It's funny how when you have a date for something unsavory, like a root canal, or colonscopy, it seems like a dot in the distance. Plenty of time until you have to face the music. Then before you know it, it's the day before the dreaded date. And then you wake up the morning OF the dreaded date and your first thought is, "F#%K, it's here!" That's how I felt on Dec. 20, 2013 when I opened my eyes to laser bright sunshine streaming in my window. I had until 4 p.m. to get the last details taken care of before the van was to arrive at my driveway. Quite honestly, I don't even remember what I did in the hours that preceded my departure from NY state, but I had everything ready to go when I heard the air brakes from the van blowing at precisely 4 p.m. There was no turning back.
Aside from the two drivers, one of my customers and her husband, plus an extra helper in the form of a strong young man all began to drag, carry, or wheel the paraphernalia that I'd gathered in the barn aisle to take to SC. The driveway had turned to dirty, mucky slush which made this process ten times harder, but soon the equipment was packed into the peak of the van and the three horses were loaded. We made a couple of changes for where the (OH MY GOD) cats and dogs were going to travel. I was under control up until this point, but I could feel utter panic pushing to be released from my chest with each thudding heartbeat. It was time to take all of my poor, unsuspecting animals and stuff them in crates and force them to ride 14 hours in a cold, dark peak of a horse van. I really thought I might throw up. When I got into the house, I couldn't help but notice (read: torture myself) how cozy all the kitties looked as they were sleeping in various spots. Choking back tears, I gathered them and one by one put them in their traveling compartments. It was time to do the unthinkable, and I had to just man up and do it.
The wide eyed animals were nestled in the van, crate by crate, like Noah's ark, as I forced myself to close the door. I was running on hyper fast nervous energy as I thanked and said goodbye to my customer and her husband. I could feel more tears pressing to shoot out of my eyes when we hugged, tears that if allowed to flow would be difficult to stop. I didn't want to freak out the van drivers since they were stuck with me in the cab, so I brusquely cut the hugs short and climbed up into the passenger seat. It was sad to be leaving our life in NY, but after all of the hell I'd been through over the previous weeks I was relieved to finally be shambling down the road toward our new adventures in SC.
As for the cats and dogs? They traveled like pro's. I doled out treats to them at each stop, poking my fingers in the cages to give each a quick scratch. They were actually in better shape than me. The van drivers were amused at my initial angst over the pets, but that worry soon gave way to full on exhaustion. I even managed to sleep for a few hours in the bouncy, noisy sleeper cab by jamming a pillow over my ears. At 8 a.m. the following day we pulled into the driveway of the barn where I'd arranged to keep the horses until our own stable was built. Jonathan was already there and boy, was he was a sight for my bloodshot eyes. The first official leg of getting down here was behind me. Welcome to South Carolina!
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Me vs. THE MOVE
I feel like Rip Van Winkle of the blogging world. It's been a little over four months since I checked in at my blog. Ordinarily, I'd be sorely ashamed for not writing for such a long stint. However, I have legitimate reasons this time. I've been busy with a capital B.
Jonathan and I moved to SC in December in possibly the most chaotic, disorganized, maniacal fashion that two people can move their household, two dogs, four cats and three horses. At least, that's how it seemed to me. Three weeks before our moving date, Jonathan's Dad became seriously ill out of the blue. Totally unexpected, worrisome, scary time for all of us in the Edel family. Jonathan and his brother had to leave suddenly to go help their mother cope with what was looking to be a very grave moment (honestly, no pun intended). Now I don't want to sound mercenary, because I was truly over the top worried about John Edel, but with no warning I was left to deal with "THE MOVE" all by myself. While I should've been packing, like a mature adult, I spent a lot of time on FB, which is the equivalent to covering ones ears while yelling "la la la la la la". When you really need to get shit done, going on FB is the ultimate flip of the bird toward productivity. My other "avoid packing" activity was to call my friends. My poor, poor friends, who had to listen to me whining, sniffling, occasionally sobbing, hysterical ranting, you name it. I'm surprised they even answered my calls. I wouldn't have answered my calls, I'll tell you that. I got out of hand on a daily basis. Meanwhile, Jonathan's Dad was on a roller coaster of going uphill, going downhill, leading to a feeling of dread every time Jonathan called me to check in. On top of my own psychosis (you can't make this shit up), the weather was just fucking ridiculous. It was freezing cold and it seemed to snow a significant amount at least every other day. Each night during this time alone, I would curl up in the fetal position on the couch, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes that were mocking me with their lack of contents. The one night that I decided I really needed to pack at least a little bit I ended up breaking a bronze horse statue by trying to force it into a box. I loved this statue and as I held it in two pieces, while screaming at the top of my lungs, my remaining shards of sanity knifed through my chest to make their escape. I wasn't coping well and I knew it, but I felt powerless. It was me vs. THE MOVE. And THE MOVE was totally winning.
