Cinnamon Girl

“Tell me about your first time?”

She looked away with sad brown eyes and examined at the door of the small office. It was locked. Her look steeled and she spoke with measured defiance.

“You can’t repeat what I to say to anyone, correct?”

He rubbed his salt and pepper beard with his left hand. With his right, he wrote, “showing off, listen cautiously” in the black leather journal laying across his Haggar slacked lap.

“Unless I think you are going to commit a crime, then no, I can not repeat your words.”

The 25-year-old memory felt fresh and vibrant. She was perversely proud. She shook her medium length brown hair and smiled into his scared blue eyes.

“My father and grandfather were brilliant chemists. “

He wrote “hero-worship, disturbed by memories of family” in the journal, then averted his eyes from hers. 

“My grandfather had Alzheimer’s disease. Five generations of people committed to cures and health enhancers, yet an insidious sickness killed a great man.”

He fidgeted in his black office chair, which caused his journal to drop. He sighed relief when it hit the floor face down. She couldn’t read his disdain and fear.

“Forgive my clumsiness.”

She stood suddenly, with intentionally bold posture. She adjusted her eggshell colored blouse and walked to the window. A ray of sunshine came through, revealing her alabaster complexion.

“I would sit with my grandfather on weekends, watching Atlanta Braves baseball games on tv. We’d drink hot chocolate, covered with light film of cinnamon that I made. He called me his cinnamon girl. I loved that. One day I showed up at the nursing home and instead of cinnamon girl he called me “nurse”.

He moved up in his chair.

“What happened next?”

She turned from the window and saw the small man cower.

“I told my father that granddad was different. My father kissed me goodnight and left his cabinet keys at the foot of my bed. I waited until my parents were asleep. I went downstairs and found the potassium cyanide. I took the necessary amount. The next weekend, I went to see my grandfather. The Braves were playing the Dodgers. He called me nurse again. I went to the pantry, made our hot chocolate, mixed his appropriately and watched him go to sleep forever. That was my first time.”

****blogger’s note****

This is some short fiction based on the conversation prompt by Write On Edge, this Friday. On Tuesday, I challenged you to write a conversation.

 Using surroundings, body language, visual cues and blocking, in addition to the spoken words, show us who they are and what their relationship is without coming out and telling us! All that, in 300 words or less.

This piece is based on something I wrote last week called Murder By Numbers, http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/11/02/murderbynumbers/ You figure out who is talking to whom.

Today’s song is from the great Neil Young and Crazy Horse. I like the use of this tune with this character. It’s different to say the least. Here’s Cinnamon Girl.

The Joker and The Thief

It’s a slow morning at work. The last thing someone as weird and anxious as me needs, is plenty of time and idle hands. I purposely get into work an hour earlier than everyone. The reasons for this is; time to read, time to write, and time to think.

I often call myself a robot or a robot-human hybrid. This is part truth because I think I’m wired much differently than most of you. It’s part fiction, because I choose something sarcastically symbolic as cybernetics to highlight my oddness despite the fact I have parents, birth certificate, blood, and guts. I am unlike my wife, kids, friends, parents, and coworkers. Very much so.

The clock read 8 o’clock a.m. and while waiting for phone calls to be returned and emails to be answered, I looked down at my notebook and saw me changing the lyrics to Bob Dylan’s All Along The Watchtower,  to “make them better”. Really, dude? It’s Uncle Bob. He is “better”. The man took some phrases from The Book of Isaiah, poeticized them, and wrote an allegory about the evils of the music business juxapositioned against the freedom art provides. For a moment in time I thought I could make Bob’s words clearer.

I want to know the identities of the joker and thief. Many people think it’s Jesus and the thief across from him on the cross. Others insist it’s Dylan and Elvis (who was accused of stealing his act from black musicians). I want the joker to be the people who “get it” and the thief to be people “who don’t get it”. I want the song to be a battle cry for people who think like I do against people who don’t me and the few of my kind.

I’m reading about the Penn State situation and not grasping why everyone involved isn;t fired or imprisoned. We had a referendum on Sunday alcohol sales that 20 voting places including my county, Gwinnett in suburban Atlanta, Georgia, passed. I’m shaking my head at why where I live could be so backward at not providing the choice to voters before now. I look at the Billboard 100 music charts and think to myself, “is everyone stupid?”

