Sigh

I know I'm getting old when I add "Look up recipe for Three Bean Salad" to my mental To-Do list.

I Like Pie

Hi out there. I've got a new job that is kicking my butt, so I'm tired a lot and haven't had the small hot spark of writing inspiration lately. It'll come back, I'm sure. I can do forty-three things at once, but adding the forty-fourth makes it all fall apart.

I proposed buying pies at Village Inn for Thanksgiving. The Old Man turned on the puppy dog eyes and looked as hurt as if I had just announced I was having an affair. "The crust," he said. "The crust. And we must have whip cream. Let's not repeat the whip cream disaster of 2006."

OK, so I'm paraphrasing him a bit, although if you want to see The Old Man get overly dramatic, bring up sub-par food.

Would it be wrong to take the whole family to the fabulous Golden Corral buffet for turkey day? How long will The Old Man, cringing from a mortally wounded palate, take to recover?

Message from Amanda

I love you so much
I had to dial your number
and see you one last time
and make sure to break your heart
real good
so you feel what I felt
and now I'm over you
and I wish you a good life
and a good wife
and beautiful children
and all that crap.

Bluebeard

Breadwinner. New for her.
Her new office has a window, lots of light, just underneath the glass ceiling.
A big promotion, more money, more security for her family.
A wolvish grin, a laughing heartbeat.

Her new office has a window, lots of light, just underneath the glass ceiling.
Bluebeard creeps behind her chair; she feels the horsehair beard against her cheek.
A wolvish grin, a laughing hearbeat.
He grabs a fistful of her hair with one huge hand.

Bluebeard creeps behind her chair; she feels the horsehair beard against her cheek.
He smells of dying leaves.
He grabs a fistful of her hair with one huge hand.
In the other hand, a goblet of the most delicious liquid.

He smells of dying leaves.
Bad mother, he says. Bad woman.
In the other hand, a goblet of the most delicious liquid.
Leaving your children behind to work under the glass. False goddess.

Bad mother, he says. Bad woman.
You know too much, you do too much. Who are you to have all this?
Leaving your children behind to work under the glass. False goddess.
He caresses her cheek with his, she leans against him.

You know too much, you do too much. Who are you to have all this?
He brings the goblet to her lips; the juice mixes with her lipstick.
He caresses her cheek with his, she leans against him.
Your home will come to ruins.

He brings the goblet to her lips; the juice mixes with her lipstick.
Softly, she brings her hand to his beard.
Your home will come to ruins.
She pulls the hair from his chin and he cries in pain.

Softly, she brings her hand to his beard.
"Bluebeard," she says, "you have the wrong office."
She pulls the hair from his chin and he cries in pain.
Breadwinner. New for her.

Melodramatica

Two hours of firearms training gives me three bulged discs.

I can't run or lift weights.

I walk into rooms and don't remember how I came to be there or what for.

I say things like, "Those damn kids."

My boobs are two inches lower.

I wear flat-soled shoes.

My coworkers, boss, acupuncturist, family doctor, physical therapist - along with my mom - tell me to take it easy.

I have to do stupid things like bend at the knees to lift boxes.

I expect to see gray hairs in my gold locks any day now.

That girl on the dance floor with the honky tonk badonkadonk used to be me.

The Old Man might as well skip ahead to his midlife crisis and trade up for a newer model.

Thus begins the

slow
........downhill
.......................slide into

senescence.

Characters

Two characters in my head just interact with each other in the most banal way and refuse to allow any action or point or plot into their story. Sure, they're interesting and one smells like mold and the other has fake piercings, but that only gets you so far. Well, screw you two until you can grow up and help me find a middle and an end.

Fall

http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/

Look for my poem on a handful of stones blog, under Thursday, September 30th, 2010.

Colorado's seasons are like a woman who changes her mind, changes her clothes and her perfume. Fall in Colorado to me is dusty dirt roads lined five feet deep on either side with wild sunflowers. It's hot and the air is filled with insects. Noisy and quiet at the same time. The sunflowers take over the eastern plains and front range, just east of the mountains.

Fall in the mountains is different - crisper, clear, filled with bugling elk and city people driving slow on the winding roads, craning their necks to see turning leaves.