There were so many facets to THE MOVE that weren't coming together. Logistically, nothing was actually planned except the date that the horses were being shipped. I had no idea how our car was going to make it. We hadn't actually picked a moving company, nor did we know if we were going to use a pod, or rent a truck. My anxiety level over shipping the cats in the horse van was escalating to mach one mode. It sounded so horrible to me that I couldn't think about it, yet I couldn't not think about it. Yeah, I know. That's a special kind of crazy cat lady. Jonathan was patient for a very long time, but after a week of phone calls with me being a psycho he called me out on it. It was fair. He was coping with his freaking out Mom and very sick Dad. I didn't have a leg to stand on in the sympathy department. Nor did I ask for it. I knew I was shrinking from being in charge of THE MOVE. It was time for the helpless jig to be over. So...I took deep breaths and made lists. It was a step in the right direction. Not a leap, or a bound, but a teensy step.
The day before the horses were leaving was spent flying around town trying to organize all of the things I needed for me, cats, dogs and horses to make the drive as comfortable as possible. I had lists of lists. I was wild eyed, disheveled, as fragile as fine china still, but I was getting shit done. Out of nowhere, our neighbor called me. He was an old running friend of Jonathan's dad, who by sheer coincidence lived just down the road, and he'd heard that John was seriously ill.
"What can I do to help you, Michele?" he asked me in a gentle voice, after I explained what was going on with John's health.
"Nothing at all. Really, I just have to get down there with these animals. And then figure out how my car is going to make it."
"There. That's what I can do. I'll drive your car," he replied.
"No, you don't have to do that!" I said. "It's too much, it's so far!"
"I like driving. It's settled. I'm driving your car."
And with those nine words, one of my worries evaporated with a virtual poof right before my eyes. Those nine words from John's friend gave me hope that maybe THE MOVE was possible. Maybe things would come together? It couldn't have come at a better time, because the most intense part of the move for me was coming on the very next day.
To be continued...
Jonathan and I moved to SC in December in possibly the most chaotic, disorganized, maniacal fashion that two people can move their household, two dogs, four cats and three horses. At least, that's how it seemed to me. Three weeks before our moving date, Jonathan's Dad became seriously ill out of the blue. Totally unexpected, worrisome, scary time for all of us in the Edel family. Jonathan and his brother had to leave suddenly to go help their mother cope with what was looking to be a very grave moment (honestly, no pun intended). Now I don't want to sound mercenary, because I was truly over the top worried about John Edel, but with no warning I was left to deal with "THE MOVE" all by myself. While I should've been packing, like a mature adult, I spent a lot of time on FB, which is the equivalent to covering ones ears while yelling "la la la la la la". When you really need to get shit done, going on FB is the ultimate flip of the bird toward productivity. My other "avoid packing" activity was to call my friends. My poor, poor friends, who had to listen to me whining, sniffling, occasionally sobbing, hysterical ranting, you name it. I'm surprised they even answered my calls. I wouldn't have answered my calls, I'll tell you that. I got out of hand on a daily basis. Meanwhile, Jonathan's Dad was on a roller coaster of going uphill, going downhill, leading to a feeling of dread every time Jonathan called me to check in. On top of my own psychosis (you can't make this shit up), the weather was just fucking ridiculous. It was freezing cold and it seemed to snow a significant amount at least every other day. Each night during this time alone, I would curl up in the fetal position on the couch, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes that were mocking me with their lack of contents. The one night that I decided I really needed to pack at least a little bit I ended up breaking a bronze horse statue by trying to force it into a box. I loved this statue and as I held it in two pieces, while screaming at the top of my lungs, my remaining shards of sanity knifed through my chest to make their escape. I wasn't coping well and I knew it, but I felt powerless. It was me vs. THE MOVE. And THE MOVE was totally winning.
There were so many facets to THE MOVE that weren't coming together. Logistically, nothing was actually planned except the date that the horses were being shipped. I had no idea how our car was going to make it. We hadn't actually picked a moving company, nor did we know if we were going to use a pod, or rent a truck. My anxiety level over shipping the cats in the horse van was escalating to mach one mode. It sounded so horrible to me that I couldn't think about it, yet I couldn't not think about it. Yeah, I know. That's a special kind of crazy cat lady. Jonathan was patient for a very long time, but after a week of phone calls with me being a psycho he called me out on it. It was fair. He was coping with his freaking out Mom and very sick Dad. I didn't have a leg to stand on in the sympathy department. Nor did I ask for it. I knew I was shrinking from being in charge of THE MOVE. It was time for the helpless jig to be over. So...I took deep breaths and made lists. It was a step in the right direction. Not a leap, or a bound, but a teensy step.
The day before the horses were leaving was spent flying around town trying to organize all of the things I needed for me, cats, dogs and horses to make the drive as comfortable as possible. I had lists of lists. I was wild eyed, disheveled, as fragile as fine china still, but I was getting shit done. Out of nowhere, our neighbor called me. He was an old running friend of Jonathan's dad, who by sheer coincidence lived just down the road, and he'd heard that John was seriously ill.
