I Just Noticed Something... Again

I was looking at the blog I keep because I just redid it - you know... working with the templates and the fonts and everything. And I noticed something. I know I probably say that almost every other entry, but this time I really, honestly, and truly did notice something.

I was looking at the pictures I keep in the right column. There are a bunch of pictures of people and cats and... things. Anyway, a picture of Hugh Laurie in his role as Greg House caught my eye, and the caption under it read something along the lines of: "This is what I know I want, so does that make me easy, too?" I entire concept of the whole crazy thought was from an entry earlier in the blog from when this dealt with a class I took. It was about how when men have lots of women, they're considered players and pimps and cool and a bunch of other hypocritical BS. I was trying to make a point that women can be interested in and, theoretically, have lots of men without  being easy or whoreish. And that wasn't what was surprising to me. What was was the revelation that followed.   

I was looking at the picture, and I realized that I really honestly do think Hugh Laurie is attractive (and it's not just because he's a Britt... I can't stand that one guy who played in *Two Weeks Notice* with Sandra Bullock). I really have no idea why I find him attractive, but I do. And then I saw the picture of Johnny Depp (who is sex on toast in my book -- but that's besides the point) who is also older.

Hugh Laurie is 52-years-old; Johnny Depp is 48. Both of them were born in June (to the best of my memory; I could look it up, but I'm too lazy to do that), which could also mean that I have a thing for guys born in June... but then there's Hugh Jackman, who is 42 and born in October... and at the younger end of men I find attractive. So, it could also be said that I have a thing for people named "Hugh". Likewise, though, there's Jesse Spencer, who is the youngest at 32 and born in February. But, like Jackman, he's an Aussie... so I could also have a thing for Aussies.

But the first thought that ran through my head when I saw the picture of Hugh Laurie and admitted to myself -- again -- that he's hot was, "Holy shit... I'm attracted to older men." These men are all old enough to be my father (with the exception of Spencer). But I'm ok with that. And I also realized that I'm more apt to be attracted to older men (and I consider Spencer an older man because when I was in diapers, he was in elementary and/or primary school being all ten-year-old-boy-ish); sure, there are some pretty hot young guys out there, but that's just the first thought that runs though my head. The rest comprise of how financially sound they are (not gold digging... can they keep a house and a job), how mature they are, will they be able to take care of me, of kids (if I ever surrender and have any), what their concerns are (me versus partying and drugs and booze and hookers), etc, etc, etc.

So, does that make me a reverse pedophile? Or maybe I'm a kitten... if older women who go after younger guys is a cougar, wouldn't it make sense that a younger woman who goes after an older man be called a kitten? I don't really know. My slang is sorely lacking.

It doesn't mean anything. I just noticed it, and I felt compelled to share it. That's all.

PS -- Looking at the headshots, maybe it has something to do with their faces. I just noticed -- again -- that they all have a similar facial structure. But, guys IRL... meaning not actors who look like and have the Adonis effect anyway... who are older are attractive to me as well. Very strange. Or maybe I'm just looking way too much into it, and I should just hush up now. But who really knows?

Gothic Romance

People say that I’m a morbid person. I’m not exactly gothic, but I’m not ungothic, either. I’m not really sure what I am. Weird, definitely. Strong stomach… sure. Maybe even a freak – I’ll go with that, too. I find some delight in things that shouldn’t bring me delight – that wouldn’t bring normal people delight, anyway. It’s hard to explain.


When I was young, I loved to watch medical shows. Surgery shows never bothered me. Horror movies with lots of blood and guts and violence never bothered me. Ready for this: there’s something strangely beautiful about the spillage of blood. It’s like a flower blossoming and blooming death. Born to blossom, bloom to perish. The pretty death poppies fascinate me. I don’t think I’ve ever actually told anyone that before in conversation. But my writing reflects my obsession with the taboo-ish topic.


I watched his eyes flutter in a strangely beautiful way as he gasped, hissing in air. He didn’t scream – he was perfectly silent as his eyes made his way down to his belly, blood blossoming on his naked, tanned flesh, snaking its way down to bloom on the waistband of his pants. My eyes made their way down as well, however I didn’t stay quiet.


I’ll probably never let anyone read anything more than that – my writing tends to be gory and violent, utilizing my sudo-bloodlust in ways that sometimes surprise and delight even me. My mind is totally twisted.


I actually love tattoos. I love piercings, too (not the really crazy ones… the standards, like the ears and nose and tongue and belly and maybe eyebrow). Neither can be overboard, thought; it has to be artfully done, and that artfulness depends on the looks of the person. Leather is really hot (both literally and figuratively!), and lace rocks. I’m in lust with zombies and ghosts and vampires (not the Twitard ones, either). So, three guesses on where I like to spend some of my free time, and the first two don’t count.


Graveyards are peaceful. There’s a serenity that I find there that’s hard for me to find in any other place. Sadly, though, I haven’t been to a graveyard in a while. It’s still definitely one of my favorite places to be.


Graveyards are sadly misunderstood. How I would love to play hide and seek in a graveyard!! (Now those “normies” out there are cringing and saying how sick I am. I might be sick, sure, but I can’t help what I think would be fun.) I imagine darting in and out of the stones and sprinting around monuments. I’d love to be able to go into a monument or crypt, but I wouldn’t dare desiccate someone’s grave. That’s their home now, and I don’t want someone breaking into my home, so I won’t break into theirs. And that’s final. (Yes, pun intended.)


When I was a little girl, I wanted to get married in a graveyard. I pictured a pretty white dress – yes… the princess puffy gown – but I was like seven. (I still want to get married in a graveyard… on Halloween. That is totally my dream, but I don’t look for it to happen.) There’s a graveyard that I pass almost every day. It’s an old one next to the VA. The graveyard sits on a hill slanting down towards the road. At the bottom of the hill, there’s a flag pole with the American flag attached to it. There aren’t any tombs, but the age of some of the stones makes up for it. It used to be my ideal spot for marriage.


Keep in mind, though, I was around seven when I first thought of this fantasy. Generally Catholic weddings aren’t held outside. I can’t honestly say the reason, though.


