Tell us about a sensation — a taste, a smell, a piece of music — that transports you back to childhood.
On a few occasions in the early 80s, my sister and I were dropped off at Grandma’s house in a small town, Herminie, PA. Both my grandmother and grandfather had died within a few years of each other (a mark of true love) and the three bedroom “estate” was now run by a few of their nine plus children (I still have no idea how many babies Edna Mae birthed), including my mother’s fraternal twin, Aunt Maggie.
She was a bit of a loner and, in my mind, one of the lucky ones. She never married but remained totally devoted to her parents, sisters and their silly children. I never liked Herminie. My grandfather’s brood was one of maybe three black families in the area and, well, it wasn’t fun being not white in a redneck town. This particular fact is what I attribute to why my Aunt frequently visited the local bar. And, babysitting would not deter her much needed pilgrimages to her Holy Grail containing whiskey. Or was it vodka? Continue reading
“An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse.” Set a timer for ten minutes, and write it. Go!
It was already a late night when we finished our drinks. Almost midnight. Not bad for a first date. The liquid courage extinguished any and all signs of nervous ticks. We were all smiles and moved on to touching hands, shoulders. Questions and quaint interrogations about his job, family, origins, and recent divorce had killed the first two hours of conversation.
Those green eyes. The months of unwanted celibacy. At 41, could a walk of shame be reason for slut shaming?
Four years later…Earth Day is the anniversary of our one night stand still celebrated. (HEY now!)
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Morton’s Fork.”
If you had to choose between being able to write a blog (but not read others’) and being able to read others’ blogs (but not write your own), which would you pick? Why?
I find the skills I’m best at are the ones I dread doing the most. So I guess I prefer to listen, read, and scroll other’s comments, rants and opinions. It’s enlighten to find the differences in how folks communicate, particularly when they respond to pop culture. Reading the “body” language of text should be very important to character study of the book I may never write.
Love you. Mean it.
I am not Richie Cunningham nor do I have a wife named Oprah.(Pop culture reference.) I AM fortysomething and can be fabulous when blessed with enough boredom to shut my laptop and ignore social media alerts. Lately, these blessings are few and far between so I thought why not be even more fabulous and write as much as I read and scroll. I have come to terms that my unused B.A. in Journalism will not make me millions but, what the hell? Those student loan payments have to count for something! Continue reading
The flu kicked my ass. It’s been years since I was sick in bed and not able to move. In my mind, I was immune. Forever.
It hit like a Mack truck. One minute I was on the phone with a colleague discussing my future millions in selling waist bands that burn fat… and the next I am sprawled on the bed cradling my cranium. Hands, arms, and elbows, shooting with pain, wishing for death.
No, I did NOT get a flu shot. It’s not the measles or polio and there is NO CURE. I refuse to trust anything that “prevents” the inevitable. I’m a believer in the theory that too many anti-biotics or anti-whatever the fuck can cause the body to weaken and not put up a fight. I had faith that my trusted superpowers would hold true and fight the “mother effin” germs that had caused the apparent “epidemic” this season. (It’s all over the news but I’ve learned not to trust the media…and the internet…and Match.com. (Blog will follow soon.) Continue reading
It’s been nine hours, five days, and six months since I was employed. June 15th to be exact. It wasn’t a surprise but a shockingly familiar expectation. Morale was down after the company was bought by an even bigger one. Folks were disappearing front of the house and back. Management was invisible and nervous.
I hated it. I hated it because I fucked up, once again. I’m 43 years old and should know better. But a cliche kicked my ass.
Turns out the grass was not greener, fresher, or better. It was turf. Artificial, unfeeling, turf.
I recently read a line from a magazine or online that we live in a disposable time. And, that we will always look for something better. I really wish I wasn’t in such a hurry to find the greener pasture. Didn’t realize I was already, for twelve years, in a field of fucking dreams.
I’m not writing this as a fable or lesson learned. This is a truly selfish and desperate attempt at therapy. It’s also a cheap one since I can’t afford health insurance.
Desperation can really be mother fucker. It hits hard and even harder to idiots like me in denial.
I’ve never been without a job since my freshman year in college. It NEVER took me more than two months to get work. I’m not buying this “the economy is bad” crap anymore. I’m taking it personally.My resume is stacked with accomplishments and great references. I know people who know people who know people. And, yet, I’m getting nowhere. I’m close to being the perfect employee. Nothing. Known assholes are posting their new gigs. I want to rip their faces off. (I’m drinking way too much Hatorade.)
Consulting. Ha! Starting own business. Double ha! Networking. There’s always insurance and wealth management. And, the inevitable uplifting advice about believing in yourself and educating your mind is sweet but not cheap.
Where’s the love for us hard working morning folks who love the smell of stale coffee and shouting at crappy copy machines?