transmit transmit - no receive

A writer cannot choose his audience; he can only be himself and let his audience choose him.  

Sloan Wilson, author of The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit

I entered a version of this story in the 2009 Esquire Magazine Fiction competition. It was titled Never, Ever Bring This Up Again, because we had to use one of three prompts and use it as a title as well. I didn’t win. The entry could only have 4000 words, but since it didn’t place I’ve gone ahead and enhanced it where I wanted to and given it the title that really came to me. You can read the runner up story that used the same prompt title that I chose here: http://www.esquire.com/fiction/fiction/never-ever-bring-this-up-again-fiction-contest.

The actual winning story used the title An Insurrection.

ANYWAY… I love my story. Which is one of the ways I know it’s good. I think that writers should love their work and want to share it. Hope you enjoy it.

The Tattoo

It was during those first days of hotness. You know. When the sex is crazy and you’re vibing together like you never thought could happen. Ever. We were so great together with everything. We were in the same place emotionally, spiritually, and professionally. By the time the sex happened I was like “Okay, damn!” and Ricky was too. It was all guards down. We were thrilled with each other. I was certainly thrilled with him. He was gorgeous.

I was to start my new job in four weeks, so I came to Virginia in plenty of time to scope out the best place to settle. I’d come out the door of my new apartment building, my arms full and view obstructed with boxes for the trash, when I walked right into him.

“Just knock me down, why don’t ya’,” he said to me. I had to drop everything to see his face and notice he was smiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“Here, let me help you.” And that was the beginning of it. He helped me get the rest of my things from the truck and we spent every day together from that time on. I’d promised myself that I was done with the one night stands and the partying and vowed to make a new start of things. This was different, I told myself. This was not the same thing.

That first week, he took me on a tour of Hampton during the day, and during the night he got a tour of me. It was so natural and easy. All our conversations were like “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah” and then, “Yes…me too” or “No, me neither” or “That’s exactly how I feel about that.” So when we weren’t eating or making love, we were simply “AMEN”ing each other. It almost scared me how wonderful it was. That Saturday as we lay in bed I noticed the thing on his back.

“What’s this? A tattoo?”

“What?”

“This on you lower back here.”

“Oh that,” he reached around fingering the raised skin as if he’d forgotten it was there. “It’s just a scar.”

“A scar? It looks like a tattoo. It’s a fraternity thing, isn’t it?” I slithered up onto his back and spoke into his ear.

“No silly. It’s a scar. I slid on the hot pavement when I was a kid and that’s all that’s left of it.”