My friend Tara wrote something today taht you all should read several times over: http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/stay-real/ It’s really well done and I don’t want to spoil the reading goodness, but what Tara and in a different, I’m saying, is thank you Al Gore for the internets. Instead of a rubber room with crayons, juice boxes, and plastic untensils, I get to blog in central heat and air with an occasional burrito to almost 100 people a day who are as crazy as I am. *waving*

“There must be some way out of here” said the joker to the thief
“There’s too much confusion”, I can’t get no relief.

That’s perfect, no need to deal with it any more, robot boy. It’s definitely a 2 pill day for me, today.

Today’s song is obvious. I want you to pay attention to the words so Jimi Hendrix’s version will wait for another day. Here’s the greatest songwriter of all time, Bob Dylan, with All Along The Watchtower.

 

I’m An Adult Now

The most famous blogger is a mom. She makes six figures a year dispensing advice, stories, and what some call wit to a million plus people a day. She does nothing for me as a reader. I find her contradictory, thin-skinned, self aggrandizing, and kind of  mean. I think the conclusion is women control sex, money, Hollywood, and the internet. Men still have the NFL and comic books, but the more pink uniforms and action chicks there are, will render us completely submissive by the year , oh, 20 something, let’s call it tomorrow.

My life is so female oriented, I’m like a cabana boy on the Amazon Island Wonder Woman grew up on. If you include the neighbor girl across the street we take to school, my postal carrier, and the the old woman who sits next to me in my office, I have 14 women that interact with me daily. I know more about nail polish than Chuck Berry (Maybelline…his famous rock song…I disgress).

My blogging instinct tells me there’s wisdom to dispense. Heck, there’s money to be made if that woman in Utah who goes by the name of something that rhymes with Looce, I should cash in. But here’s where I’m different and why you should read me.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING….EVER

My 3 daughters, 15, 8, and 7 aka Tay, Bug and Goose are well behaved, respectful, funny, interesting, smart, and of course, drop dead gorgeous. The thing is, I don’t have a parenting style. One day I’m irritated and angry and blustery. The next I’m sweet, caring, and approachable. My kids and I talk a lot. At first, things don’t go well.

“How was your day at school”

“Good” “Good “Good”

Then I start asking questions, cracking jokes, letting them listen to their favorite songs on the radio, and telling them how beautiful they are. Suddenly, they open up. Tay tells me about her math class struggles and the rigors of high school Cheerleading. Bug talks about the boys pulling her long curly brown hair on the school bus. Goose drops news of her new BFF at school and how she had gross pizza for lunch.

I grew up with a healthy respect and fear of my parents. They didn’t always small talk me or goof with me but they provided and made sure I didn’t break limbs or get my head cut off playing outside. Things are different ay my house. My girls don’t respond to gruffness or lack of patience. “Because I said so” doesn’t work. They want to know what we’re doing, why we’re doing it, and how quickly results will be obtained. I never have the right answers. When I think they don’t “get it” and I’m at my wits end, they become loving and understanding. I learn as much from them as they do from me.

My worst days as a parent are always my most profound. No one really scores knowledge from success. When failure happens, that when you get your head out of your arse. A few days, I had a terrible day as a dad. The kids weren’t the best that day. I was tired and I ate too much birthday cake. Yet, it’s my gig to hold it all together and be strong when my girls (and wife) don’t want to be or just can’t. I lost my cool, I overreacted. The lesson was I should always look at the positive of what my kids provide. They love unconditionally. They’re remarkable in their retention and resillience. We’re a blended family. That means there have been multiple divorces, several moves, and a lot of sadness for mom and dad. Yet, they don’t show any outward signs of mental anguish.

I might respect more or at least not poke as much fun at mommy and daddybloggers if they would drop judgement of us more liberal parents. Breastfeeding, slings, organic foods, Baby Einstein videos, and overprotection don’t mean very much next to constant support and relaxation with the likelihood that your kids will fall down, get up, and shake themselves off. With their hands dirty and no purell. Germs mean character. Go tell the mommybloggers I wrote that…go ahead.

I’ll leave work pick up up my kids from school, go home and everyone will hug and kiss me and we’ll all have in depth conversations about our days. Then I’ll wake up from my dream and prepare myself for some sister arguing, my wife wanting me to go to the grocery store, and a list of at least 7 things I didn’t do right today. The fact that I know it’s 7 means I’m ahead of the game. I do know that my teenager is cheering through a sprained ankle, my middle child is wearing a Superman t-shirt to school and my youngest finished her school project a day early.

