I knew she wished I were more like her. On many levels. How I was her natural daughter was as much a surprise for me as it was a disappointment for her.

The yard they kept was tiny. An engineering mistake in plotting shorted the lot their house sat on my nearly 20 feet. In a small town, where neighbors judge neighbors on the quality of lawn and landscaping, 20 feet could just as well have been 20 acres.

Despite this flaw, their grass was green, her flowers bloomed from spring until late into the fall. New trees, shrubs and bushes were planted almost every year to replace winterkill, and vegetable plants, such as heirloom tomatoes and sweet peas, and strawberry and raspberry bushes were scattered tastefully among the ornamental honeysuckle, bleeding hearts and peony flowers.

“I want you to take these. Plant them in your side garden – on the south side, hon, ok?”

Mom.

“They’ll grow like weeds for you. I just know it.”

Mom. I killed the bulbs you gave – no. I didn’t kill them. I moved. The moving vans drove over the flower garden before I could…I could hear her shift gears, mentally.

“Would you like some tigers, too? I have so many and they transplant so easily.”

Mom.

“It’s hot. Let’s go get some lemonade. Would you like some lemonade, hon?”

The July afternoon was oppressive, in the way summers were up north. All northern seasons were extreme, not just winters. Summers were alternately gulf coast humid and southern desert dry, depending on where the ‘jet stream’ snaked across the country. Land locked and flat, weather was more a part of survival than conversation.

As we walked around to the back door of the house, I tripped on a stretch of hose and stumbled, flailing arms and legs trying not to fall.

“You ok, hon?”

Let’s just go inside. It’s so hot.

Lace curtains

2011-08-03T13:07:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

She beat curfew by a full five minutes. She shrugged out of her heavy winter coat, hung it in the entryway closet and turned to face her parents.

I’m home, ok? I’m gonna watch the late show.

Ok. Goodnight.

Making noises in the kitchen and then the den, she listened for the sound of footfalls above her as her parents made ready for bed. She clicked on the set and tuned it to Johnny Carson; the theme music reminded her of all the nights she stubbornly sat waiting up as a little girl, waiting for them to get home after a night on the town at this club or that charity.

Things were different now.

She crept over to the stairway banister and strained to hear noises, whispers, anything that would give away that her parents were still awake.

Silence.

Twenty minutes later, still silence.

From behind the lace curtains in the dining room, she looked for familiar headlights. Nothing.

Twenty more minutes later, she could hear her father snoring upstairs.

She peeked outside again.

Snow had started to fall, dusting everything with powered sugar.

Damn! They’ll see footprints.

But there were the headlights. He was waiting. She grabbed an old jacket from the bottom of the closet, left the TV on in the den, and slipped out the back door. She ran around the house, through the alley to his car parked on the side street.

His car was warm. He smiled that impossibly perfect smile.

You ready?

Let’s go.

The snow continued to fall, filling in her footprints, erasing her.

Inside the house, the glow from the TV set flickered, went out. The lace curtains in the dining room window quivered slightly, then stood still.

First kiss

2011-08-02T13:03:00.001-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

First kisses are supposed to be legendary. First kisses are supposed to be sweet and heart-felt and the start of something exciting and true.

My first kiss was none of that. It was wet and sloppy and tasted slightly of beer and Dentine that had gotten stiff and stale because it had been chewed for too long.

How I managed to slip out of the house and into the alley behind our garage, I’ll never know. How my parents didn’t hear the rattle of that old red Nova’s engine – or the crackle-crunch of the tires on fresh gravel as the sun turned the sky purple-grey in the late evening summer sunset. The sun hangs on for hours – not light – not dark – haze and heat and dew collecting on blades of grass and strands of hair as the humidity sinks down from the sky and sticks to anything cool.

His name was Gary and I was deep in crush. Couldn’t see the forest for the trees, as my dad would say. Oh, but Gary. He was deliciously naughty. A bad boy. Just the thing to drive my parents completely out of their minds – as if my newly formed curves and love for anything V-necked and pastel wasn’t enough.

I tossed my ponytail over my shoulder and leaned into the passenger window as it rolled down.

Where should we go?

I can’t go anywhere! My parents would freak! Turn the engine off and we’ll talk in the driveway.

I wouldn’t get into the car, half afraid Gary would start the engine and speed off to find the never-setting sun – also half afraid he wouldn’t think me worthy.

He leaned across the center console and grinned. Perfect teeth. Had to be good genes because there was no money for braces; dad told me that much about Gary’s family. Poor. But damn. Handsome. I looked at his hands. Strong and calloused from working at the lumberyard. I glanced at his tanned arms, straining the cotton white of his t-shirt. Oh man, how I wanted to have him swoop me up in his strength, hold my softness against his harshness. Protect me. Endanger me. Love me. Frighten me.

Still grinning he whispered.

C’mere.

I smiled back.

What?

C’mere.

I leaned further into the passenger side window. Gary dug his elbow into the center console and balanced himself across the passenger seat so that he came face to face with me.

His eyes half closed and he tipped his head to the one side.

I knew what was coming and I was so hoping it would be legendary. I could hear the traffic beyond our yard. The rev of soup’d-up engines in 20-year-old muscle cars. The squeal of tires as boys tried like hell to impress girls they didn’t know. Or that they knew they needed to impress. The mourning doves were ‘hooo-hoooing’ in the trees beside the house, calling to one another.

A dog barked in the distance.

I closed my eyes and leaned toward him.