“Wow. It looks like something deliberate though.” I started to examine it when he flipped me over and said, “Let me find your scars.” And that was the end of that subject because we went for round three. Afterwards we lay there cuddled together and I thought it was so sweet when he kissed the top of my head and whispered, “Claudia, you gotta meet Grandma Bertie.” It didn’t matter that we’d only known each other for a minute. He wanted me to meet his grandma.

~~~

Grandma Bertie was near ninety-years old and she was awesome. There was no sign of ninety years of wear on her. Her gray-streaked, thick hair was like a crown on her head, pulled back into a thick plait that hung twelve inches down her back. Her pink and beige skin was flawless and, although it had a slight leatheriness, her face was wrinkle-free. Her eyes were like eagles; intense and vivacious like she was about to shout at you for something, but there was a smile in them which kept you from feeling intimidated. She was slightly taller than me; straight and upright; thin, but not frail. In fact, when we pulled up to the property and saw three people working around a felled tree, I was shocked when Rick said to me “There she is,” nodding toward a figure that was at the helm of a wheelbarrow. The two black men working at the tree with her were both burly and strong looking, but grey-haired like her. She looked up and waved when she saw the car.

“She’s how old?” I asked incredulously.

Rick just laughed.

She was strong and possessed a salient beauty. She seemed to have the energy of a 12-year-old. I just concluded she was one of those people with “good genes.” They all had good genes, I was soon to find.

Grandma Bertie had nine sons and three daughters. Rick was one of seventeen living grandchildren, six had died. They all convened at her house in the Tennessee Mountains at the same time every year. They didn’t do Thanksgiving and Christmas together like most families, but they had this special time in July when they all had to show. They would begin straggling in around the second week of July and by the 15th they were all present and stayed through to the 30th. I thought that odd, but every family has their own ways.

When Rick introduced me, she stood back and looked me over like she was inspecting a horse. She even put her hand on my shoulder and turned me around. I couldn’t be insulted somehow. I smiled without showing my teeth and kept my head up and looked her in the eyes. I knew I had to look her in the eyes.

“Well then, Missy,” she said. Then she took my hand, wrapped her other arm around Rick’s waist and said lightheartedly, “Let’s go on up to the house and meet the other rogues.”

Rick let out an obvious sigh of relief and delved right into conversation about what she was cooking for us. I rolled my eyes and let them pull me along. I think I passed.

All Grandma Bertie’s children were successful men and women-- three lawyers; two surgeons; a banker; a university professor; a mechanical engineer and a couple of very successful business owners. Rick introduced each of them to me with names and credentials. Their submissive demeanor in the presence of Grandma Bertie impressed me more than their lists of accomplishments. It was a little weird, I have to say; not that people don’t usually defer to their mothers, but, there was something more than that. More like a reverential fear. Everything was “Yes Muhmaw” and “No, Muhmaw” and “Ask Muhmaw this,” and “See what Muhmaw says...” about that.

All seventeen grandchildren showed. They lavished her with gifts and affection as they arrived. There were hugs and kisses and lifting her up and swinging her around, in spite of her stern scolding.

“Stop that now. Stop that boy.” And she swung at them with whatever was in her hand. She scowled and straightened herself when they let her go, but it was obvious that she was pleased by it.

The two story country farmhouse was inviting. It must have been 100 years old. From the front of the house you couldn’t see the three guesthouses in back; all connected by shaded walkways to the main house. It was incredibly comfortable inside, even with the entire family milling around. A spacious main room held two huge oak tables, as if Grandma Bertie housed a crew of lumberjacks.

When we came in, some of Rick’s family was seated around the tables, laughing and talking to one another. On the other side of the room an ample fireplace was framed by floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with books and plaques and pictures. Around it, three overstuffed sofas and several plush armchairs invited occupancy. In the den there was an elaborate and expensive looking stereo system, a computer and a HAM radio.

“No TV?” I asked Rick after he’d shown me around and I hadn’t noticed one.

“Grandma Bertie doesn’t believe in things that distract the family from communing with one another.”

“Communing,” I giggled at the odd word. “Well, that’s nice. I guess.”

Rick frowned. “There’s one in the last guesthouse. But nobody goes out there…anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Ant Sylvie used to spend all her time out there.”

“Where’s she?”

“She died.”

I wanted to ask more about it, but the way he said “She died,” was so cold. Something on the inside of me said “Leave it.” I don’t know if it was his look or his tone, but I knew he wasn’t going to go into it, so…

Throughout the huge space little groups of his family huddled together talking or otherwise engaged in different activities. Around the tables their conversations ebbed and flowed with family members jumping in and tagging out as the days went by. I stayed closed to Rick and observed everyone. They were such a beautiful and accomplished family. But, it suddenly dawned on me –there were no girls. Only Rick’s three aunts, Grandma Bertie’s daughters were there.

Savoynne, Astrid and Margot seemed to make themselves scarce. They fluttered in and out of the kitchen with stuff, attending to their brothers. When they weren’t doing that, they sat together in front of the fireplace and leaned in talking to each other as if they had secret catching up to do.

Some of these men must be married. Where were their wives? I thought. Rick told me they were busy, professional women and their husband’s just didn’t pressure them to be here every year. That seemed reasonable. He said his parents were divorced when he was still an infant.

“There were problems,” he told me when I asked about his mother. But then he cut me off saying he didn’t really remember much about her. “She died,” he finished it. There was that feeling again -- the distinct invitation not to delve any further. I left it alone. I’m just not a prier. People have their own business. I didn’t necessarily want to talk about what happened to my parents either. But it was the reason I’d left California.

One evening Grandma Bertie sat at the big tables with her sons and grandsons and me. When she suddenly asked me about my family it caught me a little off guard because all other conversation stopped short and everyone turned to look directly at me.

“Who are your parents dear? Do you come from a large family?”

“No Miss Bertie. Actually I’m an orphan now. My parents are gone and I’m an only child.”

“Oh my. Your relatives?”

Usually the next question was what happened to your parents, I thought.

“No living relatives. I didn’t come from a booming family like yours.” I figured that would garner a few sympathetic looks or perhaps an understanding smile from around the table, but no.

“It’s just you then?” Grandma Bertie asked.

“Yes.”

“Muhmaw,” Rick’s father, who had shown little or no interest in me to this point, said. “She just moved east from California?” He said it in the form of a question, as if reminding her of something they’d already discussed.

“Well…you’re here with us now. Aren’t you?”

“ee-Yes,” I wasn’t sure if that was the correct answer.

“Let’s all take our before-dinner walk,” she abruptly announced and they all stirred. “Girls,” she addressed her daughters, “you’re on prep.”

“Yes Muhmaw,” the three women answered dutifully from their spot in front of the fireplace.

Rick took my hand, but I said to him, “I’ll stay here and help your aunts.”

“Oh, uhhh… they can handle it.” He seemed tense. “Muhmaw wants you to go with us.” He pulled me a little.

“Naw, you go on.” I suddenly wanted to exert some obstinacy regarding “Muhmaw”

“Rick, “Grandma Bertie told him, “let Claudia stay with the girls. She can learn how to prep.”

“Yeah, I can learn how to prep,” I echoed cheerfully.  And I swear this-- they all turned at that moment and glared at me. It was just a flash of a moment, but I definitely saw it and I felt it. The smile on my face became work right then. “I-I’d like to help your aunts.”

“Muhmawww?” Savoynne looked questioningly at her mother.

"Yes Savoynne?” Grandma Bertie lowered her voice and shot her piercing eyes at her daughter.

“Nothing, “she quickly responded. Then to me she said, “Claudia, we’d love some help.”

Rick kissed me and promised to be back in about an hour.  I headed up the stairs to the room where Rick and I were staying. “Be right back, Savoynne.”

Once in the room, I shut the door in the bathroom and leaned back against it. What was that? I thought. I went over to the sink and stared into the mirror. Don’t be paranoid. It was nothing. I closed my eyes and gave myself a minute to settle. Then I turned the faucet, splashed the cool water on my face, patted my skin dry with a guest-towel and took a deep breath. “Okay. Just chill,” I told myself. When I opened the bathroom door, Astrid was standing there.

“Astrid! You gave me a start.”

“Why did you come here?” she hissed at me.

“Beg pardon?” I said, but I was thinking, “What the fuck now?”

Just as she opened her mouth to answer, Savoynne walked into the room.

“We’re waiting for you two,” she smiled wanly.

Astrid looked at me with wide eyes and shook her head quickly. She transformed her face into a smile and grabbed my hand. “Here we come,” she said towing me along.

Down in the kitchen Margot was piling candles into a large basket. There was a huge jug on the table and four wine glasses already filled.

“This is Muhmaw’s homemade strawberry wine, “ Savoynne announced as she handed me a glass. We refilled twice. It tasted great and I immediately caught a nice, mellow buzz. I needed a buzz. “Hit me again,” I told Margot.

“Say cheese,” Savoynne surprised me, snapping my picture.

“Oh no. That’s going to be awful,” I moaned.

“No it isn’t. It was candid. You looked relaxed. Come on.”

I followed them out through the back door with my third refill in hand. We walked down the paved path past the first guesthouse, and behind it we came into a lovely clearing. All the seating and tables had been skillfully crafted from tree trunks and were arranged around a huge fire pit. A roasting pig hung on a spit, turning slowly over fiery embers. It smelled delicious.

“This is beautiful.  My God, who did this furniture?”

“George and Hezekiah made all this,” Margot answered. “They’ve been with Muhmaw forever.”
She picked up a poker and began pushing at the burning embers in the pit. When she stooped to pick up another piece of wood, I noticed it.

“Wow. You’ve got a scar like Ricks,” Was I slurring?

“Scar?”

“On your back.”

She reached around to feel, “Oh that’s a birthmark.”

I only caught a glimpse of it, but I could have sworn it was the same as Rick’s scar.

“Where are George and Hezekiah? They need to turn this,” Margot left off talking to me and called to her sister.

“Claudia, put candles on all these poles you see,” Savoynne waved her hand dramatically. “And the rest on benches and tables, please.”

I set about to the task, but my mind continued to grind away. That was the same mark. What was Astrid about to say to me? Something is off around here.

Meanwhile, George and Hezekiah came into the clearing. They were the two men I’d seen with Grandma Bertie when we arrived. They exchanged words with Margot and then proceeded to deal with turning the pig.

After I’d placed the last candle, I sat down to finish my glass of wine. Savoynne must have refilled it as I was working. The glowing candles, the fire pit, and the general hazy ambience of the clearing were helping me relax more…and the wine, of course.

I watched the two men as they lifted the pole and angled around the pit. They seemed very strong for their age. Their faces and the slow way they moved reflected years that their bodies didn’t display. They took their time with the task and spoke in low voices to each other. George swiped a rag from his back pocket and wiped at his brow. The heat from the fire pit was getting to them. Hezekiah stopped and slipped out of his sweaty shirt. When he turned to face the pit again, there on his lower back was that scar, tattoo –whatever-- it was the same mark.

I gasped and then Savoynne was right beside me, as if she just appeared there.

“Is something wrong, dear?”

“No,” I blurted out. Yes, something was wrong.

“Have some more wine.” She filled my glass for the fifth time.

“Where’s Astrid?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant… and sober.

“Up at the house.”

“I’ll go see if she needs any help.”

“You don’t…,” Savoynne started, but then she looked almost resigned and said, “Go ahead.”

I was walking back up the path toward the house when I spotted Astrid standing in the door of the last guesthouse. She waved at me frantically with one hand and held her finger to her lips with the other. I looked around to be sure no one was watching and then darted across the garden to her.

“Come in here,” she shut the door, latched it behind me and turned to me with a look of sheer panic. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

“What? “

“They’re going to kill you.”

I was a little woozy. I shook my head. “Who? What are you talking about?”

“Look around, Claudia.”

I turned to look around the cottage. It was a charming country room; flowered patterns everywhere. A large bay window with sheer-draped curtains brought in rays of moonlight over the window seat. A sofa, a piano, several tables, and tons of pictures filled the space perfectly. Dozens of framed pictures covered the walls.

“It’s warm in here. Are you warm?” That wine. I couldn’t think straight.

“Look. Look at the pictures.” She grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

I picked up one of the frames from an end table. A beautiful, young woman. She was smiling.
I replaced it and picked up another. It was of another woman sitting in the clearing on one of the tree-trunk benches; not smiling, but normal looking. I walked deeper into the room and over to the wall of frames. All pictures of women smiling, relaxed and normal. There was nothing unusual in any of them.

“Astrid, what…”

“They’ve killed all these… all these women…to get their essence. Don’t you see? Rick brought you here to get your essence.”

I squinted. “My what? I gotta sit down.” I was trying to understand her, but I couldn’t focus. Her face registered abject terror and I wanted to react; but, it was as if my body wasn’t connecting with my head. The room seemed to be narrowing.

“Claudia? “ Margot suddenly called from right outside the cottage. “ASTRID!”

Astrid jerked around to face the bolted door.

“Astrid, what are you doing?” Savoynne’s eerily calm voice sounded through the door.

Astrid’s shoulders dropped as she turned back to look at me. Her eyes had now changed from panic to pity. She shook her head slowly. She unlatched the door and opened it.

Savoynne and Margot both stood there. They glared at her with disgust. “Muhmaw is not going to like this Astrid. You’re just like Sylvie. Come along Claudia.”

Margot put her arm around my shoulder. “You mustn’t pay her any attention. We should have warned you. Astrid has some issues.”

“But those women,” Now I was definitely slurring. “The pictures.”

“Those are just family pictures, dear,” Savoynne answered, walking behind. “Astrid is on medication. Sometimes she just misfires.”

As we neared the clearing Rick came walking toward us. Was I glad to see him.

“What’s going on?” he asked. He handed me his glass of strawberry wine.

“It’s Astrid,” Margot said, and he shot her an intense look as he put his arm around my waist.

“It’s okay,” she continued, “she’s fine. Aren’t you Claudia?”

“I’m fine,” I smiled at him. But he was fuzzy. “A little too much of this, maybe,” I held up the glass.

“Drink your wine, love,” he said to me, pushing the glass to my lips. I had to tilt my head back to keep it from spilling down my blouse. “Come on. They’re waiting.”

“Who’s waiting?” My tongue felt thick.

“Everyone.”

When we entered the clearing Rick’s entire family was gathered. The all stood in a circle. A circle of eyes watching me. Grandma Bertie stood in the center, in front of the pit.

“My dear,” she spoke to me. “I’m sure Rick has told you things about our family. My sons are very successful men; all at the pinnacle of their professions; my grandsons, as well. Have you had a chance to talk with each of them? No matter, “she answered her own question. “I can tell you, in all their endeavors, they are the very best. You see what handsome and strong men they are.” She looked around adoringly at her beautiful clan.

“This is our legacy because we have kept the old way. I am one hundred and eighty-three years, and I have sacrificed much to preserve our seed.” She pointed at her grandsons. “All these boys’ mothers have participated in what is necessary now.”

The panic choked me. My limbs felt like mush as Rick walked me over to stand in front of her. George and Hezekiah came and stood on either side of me, taking my arms. I didn’t struggle. I couldn’t. Rick then went to stand beside Muhmaw. His father walked over to him, handed him an ornately, jeweled scalpel and kissed him proudly.

“It’s your time son,” he said.

Grandma Bertie placed her hands over Rick’s hands. Together they stepped up to me. I watched, completely still, as she guided his hands with the blade across one of my wrists, then the other.

I felt nothing. I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came. I blinked aimlessly, turning to look at the men holding my arms. My head swiveled back to see Rick’s family standing around me. They all stared back at me kindly.

That’s the look I’d expected to see when I told them I was an orphan, I thought.

My eyes went to Rick and that charming smile of his. He winked at me.

And then, I was gone.

