Plan C might be more effective

I went to a party last night and didn't leave til fairly late at night. Knowing the other occupants of the house would be asleep I decided to call my boyfriend, thus waking up only one person by calling than the whole house by knocking. My plan was diverted though, when I called his phone I was directed to an automatic messaging service that informed me that he had no money on his phone and therefore was not recieving calls at this time.
I changed lanes and went to plan b; a simple and surely effective plan which involved throwing gravel at our bedroom window. I'd seen this trick work in many movies and t.v. shows, and since it worked for television characters I was sure it would go well for me.
I pulled up to the house, got out of the vehicle and immediately began searching for some gravel. What struck me first was the obvious lack of gravel or anything hard in our front yard, and second was that it was dark and hard to see any gravel, if it were there, or pinecones, which were there. After 5 minutes of running my hand through wet grass and pine needles, I found a pine cone and went to the window to throw it. My first attempt did not reach it's target but flew uselessly into the air and then back, hitting me on the shoulder and then into the thick bush where I left it. Feeling desperate I began throwing mulch at the window which hit, and then showered back into my eyes and hair. I saw no response and I gave up, went to the door and began knocking lightly, the dogs barked but no one came.
I knocked louder, with the sharp of my knuckles, but ended in banging with my fists. Eventually I saw my mom come down the stairs so I reached for the handle to give it a rattle as show that it was locked and I could not get in. Instead of rattling, the handle turned and the door gave way.
My mom pulled at her nightgown in alarm, and then saw it was only me and wondered aloud why I was knocking if the door was open. I explained that I didn't have my key and that I'd thought it was locked.
She went back to bed and I opened the door to my room. Light from the hall fell across my boyfriends sleeping face and over his ears, which had headphones on them.

Madge DoRightly

DoRightly is a very rare last name.
Very few last names in the US are DoRightly.
Be proud of your unique last name!
source

Childrens Poem

My Pet

When I am grown up
When I am older than now
I think I will have a pet.
Maybe a puppy or maybe a cow
It can’t be much better than that.
Unless…

Unless I had a turtle,
If I did I’d name him Boswell
He’d eat lettuce and run races
In his brown and green checked shell.
Indeed, Boswell would be lovely
A real easy kind of pet
Of course I prefer a challenge…
Well, we needn’t decide yet.

Now I’m thinking, something bigger
Like a dog…or better yet!
Something different, more exotic
Like a gator that, when wet,
Will play games like tag or water sports
And when its mouth is open wide
Will impress my friends immensely with his gleaming set of knives!
What that? Oh, yes perhaps what you are saying could be true.
Being eaten by a gator very simply would not do.

Well perhaps I went to far,
Let my imagination run
I’ll rethink this, just a moment.
Perhaps something that likes sun?
Something furry, something purring
With a kittenish type charm…
Yes, that’s it! Now I’ve got it!
I’ve always wanted an ant farm.

New Years Eve Past

Dead Christmas trees run down the street.
Footprints crease the ice and sleet.
Laughter sounds out to the night.
Mouths wide open, eyes shine bright.
Pine needles cling to hair-bleached white,
And a wild mane, dark as night.
Midnight gone and long forgotten.
When glasses clinked and coats were brought in.
To a moment one cannot forget,
A time when you felt infinite.

Something to Ponder

A sense of duty is useful in work
but offensive in personal relations.

Bertrand Russel (1872-1970)

From night to sunlight I think of all the things I’m supposed to do
and should have done and will do
and won't have done, when the time comes
to cash in my chips and gather the clips of time that I wasted
and try to undo all I never did.Lie awake on my pillow
fret for lack of money or strength
wrinkles form while worries wait
tired eyes look for a wayI am eighteen going on eighty-eight.

What the pillow saw

The pillow saw a girl lay down
against the sheets she wore a frown.
The pillow watched her as she lay
sensing certain misery
the girl's hands moved about her slowly
here and there, explored her lowly
till they came to home at last
the pillow felt her body relax
they slid into her lacy shorts
and (this is what the pillow reports)
at once began to squirm and twist about
to open her mouth and scream and shout
the pillow felt her urgency
but could not help in the emergency
at last she stiffened quietly
and lay down with some piety
and fell asleep and began a dream...
the pillow never was the same.

someday

He calls me a dreamer, Says I won't get nothin' done.
That I just sit here on my bed
looking vacant with my pants undone.
He doesn't know what’s going on inside my busy head.
It might look as though I’m drooling
that I'm lacking any pluck
but I’m deciding on the things I’ll do with the money I’ve saved up.
Go to college
Buy a car
Get an apartment in Cashmere
I could save enough to buy a plane to fly away from here.
But I haven't got that money now
and without it I am nothing
so I'll lie here dreaming of the day I get around to doing something

Rapex

This will leave your mouth hanging open and your vagina clamped.