"What can I do to help you, Michele?" he asked me in a gentle voice, after I explained what was going on with John's health.
"Nothing at all. Really, I just have to get down there with these animals. And then figure out how my car is going to make it."
"There. That's what I can do. I'll drive your car," he replied.
"No, you don't have to do that!" I said. "It's too much, it's so far!"
"I like driving. It's settled. I'm driving your car."
And with those nine words, one of my worries evaporated with a virtual poof right before my eyes. Those nine words from John's friend gave me hope that maybe THE MOVE was possible. Maybe things would come together? It couldn't have come at a better time, because the most intense part of the move for me was coming on the very next day.
To be continued...
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
In my mind I'm going to Carolina...
The above picture is the living room in our new house. It's an oldie, circa 1907 with four fireplaces, built in cabinets, nice wood floors and high ceilings. Those are the positive points. The negatives add up to a lot of time and money in renovation costs, but we'll do all slowly, one piece at a time. See that odd blue/green color in the background? That would be the kitchen. The entire room (cabinets, too!) is painted that wretched, puke inducing color. The guest room is the same hue, also. It makes you feel like you're in a crack house. Must've been a sale going on when the old owner went to buy paint. The land that goes with the house adds up to a little over 7 acres and it will eventually be our home base for JEM Stables. At the moment it resembles a small wildlife preserve, but it's flat and with strategic clearing we'll have a nice spot for a stable, ring and paddocks.
There is one small wrench being thrown into the works for our actual move. The weather. It isn't cooperating. At all. Yesterday we had an ice storm, which rendered the entire farm a skating rink. The driveway literally could've been skated on, no joke. Today's treat is a snow storm, on top of all the ice. It's been snowing since I got up and it's still going at almost 1:30 p.m. Now, the reason why this winter weather is a bit of a challenge is that our house is up on a little hill from the driveway. Carrying furniture isn't fun on flat, safe, dry ground, so try adding some ice and snow on a downhill slope and see how you feel about that. Yeah, I thought so. This is going to f*&%ing suck. There is just no other way to put it. I've been joking all along about how it's going to snow before we leave, ha ha ha, won't that be a drag, etc., in hopes that by saying that it wouldn't happen.
When you tell people that you're moving you generally get two types of reactions. The first is that of pity. If you've ever moved, wether it was 10 miles, or 1000 you know that it's a gigantic pain in the ass. On many, many levels. So the pity people put a hand on your shoulder and give you the pursed lip look that says, "I'm so glad it's you and not me. Hang in there." The second reaction is the overly positive, "You're going to get through this and be so happy in your new place!!", complete with pom pom's and a split. If we were mega wealthy and could afford to hire movers this would all be so much easier. But alas, we're saving our money by doing this on our own. And I swear this is the last time I'm moving.
So y'all (hello, practicing!) probably won't hear from me for a bit. For the next two weeks I'll be walking in circles and wringing my hands, while muttering about all the loose ends I have to tie up. When I return to the surface of life I'll try my hardest not to be one of those people who moves to a warm climate and proceeds to continually gloat about how nice the weather is while everyone back home is buried in six feet of snow. I might have to do it once, or twice, but then I'll hold myself back. Promise. Happy Holidays and I'll be back with a new blog name in January. I'm thinking "Adventures in Aiken", but I'm open to suggestions from the six people who will actually read this.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Meant to be
The other day I had to drive out to Clinton Corners, NY to the Agway to buy a special type of horse grain that's only available at a couple of places near our farm. Jonathan was away so I had a limited amount of time to get the grain and drive home to do more horsey day care activities. I had brought the dogs with me, because they LOVE going on rides in the car. Doesn't matter if it's hours in the car, or just a quick run to get coffee. They want to be with us all the time. Australian Shepherds are loyal to a fault and by and large, great dogs.
I was finishing paying for the bag of grain when a paunchy, disheveled balding man sauntered in and said, "Hello!!" in a booming sing song voice. The cashier looked up and gave him a nod and a wan smile. He proceeded to ask her where the cat food was located and he bounced off through the store to find a big bag of Meow Mix.
"Are those your lovely dogs in the black car out there?" he asked me in a lilting accent, which I took to be British as he stood next to me at the check out.
"Yup," I replied. "They're my steady companions."
"What breed are they?"
"Australian Shepherds," I said. "A black tri and a blue merle"
"Ohhhh," he said. "I love Aussies! I have to get my phone and show you a picture of my Aussie, Dozer. He was a beauty!"
He shambled off to his car, and I looked at the cashier, with my eyebrows raised. She told me he's a talker and bid me good luck as I left the store to give the grain guy my ticket for the bag of grain. Great. I was in a hurry and I really needed to get back to the farm. And I had a talker waiting for me. Sweet, I thought, only me.
I went out to my car and waited as the man came over from his car, while excitedly thumbing through photos on his phone.
"Hold on," he said. "I can't find the picture."