~~~

“George, Hezekiah… let her bleed out now. We don’t want the blood.” Grandma Bertie stiffly turned to face her daughter, “Astrid, come here.”

“Muhmaw, I…”

“How could you?” Muhmaw shook her head disappointedly. “I’d hoped Sylvie would be our last necessary example, but I see we still have some branding to do.”

“Muhmaw, if only we could…” Astrid’s body was quaking.

“Samuel, bring it here.”

Her eldest son went over to the firing pit and pulled out the long iron. Astrid steeled herself and came to Muhmaw of her own accord. She clenched her jaw and tears flowed down her cheeks.

“You’ll carry this monition on you now, since you haven’t been able to hold it in your heart,” her mother told her. “If this doesn’t help you, there’s no more to be done. This is the only warning. Do you understand that? Erlund. Jon. Come here and help your sister.”

Two more of Muhmaw’s sons came. Erlund wrapped his arms around his sister as if embracing for a hug. Jon put his arms around them both and raised her blouse. Grandma Bertie looked around at her family; her penetrating eyes slowing scanning each face. Then she pressed the glowing odd metal shape onto her daughter’s lower back.

~~~~

George and Hezekiah methodically prepared Claudia’s body for the Refection. Once they had harvested every organ, they covered her slaughtered body with cords of wood and set it aflame in the midst of the gathering.

The family solemnly passed the girl’s organs around their circle. Each of them shuddered ecstatically as they bit into her parts. Their heads lifted upwards, their eyes closed; they moaned and sighed with displays of enraptured delectation as they felt the pure essence of her life coursing into them.

When the moments of their pleasure had passed, Grandma Bertie spoke again with a measured oratory cadence.

“I’m so proud of Rickaard. It was his time and he showed himself strong, as I knew he would. We had a small issue…” She paused and looked at Astrid, “but we’ve dealt with it. These past fifty years have been increasingly harder. Yet we’ve continued and remained true. We’ve not tainted our line with the blood the way the vampires have done. When the old ones, like George and Hezekiah were brought over they taught us to take in the soul-power, the strength, and the vitality of the life through the organs of the sacrifice. The vital organs carry the essence of the life’s power, not the blood.”

They all listened intently, gravely taking in her words and nodding slowly, mechanically in agreement. She continued…

“What a blessing that their ancient African culture was so intertwined with ours, and added so mightily to that which we already held sacred. Praises be to Odin.”

“Praises be to Odin,” they all echoed.

She gestured toward Astrid. “I hate marking my children, but some of you have had to be reminded. Those of you who have it;  put your hand back there and feel your reminder. Go on.”

Fourteen of her twenty-nine children and grandchildren, and Hezekiah, reached behind themselves to feel the crudely-shaped, raised scar on their backs.

“This is the way we’ve lived for centuries. It has never been up for discourse or opinion and it’s not going to change now. No. We will not succumb to the pattern of this age...questioning the wisdom of the elders; abandoning the practices that have sustained us.“ She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. We should be celebrating now, but we’ve had to spend these moments in rebuke. Well, it’s not wasted. Anton,” Bertie brightened her eyes and turned to Astrid’s son.

“Yes, Muhmaw?” The handsome, young, Philadelphia lawyer straightened himself to answer his grandmother.

“Your wife will be here for the next Refection, yes?”

“Yes, Muhmaw.”

Astrid lifted her head and looked up for the first time since she received her mark…her reminder. “Muhmaw,” she called out feebly.

“Yes, Astrid,” Bertie turned the full force of her gaze onto her wounded daughter.

Astrid laboriously straightened her stance. Her shoulders lifted with the first full breath she’d been able to take since before the searing pain penetrated her skin. She tilted up her chin, widened her eyes and furrowed her brow for a look to match the ferocity of her kin. “I will never, ever bring this up again.”

Muhmaw’s stern look dissolved into a prideful smile. “I love you dear, ” she assured her. Then to them all she said, “Now go. Back to your lives everyone. Until next July.”

They all came to Muhmaw one by one. They kissed and held her for long embraces as if they could hardly stand to leave her presence. They each went to Astrid and lavished affection on her, stroking her face and kissing her hand.

Savoynne and Margot stood together, apart from the rest. Their faces still faintly displaying looks of disgust until Muhmaw jerked her head harshly at them, wordlessly directing them to go to their sister. Their touching together finally forced them to surrender to familial bonds. Soon the three of them stood whispering together again as they ever did.

The family all dispersed during the night. By mid morning Grandma Bertie and George and Hezekiah had restored the house and the lovely grounds of the clearing to it pristine state.  All evidence of the sacrifice was gone.  Her name never to be mentioned among them again… Claudia.

-30-

I saw on Good Morning America that parents are hollering at their kids too much.   They showed a lady just screaming in her child's face.  That was wrong.  They showed a number of parents just losing it with their children in public and in their homes.   That is not right.  It's degrading, humiliating and models bad behavior.   You're not supposed to destroy their self-esteem.  Don't call your children bad names...ever. Just go on and whip their little asses a couple of times and you won't have to holler.  

And don't count. What's this counting business? Don't say.... "Donnie, get your toys and put them away.  One...Two...Three...."  That says, Mommy doesn't mean what she says unless she starts count.  She's not going to do anything until she gets to five.

Here's what you do.

Call Donnie.   Make sure you have his attention.  You may have to go over and gently take his little face in your hands to be sure he's hearing you.   Then you say..."Donnie, put your toys away. Okay sweetie? Mommy's going into the kitchen, but when I come back I don't wanna see these toys out here.  Alright?"

Now.  The first time, if when you come back the toys aren't put away, you go get your belt.  And you hold the belt and say "Donnie, come here."  Now you go to each item one by one and you say "Pick this up. Now put it over there." And you walk little Donnie through each item.   THIS IS TRAINING.  

Now.   The NEXT time.  You do the same thing again, EXCEPT, if when you come back, the toys aren't up. Say, "Donnie, come here."  Now you have the belt.  "Didn't I tell you to put these away?"  Whatever his answer is...regardless...take him by his arm, turn him around (don't jerk him) and give him three (3) swats on the behind with that belt. Now say "Go to your room."  

Go ahead and put the toys away yourself.  

When he want's to play with them again later, you say..."Hey wait a minute.  You can't play with those toys, because I don't wanna have to spank your butt if you can't put them away when you're told."

He'll probably say..."I'll put them away Mommy."   Then you answer.  "Well, okay. Cause I hate having to spank you."  

You won't have to do this too many times.  But don't bluff and don't let him play you.  You're training him to do what you tell him to do,  WHEN you tell him to do it.  

Let disobedience have "REAL" consequences.   AND DON'T EVEN RAISE YOUR VOICE.

Children need to know that Mom and Dad MEAN WHAT THEY SAY.  And go ahead and praise them when they do what they're told.  You can even say "Thank you."  It's good manners.

This was written by Sananda Maitreya  (formerly know as Terrence Trent D'arby) ... I understand it and I think it's funny and brilliant.