Another perfect day

She flicked the ashes off the end of her cigarette, caught by a sudden breeze,
the grey dust flew into her coffee, making it undrinkable.
"Oh great" she thought, taking another drag from her cigarette, it's cherry burning to match her face.

The day had turned out to be something of a disaster; She was already late for her interview that morning when her cat scampered outside as she'd been struggling to get her portfolio through the door. As it passed underneath her feet, she felt its soft fur brush against her leg and worried that it would be for the last time.
When she finally got the portfolio into her car, there was no time to search for the cat so she crossed her fingers and hoped it would decide to come back. Then she shut her pant leg in the door and nearly backed into the mailbox in her haste.

By the time she got to the studio, it was 13 minutes past her appointment, so she skittered past the secretary, hand out stretched for the knob to the office and promptly ran into a tall, pale man in a black suit who’d suddenly replaced the door.
He looked down at her through white eyelashes with a bored stare and she stared back.

"Linda Beets, I assume" he stated, gesturing to his office.
"Yes sir" she whispered, obediently following his sweeping arm.

"You are late, Linda Beets." He said, seating himself behind a rather imposing desk.
"I'm sorry sir, I was..."
"Not necessary. Please?"
He held out his hand.
She shook it.
"Your portfolio..."
"Oh...uh, yes" she concentrated on steadying her hand.

She had been extremely nervous before she'd even left the house; now she was positively insane, incessantly thinking that this man could make or break her career in the next 5 seconds.
As he browsed through her best work, he made little noises, the kind a therapist makes when you tell him you think you’re getting better.

He stood up, her folder still in his white hands.
"Thank you for coming, we'll be in touch"
She looked at him unsteadily, he hadn’t said anything to her, hadn’t asked her any questions, hadn’t acted slightly interested; she stood, waiting for him to hand her back her so called art.
What had she been thinking, she wasn't good at anything! My God, how could she even assume to be anything better than a waitress for the rest of her wretched life? Her mother would be frolicking in the I-Told-you-not-to-get-your-hope-up's, she'd never live down the time she tried to be more than she was raised to be.

He'd looked at her a minute longer, the bored stare seemed to be studying the twitches on her face. Then he handed back the portfolio, and waved her to the door.

When she'd gotten to her car, she'd noticed a big scratch in the red paint that hadn't been there before. Screaming inside and out, she threw open the door, heat whooshed out at her and perspiration dampened her upper lip immediately.
Still screaming, she threw her things in the car, and slammed herself down in the hot seat.

Feeling defeated she’d driven home, dropped her things on the floor and lit up a cigarette in an attempt to forget everything that’d happened that day.
She felt the smoke in her lungs, and watched it pour thickly from her lips, then dissolve in the air.
She looked down at the ash which was floating around in her once fresh, coffee and felt depressed.

The phone rang urgently, and she slowly stood up to get it.
It was wailing loudly, practically jumping off the table, which annoyed her.
"Shut up!"
She walked faster, tossing the coffee into the sink as she passed.
"Hello?"

Linda listened intently, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
"We would like you to come back for a second interview, you work shows promise".
"Yes sir"
"And Linda?"
"Yes?"
"Be on time"
"Yes sir!" she said grinning.
Oh, how could she have doubted herself, doubted her skills?! Her lovely mother would be so proud, she just knew she would be accepted!
As she hung up the phone she heard a noise behind her.

She turned slowly, in her head relief turned to confusion and possible fright.
No one was there...

"Meow?"

Observations from the stairs

A night bathed in pale orange light.
A boy sitting on a broken chair, he's asleep and I am watching him.
I am watching him from my perch, the cement steps of an old building.
On the outside, the building is purple, which is hard to tell because of the orange light, but I know for sure, because I held a lighter against to it to check.
A large portion of the wall has several rectangular windows, which have been painted several colors, and have writing on them with words like "Aupic luv's Pequino" and "Va te faire enculler sallope".
Inside the building a very loud punk show bursts through the cracks in the wall trying to get out.
Sound and fury leak through tiny spaces into the stale humid night, and the sound travels far, bouncing off the cement of the surrounding buildings and road.

