Sharing My World

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Some early mornings I share my backyard world with this big old jack rabbit. He mostly ignores me before disappearing under the fence but I still enjoy our time together.

The happiness project is complete (although Jazzy will probably continue to pop up sporadically being her brilliantly happy oblivious wine drinking little self) and it’s time to do some actual writing again.  For a start, I’m joining the world sharers at last, after thinking about it for 36 weeks.

Share Your World Week 37

List three pet peeves.

1.  Public washrooms.

2.  People who don’t wash their hands.

3.  Improperly installed toilet paper rolls.

What makes you unique?

My tendency to give up when someone resists being convinced of something by my brainless arguments.  What?  That’s not unique?  Well forget it then.

What would be your ideal birthday present, and why?

I would like to receive the gift of good health for the next sixty-five years.  Which would make me a hundred and thirty years old with a lot of dead friends and relatives. So forget that one too.  Just give me best wishes.  I already have too much stuff.

Which way does the toilet paper roll go? Over or under?

Well here’s the thing.  It always goes over and down.  If it went under and up it would be defying gravity.  Think of those gigantic toilet paper rolls in public washrooms that are mounted sideways on the wall.  They unwind on the left or on the right.  Depending on your perspective, you think they are unrolling from the top or the bottom, but clearly they are unwinding from the top either way.  Face the toilet paper roll in your own bathroom which you have installed the wrong way and which you believe to be unrolling from the bottom.  Imagine yourself on the other side of it, and you will see it is really unrolling from the top.  Trust me on this, I’ve spent a lot of time analyzing it.  You could argue that it’s always unrolling from the bottom too, but you’ll just piss people off because they don’t give a shit.  Hey, it’s toilet paper we’re talking about, I can use my bathroom words.

Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

I am grateful to be de-cluttering at a time in my life when I am very likely to completely forget about the things I’ve packed away and never go looking for them again.  I’m grateful that my house is looking cleaner and brighter and less like a messed up museum.

This week I will survive four more work days and have just six left to live through before retiring to my messed up museum for good.  Or bad, depending on your perspective.

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Bottoms Up

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Well I SUPPOSE it’s about time for a REAL post.  Said the pre-retiring mess-making cartoon-drawing officially old lady trying to make sense of this new not-classic mode of creation on Word Press.

So just ignore that, I’m not here to complain about insignificant things, because what I really want to talk about is my signature beverage.  It was a WP prompt awhile ago that made me laugh, because, really, who do we think we are, famous people with images or something?  And without even knowing me all that well you might suspect my drink du jour would be a tall glass of red wine (good guess) but it wasn’t always so.

It used to be chocolate milk.  I thought I would never outgrow it, and maybe I still haven’t completely, because that stuff is good.  Not the kind you mix with a powdered concoction into actual milk, but the kind you buy in little brown bottles or cartons which may or may not contain any real milk.  Smooth and thick and chocolate-y with coma inducing amounts of sugar.  This was such a rare treat when I was a kid that whenever we ate out (another once in a blue moon treat) that’s what I would order to drink.  Who cares about the food.  Chocolate milk goes with absolutely everything.

Then when I was a teenager trying to put chocolate behind me, Coca Cola was the next best thing.  Until it became cool to prefer Pepsi although if you did a blind taste test you’d probably have to cheat if you really wanted people to think you could tell the difference.

In my twenties and beyond, when I became extremely world-weary and sophisticated, my go-to beverage was a Harvey Wallbanger.  Because what could possibly be more sophisticated than that.  Not cheap draft beer, that’s for sure, although I admit I drank my fair share of that too, depending entirely on the money situation of the moment.   Vodka, orange juice, Galliano, a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry.  And lots of ice.  Umbrella purely optional.  But a nice touch.

W is the one who got me drinking amber rum.  Probably because the umbrellas were an embarrassment for him.  And it had to be with real Pepsi, no substitutions.  And a twist of lemon or lime.  I’m the one who switched myself to spiced rum.  He hates it.  All the more for me then.