As I grew, my dreams changed a little. I still wanted to get married in a graveyard, but I wanted to wear black instead of white. And that evolved into wanting to get married in a graveyard in black in a Victorian-esque gown. Eventually, that became getting married in a graveyard in black in a Victorian-esque gown on Halloween.


Riddle me this: where would I find a Catholic priest who would be willing to not only marry me outside, but also with me dressed in black and on Halloween in a cemetery?


It’s not likely that I would be able to find one… and have both the family of my groom and mine as well as the church agree on everything. And while I know that if the church was the only thing standing in my way, I could have a different wedding, but there would have to be some sort of compromise I could reach with the diocese. I wouldn’t feel comfortable getting married under any other faith.


That doesn’t mean that I have to give up on my dreams, however. It may seem a little silly for someone as strange as I am to want the kind of proper wedding that I want with the changes that I want, but I wouldn’t be strange if I let someone else make up my mind for me. And it wouldn’t be my wedding, would it? And what’s the point in that?


Just because I don’t conform to the standards that society thinks I should conform to doesn’t mean that I have to forego wanting normal things in an abnormal way. If it’s my dream to do something, why should I let someone else talk me out of the way I want to do something? So, even though I’m older now and more mature, that doesn’t mean that I have to give up my dream of a graveyard wedding. I can hold on to my childhood dreams and still function in society. I don’t have to wear the mask that society wants me to wear. If I want to walk through Wal-Mart like Bigfoot from the famous 1960s footage, then I will do it… and I will do it with a smile. Because the child in me – the dreams in me – are still alive.

On Escalators

Escalators are a funny thing, when you stop and think about it. Stairs are just as easy, and they’re safer, too. With those silly machines that are supposed to make life “easier”, I just feel like I’m about to be ripped to shreds by some… teeth or something. Call me crazy, and I probably am, but it’s like a death sentence whenever I have to ride one.


I had to ride one when my father went on a business trip. We dropped him off at the airport to see him off – mostly because I’m anal, and I think that I’ll never see him again if he leaves. Anyway, we dropped him off at the airport, and the parking garage took us to the top level. (It made no sense to me to have the parking garage take us to the top of the airport, but it unfortunately did.) And there, standing like some freak of nature, was my adversary. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else. People were riding up and down it like it was nothing at all.


Now, let me digress for just a moment.


The other day, I went with my niece and nephew to the dentist. I didn’t have an appointment, but the second I went in there, I felt like I was going to get sick. Nausea washed over me again and again like waves in the ocean. (I know that sounds clichéd, but they ebbed and flowed just like oceanic waves. Perhaps a better example would be… maybe… bingo balls in the rolly-cage?) My hands got all clammy and sweaty, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I started to shake and the fight or flight response took over, and let me tell you – flight was totally winning (and it had nothing to do with Charley Sheen).


I think that I was doing ok – I could deal with the whole nauseous thing and the sweaty thing, and I could even control the urge to run away. But then… then the drill started. And that was the worst!


Let me explain a little bit about how the dentist office is set up. The waiting area is separated from the patient area, and we were taken back to a single huge room that was divided into four sections. A patient was taken into each section. My niece was taken into a room, and my nephew was taken into a room. (Though I suppose “room” is a loose term at best.) There was this room across from the sudo-hallway where this guy was getting dental work done. The hygienist brought out this drill thing – but at the time I didn’t know what it was – and started work on him.


I didn’t notice the sound of the drill right away. I was too busy talking and laughing with my sister about how clammy my hands were. When I did notice the drill, the nausea almost won.


By the time I was ready to leave the office, I ran out, practically bowling over my nephew. (He’s like six-foot, so I really didn’t do much damage, but I still pushed him and flew out the door like the Hounds of Hell were at my heels.) I’m like this whenever I go to the dentist after I got my braces off.


It’s the same way when I face an escalator.


When we dropped my father at the airport, I wanted to go back to the parking garage. Daddy took my hand and told me to come on. I’m a bit of a daddy’s-girl, so I didn’t want to disappoint him. But I was seriously scared out of my wits. It was a panic –attack moment, and I really thought that I couldn’t do it.


But like the dentist, I went down the stupid machine to see Daddy off at the gate.


Speaking of stupid machines, escalators remind me of an episode of SpongeBob Squarepants. (Yes, I totally went there, defiling the sacred SpongeBob; my niece is sad.) In this episode, SpongeBob stayed up all night watching a “scary” movie about robots. The next day at work, the fry cook thinks that his boss, Mr. Krabs, is a robot because of the things he does. SpongeBob seriously thought that Mr. Krabs robot was going to take over the aquatic world they inhabit (aptly named Bikini Bottom).


Call me crazy, but sometimes I wonder how dependent we are on technology. And yes, escalators are technology, in my book at least. Look at how we obsess over the new phones and computers and music players – the newest devices and movies, how technological movies have become with all the computer generated effects. Take the book written by Stephen King, Cell, where, for some odd reason, cell phone signals turn people into quasi-zombies. One character, a velour sweat-suit wearing, high-class woman, was turned into a snarling, throat biting thing after the signal hit and she was talking on her cell.


Maybe escalators are like Transformers (ROBOTS IN DISGUISE!) waiting patiently to suck our brains from our prone bodies. Or maybe the escalators are like the mechanical teeth of a giant robot, the steps waiting, wanting to mash our bones to dust to make bread. Perhaps that’s also where some of the fear comes from. Either way, it’s a paranoid emotional rollercoaster.


Ups and downs and all arounds. Talk about directional confusion. At least that’s something that escalators can’t do. They may be fear-causing hidden robots, but they can’t take you sideways – or diagonal. (There are the motorized walkways, but I don’t wholly count those as escalators… they don’t take you up or down, after all.)


When I think about those vile things people use to avoid stairs, one of the things that come to mind is emotions. When people are up, they’re going up on the escalator. When they’re feeling down, they’re usually riding the escalator down. The uppers are chattering and laughing whereas the downers are talking quietly and hushed. The up direction seems like a party whereas the down direction seems like a funeral… without the fun.