I waited patiently and studied him quietly as we stood side by side. Clad in baggy, navy athletic shorts, he was an middle aged man, thick in the middle, with two day razor stubble, and he seemed like the type of a man who had let himself go a bit. He asked if he could pat my dogs, who were straining at the open windows. My one dog, Becks is over the top friendly. He was more than happy to have a stranger reach through the window and give him pats and love. Within seconds, Becks was licking the man's face and giving him all of the love that a dog can give. I sighed, because I know Becks and his immense need for love from all people, but this guy was in heaven. I could tell. Remy, our blue merle, in his gentle way was looking into the man's eyes and reciprocating love while the man scratched his ears. As he patted my dogs, the man proceeded to tell me all about his divorce, the fact that he had to give his dogs away, he'd had recent trip to South Africa to get his head straight (he's South African, not British turns out) and tells me that his wife had just left him for another man. It was a heart wrenching story. Suddenly, my impending need to move on went away and I let his guy pat Becks and Remy to his hearts content. I didn't care that I needed to get home. This man was hurting in ways that I couldn't relate to personally, but it was palpable. The man needed to touch the dogs and they were giving him therapy that no human therapist could provide. This went on for quite a while and eventually, the man found the picture he was looking for on his phone and I saw his Aussie dog, Dozer. He was a beautiful dog. Gorgeous blue merle Aussie and I saw tears in the man's eyes as he showed me the photo.
"I hated to give him up," he said. "Hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I'm not in a place to have dogs now."
"He's lovely," I said. "I'm so sorry that you've had a rough patch, but I think you've done the right thing. I bet he's happy where he is right now. "
What more could I say? I don't know. He gave my dogs parting kisses and told me that visiting with them was the best thing that's happened to him in a long time. We parted company and I got into my car and drove away, wondering if I was meant to show up at this particular feed store just to see this lovely man, who was in a bad way and needed to love some Aussies to help him through a tough day and share his story with a perfect stranger. Funny enough, we never exchanged names. It was an anonymous meeting of two people at a feed store in Clinton Corners, NY. Yet, it felt like it was meant to be.
I was finishing paying for the bag of grain when a paunchy, disheveled balding man sauntered in and said, "Hello!!" in a booming sing song voice. The cashier looked up and gave him a nod and a wan smile. He proceeded to ask her where the cat food was located and he bounced off through the store to find a big bag of Meow Mix.
"Are those your lovely dogs in the black car out there?" he asked me in a lilting accent, which I took to be British as he stood next to me at the check out.
"Yup," I replied. "They're my steady companions."
"What breed are they?"
"Australian Shepherds," I said. "A black tri and a blue merle"
"Ohhhh," he said. "I love Aussies! I have to get my phone and show you a picture of my Aussie, Dozer. He was a beauty!"
He shambled off to his car, and I looked at the cashier, with my eyebrows raised. She told me he's a talker and bid me good luck as I left the store to give the grain guy my ticket for the bag of grain. Great. I was in a hurry and I really needed to get back to the farm. And I had a talker waiting for me. Sweet, I thought, only me.
I went out to my car and waited as the man came over from his car, while excitedly thumbing through photos on his phone.
"Hold on," he said. "I can't find the picture."
I waited patiently and studied him quietly as we stood side by side. Clad in baggy, navy athletic shorts, he was an middle aged man, thick in the middle, with two day razor stubble, and he seemed like the type of a man who had let himself go a bit. He asked if he could pat my dogs, who were straining at the open windows. My one dog, Becks is over the top friendly. He was more than happy to have a stranger reach through the window and give him pats and love. Within seconds, Becks was licking the man's face and giving him all of the love that a dog can give. I sighed, because I know Becks and his immense need for love from all people, but this guy was in heaven. I could tell. Remy, our blue merle, in his gentle way was looking into the man's eyes and reciprocating love while the man scratched his ears. As he patted my dogs, the man proceeded to tell me all about his divorce, the fact that he had to give his dogs away, he'd had recent trip to South Africa to get his head straight (he's South African, not British turns out) and tells me that his wife had just left him for another man. It was a heart wrenching story. Suddenly, my impending need to move on went away and I let his guy pat Becks and Remy to his hearts content. I didn't care that I needed to get home. This man was hurting in ways that I couldn't relate to personally, but it was palpable. The man needed to touch the dogs and they were giving him therapy that no human therapist could provide. This went on for quite a while and eventually, the man found the picture he was looking for on his phone and I saw his Aussie dog, Dozer. He was a beautiful dog. Gorgeous blue merle Aussie and I saw tears in the man's eyes as he showed me the photo.
"I hated to give him up," he said. "Hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I'm not in a place to have dogs now."
