just don’t tell me to clean my room

When there is no one or no thing making demands on your time, you come to learn some stuff about yourself.
Some of this stuff is revelatory. Some ain’t so pretty.

For one, I’ve learned that I am quite happy to relinquish my financial responsibility. This is significant because, for the past few years, I’ve made all the money. I paid all the bills. For a while, I gave my husband an allowance because, god love him, he seemed to have little concept of how every time he used his debit card, actual cash money left our account. But he was in college full time and I was willing to suffer the daily grind for the greater good.

Well, I was willing to suffer right up until the moment when my will shattered like a plate glass window and I backed out of my job waiving a jagged shard in front of me, daring anyone to make me stay.  I was so happy I quit that I didn’t even care where we would find the money to live. I let it go. Gave it up to the universe and giggled like an idiot while suckling from the spout on my last box of wine.

As life plans go, it wasn’t the most well thought out, but someone up there must have been smiling down on my drunken, manic self.  A week after I quit, my husband got a job. A good job with benefits in the field that he was going to school for. He is now the bread-winner and I am the one staying at home, getting the allowance.  Suits me just fine.  Just don’t call me a house wife. I will cut you.

I’ve also learned that, if left to my own devices, I prefer to stay awake until about three in the morning and sleep until noonish. I’ve never been a morning person, so now I choose to just by-pass morning all together. This arrangement has also reaffirmed my belief that cereal is a perfectly acceptable meal at any hour of the day or night.

So, I’m an irresponsible slacker who stays up until all hours and makes questionable nutritional choices.

Yes, dear readers, I am a teenager.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a box of frosted mini-wheats in the cupboard calling my name.

this is my yellow wood

I hardly know where to begin. Usually, one would say, “begin at the beginning,” but I believe the curtain opened on this tale over two years ago. I doubt any of you want to sit through a story that goes on for that long, even if I did provide snacks and potty breaks.

So, I’ll begin at the end, which as we all know is just another beginning.

I quit my job.

Or maybe I was fired. The details are still a bit hazy at this point, but it doesn’t really matter. The bottom line is that I am voluntarily unemployed.

Mentally, I checked out at my job months ago. Day after day, I would sit at my desk and try to will myself to do what I was paid to be doing, but my brain refused to engage. My co-workers would be buzzing around me while I sat there motionless. For eight hours a day, I was an empty husk of a person warming a chair. Work piled up around me and I couldn’t even muster up the energy to care. I do feel bad about that. I know people are cursing my name right now as they clean up the mess I left behind. As much as that pains me to think about, I know that my leaving was the right decision.

I now know perfectly well what people mean when they say, “I hit a wall.” I didn’t just hit it, I ran full throttle into it and was knocked unconscious.
No, that’s not right.
I was knocked fully aware.

I may not know exactly what I am going to do, but I know exactly what I absolutely can not do any longer. That’s half the battle, isn’t it?

Currently, I am vacillating wildly between manic glee and heart-stopping terror. But at least I am feeling something. I was a zombie sitting at a desk for so long that any emotion is welcome at this point.

My plans?

Well, I’ll need to find some source of income seeing as how I was the sole bread-winner in my family (did I fail to mention that my husband is still in school and doesn’t have a job? yeah, that’s where some of the terror I’m feeling is coming from). First and foremost, though, I will write. I will finish my novel. I will see my dream finally actualized (that’s the manic glee part).

Wish me luck?

 

it’s like “Where’s Waldo” only way easier

I’ve been neglecting my little corner of the Internet. I have many good, solid, reasonable excuses, but you don’t want to hear all that and I’m too busy to type them all out anyway.

But, I have been up to stuff. Some of it quite fun.

First of all, I was chosen by the wise and lovely Hippie Cahier to partake in a little venture she started called The Oma Today Project.  I got to play host to a cute, gray robot and post about his adventures. Check it out! Tell your friends! And sign up to host The Oma yourself!

Second, the publisher I am interning for, Musa, asked me to contribute a post to their blog. And it’s all about my favorite subject: Me! So, if you’d like to read about my attempts to tackle crushing insecurity and my fear of babies then clicky here.