Realizing that the music will only get louder and more awful I go outside to take a break and come across something more captivating than indescernable punk.
As I'm watching the boy shifts in his chair but to my amazement, as there are no armrests and the chair is at a tilt, does not fall off.He looks very peaceful, asleep and dreaming.
He is short for a boy of his girth, although taller than me, and he wears glasses, a dark polo shirt and dress pants, although he does not look dressed up.He stirs a little and I quickly look down to study the cracks in the sidewalk. Tiny grass shoots were finding their ways around the hard cement.
I look up and find him still in the chair, eyes still shut, his breathing steady.
"So sweet" I think, quietly in my mind.
Watching him makes me feel like I'm not there, like I'm just witnessing someone else’s dream, which gives me a strange sensation. “To this boy, I don’t exist although I am right across from him, I am invisible, indestructible, unattainable…nothing can sense me." I
think “ I am the ghost that haunts his dreams, the shadow in the corner of his eye…I am there, because he can sense my presence, but he cannot see me because he is lost in his thoughts, eyes closed to block out…” to block out what? Reality? Life? “The loud-as-hell punk band playing inside, obviously.” Says a voice in my head. That thought pops me out of my sedated state.
I’m not a ghost, or a dream or anything but a person staring at an unconscious, probably passed out, teenager who took too many prescription drugs not written to his name, and laid, wasted, on the first thing he saw that wasn’t the sidewalk.
"Broken boy, broken chair" I think “broken illusions”
"Thank ya'll very much tonight” someone from the band screams, "Y'all been great!",
"Thank you very much,” I think, watching him with lingering interest.Then I stand up, and walk away, down the cracked sidewalk bathed in orange,the last notes of the evening sending me drifting in the direction of home.

When do we sleep?

The time for sleep is 9p.m. exactly. Anytime you are awake after
that is time wasted. Time you could be using to be rested,
readied for the next morning when you will be needed as a
productive citizen of this country.
More over, if you are found out of bed I will feel very betrayed
and disrespected as your actions mean that my feelings mean nothing to you.

I don't wear Jewlery

My earring scratched the pillowcase
then came undone
and scratched my face.
And when it fell upon the floor
I thought it lost and gone for sure
That is, until I woke on morn
I stepped upon it like a thorn.
It stuck into my tenderfoot
and when pulled out, covered with smoot
I declared the ring a curse!
And threw it quickly in my purse
and headed out the door
to rid of it and hurt no more.

When i arrived down at the dump
unclasped my purse and, like a chump
I'd missed my mark back at the house!
I'd had bad aim and like a louse
threw the earring someplace else.

Anticipating earring spurn
I searched for it upon return
I could not find it no now I wait
and when I step, I hesitate.

In a pigs eye

This morning I went to the kitchen to put on the kettle and decide on breakfast "Make me a cup as well?" My housemate, Rich called from his room at the top of the stairs.
I let a long pause go by to keep him guessing "ok".Eli, one of the other housemates came in.
"Have you looked at Richard’s car?" he asked. He had the look of a man who knew he shouldn’t laugh but couldn’t help himself.
"Um...no. Why?" I said my curiosity peaked. He pointed out the window and I saw a pigs head peeking just over our fence. A pigs head!?! It was so outlandish, I convulsed on the floor for a few minutes “only in New Zealand!” I giggled, then I called to Richard to come look at his car. But my entreaties went unanswered after I told him what was on it. I drank my tea while staring at the head and was done we he eventually emerged looking sleepy and disgruntled. He walked into the kitchen and whipped a plastic grocery bag out of the drawer then went to inspect the head. It was roasted. This means someone was spit roasting the pig and sources say it was likely to have come from the giant party going on just down the street last night. “Just drive it up the hill, it’ll fall off on it’s own” I suggested. He declined, saying it would be improper to let a head sit bare on the street for children to see. Insteadhe gingerly placed his bag over the head and flipped it upside down. Then he left in on the ground next to the garbage can. Said he didn't have the strength to do anything with it. Then he went inside, washed his hands and took his tea upstairs.Last I saw of the head, it was in the jaws of 3 dogs that were dragging it down the street.

