It’s the only day if the year when that word means “Be scared” and and not ” You suck”. Happy Halloween.
Monthly Archives: October 2013
Alyssa pulled her purple Ranger into the driveway with enough speed and gusto to make her fiancée Ryan cringe. He gripped the “oh shit” bar and was about to comment on women drivers as she came to a notably abrupt stop, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to put Lyss in a pissy mood. He jumped quickly out of the truck, thanking heaven he was still intact after the ride.
“I’ll get the mail!” He offered cheerily, already making his way to the mailbox.
Alyssa grabbed her purse and climbed out of the driver’s side, grinning to herself. She loved getting to Ryan like that. She admitted that she wasn’t a cautious driver, but she knew he didn’t consider her a good driver anyway, so she did shit like that just to bug him. She hummed as she stuck her key in the door, but stopped when she noticed the overwhelming smell of roses as the door swung open.
There were white rose petals EVERYWHERE. Alyssa’s eyes widened as she looked around. The ancient door normally swung back into whoever was walking through it, but the carpet of flowers made it stick half way open. The floors and countertops were crowded with crystal vases of every size, stuffed with long-stemmed white roses. Every step she took sent up a floral aroma, because there was no way to step around the carpet of petals. She was still standing completely awed in the middle of the kitchen when Ryan walked in the door.
“What the-” Lyss grew more bewildered when she saw the look of confusion on Ryan’s face. He smiled when she looked at him. “You tryin’ to butter me up, Baby? I prefer beer to roses.” His joke fell flat when Alyssa responded.
“I didn’t do this. How’d you afford all this?” Alyssa was still too overwhelmed to say anything else. She looked around and noticed the envelope with Ryan’s name sitting on the table the same time he did. Ryan shuffled through the matting of roses, and Alyssa giggled at how ridiculous he looked. He picked up the envelope and tore it open as Alyssa leaned forward to sniff a vaseful of flowers. She breathed in deeply and her eyes slid shut as she luxuriated in the smell, so she didn’t see Ryan’s facial expression darken from confusion to rage.
“WHO THE FUCK IS JACK?” The question reverberated throughout the room, making the many roses shiver. Alyssa jumped at the unexpected outburst, and knocked over the vase of flowers she’s just been enjoying.
“What?” she whispered. Her heart pounded in her ears as she waded through the mess. Ryan flung the card at her ferociously, and backed away from her. The look of utter malice in his eyes as he did so made Alyssa’s stomach drop. She looked down at the card in her hands and mouthed the words as she read them.
You’ll never be able to give her this. You can’t even afford to pay the electric bill, can you? She’s too good for a loser like you, and you know it. Alyssa is mine, and I can give her everything you’ll never be able to. Take a hike, buddy.
Alyssa looked up from the note, and Ryan mistook her wide-eyed expression as guilt. He backed even further away, shaking his head in fury.
“I know I’m broke, but what the fuck?! You find some rich asshole to have an affair with and talk about what a loser I am? What kind of sick cunt do you have to be to do that?”
It felt like Ryan had just punched her in the face when he said the words. He had never once called her any offensive names, and as far as she knew, he’d never found her untrustworthy. She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, and she stuttered to correct him.
“No, no, no,” She put her hand out to grab his, and he swatted her away. “Jack is that creepy guy I told you about that stops by the store; the one who kept asking me out, even after I told him about you. I’ve never seen him outside of work.” She felt herself becoming hysterical the more she thought about it. “He had to have gotten in here somehow- he had to have followed me- oh my god, Ryan, he was in our house.” The moment she said it, she began shaking.
“Well that’s probably because you fucking let him in, Alyssa.” Ryan’s tone was cold and unforgiving. “How else would he fucking know I’m broke unless you told him during one of your sex romps?”
Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head furiously. She didn’t know if the tears were from shock or betrayal, but they would not be stopped. She could hardly breathe, but she refused to let Ryan think she’d cheated on him.