Between my part-time gig being an editing intern and trying to write my novel about pan-dimensional monsters, I will not have much time to post new stuff here.  However, I do promise to continue my Robot-A-Month posts. I enjoy them too much to let them languish un-assembled with their story untold.

 

just some stuff i did

Hi! How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. You look good. Is that a new haircut? It suits you.

I had all these grand intentions for the new year.  After my brief hiatus at the end of 2011, I was going to come back strong.  Regular posts, thoughtful yet entertaining content, and general awesomeness.  I was also going to make sure that I read every blog that I follow (which is a metric crap-ton, let me tell ya) and leave encouraging, well-thought out comments on each post.  In short, I was going to climb out on the prow of this luxury liner that is blog-land, spread my arms and shout, “I AM KING OF THE WORLD!”

I thought that I heard a humorless laugh, the drum of fingers on a tabletop. But I ignored it.

Big mistake.

That was The Universe, scoffing at my hubris. Right before it punched me in the gut.

Now, this isn’t an excuse (okay, it kinda is), but it is the best explanation I have for my slackassitude.

That’s not to say that I haven’t been doing stuff.  Cause I have.  I can prove it!

For a few months now, I’ve been reading Terribleminds, the blog of author, Chuck Wendig.  I like him.  He’s funny, gives great writing advice and he encourages reader participation on his blog.  In fact, he quoted a comment written by yours truly on one of his posts (it’s at the very end). That was all kinds of cool. (Now, I gotta warn you before you go clicky-clicking over to his site. Chuck has a bit of a potty mouth and by “a bit” I mean Tarantino-esque levels of cursing.  This doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but I know that some are put off by it.)

Anyway, Chuck wrote a book about a woman who can tell how a person is going to die just by touching them.  I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard good things.  As a promotion for the book, he started a tumblr blog called This Is How You Die. He asked people to submit how they hope they are going to die, how they expect to die, or how they are afraid they will die.  Kinda morbid, but right up my alley.

The day before he launched this project, my grandmother died. Because of this, I had a clear picture in my mind of exactly how I DIDN’T want to die. So, I submitted my wish for my death and he posted it. He’s still taking submissions if you’d like to participate.

Also through Chuck’s site, I found out about Bear 71, which is “a documentary and installation about the life and death of a tagged grizzly bear and the surveillance that surrounds this bear. The experience will present at Sundance New Frontier this year — information here.” We were invited to become part of this installation by submitting a three sentence story involving one of eight animals.  Well, I did.  And they posted my story.  And there was much rejoicing (yaaaay).

And, before you start thinking that I’m obsessed with death and dying, I’ve also posted a few new things over on my Retro Fun tumblr blog.

For the past few months, I have also been working as an unpaid intern line editing novels for Musa Publishing. Yeah, whole freakin’ novels. I work 8 hours during the day as a disgruntled insurance agent, then come home and pour through hundreds of electronic pages looking for comma splices and run-on sentences.  It’s challenging work, but it’s also great experience.

Oh, and have the editing I do for my critique group.  And then there is the book I’m trying to write.

So, yeah. I apologize if my blog-life hasn’t been a priority lately.  I’d love to promise that I’ll do better, but I can already hear the dry chuckle of The Universe again.

snatch & grab

So, a couple of months ago I entered a short story I wrote into a flash fiction contest.  And, guess what?

I didn’t win.

These things happen.  I’m over it.  Kinda.

Anyway, I thought I’d post the story here for you fine folks to read.  If you like it, then I consider myself a winner. 

All together now: “Awwwww!“

 

It’s well past midnight when I kill the headlights and turn the van down Cooper Road. Any streetlights still standing have been shot out long ago and the dusty windows of the ramshackle houses are black.

In the passenger seat Charlie points ahead. “Up here, Lucy. On the right.”

I park a few yards from the next corner and cut the engine. Charlie turns in his seat to see Rick and Turbo kneeling on the floor of the van next to the crates. They already have on their gloves and armored leather motorcycle jackets. Like true professionals, their faces reveal nothing, but I’ve run with these guys long enough to know they’re itching to get to work.

Charlie motions out the window. “There’s the path next to the fence. When it ends, the garage will be on the left. The goods are inside.”

The guys nod and Charlie turns his attention to me. “You clear on the escape route?”