 ~~~~~~~~~

Cautious though he was, BOB was also anxious to proceed with his new life. Advised that changing his name would give him a fresh look at life, a new lease, he plunged into the process with both feet hoping to safely land. Nevertheless, a man could never be too sure about such advice so he hit on a plan which he thought were brilliant. It would allow him to have his cake and stab at it at the same time still. With cunning and deft he would simply change his name from BOB to BOB, and only he would have to know that the original BOB was meant to be read front to back as we normally tend to, though the new BOB that he became would be BOB back to front. What difference did it make to him that no one else would be able to spot the difference? Most importantly, HE would know, just as Marlene Dietrich told her director that it didn’t matter whether or not the audience could see her silk stockings beneath her skirt, SHE knew and the projection of that knowing was what kept our eyes close to her. BOB felt liberated already, and as a kind of ironic talisman, his dyslexic friend Lol wouldn’t be too threatened by the name change, so would likely be supportive of it. And his girlfriend NAN already signalled her excitement and willingness to do what was required in making the transition comfortable for her beloved Bob. For her, in their conversations, she already distinguished the past from the present by referring to him when apropos, as Bob coming and going and Bob going and coming. The name change wouldn’t change his numbers much, that’s for sure, though it would have the desired effect of granting him an entirely new perspective, this wonderful chance to be THE NEW BOB, a wholly altogether nuclear post-glacial proposition.

find more of his writing here: 

http://www.sanandamaitreya.com/Sananda/Sananda_speaks_July_30_2009.htm

My son has informed me that this talking to myself crap is getting out of hand.  

Mom, I just timed it and you weren't silent for three minutes a shot.

Shut up.  Was my grownup reply.

So, I'm standing in the line at the Post Office amusing myself while I waited by not only repeating the lines to myself, but also making all the ridiculous faces that George Clooney made as he played the character Ulysses Everett McGill in O' Brother Where Art Thou?

That movie is a hoot and George Clooney is gorgeous.  I'm just cracking myself up remembering the scene where he goes into the little country store and tries to order a part to fix the car.  Frustrated by the proprietor telling him it'll take two weeks, he just settles for getting a can of his favorite hair pomade.

Pomade Vendor: I can get the part from Bristol. It'll take two weeks, here's your pomade.
Ulysses Everett McGill: Two weeks? That don't do me no good.
Pomade Vendor: Nearest Ford auto man's Bristol.
Ulysses Everett McGill: Hold on, I don't want this pomade. I want Dapper Dan.
Pomade Vendor: I don't carry Dapper Dan, I carry Fop.
Ulysses Everett McGill: Well, I don't want Fop, goddamn it! I'm a Dapper Dan man!
Pomade Vendor: Watch your language, young feller, this is a public market. Now if you want Dapper Dan, I can order it for you, have it in a couple of weeks.
Ulysses Everett McGill: Well, ain't this place a geographical oddity. Two weeks from everywhere!

I'm doing the parts in my head and giggling to myself at the way he said "I don't want FOP goddamit, I'ma  Dapper Dan man."  

I'm even shaking my head the way he does it.  After all, nobody's looking at me.  This long line of Postal customers are just waiting patiently for their turn at the teller.   It's lunch time and people are in a hurry. I figure, instead of getting frustrated and impatient, I'll just amuse myself.  I'm a happy kinda girl...and as you know from past post...I love to laugh.  

I just crack myself up at the last line as I remember the look on Clooney's face when he delivers it...

   Well, ain't this place a geographical oddity. Two weeks from everywhere!

 Sniggle, sniggle, sniggle...my shoulders shake a little too.  I'm not worried, the people in front of me are facing front so they can't see my faces and the people behind me are to my back...so if they see me quake a little from laughter...it's not that bad.

That's when I noticed the cameras.  

Behind the houses on Smallwood Street, just like some sort of oasis in the center of our concrete existence of row houses and apartments, there was a meadow.

A cleared field where a collection of buildings used to be; there were still remnants of the old buildings left. A few cement blocks lay here and there, overgrown and decorated with assorted weeds of yellow bedstraw, Queen Ann lace and grass and flowers and vines. There were just enough door frames and partial staircases still standing to make it a perfect place for kids with lots of imagination to play. Wildflowers confirmed their appellation making it a euphoric vision of color. A wonderful surprise as it suddenly appeared in the midst of the comparatively stark rise of the hind side of our neighborhood houses.

The accidental field lay enclosed by the backs of the houses of four streets-- Smallwood Street on one side; Walbrook, Clifton and Bentalou Avenues on the other three. A short walk through the alley at the intersecting of any two of those would take you into the meadow. The gates of the back yards of any of the forty-some houses abutting the meadow gave entry too. And yet the meadow managed to feel isolated and still; the surrounding edifices blocking the noise of traffic.

A steady, warm breeze whipped lightly around the meadow in springtime; lifting the varied fragrances of honeysuckle, wild spearmint and lilac and laying it back down across the ground like a freshly snapped sheet.

Black bees flew lazily back and forth among the mint -- busy at whatever it is they always do -- until they were interrupted by some ten-year-old intent on capturing as many of them as he could in his jar. But that was only until he had so many of them and their brown bee relatives that it was no longer safe to open the lid in order to capture more.

Grasshoppers jumped and flitted here and there going about their business when not trying to escape some young entomologist. Their plight was never as easy as the bees. They made no menacing buzzing sound and had no stinger or any such thing to protect them or inflict pain against a predator. Their useless defense being only a small brown tobacco stain, they normally ended up smooshed, mutilated or just plain suffocated from the lack of holes punched into the tin top of their glass jar prison.

Rusted cans, broken bottles, brown twisted iron-piping protruding from a piece of cinder block presented some small hazards in the meadow. Sticks. Stones. The coiled innards of what was once a mattress now adorned and overtaken with thick grass and a patch of giant sunflowers presented more. We children expertly maneuvered those.  The green, uncultivated, luxury of nature overtook any sense of the hazards.

There was enough grassy wonder in this one-eighth mile square patch of razed buildings to make it our meadow. We went into it and played for hours on end. We thought we’d captured all the bees and all the grasshoppers there ever were. And yet there were always more tomorrow.

I wasted away long summer hours in this lovely place; with bunches of friends or alone it didn’t matter. I could play in the meadow from sun up to dusk. Occupied in my very active imagination, I filled the hours with make-believe tales on some days. On most others, I worked dutifully at hunting and catching insects. I concentrated on my work. Standing as still as a seven year old could possibly stand while I eyed the whereabouts of the next specimen to occupy my glass jar.

I worked expertly with my insect catching tools. A small 8 ounce jar for the apprehension and a huge glass gallon jar for the collection, for which I had very diligently waited at the diner around the corner, until it was emptied of dill pickles. It took weeks for the waitress there to give in to my daily querying as to how much longer she thought it would be before I could get it. Finally she just emptied what was left of the half-full gallon pickle jar into some other container, gave me the jar and begged me not to come back. I happily left, glass gallon jar in hand, still smelling heavily of dill pickle. I had to be very careful. It was almost as big as me and so fragile...but it was perfect to house my collection, especially after it had been thoroughly soaped and rinsed of the pickle smell by my big sister and fitted with a little dirt and some grass to make it a more suitable home for my catch.