Anyway, escalators are weird, crazy, scary-as-hell things. I, personally, couldn’t be happier with stairs to get me where I need to go. At least stairs can’t snag my shoelace or pantcuff and suffocate me. Stairs are a much safer option, and if I ever see another escalator again in my life, it will be too soon. (Although that might be sooner than I would like. The fates have a way of playing happy little tricks on me.)

On Burned Marshmallows

I remember a lot of things from when I was a little girl – some of them were pretty happy and some of them were pretty sad. Come to think of it, there’s actually a pretty even mix between the two of them. There have been times in my life that I’ve laughed so much I’ve cried, and there have been times where I’ve laughed to avoid crying.


I think the time that stands out most in my life, however, is when I was a little girl of about five or six. Mostly I remember this story though being told it when I was older, but there are things that trigger bits of my own memory – things that I know I remember.


During the summer months – and into the early fall – it’s an unofficial tradition that my family has bonfires. (Now, by bonfire, I mean a little tiny fire pit with a little tiny fire… it’s hardly enough to roast a marshmallow let alone a hotdog.)We take the deck chairs down onto the patio and sit around the fire and bullshit. Sometimes we play the story game – which is where each person tells a line of a story until we go all the way around the fire; as the night goes on and the kids go to sleep, the stories get progressively dirtier – and sometimes we sit around and talk about life. Most of the time, we have marshmallows with graham crackers and chocolate bars and hotdogs. It’s when I sit there, smelling the burning wood and processed sugar, that my memory suddenly decides to kick into overdrive. And it’s always back to the same episode.


I feel bad, actually, that we didn’t visit my grandparents as much as we could. To an extent, though it isn’t an excuse, we did live two and a half hours away from them, and both of my parents worked. There were a lot of happy memories that I have from there before their deaths. Mum, my grandmother, really encouraged my writing. She used to get me sets of stationary and pens all the time. Pap-Pap, my grandfather, used to have me walk with him up the long driveway to get the mail and the newspaper with the shi-tsu they had, Tippy.


I think that the summer I was six, we stayed at their house the whole three months. I remember that I was so homesick, and all I wanted to do was go home. Looking back on it now, however, I’m glad that I stayed – even though I had some pretty weird dreams (like a T-Rex eating the Jeston’s house…). I also had so much fun in hindsight – which is why I guess they call it hindsight.


Anyway, that summer I remember we had a huge bonfire – and I mean huge. I wasn’t allowed close to it – none of the kids were (my cousins were there, too… kind of hellish, but whatever). If I recall, the bonfire was at the height of my homesickness.


There was a picnic table about five feet away from the whole were the fire was built. My mum sat me up on it, she put a marshmallow on a stick, and she told me to burn it. I, myself, had never had a marshmallow before, so it was pretty neat that Mum was going to let me cook one. I admit that I was scared to death to try it, but I did anyway – and I loved the crispy burned texture and the slightly bitter taste with the sweet, gooey center.


To this day, I can’t eat a marshmallow – or most other foods – unless they’re burned. It’s so silly, I know… and maybe a little icky – if you ask my niece and nephew – that I can’t eat a marshmallow unless it’s black, but it’s my way of holding on to my mum and my pap-pap.


It’s been 13 years, respectively, since they’ve died, but whenever I smell the burning of wood, I always think of that summer when I was a little girl, homesick for my own bed.

















 Writer’s Statement


I began writing this piece in class as part of Josh’s writing exercise when she taught her lesson. The prompt was about a memory that involved fire. Due to time, he didn’t have us start writing it – we just went around and told him, but I scribbled down the prompt, and I wanted to finish it. In class, I think I got down a basic gist of what I wanted to do as well as the first sentence of the story. I tried to leave out as much of what my family told me about the summer as I could and go off of strictly what I remembered. But I’m sure that I included things that I was told and just didn’t realize it.


I actually didn’t even use the sentence that I had written down in class. I started in a completely different way. I actually think that I like the way I started here; I think that it’s more honest and a little more personal then starting in with “When I was a little girl and my grandparents were still alive…” I actually can’t believe that I started like that. It’s clichéd, but in my defense I was short on time, and I just scribbled something down to get an idea. I think that this version is much better. I think that it’s more complete – considering it is complete – but also because it’s more filled out with a stream of thought.


I wanted to include some of the elements that were in “Morning Glory Harley” by Terese Svoboda in my finished essay, but I didn’t when I was writing it. I think that I liked her essay the most when I was reading the ones for the discussion because I liked how it didn’t seem like I was reading a non-fiction story. It felt like I was reading an actual story-story… like from a book. I liked how she used “a man” instead of a name or some personal pronoun like “I” or “me”. And I also like the etherealness of the description of the accident and whether or not the man walked away or died. It doesn’t feel bland and… textbook. With Svoboda’s story, I wanted to keep reading and know what happened.


I also liked the Josh’s piece – “Westbury Court” – because of its jumpiness. Danticat starts with talking a bit about a fire and then about how he would watch soaps after school while doing homework during commercials. It feels like a conversation to me. It took me no time at all to read the story, and I didn’t realize that I had finished it until I was looking for the next story.


I guess what makes a piece of non-fiction good in the genre is the addition of little things that both of those authors – Svoboda and Danticat – included. The open-endedness of “Morning Glory Harley” makes me wonder if the man was a husband, brother, or father. And, like I said, the overall tone of “Westbury Court” makes it seem like Danticat is talking to me at my table over coffee and cupcakes. I think that’s also why I don’t care for non-fiction, because I’m so scared that what I’m writing about is going to be dry and dull and stupid. I can’t decide if what I’m writing will be read by anyone or not – or if it’s even worth reading in the first place. In the future, I will try to include in my non-fiction writing – if I ever write non-fiction again – some of the techniques that Svoboda and Danticat had. I want to make it seem a little like a conversation and keep the reader guessing so they stay interested. I’m sure that I’ll tell them eventually, but I want them to keep reading until the end. So, I hope that I’ve done that at least a little in the rewrite/finishing of Josh’s prompt.

Streetwalker Samba

Jeannie sits alone in the front seat of the old Lincoln. She feels queasy. The scene she watches makes her want to rip at her hair, but the housewife knows she can’t do that. Jeannie needs to be proper. Jeannie needs to be perfect. It’s what’s expected of her.