I give him a smirk. “You even have to ask?”

Charlie smiles and motions to Rick, who opens the side door of the van and jumps out. Charlie leads the way with the flashlight while Rick and Turbo follow with the crates. I lose sight of them after they make it a few yards up the weed-choked path. I try to keep my breathing slow as I listen and keep an eye out for anyone who might cause trouble.

Less than five minutes pass when high-pitched yips and low barks break the uneasy silence of the night. Sounds like more dogs than we’ve ever come across before. The guys have mace, but hopefully it won’t get that messy. I start up the van and keep my eyes trained on the path.

Rick is the first one back. He lumbers out onto the sidewalk, struggling to keep hold of a crate. I catch a glimpse of two sets of eyes peeking out through the door of the crate just before he slides it into the van and crawls in after. His scruffy, weathered face sports the biggest grin I think I’ve ever seen. He almost looks like a kid.

“Hot damn, Lucy!” he says, clapping his hands. “We got ‘em all!”

I don’t have time to answer cause Charlie and Turbo are already here, loading in the other crate. Two black noses poke through the wire bars of the crate door. Turbo slides the van door closed behind him and Charlie hops into the passenger seat. I put the van in gear and pull away from the curb.

The guys are whooping it up, giving each other high fives, and I hear panting and low whines from the dogs. I concentrate on my route and keep my eyes on the road. I’m careful not to speed, but I don’t take my time either. Two lefts then a right on Mason Drive and I can already see the sign for the highway.

A hand is on my shoulder and I turn to see Charlie smiling at me. “Calm down, Luce,” he tells me. “There wasn’t anyone at the house. No one’s following.”

I ease up on the gas and notice Charlie’s right arm is wrapped around his middle and there’s movement under his jacket. Seeing the question on my face, he dips his left hand into his jacket and pulls out a squirming black and white ball. He places the puppy in my lap and I instinctively cradle the helpless creature while also trying to keep the van on the road. Charlie digs out a second pup and holds him up for me to see.

“Four dogs,” Charlie says. “And these two pups. They hadn’t been fighting long, so I don’t think we’ll have problems socializing them. Should be able to find all of them great homes. Not bad for a night’s work, huh?”

I steer the van back to the warehouse and smile as the puppy nurses on my finger.

 

the box

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, lately.  My give-a-shit is broke and I don’t know how to fix it, but I am trying to deal with it (cause I practice what I preach).  I am usually annoyingly giddy this time of year, but even the approach of Halloween hasn’t improved my mood.  This malaise has infected this here blog and my normally two or three weekly posts have dwindled down to one. 
For that, I apologize. 
But, as is my habit, if I can’t bring the funny, then I will bring the fiction. 
Here is a tiny story I wrote that I can’t see doing anything with (ie. won’t make me any money) so I thought I’d share it with you, dear reader.  It’s kinda creepy, which is in keeping with the season (and most everything else I write). 

The Box

She woke late the next morning to find him sitting on the couch. “Did you stay out here all night? You can’t still be mad, can you?”

He didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the blank television screen.

“Well, I have moved on and I suggest you do the same. I swear, you can be so dramatic.”

She turned and marched to the kitchen. His head rolled onto the floor.

#

The Detective knelt to examine the dried pool of blood in the corner of the hall closet. He followed a dotted trail of red to the living room where a uniformed Officer stood, hands in his pockets, eyes focused on the blood soaked couch.

“The ax was in the closet, the wife’s prints are all over it, but she seemed completely unaware of what happened,” he said to the Officer.

“Yup. She didn’t believe us when we told her that her husband was dead. Outright laughed when we told her how.”

The Detective pulled his latex gloves tight over his hands and shook his head. “Forensics estimates the husband’s been dead for over 48 hours. She told his boss he was sick.”

“The shrink at the station called it a ‘psychotic break,’” said the Officer.

Not satisfied with this explanation, the Detective walked through the living room into the kitchen. The surface of the fridge held a gallery of family photos and a flowery condolence card. He remembered an officer say that the wife’s aunt had committed suicide over a week ago. Passing the stove, he regarded a pan with two pork chops congealed in their own grease and a pot of green beans that were now a sick shade of gray.