One beautiful, warm summer morning as I went about my pleasure I noticed a man. He came out of his kitchen door onto his back porch which was situated atop a long, steeply-laid column of graying wooden steps. I only glanced up to see him, as I had been keenly sneaking up on a hovering black bumble bee. I missed it. That short glance away had given my prey a chance to escape. I let out the breath I had been holding and stood upright again. This time I looked up at the man. He waved a cheery hello to me. I smiled and waved back and he turned back into his house.

I decided to take a break from my hunting and sat down on a rocky, bee-less patch of ground. I sat worrying the bees in my catcher jar. Violently shaking the jar and making them so angry that they vowed to get out somehow and pay me back for this. I thought it was just about time to transfer my catch into the big jar and started to rise when he caught my eye again. The man had returned to his door. He didn’t step out onto the porch as before. But he stood there and stared at me very deliberately. I stared back and started to smile again. I noticed he had changed his clothing. Before he had been wearing a shirt and pants and belt. Funny, I thought, now he was wearing a robe of some sort. It must have been only seconds but it seemed the man and I held our gaze for minutes. And then he very casually untied the belt of his robe and slowly opened it wide.

I didn’t move an inch. I sat there and stared at him. I didn’t feel startled or afraid or anything except absolutely curious. He was completely naked. And he stood there motionless and expressionless, just looking at me. I took in the entire picture of his body. His slightly balding head of shiny, black hair. His pencil-thin mustache. His yellow-colored skin. His complete lack of genitalia.

Now I moved. But only my head tilted slightly to one side in wonder. The man closed his robe just as slowly as he had opened it and backed into his house, closing the door soundlessly. I sat there staring a few seconds more, when my buzzing, captured prisoners startled me back. I stood up and looked around. Had anyone else seen this? I slowly turned a full circle glancing from door to door of the houses bordering the meadow. I checked, looking at every single one of the windows surrounding me, to see if anyone besides me had witnessed this strange thing. Not a soul. I left for home.

I told no one whom I should have about my experience. I sought out my best friend and shared it with her through nervous giggles. We hatched a plan to witness this phenomenon together.

The very next day my friend and I headed for the meadow. We were even armed with props to ensure we looked convincingly enough like two harmless insect hunters instead of two eager voyeurs. There was no fear between us. It never dawned on us that there was anything to fear. There was only the adventurous and innocently ignorant curiosity of youth. I had given the story to my friend in such a magnificent relay of sheer unbelievability that she just had to see it for herself. And I was just as eager to be her guide. And also, I wanted her to verify what I had not seen.

We made our entrance to the meadow that morning being very careful not to be conspicuous to our goal. We were so good at it that we even soon forgot the main reason we had come and began to be diverted by other things.

We climbed and jumped. Chased each other with huge grasshoppers in hand, threatening to apply their stinky tobacco to each other’s skin. We checked for the millionth time to see if we liked butter by holding up dandelions under each other’s chins. Then we finally settled down to some collecting, she at one side of the meadow and me on another, when I looked up and there he was.

He didn’t wave, but he looked at me. I turned to find my friend. I called to her without masking the fact that I wanted her to look this way. She looked right at the man and he turned back and into his house without any haste, but rather casually.

My friend and I looked at each other with eyes full of mischief; as if we were in some way guilty of something, but not willing to stop. We closed the gap between us and exchanged ideas. I confirmed that indeed it was the man and she expressed her doubt that I’d seen any of what I’d told her. But I did, I promised her.

We still had our heads together when he reappeared in his door. He was in his robe again. We looked up to see him there and grabbed for each other’s hand. I looked around the meadow to see if anyone else would witness what I was certain we were about to see.

Just as before, except now, before two little girls, the man untied the belt and pulled open his robe. I put my arm around my friend’s shoulder and we stood there still, staring at his naked body like patrons in a museum admiring a painting. We said nothing.

When he apparently had had his fill of whatever he called what he was doing, he slowly closed his robe and turned away from us back into his house. We ran from the meadow.

We discussed the whole thing with our larger horde of friends. We went en masse to the meadow, but to no avail; it being impossible for all fifteen of us to act as though we weren’t there for the express purpose of seeing the naked man.

We all got together to discuss our eight, nine and ten-year-old theories on what had happened to me and my friend. And more importantly...the curious case of the missing penis.

We even identified the man as the father of one of our acquaintances; and somehow, by the grace of God, we did not turn that knowledge into the often heard of cruel jeers of mischievous children. Instead, we somehow managed to feel the pity and sorrow that normally escapes groups of children of our age, and said nothing; but kept it between us.

What relief we felt the day we saw an ambulance with flashing red lights in front of that little girl’s house. As we gathered around with the rest of the nosey spectators, the man emerged-- from his front door this time-- arms wrapped tight in a white contraption and being led away by two large men in hospital uniforms.

I returned to the meadow day after day whenever I pleased. Nothing about that absurdly odd series of events seemed to change a thing. It remained our own place to hunt insects, imagine great adventures and play until sundown. We weren’t any more cautious than we’d ever been. For me, the next worse thing that happened in our meadow...was the day I broke my glass gallon pickle jar...filled to capacity with bees.

Okay. You may not believe my story but, nevertheless, I must tell this. It was late last Thursday evening around 7:40 pm. I thought I would drive past the salon where I usually get my nails done. I only go once a month. I can keep a manicure looking good for quite a while. And anyway, who can afford to go every week or two these days? Must adjust the budget you know. The manicurists are normally pretty nice. They’re Korean men and women.

          The minute you walk in the door someone shouts out, “Hello! Can we help you?” Then you tell them you want a fill-in or a complete set; a pedicure...whatever it is you came for. Then they usually tell you to pick out your polish color and sit you right down. It’s all very friendly. But, come on...tell the truth...don’t you sometimes just wish you knew what they were saying when the manicurists all start speaking to each other in Korean?

         If you’re not careful you can let your imagination or paranoia or whatever you want to call it – get pretty carried away thinking of what they could possibly be talking about. Whomever it is that’s working on your hands or feet suddenly says something and another of them, maybe way down at the other end of the salon, answers and they all start laughing and you’re thinking, “Did he just say something about my Mama?” “Are they laughing at me?” It’s crazy. I know. But tell the truth.

        Anyway, this particular night there weren’t many patrons left in the place. I just slipped in and I thought I was lucky to get in because they would be closing shortly. Some of the workers were already sweeping and cleaning up the pedicure stations and there were only four other women at the manicure tables when I sat down.

         Now, I don’t know, but it seemed to me that when I came in a couple of the ladies who work there made kind of exasperated faces; like perhaps they were tired and were ready to be done with all this day’s drudgery. After all it was late and then here I come.

        “Wuh yu wan?” the guy who always seemed to me to be the “head dude” asked me.

         “Full set, please” I answered him. Then, of course, that set off a flurry of Korean talk between all nine of them and I’m thinking Does every one of them have to way in on this?

        “Sit heyah,” one of the women ordered me, gesturing toward a station near the back. It always seems like I’m being ordered around when I go in there. Sit here. Go wash hands. You pay now. And I understand it’s not that, it’s just...well...you know.

        The lady starts by giving me a wonderful hand massage. Boy did it feel wonderful. I didn’t ask for a hand massage but I was getting one and I knew I was going to pay for it. I shut my eyes and tried to relax.

She very softly announced a few words in Korean and a couple of the others seemed to snicker at whatever she said. I opened my eyes and looked at her and she gave me one of those patronizing smiles. I closed my eyes again and she said something else. Another lady who just suddenly appeared behind me cooed a very melodic phrase that contained about ten words and I strained all my muscles to keep my eyes closed and not jerk around to look at her.

        Hey, how about not sneaking up behind me like a Ninja please. I didn’t say.

        My manicurist took out a pair of claw tweezers and began to work at removing my old acrylic. She was very rough. I tried to suck it up, but at one point I gave her a subtle clue that it was hurting.

        “OW!”

        “Ahhh sawdree,” she said to me. And someone else said something in Korean and she answered them in Korean with a ten second sentence.

        That was when I thought... I would give ANYTHING to understand what they are saying right now. I shifted in my seat a little, as much as I could without disturbing my hand. I didn’t want to piss off my little manicurist.