She wishes her husband would hurry up. The sooner they get out of the empty hellhole parking lot the better. Jeannie doesn’t like that Franklin is all alone in the building with that hussy of a real estate agent.


“The bitch,” Jeannie mutters, and she’s sure that they’re in there screwing their brains out. She fans herself gently in the noontime sun. She had made Franklin turn the car off to save on gas, and the heat is getting to her. Jeannie didn’t know that it would take so long. “How dare she decide to ruin my happy marriage.”


Through one of the store-front windows, Jeannie sees the agent and Franklin. They’re laughing, and Jeannie would love nothing more than to put the car in gear and run over the blond Angelia Jolie bitch.


She pulls down the visor and studies herself in the mirror. Her age is catching up with her; there are crows’ feet around her eyes and purse marks around her lips from twenty years of smoking.


“If that man doesn’t hurry up,” the 38-year-old housewife says, “we’ll be late in picking up Greg from school.” Greg gets out of high school at two-thirty, but the fact that she and Franklin still have two hours doesn’t mean anything to the woman.


Jeannie watches Franklin and the agent as she flings her arms wide, highlighting her ample breasts. “He’s looking at them,” Jeannie says. She wishes ardently for a cigarette, but she told Franklin she quit, so she knows that she can’t smoke anywhere around him. That doesn’t change the fact that looking at the two people not thirty feet away from her automatically makes her crave a cigarette.


Jeannie knows she’s attractive – Franklin wouldn’t have married her if she was ugly. But the agent looks like she’s 25 and would spread her legs wide to make a sell. Jeannie knows that she was brought up better than that.


The leather of the passenger seat is sticking to her short-clad thighs. The armholes of her tank-top are ringed with sweat. Whether it’s just the heat or a combination of the heat and the stress of watching her husband basically fornicate with the slut, Jeannie isn’t sure.


She can’t bear to look at her husband and the hussy anymore. Instead she looks out the window to the right. Across the street, there’s a graveyard, and Jeannie smiles.


“That would be the perfect place for me to hide her body,” Jeannie whispers. “It would be my most inventive place yet. And no one would think anything of it. It’s not uncommon to see disturbed ground in a cemetery.”


Franklin is laughing with the agent in the store now, Jeannie sees from the corner of her eye. To keep her recently eaten lunch down, she thinks about how good it would be to kill the whore in there with her husband.


Jeannie will do this one slow, she decides. There’s no real fun in doing it quickly unless she absolutely has to. Jeannie knows this from prior women that have tried to sleep with Franklin – everyone from old girlfriends to colleagues to hussy neighbor girls. Of all the would-be prostitutes that have tried to take away her Franklin, Jeannie has only had to kill one of them quickly. All the other women Jeannie was able to take her time with, and Jeannie knows just how much fun carving can be. She is a housewife after all.


Jeannie decides that she will take one of the stilettoes the agent is wearing and stick it through her heart. No, maybe not her heart, she thinks. The agent might die too fast for her liking. With this bimbo, Jeannie wants to take her time. A fast death would be too good for the hussy.


Perhaps what Jeannie will do is cut her. A human body can’t be too different from a chicken, can it? If she nicks the throat, the agent shouldn’t bleed out too fast. And if Jeannie nicks the right place, the agent won’t be able to scream very loud. If the agent can’t scream, Jeannie can have more fun with killing her.


She decides that, as long as the agent doesn’t bleed quickly, she will dissect the agent’s breasts. If the breasts are fake, Jeannie will pop then and laugh as they wither down to their small former selves.


Maybe Jeannie will even burn her. She’s isn’t sure how much she wants to torture the other woman, but she knows that she wants to make her suffer.


Jeannie loves Franklin very much. She knows that he’d never cheat on her. Instead, it’s the women – the whores – who coerce him into screwing. Franklin is a man, she thinks, and men were never very strong when it came to resisting sex. It isn’t his fault.


That’s why she has to take care of all the women who will try to lure away her Franklin. It’s because she loves him. He’s her husband, and she took a vow to protect him until death do them part. That’s why Jeannie kills.


She is so lost in thought that she doesn’t hear her husband walk to the car. Her fantasy is good, and she jumps when Franklin opens the door and slides in.


“Love you, baby,” he says, and Jeannie smiles. He’s such a good husband.


“I love you, too,” she says as she leans in to kiss him. If she ever sees the agent again, she’ll be sure to take her down. There is no way Jeannie’s going to let that woman take away her Franklin.

Euphony in the Falling Rain

The priest walked slowly away from his cell. His steps were heavy as his fingers worked slowly at his collar. God wouldn’t have let that happen if He was as benevolent as what the father was taught to believe. The God he was taught of wouldn’t have let his four-year-old niece be raped and killed in the sadistic manner she was. God? In his eyes now, there was no god.



He walked from the rectory and down the street, angry at his brother, angry at himself, and angry at any and all deities. Hail Mary, full of grace, he thought as he fingered the pendant in the sachet at his side; save me from this goddamned place.


It was there, at the corner of Tale Avenue and Aéro Boulevard, that the once devout man renounced his vows, tossed the Rosary into the gutter, and picked up the first whore he saw.


There the sachet sat for the rest of the night and most of the next day, soaking in the stale rain water that sat stagnant and collecting filth. To any passerby, it was just another piece of trash.


About noon, a mutt was sniffing around for dropped food when he found it. His wet nose picked up on the smell of the damp leather, hand stitched and beautifully crafted. Good Boy – that was his name among the homeless tramps he shared the streets with – nudged it cautiously. There was no telling what it could be. It might have something sharp, like the claws of the cat that used to live next door to him when he had a home and his name was Rufus. It might also be something that would make him sick, like when Good Boy found the silver stick. He chewed on it, succeeding in getting black all over his snout and spent the next week vomiting up everything he ate no matter what it was.


He almost died, Good Boy remembered anxiously. All dogs go to Heaven, nick-knack patty whack, give him a bone! In fact, if it wasn’t for The Lady, Good Boy would be Dead Boy. His tail wagged as he remembered her nursing him back to health as best she could. She even scrimped enough money up to get him to a vet – those freaky humans with their prodding and butt-thermometers. But he was alive, and Good Boy was thankful for it. That’s why he stuck by The Lady.