He turned and walked to a café table and two chairs nestled in the corner under a window. The blinds were pulled up, allowing him a view of the full moon and cloudless night sky. The table appeared to be used for paying bills and making grocery lists, not for enjoying a meal. Among the envelopes, note pads and pens, the Detective noticed a scuffed tin box about four inches square with a simple hinged lid. Reflected moonlight gave it a faint glow. Expecting paper clips or maybe stamps, the Detective opened the box.

#

Sensing their collective relief, the Captain ordered his men to wait outside while he inspected the house. The scene inside tested his resolve. He tried to draw from his thirty years experience, but that well was now too shallow. Slipping a small notebook from his jacket pocket, he forced himself to concentrate on the facts.

The Captain stood over the body of the fallen Officer and noted the position: on his right side, right arm extended, gun still gripped in his right hand. Death had not erased his expression of total shock. At the Officer’s back, a pool of blood stretched across the beige carpet like ragged, red wings. The Captain’s eyes traced a trajectory, which led to the body of the Detective, flat on his back in the kitchen.

Unable to comprehend why two good men were dead by each other’s hand, The Captain instead pieced together how. The Detective must have drawn his weapon first and shot the Officer in the chest. The Officer was able to draw his weapon before falling to his side. He then fired and shot the Detective in the throat. “Lucky shot, that,” thought the Captain with no humor.

He scanned the Detective’s splayed body. A glint reflected off something near the dead man’s left arm. Crouching, he picked up a small tin box with a gloved hand. He wondered if this object had caught the Detective’s eye, or if it was just random crime-scene flotsam. Aware of what the smallest detail could reveal, the Captain opened the box.

leave your body at the door

I had to leave town unexpectedly last Tuesday.  My grandma, my mother’s mother, was very ill. According to everyone who saw her, she was not going to last much longer. So, my mom, my sister and I flew up to Michigan to say good-bye.

Well, in typical mid-western passive-aggressive fashion, she got better right after we arrived.  I’m not complaining.  I hope she lives forever. But, it did make for a stressful flight up there.

I love you grandma.

Adding to that stress was my grandfather. Normally, someone who has been dead for over 30 years shouldn’t be cause for much concern. But, this is my family we are talking about.

See, my grandfather was cremated. Half of his ashes were scattered around the property of the house that grandpa and grandma built together. The other half was put in a brass urn that stands eight inches tall and about five inches across.  His urn was displayed on the fireplace hearth of my mom’s house. When she moved, he went to my sister’s and rested on her hearth.  When my sister moved, he was passed on to me, because at that time, I had the fireplace.

Grandma, being a Seventh Day Adventist, does not believe in cremation and wishes to be buried. As some sort of compromise, the urn containing grandpa’s ashes is to be buried with her.

You see where this is going, don’t you?

Yes. I had to fly to Michigan with grandpa in my carry-on.

Surprisingly enough, I’ve never flown with human remains in my luggage before, so I didn’t know what to expect. I did have the presence of mind while booking my plane ticket to ask what would be required to get grandpa on the plane. After a short pause, I was told that all I would need is his death certificate and/or cremation certificate.  By some miracle, my mom had both of these pieces of paper and scanned them then emailed them to me.

I get to the airport, put my purse and shoes in a bin at the security station and lay my carry-on bag on the belt to be x-rayed.  With my boarding pass in one hand and grandpa’s paperwork in the other, I walk through the scanner.  On the other side, I display my best non-threatening smile (minimal teeth, maximum dimples) and get ready to explain that the large brass cube in my bag will not explode.

The TSA agent took one look at my bag on the monitor, yawned, and sent it on its way without a word.

My first thought was, “Are you kidding me? My grandmother’s slightly soggy diaper was treated like a pound of C4 explosive by the TSA, but a heavy, metal box doesn’t get a second glance?” Maybe it’s common to travel with dead relatives these days.

My second thought was, “This is going to make a really boring blog post.” I wrote the post anyway.  Sorry.

Well, I’d rather have a boring blog post than get my family on CNN.  Again.

Grandpa was a cop. He could have shown those TSA whippersnappers a thing or twenty.