         She looked up at me and asked, “U wan eyebrows done?”

        “Yes, thank you,” I answered. I always let them clean up my eyebrows. Not too thin. Just make them neat. Man, they could be vicious with that hot wax. Where’s that little lady? I thought. She always does a great job. I don’t know about this one.

        Then she looked up again and put her finger across her top lip like a mustache. “Wax?”

        “No, thank you.”

         “You need,” She answered, frowning.

        “No. No wax.” I don’t need no damned wax.

        Just at that moment, my ears starting ringing. I felt like they stopped up. You know, like at high altitudes and you have to chew some gum to make them pop open again? I opened my mouth wide and rotated my jaws and stretched my neck from side to side in an effort to pop my ears clear. I must have looked like I was having a stroke. My manicurist said something in Korean and a couple of the others around us giggled and answered her with a barrage of short choppy phrases. To me it all sounded like I was in a tunnel...and then... POP!

        Whew. Okay. I thought. That’s better. And then…

        What’s wrong with that one?

        I don’t know. Maybe she losing her damn mind.

        Well, make sure you get the money first.

        Ah ha ha ha ha ha

        I looked at my manicurist with a raised eyebrow. She looked up and smiled. Then she rattled off another Korean soliloquy, which cued her co-workers.

        She looking at me like she got an attitude.

        Well she can be the one tonight if she does.

        Not her.

        Why not?

         Cheap bitch. She never tip.

        She tip me. She don’t like you.

        I don’t like her either.

        I pulled in my chin and shifted my eyes from one side to the other and back again.

        Are they... Did I?

        Be quiet. We already selected one. No change.

        Oh my lord. Can I...? I can understand them.

        I fought with all I had to hold back a grin. I pressed my lips together. I bit the inside of my jaw.

        I must be imagining this.

        I slowly turned my head to the woman who spoke last, then I turned away to look down inconspicuously into my lap. Mustn’t let them know that I’m understanding them.

         Am I losing my mind?

        She act like she knows what we’re saying. My manicurists said.

        No way. She can hardly speak her own language.

         (Laughter, laughter)

        I tried to steady my breathing. One of the other patrons sitting two stations down from me look at me and smiled. I returned a weak smile which probably looked more like a nauseous grimace. I was certain my eyes must look crazy. The only way to keep anyone from seeing my eyes dart around in their sockets was to close them. I did.

        My manicurist put on a facemask and searched in the drawer beside her for some attachment. The Head Dude was now at the credit card machine settling up with two of the last three other patrons in the salon.

        “Okay, Okay. See you in two weeks. Two weeks.” He told them smiling and nodding up and down. The door made that ding dong sound as the two ladies escaped... I mean left.

        Looks like Nyugen’s got our candidate tonight. He turned and announced to the others.

        My lady not finished. I can stretch it out a little more. The manicurist working on the lady who just smiled at me said.

         No, no. It look suspicious. One of them somewhere behind me answered sharply.

        What are they talking about? I can understand what they’re saying, but now I don’t understand what they’re saying. Huh. That was funny. I let out a small chuckle at that. Oh well. I’ll just sit here and get the scoop.

        I felt so damned superior. More superior than I usually feel when I go there.

        They think they’re so smart. I’m getting everything they say.

         I was bobbing my head up and down and giving myself a silent little high five. Their words were coming out in Korean and I was hearing that; but right behind it, like a canyon echo, I heard the English translation. It was like reading a comic book word bubble in my head. The translated words coming in slightly seconds after their Korean words, yet finishing at the exact same moment. They talked more.

        No one said any more about me, just yet. They were discussing personal stuff. One woman is divorcing her husband because he doesn’t come home anymore. She just wanted to know what she would do with his mother, who lives with them, whom she hates.

        One of them asked the Head Dude if he needed someone to pick him up from the airport when he returned from California. No. He would take a shuttle from Atlanta to home. Already arranged it.

        Lock door after this one. A chunky little woman with a stark, high pitched voice commanded.

         My co-patron was getting ready to leave. Her manicurist came around the table and picked up her pocketbook, keys and cell phone and placed them on her arm and in her hands carefully avoiding her newly dried nails.

         I turned to watch her leave.

        “Have a nice evening,” she said to me.

         “Bye,” I answered her.

         I looked around at each of the workers. Each one of them seemed to be engaged in wrapping things up for the evening as they continued to talk.

        Okay, it’s her then.

        Okay.

        Door locked?

        Yes.

        Turn off the sign too.

        I did already.

        Four of the women finished what they were doing and came to stand around me and my lady. They watched her like students. I watched her now too. She was really skilled at this. My gelled nails were coming together beautifully. I admired the work as she grinded down the nail of each finger with meticulous precision.

        “Nice,” I told her.

        Awww. Someone to my right said. That was sweet of her to say.

         Yeah. Too bad.

         My lady just nodded at me and smiled with her eyes. She finally finished the grinding and shaping.

        “Go wash.” She commanded me. I dutifully got up and went over to the sinks. I adjusted the always too hot water and pumped some of the bright pink soap into my hands.

        Ewe my hands are dirty, I thought and washed them thoroughly again. This time I took one of the nail bushes to my fingers too.

        What’s she doing? Taking a bath?

         I don’t know

        She needs to hurry.

         Really. We have to clean up and everything.

         Must we do this tonight?

        Yes.

        It’s the 15^th day. You know we have to.

        I looked into the mirror and behind me. I felt like I caught them all looking at me, but now they were all engaged in some other activity. I must have imagined that.

        What is this they’re discussing? They must be about to engage in some native ceremony. That’s why they seem so anxious to get me out of here.

        I went back to my chair. My lady started with the buffing and shining.

        “My, my that’s looking very pretty,” I told her.

        She nodded.

        “You like?” Another man, not the Head Dude asked me.

        “Yes,” I answered.

        “Is good.” He said. “You get wax.” He made the mustache gesture.

        “No. No thank you. Eyebrows,” I said.

        What you asking her that for?  A young girl snapped at him in Korean.

        More money. I told you. Always add on.

        Well what difference will it make with this one?  She asked

        Oh yeah.  He said back to her.

        Actually, I must not have gotten the full translation of that, because he must have rattled off twenty words. But my new translator only gave me “Oh yeah.”

        Well, finally my nails were done. And boy, were they nice. I stood up and stretched. The second man came over and picked up my purse and my cell phone for me. I headed for the back following him and his orders  “Come, come.”

        I followed him toward the back of the salon and through the curtain that separated the two spaces. I sat down in the chair they had set up there.  It was like a barber’s chair. I leaned back and braced myself for the hot wax.  I suppose that waxing is a more efficient way of removing unwanted eyebrow hair than plucking. He took the tongue-depressor-like applicator and spread a piping hot glob of hot wax across my right eyebrow.  Actually, that didn’t hurt so much.  Especially in comparison to the feeling that comes but a few seconds after.  He gently smoothed a strip of linen over the area and then, YEOW!  He ripped it away.

        I ain’t mad at him. But I do wish he wouldn’t lean all over me so much in the carrying out of this torture.

        I grimaced  and took it like a trooper.    Just the left side and I can get out of this damn place. Translation and all. This certainly has been an  interesting night, I thought. I know I haven’t been imagining any of this. I have been understanding what’s been said. I mean ...stranger things have happened. Not to me, but I’ve heard of stranger things.

        Anyway...I’m bracing myself, eyes closed and waiting for the next voluntarily, self-submitted-to torture, when someone says...

        Do it now.

        Now.

        Now.

        Now.

        Now.  They all said one after the other.

        I felt a dull nudge just below my left ear and then a sharp pinch followed by what felt like something dragging against the outside of my throat.  I had an overwhelming urge to gulp.  And then my ears popped again. I went to jerk forward, feeling like I would choke if  I didn’t sit up. But my effort didn’t move me at all. My eyes flew open. To my right the Head Dude was standing beside me now. He smiled at me. He was resting his hand on my shoulder as he leaned down a little to pump at the lever on the side of the barber chair.  It slowly raised me to a sitting position.  My ears were ringing.

        What are they all doing in here? I thought. What are you all looking at?