Raising children changes everything of course, and drinking something like coffee to keep yourself alert replaces drinking anything that might cause you to pass out and miss seeing whatever it is they’re up to now.  And coffee seems harmless enough until you clue in to how addicted you are to it.  Even then, it’s not easy to give it up.  Mostly because you can’t possibly convince yourself that there’s any good reason to do so.  And besides, you spent a lot of money on that stupid Tassimo.

But pop and diet pop are SO incredibly bad for you.  I’ve had enough of them to last several life times and now I’m ready to quit.  Wine seems like a viable alternative.  I used to like white, but not much.  Then my daughter started raving about Malbec and I’ve been hopelessly hooked ever since.  It’s like store-bought chocolate milk for adults.  Plus you look way more worldly and refined sipping on something that’s not in a plastic cup or a travel mug, right?

Well I hope so.  I have a friend who won’t drink red wine because it makes her teeth and lips red.  I say, who cares?  I also say, drink whatever you want, teeth and lips be damned.  That’s the first time I’ve ever said that really, and probably the last time now that I look at it critically and while completely sober.

Damn, I should have said water.  We should ALL be saying water.  And being thankful that we have access to the clean and drinkable kind. That would be commendable, but also boring.  So red wine it is.  Until I’m at the stage in my life where they switch me to Metamucil through a plastic bendy straw.  May the wine preserve me until then.

The Test

Headphones on.

Depress the button whenever you hear this sound.

Ready?

He leaves the room.

She listens.

Buzzing.  Static.  Her beating heart.

Ping, beep, click.

And then the voices.

Breathing.  Whispering.

Moaning sighs.

She pushes the button hard and holds it down.

No Looking Back

light and shade

 

He leans over the balcony railing with her note in one hand and his half smoked cigarette in the other.  Can’t stay, sorry love, pressing matters, no point waking you up to say goodbye… So many lies.  He wants to believe them and doesn’t know why.

The paper crumples in his fist, drops to the patio stone.  He watches it skitter and dance in the morning breeze.  Imagines her leaving, how she walked, the set of her shoulders, the swing of her hair.  Gone, like that.  With no looking back.

He slowly exhales.  His head hurts.  So does his heart.

**********

Light and Shade Challenge - 100 words inspired by the above picture and this quote:  She tells enough white lies to ice a wedding cake – Margot Asquith

Tell Me Something

climb

Once I believed life was all uphill.

Every day made for gaining ground,

Chasing dreams,

Pressing on to reach the top.

Can you imagine that?

The battle nearly killed me.

What’s so different there?

It looks a lot like here, to me.

 “Tell me something, old friend: why are you fighting?”

 

Leaving

boarding the train

 

Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold.  There was nothing green yet anywhere I looked, and the air stayed cold until well past mid day.  Sometimes the sun would break through the grey mist with a half-hearted attempt at cheering up the sad and dismal countryside , but all that brown was discouraging,  and day after day it seemed to simply give up without a fight.

No, come back!  I wanted to shout at it.  Try harder.  Winter is an asshole, you can make it go away.  But the sun doesn’t listen to anyone.

Those last few bleak days I spent hesitantly preparing to leave, because I was reluctant too.  Remiss to walk away from a life that had become impossible, but which remained, in spite of everything, still strangely comforting in its familiarity.   Afraid, wary, hanging back,  I kept searching for one good reason not to go.  There were reasons, but in the end,  none of them were good enough.

A shrill whistle sounded in the distance and the tracks grumbled and shook as a numbing north wind whipped stray locks of hair across my face and into my eyes, some of the long strands sticking to the tears that kept stubbornly falling no matter how many times I brushed them away.  My ticket to freedom was crushed and broken in one clenched fist.   The other one dragged my heavy bag across the platform.   And then I boarded the southbound train.  With all my might and resolve I resisted the backward pull and in my head I wiped the slate clean.

I felt as stubborn as the sun.  Strong and steady and enduring.   Soon I’d be ready to shine again.

The Speakeasy at Yeah Write # 157 - include the following sentence as the FIRST line in your submission: “Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold.”