One housekeeping note: My WordPress blog reader suddenly doesn’t want to display any of the WP blogs that I subscribe to. Yesterday evening, I went through and checked to get email updates whenever any of you post from now on, however, I have no way to know if you posted while I was out last week. I want to try to catch up on my blog reading, but I don’t know if it will be possible.  If you posted anything particularly brilliant and/or hilarious in the past six days please include a link in the comments and I’ll be sure to check it out.  Thank you.

 

hey, hey i’m a little embarrassed to admit this

When a female child turns 13, something happens to her brain. I’m not sure if it’s chemical, physical or a combination of the two, but it’s as if a switch gets thrown, lighting up a blinking neon sign exclaiming “Now Open 24 Hours: OBSESSION.”

I was not immune to this phenomenon. Once I found the object of my desire, I embarked on a single-minded pursuit to seek and consume every photograph, recording, moving image and bit of trivia related to my obsession. My focus and determination was akin to swarms of ravenous locusts, and these four lads were my ancient Egypt:

The Monkees were the end-all-be-all of my 13 year old world.  This was during the 60′s revival of the late 1980′s when re-runs of their campy television show could be seen on MTV and Nickelodeon.  I memorized every episode and, since our VCR at the time couldn’t record off the TV, I held my portable cassette player up to the television speaker and recorded the audio. Everyone did that, right?

I had all their albums on tape:

And I was given their debut album on vinyl:

I bought countless Tiger Beat magazines for the photos and posters:

I bought every book I could find:

Thanks to some fan catalogs, I acquired two issues of The Monkees Monthly, which was a fan magazine published in their hey-day during the 60′s:

And, I also got copies of scripts from two separate episodes of their show:

I got to see them in concert (sans Mike Nesmith) at Six Flags and my mom drove me and my best friend, Carrie, four hours to a Chattanooga mall so we could stand in line and get Davy Jones’s autograph on our copies of his autobiography:

One summer when I couldn’t watch their show because I was staying with my dad in Michigan who didn’t have cable, Carrie, being the awesome friend that she is, wrote down all the best quotes from the show in colorful markers and mailed it to me:

Yes, Carrie. I still have this.

During the height of my fanaticism, I traveled to England with my mom and step-dad and I brought my three-ring binder filled with photos and my books with me on the trip because the thought of leaving it all behind caused me actual physical pain.

There’s more, much, much more, but I’ll spare you further details.  You’re welcome.

Eventually, my obsession with all things Monkee died down and I evolved into a creature that could appreciate many different bands and television shows without resorting to compulsive hoarding of memorabilia.  However, as you can see, I still have my Monkees collection. I haven’t yet been able to part with even the smallest scrap.

Although all this stuff isn’t as important to me as it once was, I can remember how each photo and note of music and frame of video made me feel at the time. It’s that feeling that I want to hold on to; the total abandon of supreme fandom.

I think the desire to recreate that feeling is the reason it’s becoming more and more acceptable for adults to geek out over television shows or characters from comic books. The fanboys and fangirls are growing up, but they are not letting go. It’s not just nostalgia, it’s a refusal to believe that once you’re an adult you have to give up such things.

Maybe I’ll take some of my Monkees collectables and make a collage or a diorama to hang on my living room wall.  My decorating style is already schizophrenic, so why not?

What were you obsessed with as a kid? Did you give it up, or are you still an active fan-geek?

i don’t think wine aficionado will be calling any time soon

The other day I made this profound observation on twitter:

My kitchen will never be featured in a magazine because I don't own three, unopened bottles of Pellegrino. #fb—
Amy Severson (@AmyCSeverson) August 24, 2011

Okay, I’ll never be mistaken for one of the best minds of my generation, but decorating with bottles of water is fairly ubiquitous.

Open any Crate & Barrel catalog or issue of Architectural Digest and I’m sure you’ll find enough bottles of water to hydrate your average garden party for hours.  Which got me thinking. (cue dramatic violins)

I wonder what various containers of liquid would be common in photo spreads of kitchens in other magazines?