"He's lovely," I said. "I'm so sorry that you've had a rough patch, but I think you've done the right thing. I bet he's happy where he is right now. "
What more could I say? I don't know. He gave my dogs parting kisses and told me that visiting with them was the best thing that's happened to him in a long time. We parted company and I got into my car and drove away, wondering if I was meant to show up at this particular feed store just to see this lovely man, who was in a bad way and needed to love some Aussies to help him through a tough day and share his story with a perfect stranger. Funny enough, we never exchanged names. It was an anonymous meeting of two people at a feed store in Clinton Corners, NY. Yet, it felt like it was meant to be.
Monday, September 2, 2013
A Birthday Tale
Last Thursday was my birthday and my aunt suggested that I write a blog about a birthday from the past that I hated. My childhood birthday's were all very lovely, with parties, cake, presents, friends and family. None of them qualified as a hated birthday. During my 20's and early 30's, my mother-in-law took it upon herself to give me a birthday party every year when they lived in Connecticut. I would feel like a boob teetering over a fancy cake lit with candles, while the drunken party goers cheered. I loathed opening the presents in front of everyone. It felt like a gross display of greed on my part, though I hadn't asked for any of it. I never could get my MIL to throw the party sans gifts. She felt like it was important for people to bring gifts. Eventually, I learned to make sure I was half crocked at gift opening time so I could get through it all without somehow feeling like a petulant brat, screaming "mine, all MINE!" as I stood in front a pile of brightly colored boxes with extravagant bows and ribbons.
I don't know why it took me so long to figure out the birthday that I hated the most. It's quite obvious to me as I look back. Turning 40 was by far the most traumatic, crappy, bum me out birthday ever. Bar none. My dog Izzy had become very ill early on in the summer before my 40th. I was depressed about her steady decline, despite the numerous medications she'd been put on. I stopped coloring my hair that summer. Soon my natural roots appeared and the silver ribbon along my scalp began to creep down my skull. Faded brunette ends became overtaken by the silver (I prefer calling it silver to grey, it just sounds more exotic and less...old). I had to say goodbye to Izzy on August 1st, 2009. It was a horrible, emotional drain and still "the birthday" loomed in the upcoming weeks. I cried over Izzy on a daily/nightly basis, which didn't help my state of mind. When I looked in the mirror I saw The Bride of Frankenstein hairdo and deepening wrinkles on my face. It made me cringe. And I was still on the cusp of turning 40.
"No party!", I shrieked at Jonathan every day. "No gifts, either! I just want this damn birthday to pass with no acknowledgement."
He would nod and give me a wan smile. And he respected my wishes to a T. My 40th birthday was a non-event, as birthdays go. I can't remember what I did that day, other than most likely cry at some point about Izzy. Jonathan made me a fine dinner, which he does almost every night of my life. He got me a cupcake for dessert, but no candles to blow out, no smartly wrapped gifts, no clever cards. Later that evening, I began to feel even more sorry for myself that I'd turned 40 without an ounce fanfare. It was a milestone that I was sure didn't need to be marked with joyous celebration, but it turned out that no recognition was even worse. And it was all my doing. I'd been so stubborn in my approach to turning 40 that I cheated myself out of the one day of the year when you're entitled to be celebrated for being born. Isn't that funny? We don't make the choice to be born. Our parents do that for us. We should celebrate our lives and our parents for bringing us into the world on our birthday's. Well, it was too late for celebration on that hot August night so I climbed the stairs on leaden legs and went to bed a very sad, newly 40 year old woman.
Total bummer of a story, right? Ha. Turns out that turning 40 was a great thing for me. A week went by after my non-birthday and I decided to call my hairdresser and make an appointment for cut and color. I emerged from the salon with shiny, sleek brunette locks. I felt like me again, not some two tone, silver haired sea hag. I faced the reality that I wasn't going to get carded again, but I didn't really care. In fact, turning 40 took away a lot of stresses in life. I learned that stressing over money is a completely stupid waste of time. I'd spent a lot of my 30's worrying about making ends meet and where had it gotten me? Guess what? The ends always meet, because we make it work, not because I'm up nights wringing my hands. I stopped caring about what other people think of me. I bought a pair of bright purple corduroys that make me laugh when I put them on. I have a Hello Kitty bathrobe. My iPhone case is Barbie pink. It turns out that turning 40 was a liberating moment for me.
This last birthday wasn't filled with exorbitant fanfare. My Mom had come for a visit so we'd gone out to dinner the night before to celebrate, which was really fun. Jonathan and I went to Lowes to purchase a new wheelbarrow, which I jokingly referred to as my "present"and in actuality, I'm totally cool with that. It's a kick ass wheelbarrow. And as a total random act of kindness, a FB friend whom I haven't seen since 8th grade graduation gave me a $5 Starbucks gift card. How bloody cool is that?? I'm so skeptical about getting sent things on FB that I originally thought it was a scam, but it turned out to be real. I redeemed it today and am currently jacked up on a tall latte. Thanks FB friend!!!
So, there's the story of the hated birthday, Aunt Judy. I hope you liked it. Thank you for the writing prompt! Happy Labor Day everyone! (and if one more person tells me it's the end of the summer I'll cut them!!)