        They were talking now. I could see that they were exchanging words. Korean or otherwise, I seemed not to be able to hear a thing,  save for a high pitched sort of electronic squealing in my head.  It was dizzying. I looked from face to face. No patronizing smiles. No smiles.

        What the...?

        I looked down at my lap. I could feel a sort of muffled crunch when I did that.

        What is this in my lap? Is...is that blood?

        Mechanically, I raised my hand to my neck.  The hot, gooey, liquid covered my hand immediately.  I looked at my hand.

        Oh that is red.

        I opened my mouth to ask a question. Only gurgling came out.

        Was that me? I looked up at Head Dude beside me.  He switched the dripping, serrated blade to his other hand and patted my head.

        “Close eyes,” He commanded gently.

...I think what I mean is the knowledge that it is okay to feel differently than the pack. That that is a fundamental right. That it's okay to disagree. It's better to be able to disagree and have a dialogue, than to go along with the pack and be truly unhappy.

Whoopi Goldberg

Are these dinosaurs still around?  I thought we killed off these women when we saw them in Black…you remember…Waiting to Exhale?

The characters were either pathetic, needy, ridiculous, unrealistic, spastic, dishonest or some combination of the above.

 I don’t see why they try to play JUSTIN LONG up as some hot guy…he’s not really that good looking. 

 BRADLEY COOPER, on the other hand is GORGEOUS. But his character ends up being pretty low in the way that he treats his wife.   ALTHOUGH AGAIN…the wife, played by JENNIFER CONNOLLY, seemed to be right on the edge of requiring an emergency Prozac transfusion. She was so bitchy and spastic that I could see how it became easy for him to fall into the arms of the beautiful SCARLETT JOHANNSON.

 Her character is a HO.

She goes after a married man with no apparent thought that it might be…uh, let me see, oh yeah…WRONG. Then she has the audacity to take offense after she’s  pushed into a closet half-naked when the wife “interrupts” a little sexual interlude…IN HIS OFFICE

KEVIN CONNOLY is a sexy little thing…isn’t he. I think his voice is what does it.  Anyway…his character doesn’t do anything too bad…just fallen for the wrong girl.

There’s a plethora of gay guys all over to dispense their unabashed wisdom to everyone.  DREW BARRYMORE'S character works at BLADE, a gay magazine. So there’s always that easy laugh at their over-the-top reactions to stuff.   No stretch there.

They even threw in a crusty KRIS KRISTOFFERSON as ANNISTONS's father--for what I don't know.   He’s better in BLADE (not the gay magazine…the vampire thing).

Where have these women been for the past 14 years? The only recognizable tidbit of healthy self-esteem (in ANNISTON’s character) was overrun, whited-out and rendered unimportant by the barrage of ridiculousness of the other female characters.

I say if you know a woman like GINNIFER GOODWIN’s character…slap her.

Not the “chick-flick” I usually love.  Not that it was corny.  I LOVE corny.   I love to laugh and coo and ahhh.  Silly romance movies.  LOVE 'EM.  

But this.   I guess I just couldn’t get by these women’s lack of…growth.  Save for ANNISTON, I didn't recognize any of these women....THANK GOD.

The best character in the movie...the city of BALTIMORE! Loved seeing the row-houses and the marble steps. And I could have gotten a travel brochure to see that.

Imagination is such a horrible thing.

It makes you discontent when you should be happy.

It makes your heart wander and your eyes dim to the light surrounding you;

Question the perfectly quo status.

    Squint, roll your eyes, purse your lips and suck your teeth

             at what actually is.

Stop it, stop it mind.

Be quiet now.  It's not real.

Cease this useless wander lust.

It cannot be touched or held.

It fulfills only a moment.

A dizzying, swirling moment of fantasy;

Letting you escape.

Young again, rich, free, thin.

The object of some Adonis's obsession.

The taboo.

The very wrong thing to do.

But you are here...aren't you?

Imagination is a beautiful thing.

Helping you breath;

Relieving the pressure of real just for a moment.

A blessed inner excursion experienced in a nether field.

Not quite real, but true.

You cannot stay here.

 It's too strong.

It may keep you against your will;

Force your soul - the emotion realm - to stretch too far.

Exert a sway over your consciousness.

With the sweetness and the smells and the feelings...

Why come back now?

Let me go.

Imagination is a horrible thing.

My Mom and Dad would get into these arguments. I’m not remembering any specific subject. Nothing fantastic, just your normal married with children kind of stuff. But the thing I remember with much laughter is that they would always end up with the same hilarious banter.

        Mom would say, “Well you can get your flag and your bag and you can get out, just like you came in here.”

         See this was my step Dad and he came to live with us around 1965 when I was 9-years-old.   We were all so in love with him.  He was the most wonderful man. 

         So then Daddy would say, “I’ll get my flag and my bag.”

        And Mom would say, “Get your flag and your bag then.”

        And Daddy would say, “I’m gonna get my flag and my bag.”

        Mom, "Then go get it."

        Dad,  "I'ma get it now."

        Mom, "Well, get the flag and the bag and get to steppin.'"

        And this would go on for what seemed like an incredible amount of time for two people to be saying the same thing over and over.  Just different variations on “get the flag and the bag”.

        Well, I never knew what in the world they were talking about.  That must be some kind of old person slang, I thought.   This “flag and bag” scenario would come up even if they were having a “play” argument. You could bet money on it.

         One day I was visiting from New York.  It was the year after my sweet Dad has passed away.   I happened to be going down into the basement and I glanced up in the little cubby hole space above the stairs as I was descending.   What did I see back there, all quiet and dusty, but an old, large, brown well-worn leather suitcase.  And what lay on top of that? A folded U.S. flag. I stopped in my tracks and shook my head with laughter. “Mom!” I called out. “Who’s flag is this?”

        “That’s your father’s,” she called back.  It all came back to me.

Seems when Daddy came to live with us, all he brought with him from his own house across town was his brown suitcase and the flag that had been draped across his own father’s casket at his burial.

         His flag and his bag.  Hmmph, he left it.

Caged and trapped in my own boundaries.

Blocked in and stifled by my too keen awareness of right and wrong.

Knowing full well that my right and wrong is right and wrong.

Incapable of slipping past the lessons I’ve learned so well.

They cannot be ignored.

Why is freedom so dangerous?

Boundlessness such a malady?

Why can’t my heart be satisfied with propriety?

It all seems so stilting.

Restraining my nature to play.

I have no real reputation to protect.

What is the point of constant denial?

The inner man constantly straining against the bands.

They stretch only so far enough as to tease;

Then snap me backward from genuine desire.

A desire to be seen, to be known, heard.

A character flaw.

Simply to undress and not care;

Not consider consequences, ramifications, effects, affects.

I dare not even write in my own name.

Shielded by pseudonym, still afraid.

What will they think?

All the “theys.”

How did “they” ever become so powerful?

Powerful enough to make me self-anesthetize.

When will I be free of "they"?

Will I ever?

What exactly is it that I cannot do and why can’t I do it?

So that’s why I devour the tales,

And consume the story.

Fantasy, romance, thriller, shocker, mystery, yarn.

Escape from my own encapsulated existence.

Breathing through the holes in the box.

I will break out soon and no one will stop me.

When someone finally lets me.

What a pleasant surprise.  

I only became interested in TWILIGHT when I was channel-surfing and E or Entertainment Tonight was talking about all the "frenzy" surrounding this movie about to debut.   I giggled at the teenaged girls and all their unbridled enthusiasm and anticipation.  

"Here we go again," I thought.   Another vampire thing.  What the heck is up with that anyway?  Everything is vampires right now.  I don't like HBO's TRUE BLOOD at all.  I think that the two main female characters are silly and contrived.   AND THOSE ACCENTS!  Where are they supposed to be from again?....Mars?  Anyway.

I have to admit that I haven't given them much of a chance.  I was so turned off by the premiere episode that I made up my mind very quickly that this would not be one of the shows I'd follow.  It struck me as being very, very close to straight, mindless porn.   Vampire porn, maybe...but just porn.  