• Popular Mechanics – half a dozen cans of WD-40
• PC Gamer – 2 liter of Mt. Dew Code Red
• Hot Rod – three bottles of Jagermeister, on tap
• Cosmopolitan – three bottles of Grey Goose vodka, bowl of limes, one small bottle of tonic
• Guns & Ammo – three bottles of Jack Daniels, only one is full
• Cat Fancy – a spray bottle of water
• Hustler -  scattered prescription bottles and a damp towel
• Soldier of Fortune – nalgene bottle filled with urine
• Vogue – large bottle of ipecac
• National Geographic – a canteen filled with water from a hand-dug well in Ethiopia set next to a picture of the grateful tribe which is specifically designed to make you feel like a piece of shit because you use bottles of water as decoration

I think I have half a bottle of red wine.  What bottles of liquid are featured in your kitchen?

blame it on Bret Michaels

Ever since the first caveman pounded his head against a hollow log after being fired from his job as Brontosaurus Operator at the quarry and liked the sound, humans have used music to express our moods.  We shake our fists to rockin’ anthems sung by flamboyant front-men at sports-ball games.  After a nasty break-up we weep quietly into a pillow while a cowboy yodels out every possible word that rhymes with “beer.”  And we brood within a cloud of cigarette smoke that we didn’t actually inhale as a pale fellow with black eyeliner and an architecturally impressive hairstyle mumbles over a synthesized orchestra about darkness and despair. 

However, music doesn’t just hold a mirror up to our emotions, it can also alter how we feel.  When you’re blue, you may crank up some show-tunes to turn that frown upside down, and when you’re feeling uninspired, Inuit throat singing might be just the thing to get your gears a turnin’. 

In fact, the right song at just the right moment could alter the course of a person’s life.  Consider the following scenarios:

Suzie did not get to go to Hollywood, was voted off the island and evicted from the house.  She sits on her bed, clutching her pillow to her chest and wonders what adventure she should embark on next.  A song from her playlist streams through her headphones:
Don’t Dream It’s Over (Crowded House) = Realizing that her dream of winning a reality show has run its course, Suzie decides to go back to college and finish her finance degree.
Don’t Stop Believin’ (Journey) = Suzie takes out a loan for a nose-job and submits her application to The Bachelorette. 

Carl sits in his van, nervously fondling his Zippo lighter, and eyes the vacant house across the street.  After serving a dime up in the state pen, he swore his firebug days were over.  But now he’s got the itch, and the full can of gas in the back is callin’ his name.  The van’s radio plays a song:
Put Out The Fire (Queen) = Carl slips the Zippo into his shirt pocket and drives away.  If he never again has to snuggle with a 350 pound felon called Stabby Ray, it would be too soon. 
Burning Down The House (Talking Heads) = “Flame on, baby!” Carl yells as fire engulfs the house, not noticing that his sleeve is soaked with gasoline and sparks are raining down. 

Yeah. I was just leaving.

Leonard crouches in the bushes outside the actress’ bedroom window and peers through the half-drawn blinds.  He watches as she shimmies around the room in her negligee, dancing to a song blaring through her stereo speakers:
Don’t Come Around Here No More ( Tom Petty) = Leonard sighs and crawls out of the bushes.  He thought he could forgive her for taking a role in a Ben Affleck movie, but he is surprised to find out that even he has limits. 
Please Don’t Go (KC & The Sunshine Band) = Enthralled with the one woman show taking place on the other side of the window, Leonard didn’t hear the actress’ Rottweiler, Bitey, stalking up behind him. 

Congressman John Thomas zips his fly and stumbles out of the bathroom stall at a downtown bar.  He finishes thumbing out the caption to the picture he just snapped with his phone and scrolls through his contacts, stopping at the name of the cute intern he’s been flirting with.   Before he presses SEND, he hears music thumping through the wall:
Trouble (Coldplay) = Congressman Thomas suddenly has a vague recollection of some news story regarding compromising text messages and the resulting scandal.  He can’t remember the details, but he figures it’s best to be safe so he deletes the picture and drops the phone in his trouser pocket. 
Talk Dirty To Me (Poison) = J.T. feels a jolt of adrenaline surge through his body as he sends the picture to Kyle, the young, dark-haired intern.  “Yeah, you know you want that,” he says as he primps in the mirror.  Satisfied, he walks out of the bathroom directly into the immovable wall that is Marcus, Kyle’s 6’4″ bodyguard boyfriend.  “This him?” Marcus asks.  Kyle, standing beside him, only nods.