I don't know why it took me so long to figure out the birthday that I hated the most. It's quite obvious to me as I look back. Turning 40 was by far the most traumatic, crappy, bum me out birthday ever. Bar none. My dog Izzy had become very ill early on in the summer before my 40th. I was depressed about her steady decline, despite the numerous medications she'd been put on. I stopped coloring my hair that summer. Soon my natural roots appeared and the silver ribbon along my scalp began to creep down my skull. Faded brunette ends became overtaken by the silver (I prefer calling it silver to grey, it just sounds more exotic and less...old). I had to say goodbye to Izzy on August 1st, 2009. It was a horrible, emotional drain and still "the birthday" loomed in the upcoming weeks. I cried over Izzy on a daily/nightly basis, which didn't help my state of mind. When I looked in the mirror I saw The Bride of Frankenstein hairdo and deepening wrinkles on my face. It made me cringe. And I was still on the cusp of turning 40.
"No party!", I shrieked at Jonathan every day. "No gifts, either! I just want this damn birthday to pass with no acknowledgement."
He would nod and give me a wan smile. And he respected my wishes to a T. My 40th birthday was a non-event, as birthdays go. I can't remember what I did that day, other than most likely cry at some point about Izzy. Jonathan made me a fine dinner, which he does almost every night of my life. He got me a cupcake for dessert, but no candles to blow out, no smartly wrapped gifts, no clever cards. Later that evening, I began to feel even more sorry for myself that I'd turned 40 without an ounce fanfare. It was a milestone that I was sure didn't need to be marked with joyous celebration, but it turned out that no recognition was even worse. And it was all my doing. I'd been so stubborn in my approach to turning 40 that I cheated myself out of the one day of the year when you're entitled to be celebrated for being born. Isn't that funny? We don't make the choice to be born. Our parents do that for us. We should celebrate our lives and our parents for bringing us into the world on our birthday's. Well, it was too late for celebration on that hot August night so I climbed the stairs on leaden legs and went to bed a very sad, newly 40 year old woman.
Total bummer of a story, right? Ha. Turns out that turning 40 was a great thing for me. A week went by after my non-birthday and I decided to call my hairdresser and make an appointment for cut and color. I emerged from the salon with shiny, sleek brunette locks. I felt like me again, not some two tone, silver haired sea hag. I faced the reality that I wasn't going to get carded again, but I didn't really care. In fact, turning 40 took away a lot of stresses in life. I learned that stressing over money is a completely stupid waste of time. I'd spent a lot of my 30's worrying about making ends meet and where had it gotten me? Guess what? The ends always meet, because we make it work, not because I'm up nights wringing my hands. I stopped caring about what other people think of me. I bought a pair of bright purple corduroys that make me laugh when I put them on. I have a Hello Kitty bathrobe. My iPhone case is Barbie pink. It turns out that turning 40 was a liberating moment for me.
This last birthday wasn't filled with exorbitant fanfare. My Mom had come for a visit so we'd gone out to dinner the night before to celebrate, which was really fun. Jonathan and I went to Lowes to purchase a new wheelbarrow, which I jokingly referred to as my "present"and in actuality, I'm totally cool with that. It's a kick ass wheelbarrow. And as a total random act of kindness, a FB friend whom I haven't seen since 8th grade graduation gave me a $5 Starbucks gift card. How bloody cool is that?? I'm so skeptical about getting sent things on FB that I originally thought it was a scam, but it turned out to be real. I redeemed it today and am currently jacked up on a tall latte. Thanks FB friend!!!
So, there's the story of the hated birthday, Aunt Judy. I hope you liked it. Thank you for the writing prompt! Happy Labor Day everyone! (and if one more person tells me it's the end of the summer I'll cut them!!)
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Wake Up Call
Yesterday started in a most unusual fashion. I emerged from the fog of deep slumber to have my ears met with a noise that I initially couldn't make sense of for a minute. It was deranged, confusing, deep and primal. What the dickens? Then I remembered that the woman from the Millbrook Hunt had called me the day before to alert us that they'd be coming through our area first thing in the morning.
"What...is...that...noise?" Jonathan mumbled from under the covers.
"Hounds," I answered. "Lots of hounds."
"At 6 in the morning?" he said. "What is wrong with those hunt people! Idiots!"
The noise was deafening, like the hounds were in our very living room. I decided to get up to have a look at what was going on. Grabbing my robe off the door, I made my way to the front porch, where Remy, our big Aussie was standing at full attention. I hustled him into the house and peered into the dawn light. The hounds were swarming in our front paddock, bellowing and braying, circling and sniffing. The huntsmen were all yelling and whistling different calls, none of which seemed to be having any effect on controlling the wayward pack. Then hoofbeats could be heard and a deep agitated voice called out, "What's going on here?" I recognized it as the voice of our landlord, who is a Master of the hunt. Muddled conversation ensued, as the hound pack zig zagged to and fro, with random resonating bays.