Good Boy batted the thing once more, just to see. It skipped down the gutter as the dirty water splashed after it. The smell of decay, damp, and urine stung his nose. Good Boy involuntarily shook his head at the stench. If it wasn’t for The Lady, Good Boy would have split from around here a long time ago. His original humans had moved away from the suburb they lived in, and Good Boy had intended to find them. He missed his little boy and older girl who used to play with him and sneak him food when their humans weren’t looking.


Good Boy had succeeded in getting about halfway across the state when he lost the trail. Good Boy didn’t want to give up, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the scent anymore. That was a sad day for him, and all he did was cry and whine. That had been so long ago – about a year, from what he could figure in his doggy way. That’s how long it took him from being Pretty Boy to Dirty Boy. Good Boy was an American Eskimo, and he was well groomed. Over the time he transformed from Rufus to Good Boy, his once white, silky fur had become a dingy brown-gray and matted. He stank from being out in the weather all the time, and he had lost quite a bit of weight. That was also when The Lady came into his life, and Good Boy thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad here with her.


Thinking of The Lady, Good Boy jumped and yelped happily. She would be pleased to get a nice gift that wasn’t rotting – or at least it didn’t smell like it was rotting. Without a second thought, he scooped it up in his mouth, ignoring the horrible taste because it was for The Lady.


He weaved in and out of the other people that were walking on the street. Most of them ignored the dog, and those who didn’t would call mean things after him. Good Boy had learned to steer clear of those types of people. They were usually The Beaters, and Good Boy didn’t deserve to be beaten.


As he ran, he remembered just after he started his “quest”. He stopped to sleep for the night, and he woke up to a horrible human boy much older than his own who tried to set his tail on fire. Good Boy – who was still Rufus then – became Bad Boy and bit the little brat. He snarled and growled as he backed away from the human, and the boy looked scared. But truth be told, Good Boy was the one who was scared. He was so scared, he thought he might have peed, but then he remembered that he wasn’t inside, so it was ok. It was without a second thought that Good Boy picked up the pace and left that neighborhood.


When he neared the busy street that he needed to cross to get to The Lady, Good Boy dropped the small thing in his mouth. He huffed and sneezed and shook, desperately wanting to get the awful taste off his tongue. Good Boy knew he was as curious as those devilish cats, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know what was in there – wanted to make sure it was worthy of The Lady because she was so nice to him. With his front paw, he batted at the sliver-ish clasp on the front. That’s what was keeping it closed; he tasted the metal on his tongue when he had it in his mouth.


A low ding-ding caught his attention, and Good Boy picked the small package back up in his mouth, shuddering again at the taste. The leather wasn’t so bad, and if he could focus on that, he felt he could make it all the way across the country with it between his teeth. Unfortunately, it was sitting in the gutter. And the taste of ick overpowered the taste of cowhide.


After he crossed the street, he turned left and shot behind a warehouse that wasn’t used anymore. That was usually where The Lady stayed, especially when the weather smelled like rain. The dog wiggled into the building through the broken door and took off again. He was getting excited, and he would have barked happily if it wasn’t for the gift in his mouth.


Good Boy streaked back and forth across the three levels of the warehouse, but The Lady was nowhere to be found. He whimpered sadly, but remembered the soup kitchen and the nice hotel kitchen workers not far from it who would sometimes invite him and The Lady inside to eat some. Maybe she was there, Good Boy thought, and this time he did drop the thing and give a couple short, happy barks.


His eyes went to the window, and he whined in the back of his throat. Good Boy hated to be outside at night alone. That was when not only The Beaters came out, but also the Fire Freaks like the boy from before. And the cats. The cats were just as bad, and Good Boy had learned to stay away from them after one of them took its claws to his poor snout.


With that thought, he dropped the thing and laid down on it so no one could take it while he slept. It would be safe for The Lady under his belly tonight, and tomorrow when he woke up, he would scoop it back up in his mouth and find her.


Good Boy slowly drifted to sleep for the night.





The sun was high in the gray sky by the time he woke up the next morning. There was still rain drizzling, but Good Boy wiggled back out of the broken door with the thing in his mouth. He stopped not far from the corner, lifted his leg, and did his business. Good Boy was a good boy, he thought happily to himself. He still messed outside so that their shelter wouldn’t stink. Good boy, he thought; good boy.


The soup kitchen wasn’t that far from the warehouse, and Good Boy made it there quickly. He stood up on the window and looked inside to see if he could see The Lady. He bobbed up and down and looked left to right, but he couldn’t see her anywhere.


Instead of getting discouraged, Good Boy wagged his tail. There was still the hotel kitchen down the block. Maybe when The Lady went to the soup kitchen, all the spots were taken, so she had to go there for some food. He fell back on all four legs and took off down the block to the hotel. It was a good shot.


But when Good Boy got there, his tail tucked itself between his legs. While the workers still gave him a plate of scraps, they were asking him where his companion was – where The Lady was. Good Boy ate the food but only so the nice people wouldn’t get sad and think that he was turning his nose up at it. Good Boy was thankful, and he stayed around for a while. When the workers took their breaks, they would bring him water and play with him or rub his belly – and Good Boy really liked that. His back leg shook, and he yelped happily.


Eventually, the sky became dark again, and Good Boy got worried. What if The Lady was sick or hurt? What if someone had taken her to the pound? He stayed at the back of the hotel kitchen that night with the thing under his belly and cried himself to sleep. Would he ever see The Lady again?





The sun was shining and warm when Good Boy woke up next to the door. He stretched happily, stood, walked around in a circle, and plopped back down again.


The Lady – his Lady – sat in a wicker chair next to him, reading on the front porch of their new home. In the front of the book, his Lady had placed the trinket that was inside the thing he had found about a year ago. She used it to keep her place, and Good Boy thought it was pretty as the clear crystal caught the sun.