“No, I never told him that. I swear I never did sex with him! I was nice to him at the store, that’s all. I kept telling him I had a fiancée, but he kept asking me to have a drink with him. He said he just wanted to talk, because I was nice to talk to. I didn’t- I would never, EVER do that to you, Love. You have to believe me.” She opened her eyes, and squealed in surprise. Ryan was still looking at her like he wanted to strangle her, but her focus was behind him. Jack was standing directly behind Ryan, with a deadly-looking bowie knife gleaming in his hand.
I wrote a short story.
Well, I’ve written a lot of short stories, but this one was actually for a good cause.
Over a year ago I was asked to contribute to an anthology for Writing Out Child Abuse. So I did. Sadly, I am always in my own little world, so I didn’t do the advertising that I should have. So anyhoo, you all should buy this book, and tell everyone you know to buy it too. If you wonder which story I wrote, you can pretend my pen name is Phoebe Valois. I expect all of you to give me your opinions. So there.
Oh most vile and detestable of all fictional television characters, Tara Knowles,
(Otherwise known as Jax’s love interest in Sons of Anarchy)
Let me begin by saying that I have loathed you from the first. First episode, first sighting, first monstrous scowl.
I began watching Sons of Anarchy as I suppose many fans have- on Netflix. I can say from the very first episode, I abhorred you and your self-righteous attitude. I might add that too, I have repudiated the forehead crease that is forever present on your bitchy face. It is because of said crease, and not your unlikable self that I have long wished that a ghastly and atrocious demise might have visited you in the first season, and then second, and third, and so on. Sadly, we can’t all have what we wish for, now can we, Dr. Knowles? Hmmmm?
I understand your desire to be forever united nakedly with your equally fictional love interest, Jax Teller. After all, he is quite easy on the eyes, and his character, though questionably written, is endearing and sweet. However, you should know by now that you cause him (to almost quote Sinnead O’Connor) more sorrow alive than you would dead. It seems harsh, I know, but think on it for a moment- if you were to meet an untimely death by, say having a runaway van run over your head, the next episode might find Jax seeking comfort in the puss of some woman much hotter than you, and you could still be afforded an open-casket funeral, since tire tracks across your face would blend in quite nicely with the significant wrinkle already between your eyebrows.
Instead of being an acceptable Old Lady to your hot biker man, and trying to emulate his tough and respected equally hot fictional mother, Gemma, you, Miss Knowles, have stooped to low-down and wretched acts that I cannot even mention. (because it would spoil the show for those not yet caught up.) Let us just say that I do NOT feel bad that Jax cheated on you while you were forced to muff-dive in jail, because even an older, stretched-out madame is of more interest than you. You’re all “oh, boohoo, I’m not happy being part of the MC” and “boohoo, I hate my mother-in-law”. Suck it up, bitch. Nobody likes their MIL, but not everybody is so lucky to have a pretty bad-ass built in family.
I’m hoping that the writers of SOA will find it in their hearts to put you and I out of our misery and kill you off in (PLEASE!) the next episode or two. I would even be willing to play the part of a vixenish assassin hired to dispose of you, only to wind up being the TRUE love of Jax’s life. Whatever happens, Dr. Knowles, I just thought you needed to know that even though you aren’t real, there are people out there you harbor real animosity toward you. Having the same last name as Beyonce’ doesn’t help in the least.
I began thinking about this post with the intention of just rambling on pointlessly about my love of books.
But then I thought to myself, “Self, nobody cares that you love books, and anyway, the Book People already understand.”
I realized how very right my Self was.
But then I got to thinking, “What if I gave the non-Book People good and valid reasons to want to read?”
And so, here you are:
Reason #1: You will only be smarter if you read a book.
Even if it a complete disaster of a story line (ahem, Twilight) with questionable self-absorbed control-issue teen romances, you will come out the other end with just a little more knowledge than you went in with- even if it IS only finding out the difference between there, their, and they’re. It is hoped that perhaps you might learn something a bit more challenging than third grade English, but sadly, some books are meant to entertain imbeciles.
Reason #2: You will have a conversation starter.