Fox hunting is an age old tradition and people who do it find it to be fabulous fun. I've hunted a few times and Jonathan grew up hunting quite a bit in his hometown of Fairfield, CT. It's not a sport that requires any particular skills, other than the ability to run pell mell over all manner of terrain and stay on the horse. Also, natty dressing skills are mandatory. I don't remember all of the details, but there are different outfits for roading, cubbing and formal hunting. The latter is the most fancy of them all. The Masters wear scarlet coats, called Pinques, which lends one to think they might be color blind, but the coat is actually named after an English fellow who made them. Many of the over 21 crowd in the hunt like to indulge in a "stirrup cup", or a shot of John Courage, to be taken from a silver flask, when the hunt is stopped at a check. Depending on how many checks, or stops the hunt makes on a given day will determine the level of inebriation at the end of the hunt.
I headed back to the bedroom followed by two nervous dogs. Jonathan was propped up on his pillows, looking annoyed as he checked the news on his iPad.
"The hounds are out of control," I said, staring out the window.
"Hounds are always out of control," Jonathan said dryly. "They're the dumbest dogs in the world."
Through the foliage on the edge of the property I could see a collection of riders lined up on the dirt road, not thirty feet from where I stood in my bedroom. Clip clopping hooves on the hard packed street and the excited whinnies of nervous horses rang through the air. One horse kept prancing and turning in a circle, loaded with anxiety to get the day going. At last the call came from the hunting horn. Toot toot toot toot! And they were off. The hounds were going full bore down the hill and the riders followed at a brisk trot. I couldn't believe how many horses and riders were passing by, the line seemed endless. When the last straggler trickled by, I looked out at our own barn. Four heads were sticking out of their doors, frozen in place like statues as if the passing of the hunt had rendered them into marble. Horses that don't hunt, or have never hunted tend to be a bit overcome by the chaos of hounds, hollering, horns and masses of riders converging in one large unit. It was going to take our horses a while to calm down enough to have their breakfast. I slipped back under the covers for another half hour of rest, pondering the marvels of living in the country and how many times that very scene I'd just witnessed had occurred right outside my door over the years.
"What...is...that...noise?" Jonathan mumbled from under the covers.
"Hounds," I answered. "Lots of hounds."
"At 6 in the morning?" he said. "What is wrong with those hunt people! Idiots!"
The noise was deafening, like the hounds were in our very living room. I decided to get up to have a look at what was going on. Grabbing my robe off the door, I made my way to the front porch, where Remy, our big Aussie was standing at full attention. I hustled him into the house and peered into the dawn light. The hounds were swarming in our front paddock, bellowing and braying, circling and sniffing. The huntsmen were all yelling and whistling different calls, none of which seemed to be having any effect on controlling the wayward pack. Then hoofbeats could be heard and a deep agitated voice called out, "What's going on here?" I recognized it as the voice of our landlord, who is a Master of the hunt. Muddled conversation ensued, as the hound pack zig zagged to and fro, with random resonating bays.
Fox hunting is an age old tradition and people who do it find it to be fabulous fun. I've hunted a few times and Jonathan grew up hunting quite a bit in his hometown of Fairfield, CT. It's not a sport that requires any particular skills, other than the ability to run pell mell over all manner of terrain and stay on the horse. Also, natty dressing skills are mandatory. I don't remember all of the details, but there are different outfits for roading, cubbing and formal hunting. The latter is the most fancy of them all. The Masters wear scarlet coats, called Pinques, which lends one to think they might be color blind, but the coat is actually named after an English fellow who made them. Many of the over 21 crowd in the hunt like to indulge in a "stirrup cup", or a shot of John Courage, to be taken from a silver flask, when the hunt is stopped at a check. Depending on how many checks, or stops the hunt makes on a given day will determine the level of inebriation at the end of the hunt.
I headed back to the bedroom followed by two nervous dogs. Jonathan was propped up on his pillows, looking annoyed as he checked the news on his iPad.
"The hounds are out of control," I said, staring out the window.
"Hounds are always out of control," Jonathan said dryly. "They're the dumbest dogs in the world."
Through the foliage on the edge of the property I could see a collection of riders lined up on the dirt road, not thirty feet from where I stood in my bedroom. Clip clopping hooves on the hard packed street and the excited whinnies of nervous horses rang through the air. One horse kept prancing and turning in a circle, loaded with anxiety to get the day going. At last the call came from the hunting horn. Toot toot toot toot! And they were off. The hounds were going full bore down the hill and the riders followed at a brisk trot. I couldn't believe how many horses and riders were passing by, the line seemed endless. When the last straggler trickled by, I looked out at our own barn. Four heads were sticking out of their doors, frozen in place like statues as if the passing of the hunt had rendered them into marble. Horses that don't hunt, or have never hunted tend to be a bit overcome by the chaos of hounds, hollering, horns and masses of riders converging in one large unit. It was going to take our horses a while to calm down enough to have their breakfast. I slipped back under the covers for another half hour of rest, pondering the marvels of living in the country and how many times that very scene I'd just witnessed had occurred right outside my door over the years.