Had a hard time sleeping when I got home from work a few months ago. It's not an uncommon problem for me, but it was especially hard this time around for no special reason. I gave up at 12:30 and decided to cut my hair. It looked fine in the front and on the sides, but as usual the back was a total mess of split ends and mullettiness.
I tried shifting it all over the place but couldn't make myself cut anywhere in the back since I couldn't see very well.
Once i got back into bed, I continued being awake, plagued by image of my ratty hair. Something had do be done, and someone else had to do it for me.
I leaned over and whispered directly into my boyfriends ear. He was dead asleep so I made sure to enunciate. "Sugar?" I said quietly. He rolled over and smiled hopefully at me.
"Promise you'll cut my hair tommorrow".
He rolled away, groaning "We can talk about it in the morning".
"Just say 'yes'" I breathed."Yes" he said, drifting off to sleep.
"Just the back, not the front and... " ok" he scooted away a little.
I wriggled so gleefully knowing that my hair would be fixed soon that the bed shook .
The next day when I handed him the scissors he looked annoyed.

Does your blog show you?

I just read an artical on MSN news that caught my attention. This artical states that the alleged killers both had blogs and quoted their interests which leads the reader to know them by their own description. This is a journal and by having a blog you're leaving yourself up to discriminating readers. This is something we've probably already realized, but when you think of people reading your journal you're probably thinking of friends, random strangers and possibly publishing companies that will recognize your skill and offer you many dollars. I have never thought of it being used against me in the court of law, of the government using my blog as a character witness. Makes obvious sense, though it feels invasive, however much I disillusion myself into believing only the people I want to read this will and I don't think of securing myself in case something is misconstrued.

A very Baja Christmas

What the hell was that?” my dad asked. “I couldn’t find the break in time, switch my right and left hands” I yelled above the engine noise. I hit the kill button and extracted myself from the Baja mini motorbike. I noticed dirt on my sleeve and lower arm and a big scrape that started on my upper thigh, disconnected and then began again on the inside of my ankle. I’d thought about the effects of smothering heat verses possible motorbike injury when I’d gotten dressed this morning, but it seems my calculations had been wrong.

We’d been testing out the presents my parents were giving themselves for Christmas when I’d hit the broad side of the local psychics air conditioning unit. The unit seemed fine but the bike had lost a headlight and added a major scratch to the wheel cover. “Your mother is going to be upset when she sees you’ve maimed her bike!” my father said enthusiastically. I noticed that he didn’t volunteer his as a replacement. “We can buff that scratch out, and I suppose we should tighten the breaks up, they might have been a little loose”.

We did that and then took off toward the water irrigation system, where we spent the next hour riding around the bayou and the surrounding long fields, forests and muddy tracks. As I blinked dust out of my eyes I thought that it wouldn’t be so bad being a daddy’s girl, if this is the sort of activity one participates in.

Later though, when mom found out she was less thrilled “you took my Christmas present out and played with it before Christmas, ran it into things and got it dirty in the bayou? I haven’t even seen it yet!” she said, waving her arms around as an emphasis to her point.
Dad seemed unfazed and continued eating his dinner so I showed her my scrapes “see” I said “we were test driving it for you, working out the kinks” I said “and now you know that driving over a small tree isn’t a good idea” I pointed to my blood-crusted left ankle “you should probably wear pants instead of shorts and maybe get a helmet for safety’s sake”. “And remember where the breaks are should an air conditioning unit pop up unexpectedly” my father added. I rubbed my right leg at the memory and mom put her arms down as a sign that she’d given up.

The discovery was reported to be 100% terrifying

A few hours before now I was looking through the garage for a red box. My mom told me it was in there and that it was filled with fabric that I could make a skirt with. I never found the red box because 5 seconds after my search began me saw baby Meagan, the doll I'd received one Christmas when I was about 2 years old. If there were a hierarchy of dolls in my room baby Meagan would have been the king.
I immediately picked her up, stripped off her dirty dress and threw she and the dress into the washing machine. I felt like the kid from "The brave little toaster" when he discovers BRL as an adult, except baby Meagan is much better than an old appliance.

I went back to investigate the box of stuff that she'd been laying in and found several interesting items, some of them ravaged by rats.
There where my blue leather shoes from the Renaissance festival 6 years ago, several books, most of them humorous, art supplies, a framed "on this day in history" from April 9th, 1984,a small stack of birthday cards and a large manila envelope that appeared to be filled with a past relationship. I started taking stock of the contents when I noticed fragments of dried flower petals all over the floor; the rats had made a hole in the corner of the envelope and my elderly prom corsage had seen better days.

There were a lot of letters, some pictures of him or the both of us, a homemade ticket for one free road trip, prom invitations and drawings, and tapes. It was a long distance relationship and having been a seasoned veteran of long distance relationships of varying types I had come up with the idea of making vocal letters. Probably from watching several episodes of "Felicity".