So, back to TWILIGHT.  After being so amused by the hoopla which I saw arising around the film just a week before it's debut,  I happened to be in my neighborhood Krogers when I went down the books and magazine aisle.   Whaddayaknow.  Here's that book TWILIGHT, and only $4.79 with my little Krogers rewards thingy that's attached to my key chain. 

I purchased the book and started reading it that night.  Finished it the next morning.  It was a fun read.  I enjoyed it.  I loved the characters.  The writing drew me in and I didn't want to put it down.   I really wanted more, but convinced myself that I would not go out and by the next installment.   Why not?  Well, I felt a little guilty after giggling at the teeny-boppers and here I am 100  years old and really getting into it too. 

Too bad though, because I was determined to see the movie.  I also made the mistake of going online to see what was there.   OMG...the Edward character is a sexy little thing.  (Down cougar, down)

The movie was very entertaining.  Not nearly as entertaining as the book, but isn't that always the way?

Beautiful cinematography.  Beautiful people.  I did wish that the characters were closer to the pictures I developed in my mind while reading the book.  Of course, everyone makes their own pictures. 

I wanted to see Edward a lot more neatly dressed.   The book made me see him as a little more GQ-Junior.  I wanted Dr. Cullen to be taller.   Silly, I know.                   

I pictured the scene where James caught the whiff of Bella's scent  that they were further away from each other.  I pictured that when Edward was transformed in the sunlight there would be more of an "aura" of the sparkling around him.

All these are little things that would mean something only if you've read the book.   Something else you get from the book which the movie didn't take time to develop is the span of time and Bella's thought processes in accepting the fact of what Edward and his family are.   When, in the movie, she went to his home I was thinking..."Why would a young girl take that risk? They could have just  decided to make a family meal of her."  The book builds up to this a lot more reasonably - if there is any such thing as a reason to accept a vampire as your boyfriend and go to his home for dinner with his vampire-folks.

Overall,  a juicy, indulgent, little diversion - which I am more prone to do at this point in my life.  I had fun reading it.  I had fun watching it.   I had fun in the theatre listening to the comments of the kids.  They laughed in the right parts - I think.   The girls ooed and awed whenever the male characters made their first appearances on screen -  something that I really wanted to do too, but only smiled knowingly.   AND...they clapped at the end, which is something I rarely hear nowadays at the movies.   Nice.

I have these people living at my house and, for the life of me, I don't know why they're here. Right now and right frequently I don't like them. I have to believe that someday my emotional, monetary and physical investment in these individuals will pay off - some way, somehow; but for now, God knows that I'm operating purely on faith.

It's my children. About twenty years ago I voluntarily cultivated seeds and then carried those seeds in my body. Well, the "carried those seeds in my body" part was not voluntary, but that's the way humans do it, so I didn't have a choice. I had this tight, smooth, girly, sexy figure and I stretched...well "they" stretched it. Not just my beautiful, flat smooth stomach- my whole body. My butt has decorative lines on it now.

My stomach is not good either. I think that my mother may have sent her stomach back to me when once I was missing her and I cried out and prayed saying "Oh, that I could still have some little piece of my Moma." So I got her stomach and her butt.

Anyway, now they're here. One is twenty, one is nineteen and one is seventeen and I am three hundred and eight because once you have children you begin to age 7 to 1. Like a dog.

It's all such a fog. Once they were sweet, adorable little cherubs who loved me, adored me and hung on my every syllable and then all of a sudden they were...who they are now. Neither sweet, nor adorable and they certainly don't hang on my syllables anymore. As a matter of fact my voice to them is like a dog whistle or some kind of kryptonite which they cannot stand to hear.

The seventeen-year-old is a female. How can life be so unfair? (Sorry feminist.) But we all know that there is nothing more dreaded on this earth than a seventeen-year-old female ...at PROM TIME.

I spent four increasingly, agonizing months building up to this one evening, all the while contemplating ways to kill her.  I mean prison can't be all that bad by comparison. Lot's of people go there. PROM must be short for "PROMise me that you'll get married and leave home next year...and you'll elope."

Okay, this person started with a list that totaled $2500 and that was before she snagged that high-paying "position" at McDonalds. Then she gave me the list with a sweet little smile-- one that she was able to rummage up from the old days when she was an adorable little two-year-old. How sneaky.

From that point she began a military-style, psychological warfare campaign of wearing me down ‘til my nerves couldn't fit on the head of a pin.

"When are we going to buy my dress?" "When should I make my hair appointment?" "Are you going to pay for me to have my toes done?" "Is Daddy going to give me spending money?" "Can we go to the mall in Atlanta?" "Do you think we're waiting too late to go look for my dress?" "How should I wear my hair?"

I don't kill her as I had planned because I cannot think of a good enough lie to fool her father, who will ask me where she is if he doesn't see her five minutes after he enters the house; and we actually go shopping for "THE DRESS."

Now it's my job to keep from attacking her as she publicly insults me by gasping and rolling her eyes up into the back of her head every single time I pull out a dress and ask, "How about this one?" To which she answers, "Oh my GAWD MOM! NO. That is SO ugly!" Or the ever popular..."That's OLD. It might be good for YOU."

I and three other mothers in the store huddle behind a rack of dresses and share notes on how we hate our teenage daughters until one of them shrieks out "MOM, would you please bring me this in a size TWOOOOOOOO!" We mothers all look at each other squinting and rolling our eyes in a kind of group hatred thing. Both because we can't stand our offspring and because they wear size two.

Next we go for the shoes and that safari takes us over six malls in three neighboring cities, plus two crying jags because "We'll never find the right shoes!" and "Oh my Gawd Mom, IS THAT ANOTHER PIMPLE!"

We stop by Shenika's house to see her dress and I barely bring the car to a full stop when Shenika's mother burst out of her front door. We fall into each other's arms sobbing with self-pity. We try to comfort one another.

"When will it be over?" she sobs.

"I don't know Debbie. I-just-don't-know," I sob back.

"Hold on, sister." She shakes me by my shoulders.

"I'm trying Debbie, but I don't know...I think I'll have to kill her."

"NO!" Debbie slaps me across the face. "No Rhonda NO!"

"Thanks. I needed that."

"Let us pray." We join hands right there in the front yard and ask God for strength.

Prom day is here. Adrenaline is pumping. I put on a little black shirt-waist dress that buttons down front, with a frilly white satin collar and a little white hat; black support hose and flat Dr. Shoals nurse's shoes. I complete my ensemble with a lacey white apron that has the letters "PS" embroidered on the pocket. That stands for "personal servant"...or "Prom slave"...or "please stop."

I have become Phoebe, the valet. I draw bathes. I wash backs. I carry towels. I dry. I set up lotions, makeup, hair accessories. I light candles. I zip. I stand by and wait, just in case there's anything else. Then, finally, I'm dismissed and it's a very good thing; because I can no longer resist the urge to choke something. I know that if I hear that teeth-sucking sound and that blowing out of excess air that comes right behind it... I'll choke her.

I collapse, emotionally exhausted, into my favorite chair and only seconds pass before the doorbell rings and it's "the Boy."

I roll my eyes because I hate his mother. Oh, she's a lovely woman, but I know that she's had a relatively carefree time with him. Perhaps she's even had an enjoyable time getting him all cleaned up for this grand occasion in comparison to my on-going nightmare.

Like the vision of Glinda, the good witch descending into the Land of Oz, my little Broom Hilda floats down the hallway and into the living room as though surrounded by a shimmering light. You know, like the way they used to film Doris Day in that diffused lighting? My baby girl is all dressed up in her wonderful gown. Everything is just perfect; and, most importantly, there's a calm look on her face.

Pictures, pictures, pictures and they're out the door.

In slow motion I slip down into my comfy, overstuffed chair. Listen... It's quiet.

I pick up the remote and just as I'm about to lean back and relax...the door burst open and here she is gliding over to me in her beautiful gown, with her beautiful hair and her beautiful face and she falls on me...and hugs me, and kisses me and says "Thanks Mom," and floats out again.

Who was that beautiful, young woman? And what has she done with my daughter?

 Post Script - That story was inspired and written almost ten years ago.  My beautiful daughter is currently a Non-Commissioned Officer in the 173rd Airborne Brigade, stationed in Germany.