Friday, July 26, 2013
My prompt for the flash fiction challenge was this: The story starts when your protagonist swears to remain single. Another character is an unscrupulous sort who was forced to commit a crime.
A shard of sunlight bore through a crack in the dusty, crooked blinds and pierced my sleep encrusted eyes. I fumbled out from under the covers and swung my feet onto the floor. Was the razor sharp sunbeam a sign from God to get my miserable, hung over ass out of this putrid room, filled with dirty clothes and crushed beer cans? Glancing over my shoulder, I checked out the sleeping mound next to me. Tangled brown hair, high forehead, cheeks slackened by slumber and lips parted slightly blowing out small pockets of rancid breath at regular intervals. Good old, Tony. I kept trying to stay out of this guy’s bed, but somehow after a few Bud Light’s I followed him home like a stray dog every time. It’s not that he was a bad guy, or anything like that. I just hated the idea of being stuck with one person. It made me shudder and yet, here I was again. What a hot mess I could be when I really put my mind to it.
Trying to ignore the brain numbing banging going on in my head, I reached around on the floor for my jeans and tank top, both of which were inside out in a heap. Inside out. Super classy, Rose. My mother would never speak to me again if she could see this scene of her little girl heaving herself up from the brawny construction worker’s bed that had sheets on it that hadn’t been changed in so long they had a crusty feel. I tip toed on the balls of my feet to the bathroom, dodging the land mine sized piles of clothing. I could feel the grit from the floor ingraining itself into my flesh, causing me to wince when I stepped just right. Flicking the switch on in the bathroom, I sighed. Why are men so damn nasty when they live alone? Tony’s sink was full of grime and hair and big blobs of old toothpaste. A lone sour smelling towel hung on a hook next to the mirror. Vowing not to look in the shower, I snatched at the towel and flipped open the clothes hamper and then...froze. Laying at the bottom of the hamper were rows and rows of stacks of money. I knew I was what I was looking at, but all I could feel was confusion, maybe due to all the beer I’d consumed the night before, or the bowls we’d smoked when we came home, or the hours of, well you know, hot, sweaty sex. This can’t be real money. Where would Tony get this kind of cash? Why would Tony have this kind of money laying at the bottom of his dingy clothes hamper. On impulse, I grabbed a stack of the money and marched on with loud, angry footsteps back to the bedroom.
“Tony,” I said in a soft voice next to his ear. “You need to wake up.”
He mumbled and rolled over allowing his bare backside to be exposed from under the covers. I saw my opportunity and slapped his beautiful, round butt cheeks with a crisp open handed smack.
“Whaddtha faahhh...” he yelled as he jumped a clear foot off the bed, landing with a fine mist of dust particles shrouding him as they settled.
I held up the cash and glared at him. “You really need to change these sheets, Tony. They’re disgusting, and where did you get all of this money?” I yelled.
“That isn’t really mine, technically, but...well, I’m holding it for a friend,” he stammered.
“Who do you know who has access to that kind of cash? Certainly not Norman, the foreman. Or Gary, the dump truck driver. Could it be Keith, the crane operator? Maybe Susie, the secretary with the bad teeth and peroxide hair? I know, it’s Walt, the alcoholic welder!” I was on a roll.
Narrowing his eyes, he got a pinched look on his face and decided to play the tough guy act.
“Just put it back, okay. It doesn’t concern you and why were you snooping in my shit anyway?” he spat.
“I was attempting to de-funk your revolting bathroom by sequestering that board stiff, stinky towel to a smaller space, known as the hamper that in theory has dirty clothes in it that are meant to be WASHED!” My voice had escalated in volume as I went so the end came out kind of crazy, but he got the point.
“Okay, okay, baby. I get it,” he said softening his tone and rubbed his face. “Just put it back, okay? I’m not doing anything shady, I swear.”
He said that last part with his eyes cast down, therefore convincing me that he was lying. Well, what did I care anyway. We weren’t any serious item, just casual friends that slept together now and then. He could do whatever he wanted, shady, or otherwise. Chewing my lower lip to keep my mouth shut, I returned the money to the hamper, splashed some water on my face and fluffed up my hair with both hands. I looked like a fright, with puffy, bloodshot eyes accented by dark circles. Sunglasses would help a little, but I still had “girl who made a lot of bad decisions last night” written all over me.
“Alright, Tony I’m leaving now. Good luck with that pile of money and don’t spend it all in one place,” I called over my shoulder as I headed toward the front door. The door opened, seemingly all by itself, but then a large figure holding a gun appeared in the doorway. The man was one of those freakishly giant people. He looked at me with beady eyes that were so cold, I froze in my tracks, my mouth open in an O.
“Where is that slimy, little dirtbag,” the beast bellowed at me.
I made a vague sweeping motion toward the bedroom with my arm and the beast stomped past me.
“Tony!!!!!!” I yelled.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)