Don’t take my advice. Do me a favor and don’t take anyone else’s. Love and instinct will shine the light for you as a parent. If you live with more than one female, look into religion, alcohol, and ibuprofen. Also get a  gym membership. You can hide there for an hour at a time.

Today’s song is something I’ve wanted to use for months. I played the heck out of it when I was a DJ in college. At the time, I never thought I’d be a parent or grown up. Here’s Candian rock band The Pursuit of Happiness with I’m An Adult Now. It’s sarcastic, sardonic, and smirky. Just like this post.

41

Forty one years ago, a 19 year old girl and her 21 year old high school sweetheart husband walked into Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. She was scared, hurting, and sick of being pregnant because she was two weeks past her due date. Several hours later, an 8lb 8oz boy was born. She picked the first name, Thomas, after her father, and her husband picked the middle name Lance, after his favorite football player at the time, Lance Alworth. They put bottles of anxiety pills, several notebooks, a box of sharpened number 2 pencils, and a laptop in the bassinet and walked away.

The last sentence of that story is untrue. The rest happened. So like Joe Perry of Aerosmith, former major league pitcher Randy Johnson, Cameron aka @MoveOverMaryP’s husband, and the late Roger Maris, today is my birthday, September 10th.I don’t take my birthday as seriously as others. Last year I turned 40 and had a mid life crises for about 3 weeks, and got over it. Now, it’s just a day two days before my youngest daughter’s birthday. She’s 7 on the 12th.  I do believe everyone should at least be treated with kindness on their special day. Maybe give them a break, let them eat what they want, watch their favorite television shows and allow them control of the car radio. Last week, because we have plans for my little Carly aka The Goose today for her birthday, my wife and I “celebrated” mine. We ate chicken marsala, drank til we were silly, and had fun. I am in love with my wife, she knows how to make me happy. Since today is techinically mine, and of course Cameron’s husband’s, I’m going to write what I want. Helene, the robot human hybrids, The Lightning and The Mightning Bug and 100 words can take the day off. Here’s what I want you to know.

1) I have to write. It means more to me than you can imagine. My wife and children are the only things greater than my writing. I think I’m good at it. I know this flys in the face of what others’ believe, but I do it well. One day, there will be a book published with my name on the cover and inside will be a page where I list my wife, kids and all of you who read my crap. Twelve people will buy it, I’ll give you all copies to use as paperweights and doorstops, and my life will be complete.

2) I’m a crazy stupid New York Jets fan. I follow other sports and other teams but inexplicably I am so into that NFL football team, it’s pathetic. I used to be that way about the Atlanta Braves but they broke my heart too many times. My alma mater is the University of Alabama but they have so many championships, I feel like I should apologize when they win. I love the Jets.

3) I am struggling with my Christianity. I want to talk about it, but I don’t know how. I’m not going to church right now. I think it’s because I’m too angry at where I used to go. I read my Bible every other day. I pray a lot. I try to be good person but somedays it’s too hard. My life has been a textbook on sin and redemption. I believe Jesus died for me and least I can do is get over myself and try to live by his teachings. Like I said, it’s hard.

4) I think my second best friend, after my wife, is twitter. I really dig it. It’s perfect for my sense of humor. It’s the right place for my lack of patience and attention span. I speak in 140 characters. I rarely LOL, and I don’t use smileys. I kinda sorta have a problem.

5) I have been beating myself up over my blog. Again, I love to write. I write every day. Ninety percent of what I pencil on paper never makes it to My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. The blog title is ironic, I hope you all have figured that out. Sometimes I post something to see if you all are paying attention and it will get 20 some odd comments. Other times I will take a knife, gut myself and bleed onto the screen and get a handful of remarks. Now you know why I take pills. My blog can beat up some blogs, because you know, there’s some awfulness out there. Mostly my blog beats me up. I appreciate each and every one of you who read and comment.

This is a video of my kids saying Happy Birthday.

We had red velvet cake, my favorite, for my 8 year old daughter’s birthday two weeks ago. Rumor has it The Goose requested oreo ice cream cake for her birthday party this weekend. That sounds straight awesome. We’re taking The Goose and Bug, the 8 year old girl, to the flea market with their birthday money. I can’t wait to see the unnecessary crap they purchase. Wish me luck talking Bug into buying me a CD.

Today’s song is what I want to play. It’s not thematic. It’s not overtly meaningful or metaphorical. It’s just my favorite song at this moment. Here’s The Arctic Monkeys’ Don’t Sit Down Because I Moved Your Chair…it’s ironic too….play it really loud…Happy Birthday to me