Just think, the next time you are waiting in a never-ending line for an open porta-potty behind a man decked out in full pirate regalia at the Renaissance Festival, instead of commenting on the size of his sword, you could mention that you just finished an amazingly entertaining book by so-and-so, and you might find that instead of thinking about his sword, this pirate may come alive with the information that he, too, just finished the same book! Perhaps you will become deeply engrossed in literary conversation, and become friends for all eternity. This also works to pick up girls, but generally only the smart ones.
Reason #3 : Money might fall out.
If you are wise enough to purchase a book at your local used-book store, you might be lucky enough to open your slightly-loved copy of Moby Dick and discover a $500 bill. More likely, it will be a oner, or maybe a five, but hey, it paid for your damn book, so shut up.
Reason #4: You may discover you harbor a secret desire to become an author, or an editor.
If you read your used book and find that you are very opinionated about how the author worded things and/or changed subjects, maybe you were meant to become a world-famous book critic instead of wasting away your days in the drive-thru at McDonald’s.
Really, you will never find yourself wishing, “Dang it, I didn’t get to watch enough T.V. this week.” But you may just be sorry if a certain redhead asks you if you’ve read a book, and you have to shamefully admit you haven’t.
It was my birthday on Saturday.
I am now at a terrible age.
It’s not necessarily because I’m over 29 and have yet to give Chris Meloni a booby-squishing hug, (although that certainly doesn’t help), or the fact that because of my candy-and-French-fry eating habits over the last 30-some years has made my body decide to rebel against me, but the main reason I am upset it because I am now stuck at an even number for the next 12 months.
I realize that any OCD readers out there may be appalled at the thought of someone actually WANTING to be an odd age instead of an even age, but hey, I’ve spent my years trying desperately to have attention on me. Anyhoo, I received a mailer that was meant to be filled out this week, and on it, there was an area that asked you to check a box for your age range. Instead of the usual 30-35 (which is disturbing enough that I fit into), I had to check the box that said 32-37. I know I shouldn’t say anything, because I’ll be there soon enough, but 37?! How did this happen? When did I end up being categorized with old farts?
Instead of dwelling on it, I decided to steal a line from Samantha in Sex and the City- “Welcome to my box.”
It’s a great place to visit, My Box is. It is filled with people who are (it is hoped) mature and won’t be caught dead in a Justin Bieber shirt. We are usually seasoned enough to know that not all marriages work out, and that rushing into things is not always a good idea. Sure, there are a few of us who are happily married, and even a few more who are romantic (?) enough to keep getting married again. (and again). Still, there are a couple of us that grow completely ill at the thought of ever again binding themselves to another human being for all of eternity.
In My Box, we are not ashamed to admit that we once listened to New Kids on the Block while playing Miami Vice in our basements as children. Some of us were absolutely enthralled with David Bowie as the Goblin King in The Labrynth, and will forever be looking for that perfect man who can pull off a spiky mullet while wearing leather junk-promoting leggings and a ruffly shirt. Here in My Box, we occasionally bebop to Backstreet Boys, and the GooGoo Dolls, or if in a fighting mood, Brandy and Monica’s The Boy is Mine. But to prove we don’t have completely hideous musical taste, we will admit that as children, we just wanted to grow up and grab our junk while singing “Heehoo!” in a funky falsetto exactly like our idol, Michael Jackson.
We were the ones who wore the massively baggy jeans that looked like jean skirts, unashamedly. The ones in My Box know about the clunky heels that were my first pair of grown-up shoes, and platform boots that were in every mall store that sold shoes- now only sold in Hot Topic.
We are the ones who are now populating the earth with new tiny beings who will grow up with the iphones and ipods fused to their hands, the ones who are giving way to the children who only have friends on Facebook, who are clearly evolving into birds that Tweet, and as we once said to our parents “what’s that?” when we found an old 8-track, our children will be confused and astounded when they find our old and antiquated VHS tapes buried in the back of some closet somewhere.
It’s not such a bad place, My Box, and I certainly don’t want to go on to the next Box.