He remembered back to when he thought he lost her. Good Boy stayed outside the hotel kitchen for almost a week guarding the thing that he found. He was determined to give it to his Lady. He wasn’t going to give up and surrender like he did when he couldn’t find the scent of his former family. He wanted to keep his Lady. He had grown to love her, and Good Boy was sure that she loved him.


Eventually, when Good Boy was sure that she was either dead or locked up in the pound, she came back to get some food. He stood, unbelieving, as she came closer to him, and when he was sure it was her, he started to leap in circles, chase his tale, and bark ecstatically. She ran to him, fell to her knees in a puddle, and hugged the smelly dog, cooing and thanking God he was safe.


Good Boy trotted back, picked up the thing, and brought it to her. He dropped it at her feet and nuzzled her hand as if to say, “Go on… it’s for you.”


His Lady picked it up gently and looked at it in awe. She patted him, cooed another “Good Boy”, and opened it. Her face lit up, and Good Boy barked in joy. He had done something good. He had pleased his Lady.


She pulled out the Rosary gently and smiled. Clutching it to her breast, she pulled Good Boy into a tight hug and muttered “thank you, thank you,” over and over again into his fur.


It wasn’t long after that that his Lady was able to get a job at a church not far from the hotel kitchen. The people there were nice, and they let her bring Good Boy in with her while she cleaned. His Lady gave him a bath soon after, saying that he needed to look good, too.


A little longer after that, when she had saved up enough money, they moved into an apartment. It was small and cramped, but it was home, and Good Boy loved it. He was proud of his Lady, and he always tried to show her.


Down the road some more, she had saved up more money, and they bought and moved into a house. Good Boy had a yard now, and he and his Lady played in it every day. Before they moved in, his Lady gave him a gift. It was a collar with a tag on it. While Good Boy couldn’t read, he understood when she told him that his name was on it and he was home now.


Good Boy nuzzled his Lady’s hand when she patted his head. She cooed and smiled when he licked it, and they got up to play some ball. The Rosary was placed gently into the book, and that was set next to his leash. Good Boy didn’t have a care in the world. He was home. He was loved.
















Writer’s Statement


I had originally started this in a whole different direction, and somehow it ended up from the dog’s point of view. The dog, in the original one, played a very small part. I didn’t even have a name for it. This exercise was one that we did in class with the prompts and the objects, and I was looking over my notes for this one in particular. I liked a little how I started it, and I wanted to finish it. (The idea of a clergy losing his faith intrigued me – especially because I was sitting across from Mitch at the time.)


My note on the paper said that: “dog takes to homeless woman; she finds faith and gets life together.” And I was totally going to finish it off like that, but then I caught sight of Casper (pictured left) and Aspen, two of my sister’s dogs, both American Eskimos, in a picture that flashed on my computer slideshow. Casper passed away about a year or so ago, but Aspen is still alive, and my niece and nephew are still very attached and in love with them. I looked at the picture, and I thought that I should at least give the dog a name. So, I did. And from there, Good Boy took over the story, and I just let my mind do with it as it wanted. I didn’t even bother giving the homeless lady a real name in this story. So the roles were reversed, but I feel that having Good Boy be the main focus had it turn out a little better than if it would have been the lady. I feel now that going with the lady would have made it sound clichéd and overcooked. I feel that chewing on a Sharpie© would be something Aspen would do because he’s a little on the special side, so writing it from Good Boy’s point of view made it more real for me. I can’t honestly say why – aside from seen the pictures – I thought it would be better to do it from Good Boy’s point of view, but I did. While I was writing it, I asked myself if it was still believable, and I feel that it is. I just sort of sat back and let my mind do most of the work.


I feel that what makes a piece good in the genre is the ability to suspend our disbelief (who would want to read something they can tell didn’t happen? Make it as outlandish as you want, but you should be able to make it seem true.), and the author has to be able to accomplish that through using various tools such as but not limited to personification, anthropomorphism, foreshadowing, flashbacks, and rich character development. An author also has to allow their mind to take over sometimes and not force something to come. If your mind wants to take you in a different direction, come hell or high water, it’s going to get its way.


I feel that A Kind of Flying and Bottle caps does that really well; those were the two that stood out to me because they seemed more like memories than stories. I liked it quite a bit for that reason. When I read novels by Koontz or King, I get drawn into the story, and that’s what makes me forget. But AKoF and BC read to me more like Rose Madder by Stephen King. I can relate to them in very strange ways because I was somehow that person or knew a person like that. I didn’t read it like I would a Koontz book, but like I would a memoir. I like how the authors are able to pull me in using simple tools, and I hope that Good Boy’s story was able to do that at least a little.

Sick and Quiet

It wasn’t actually hard – I felt

horrible. It’s actually quite easy

to be quiet when you’re sick.

When your throat is sore

and your nose is stuffed up, and

when it feels like there’s so much

pressure in your head that –

at any second – the grenade could

explode, being quiet is like

a second nature.

Any sound sounds like a detonation

– even the tiniest little whisper. Watching

the pictures swirl and ebb on the tele

makes you dizzy and disoriented… makes

your throbbing head hurt even worse.

So, it’s not hard to be quiet.

It’s so easy to be quiet, in fact,

that you hardly realize that you’ve

gone without talking, and the only

sounds that are heard from your general

direction are the hacking and sniffling

from the plague that you think has

consumed you. People ask if they can get

you anything, and it’s a second nature to

hold the mug out for more tea or the cup

for more water (though the tea makes your

throat feel so much better). Sometimes,

though, the best thing is when momma –

yes, momma… because you’re a poor college

kid who would rather live at home then

share the same bathroom and shower

system with twenty other girls – brings

you a freeze pop. It’s so cold,

the numbing is bliss.

And don’t forget about the

flavor – no… that’s actually

the best part. When you’re lying on

the cough, wallowing in your own

sick, trying not to focus on the moving

pictures in the awesome invention – one

that would otherwise serve as a great

distraction and therefore keep you

just as quiet – the ice tastes like

nothing until –

SLURP-sucka, sucka, sucka – cheesh.

It’s cherry – maybe. Can’t tell with

your nose so epically plugged.