I have several thoughts while looking through the envelope:
"man, we made more tapes than I remember" "I’ll probably never listen to them again, it would probably be uncomfortable to hear thoughts of love from him now and anything else would be old news" "hmm, I wonder if I could still cash in this road trip ticket..." and "I guess I could put it all in a box and save it for my declining years".
The last thought is one I've had a few times. As I said, I’ve known a few long distance relationships; friendships included and have stocked up many, many letters. All of them are unique and hold specific memories, some of which I don't want to revisit by reading them again. I've grown past a few of the sentiments, and the relationships I have with these people now has evolved from what it was in high school. But I don't want to throw the letters away, so what do I do?

Well, if you’re in the same boat then listen up because I’ve got a solution! If you’re familiar with the time capsule idea then this idea will seem...more familiar. So what you do is, you get a big plastic container, put everything you want to keep but don't have room for and bury it in the back yard. Or a park or a big field as long as your sure there won't be something built on top of it in the next 20 years. Then write yourself a note and put it somewhere so you won't forget, and that’s important.
Now just wait till you feel the urge to relive your days of youth with better accuracy than your mind can produce on its own.

My grandma is staying with us this week. I haven't seen her in a year, but was aware of her declining senses from stories and from my own experience with her just before I left. It’s been a new slice of cake altogether with her being further along and in person for a week, and a weird one; She giggles a lot, and you get the impression that when she doesn't follow a conversation she covers by talking about something that happened to her 3 hours ago, that she's already talked about twice because it's something she knows about. I guess I don't have any feelings about her decline because I don't really know WHAT to feel. We have never been very close, though I liked her plenty, but as I've grown older stories of my father and his sisters childhoods have come up, and I see her now as another human being, rather than my grandma.
A human being with faults. Plenty of them. Perhaps you think it's ridiculous to expect an 80 year old woman with Alzheimer’s to start apologizing for things from the past now. I guess it is; she won't be able to remember whether or not she actually did whatever it is you’re resentful about. What’s worse is she never really stopped doing the stupid things; she's never become aware of how much she damaged her kids, especially her daughters, who, with no example to go by hurt their kids, though in different ways. I know that the people that might have treated her badly in her childhood probably never apologized, but I struggle to indulge her or even feel kindly toward her endless giggling, endless stories and flirty behavior with men.
This morning she started giving me a tarot reading while I was eating my cereal. What my feelings are about tarot are not as important as how much I didn't want to let my grandma into anything remotely personal with me. I didn't even think about what I felt about my relationship with her till she got Alzheimer’s.
I guess realizing that seeing her in a somewhat innocent state evoked no feelings of sympathy, not even the knowledge that she had cancer a few years ago(I hadn’t been worried at the time as I was sure she’d pull through). I would like to find a way to move past whatever bad feelings I have about her, but I haven't yet found it and maybe the only solution is to feel nothing about it at all.

Theres nothing you can do in pants that you can't do faster in a skirt.

"So then he didn't show up for an hour and a half even though he was the one who invited us in the first place. She was itching to tell him off as soon as he stepped in the door but I told her I didn't think that was a good idea."
"that’s terrible, you're right you know. What to do in that situation is just don't say anything and don't act mad, but never wait for them again 'cause..."
"no" I interrupted "that doesn't work either. He probably isn't even aware that he's being a butthead by making you wait and if you never say anything he'll think its ok, like your so laid back you don't even care if he never shows up. Which is bull because you obviously do, that’s why you were going to hang out with him. Writing him off without a word means he never gets it and now you've lost a friend."
She was quiet. Upon looking back I realize that in the past I usually don't respond much when she's talking, even if in my head I’m only 50% agreeing. I figure most of the time she's just working something out aloud and isn't asking me about my opinion. But this was my story and I wasn't finished. "I told her to tell him, I said tell him "hey waiting for you was stupid, I won't do it again" and after he makes his case, whatever it is (in this case he claimed it wasn't his fault) say "I understand" like your cheerful (because you goddang are. Nothing spoils your cheerful outlook) she said this, but added "you know what you could have done instead? Not that." to the beginning.
Why should I sit around in my Halloween costume with a bad feeling in my stomach while you gallivant around without a care in your pretty head? Nip that problem right in the butt.

I'm Positive

I was a positive kid, a positive (though of course angst-riddled) teen and I'm a positive young adult.