It was supposed to be sweet. A start of something exciting and new. Honest and true. Everything I read about in Pride and Prejudice and Romeo and Juliet before things got complicated and silly and downright depressing.

He met me over the passenger seat with open mouth. Full tongue. Sloppy. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand sloppy. No tenderness, or what I would learn later was a respect for things to come. It was a sucking kiss with no room for timidity or curiosity or innocence. This was the kiss of a man-boy who had kissed his share of woman-girls.

I wasted my first kiss – all the hopes, expectations – on a sloppy French kiss while draped over the passenger door of a rusty red Nova parked in the alley behind my house.

Gifts

2011-08-01T12:58:00.000-05:00

(I'm participating in the August NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month - where I'm expected to post once a day, everyday in August. The theme is fiction...this is going to be fun.)

The box on the outside stayed the same over the years. It was always the same wood box, with the same lid with a mirror inside, and with the same little drawer. And except for a tiny crack in the mirror, and a broken pull on the drawer, the box stayed the same all that time. After surviving several moves, it was a little worn, with a nick in the wood finish, but overall, it was the same.

On the inside of the box, precious treasures were hidden. At first, trinkets. Cracker Jack prizes. Cheap rings purchased with nickels begged off impatient parents at the Woolworth store – so cheap they left dirty green marks almost instantly. Knotted chains with broken clasps. Tokens for Country Kitchen restaurants and Dairy Queen treats. But treasures, nonetheless.

An agate stone. A tiny, machined metal cross. The fortune from a Chinese cookie. Secret notes passed between friends.

Later, an opal ring occasionally found safety inside the box. Then a Black Hills Gold pendant on a fragile chain, a reward for confirmation, was kept there. A watch. Gold stud earrings.

Later still, a class ring – five sizes too big – on a long chain made a temporary home of the box. A strand of liquid silver, adorned with a delicate cross, found respite, too.

A bracelet engraved with two names was hidden in the box and never worn.

For a time, the box was forgotten, left behind. The treasures inside abandoned. Until one day, the lid was opened, the contents rearranged to make room for a circle of gold.

A pair of petite diamond earrings.

Soon, a small envelope was kept in the drawer. A lock of hair. Then tiny bits of enamel were collected there. Another envelope found its way to the drawer and sheltered its own mementos.

Then a pair of pearl earrings to match an inherited and long-coveted strand of pearls.

On a long-forgotten Christmas, a distant relative gave a drug store jewelry box to a child. There was no way to know that, at the time of the giving, a box of such insignificance would hold a lifetime of precious gifts.

I'm in

2011-07-26T16:24:00.000-05:00

I just signed up for NaBloPoMo for the month of August. I even re-taught myself how to put the little NaBlo Badge on the side bar.

Who's with me?

Worry ring

2011-07-13T09:21:00.000-05:00

On the fourth finger of my right hand I wear a Worry Ring. I bought it on the way home from a business trip to Minneapolis at a little shop along side the interstate. The ring is silver and looks ‘handmade’ although I’m quite sure for the price I paid that there are thousands just like it somewhere. On the ring are three more rings that turn and spin. And if you listen and if it is quiet enough, you can hear them clink against each other as they move. Two are silver and match the main ring; one is gold in color, but probably not real gold.

The idea is to spin the three internal rings instead of biting fingernails when worried or stressed. I’ve never bit my fingernails but I’m constantly worried and stressed. At the time, the ring seemed like a really good idea. And I guess it is still a good idea, in theory. People who know it is a Worry Ring, often ask if I’ve worn it out. It is well loved and abused, but I doubt I’ll ever be able to worry enough to wear it out.

Shortly after I bought the jewelry piece, I saw a billboard advertising a similar ring as an Anniversary Band. The main part of that ring was platinum and the three internal rings were diamond bands. Beautiful and far more expensive than anything I can afford to buy. I’ve not met anyone wearing the ring advertised. I think it would be interesting to start a conversation with the woman, though, and explain that the Anniversary Band she wears is really a Worry Ring.

No irony there.

Location

2011-07-12T17:15:00.000-05:00

Someone asked me the other day, and I have no idea how the conversation started or how it came to such a topic, but someone asked me where I would live if I had a choice. I didn’t even take a breath: Greece. Or anywhere on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. They were thinking in terms of Arizona in the winter and Alaska in the summer, but I’ll have nothing to do with that. I want to go somewhere I’ll be able to disappear into the landscape. Tan my skin like a native. Let my hair grow and not care. Leave all my insecurities in The States. Wear clothes that are comfortable and easy. Sandals and scarves and swimming suits. Maybe a hat.

Maybe not.

Inspiration

2011-04-11T19:16:00.002-05:00

I spent today procrastinating. Suffering a nagging headache, sniffle, and general “sigh” kind of feeling, the list I needed to work through was shuffled under a pile of bills, magazines and books.

Just start. Just start writing. Just start writing - something, anything, make the blinking cursor jerk across the page instead of blink-blink-blink jeering at me from one place, marking time wasted. Like a dying clock with a broken second hand, ticking the same second over and over, the next moment never to come.

Inspiration, today, is in the weather, I guess. Over bright sunshine on a windy spring day - with mud tracked across freshly scrubbed floors.

Starting again

2011-03-28T12:22:00.000-05:00

I like the “northern girl” moniker, but after looking back through some old postings, I’m not so crazy about the direction the blog has taken of late. So.

I’m starting again.

Welcome to The Northland