You open your mouth to ask, but

before the croak even leaves, the dull

ache and the burn silence you

twice as fast. It doesn’t really matter

what the flavor is – not having that

crazy pain in the back of your throat

(the one that feels like a painful itch

and clearing it will only make it hurt

worse) isn’t worth finding out if the

pop slowly melting in your hand is

cherry or strawberry or some other

crazy fruit flavor.

It’s rather easy being quiet – the first

set of hours slips away like nothing,

and you don’t even realize that they’re

gone; they’re such ephemeral things.

The second set comes and goes – and

now you’re at the complete day, a whole

24 hours. You take your cold medicine

and suck down more tea and water and

freeze pop syrup (the combination between

the scalding liquid and the numbing liquid is

… interesting to say the least, and you

don’t even care when you burn your

tongue.) and try to ignore the aching

in your head while you force yourself to

watch whatever crappy movie is on.

There’s nothing else to really when

you’re sick. But you have to admit

that you feel sorry for the dog – the poor,

old dog on the screen who didn’t

deserve to die. The zombies, however,

are a nice touch, and you pity the

poor kids that had to play in the

movie – they probably won’t sleep

for a month. Buh-bye, Gary. Looser.

Dumb kids, opening the gate to Hell,

you think – can’t help yourself but think.

So early in the morning –

or so late at night – there’s nothing on,

and you want to go to sleep, but you

can’t breathe through your nose,

and breathing through your mouth

hurts. Time becomes such a crazy

thing – it seems almost as fake as

the movie you’re watching – which,

by the by, gives a whole new meaning

to stick a needle in your eye. There’s no

one around to talk to, even if you wanted

to talk. The movies are so bad that they

actually hold your attention .

When someone is awake, you thrust

the mug you want filled in their

general direction, and they’ll

fill it for you. You only need to

nod you thanks and sniffle a whole

bunch to remind them that you’re

sick. They won’t mind if you don’t

ask. And who really cares about

what kind of tea they put in the mug?

You can’t really taste it anyway;

you’re only in it for the scalding in

your throat – another form of pain to

drown out the other. That one is

perhaps more unbearable

then the burned tongue and gullet.

But being so quiet – it lets you

think. You have yourself for

conversation, and sometimes

you find yourself to be quite the

horrid conversationalist. “Did I really just

think that?” you think to yourself,

because you know it you say it out loud

one of the people around you is

going to want to know the

original thought. And the original thought

is just too stupid to dare voice

aloud. So you write it off to being

sick and keep quiet, knowing

(hoping) that the inanity will pass.

Being quiet is easy if you’re sick. What point

is there in talking anyway? It will just

bring you more pain and make you feel

just as bad if not worse. The only thing you

want to know – and you write yourself a

note on this, because this is important…

at least in your cold-medicine induced haze

– where the hell are the kids’ parents?

And how freaking mad will they

be when they come home?! And, dammit,

even though I’m happy for it, how the freak did

the dog come back to life?! It was dead before

the kids opened the gate to hell! Some

things, you decide, are best for momma to explain.

Completely Random Question:

I have a completely random question. It's such an inane question that I'm not sure if I should actually ask it or not. Yes, it really is that bad. I know that I've asked some pretty bad questions before in the past, but I think this one tops the cake. In fact, I know it's so bad that I'm actually him-hulling around voicing it. I'm embarrassed by the question, but I still want to ask it.

Does that make me weird? I think it does. Anyway, weirdness aside, that still leaves my question.

It's something that I never really wondered about before. At least, I don't think I've wondered about it. I might have - in passing. I probably have wondered about it, come to think about it.

My first ridiculous question is this: Do wrestlers wear underwear under their little spankies? Case and point: See the image to the right.

I mean, I kind of think that they would. I wouldn't want to go in front of lots of people wearing a speedo. I know the ancient Greeks and Romans would wrestle naked, but I don't think that everyone wants to see some of these people naked. (But some of them I wouldn't mind...) There's nothing there, really. And with the moves some of these guys do...? I would want a little extra coverage.

Sure, some of them have some nice bodies. Some of them don't. And I really don't care about the women. I have them; I don't need to see them; they're not that great, guys. Anywho, I know that wrestling is all canned - well, most of it, now-a-days. But there are still moments where unscripted stuff happens. And during those times, some wardrobe malfunctions are bound to happen. I, anyway, would want something there to prevent +/- 50,000 people.

Not to mention, I don't think I would feel comfortable going out there with all those people in just a pair of spankies. Let's face it: a speedo doesn't cover much, and you pretty much have to be an Adonis to look good in one. "Normal" people can't pull off the speedo look. "Normal" people shouldn't wear speedoes - they should be outlawed on most beaches. But that's just me. I have nothing against the "normal" human body; I know that only like 1% have the Adonis effect with their bodies. Most of them are actors or in the TV business -- or are photoshopped until they have the Adonis effect. (Because even I can photoshop myself to be a size 2.)

I would rather go out in a pair of pants - like some of them do. And I don't think I would wear any of the skimpy tops that the women go out in. With my luck, it would be pulled off, and I would get fined by the FCC and fired from my job.

And now my second question: Do they sell bathing suits in Alaska?

I know they have a summer up there, but I don't know that it'd be warm enough for them to go out in bathing suits. Then again, I might be spoiled with my weather here in Ohio. Mid 80s, low 90s. It's nice, and I think that Alaskan summers would still be chilly for me. I hear summers in Maine are colder, so it's only right to think that the ones in Alaska would be even worse. At least for someone in the states.

But maybe if I lived up there, the summers would be summery, and the summers down here would be unbearable. I would probably die from heat exhaustion if I was from up north that far originally. I probably couldn't fathom having 80, 90 degree weather in Alaska.  

Educational Technology

May 10, 2011

      Today I learned how to create a text box in Microsoft Word and take out the fill and outline if I wanted to. It's pretty easy. You click on the text box button, I used the custom box tool, and draw the box. From there, you can play with the shape fill, outline, and settings. I like that I can make nice, neat boxes without having all the lines if I don't want them. It's easier to work with then fighting with columns, and I think that it's just as neat on the page. It's easier - can't say that enough - and with being a busy chick, I like easy and fast. The text box was definitely faster then reworking the columns tool. So much more enjoyable.

May 16, 2011

      Clickers are totally awesome. I thought that it was going to be so hard to do, but it's easy with the software. You need to download TurningPoint and work through that, but it's so worth it. The presentations look great, and it's so much fun to play around with when you're learning to use it. There are a plethora of grafts that you can choose, and it's just as easy as using PowerPoint.

      I've seen these used throughout my career at Otterbien, and I always thought they were so neat. I think that it would be great to use in a high school classroom, and I'm kind of sad that my high school never used them. We actually didn't have them when I was there as far as I knew. (We were a po-dunk little school in the middle of a corn field. I would get pretty distracted come harvest time, I tell you!)

       But really -- the clickers are so easy to use and make. And I think that it really will help kids feel more confident and comfortable - especially in the first few weeks when they don't really know everyone very well -- because the answers can be submitted without giving names. I know when I'm not sure of a question, I don't want to be wrong in front of people I don't really know very well. It's comforting, I think. And I will campaign to get them at whatever school I work at in the future if we don't already have them.

5-20-11

     SmartBoards. I've seen them, but I've never used them. They're neat, but they're intimidating if you don't know how to use it. Surprisingly, it's not so hard. It's just like doing a PowerPoint, and we all know how to do that. It really is that easy.

       I'm going to go off in a completely different direction for a second. My middle niece and nephew attend the same Catholic school that I did when I was there age. Then, when I attended, we had nothing but chalk, a board, and a projector that some grades/classrooms had to share. There was a TV in the room - amazing! - but that was about it. We didn't even have AC, so we were pretty stinky when spring rolled around and we had to wear our stiff uniforms.

      Anyway, I went back to sub-tutor a few months ago, and, lo and behold, there were SmartBoards in every single classroom. (Hey, with the amount of tuition momma and daddy paid, we should have had them, too -- or something like that back then!) I've had some experience with the boards, but not enough to have felt comfortable using them to teach a lesson on - some experience means seeing them, touching them, but never using them before. My nephew, whom I taught that day, couldn't stop laughing to himself at my stand-offishness. He teased me all the way home -- good naturedly, of course, but teased nonetheless.

        I'm just amazed how much a place can change in less then a decade. But now, it needs to buy AC. It's still HOT in there!!

Senior readings:

      There was a really interesting Senior reading that I went to the other day. Justin gave one on social media. Wow! It was good - funny - but I would have never thought to give one on social media. He talked about the evolution of interaction - how it grew from ear to ear to writing to messaging, and finally, SpaceBook as he called it.

       It's a little creepy to think of how much of ourselves we put on the web nowadays. There's a ton of info out there - and I myself am guilty of adding my match to the fire. I have a FaceBook -- there's a link to it on this very blog... and vice versa. We basically vomit our personal feelings and thoughts onto the web without much thought as to who reads it and what they may or may not do with the information. When you stop and think about it, it's a scary thought. (And I'll let you in on a secret: I didn't have a FaceBook until I was a Sophomore in college.) We put things about ourselves on site like that, and we don't think about how it will effect our futures. People Google us now - and that's another creepy thought that I don't even want to think about right now.

        That's why, I guess, I'm always pushing on my older nieces and nephews that they should never give out any personal information on sites that will help people find them or track them down. They shouldn't give out phone numbers on FaceBook or addresses, for that matter. They should never meet anyone they find on the web without an adult there... or just period.

         I have this irrational fear of Big Brother -- have ever since I read *1984*. That book is the only book that's ever given me nightmares. **shudder** Anyway, knowing that I'm spitting info about myself out left and right - and yes, even now - makes it so much easier for Big Brother to track me... it scares me. (But that doesn't mean I'll quit using it, because I'm 68% sure that Big Brother doesn't exist... I think... I hope...) But it's important to be safe. Safety is the biggest concern for parents, guardians, and teachers today with the ability kids have to make themselves to open to the world.

        So, be safe.

Computer role model:



Momma and Daddy a few years ago.



        My father is great with computers. He fixes them - tinkers with them. We didn't get a computer in the house until I was in probably sixth grade... I think. Anyway, he was like a duck to water with that thing.



Daddy... back in the 70s... he had hair.



        Daddy is older then most parents - he's in his 60s. So, that means that he was younger when Nam was happening, and he was, in fact, drafted into the war. He never saw action - his father had passed away, and he was the main income for the family. But he was drafted into the radio faction back in the 1960s. Before that, he went to college for engineering. So he was always building things back then. If I remember the story correctly, one of his professors worked on building the first computer, and he always reminds me when I have my laptop or e-reader that the first computers were the size of our classroom or living room. They had to have clean suits because a speck of dust would break the computer. I can't help but think of those old tape recorders with the big reels, and I always picture it in black and white for some strange reason. Don't ask me why, because I don't really know. It's funny.

         Anyway, as much as it annoys me sometimes, hearing the same story over and over again - or the fact that he performs "surgery" on the computers and calls himself "The Brain", the man still taught himself a lot of what he knows. Plus, on the bright side, I have my own computer tech in my home!



UPDATE: This picutre is from 1970. That means the other was from the 80s then, I think!

White Noise and Ghost Hunting Tech!

      Ghost Adventures rocks - they're so dramatic. It's almost worst then a Soap Opera. Almost. I laugh. But the technology they use isn't a joke. There are so many stories that are in circulation right now that deal with EVPs and White Noise. There are some other EVPs on the blog that I talked about before - I love ghosts and the paranormal - and they're so easy to try to catch... or make.

       All you need is a digital recorder. Set it to record and start asking away. It's so easy. If you really want to freak someone out, have a friend whisper answers in the back. And I bring this up again because it's something fun to do in the classroom. Pick a historical figure. Do a ghost hunt. Create an EVP -- or catch one, if you're lucky. It can be done in any class, and it will make the class so much more interesting. I would have loved to have contacted a dead mathematician instead of learning logX. I would still get how to do the theory, but it would have been so much more cool if we had done it that way. It works in English, Science, Math, History, Music, Art, Gym - anything! And all you need is a digital recorder. How cool. How cheep. It totally rocks.