Red was the color of the silk dress that hugged her body like a warm liquid skin. He couldn't keep his tanned hands off her when she sauntered around in that hot little number. Where the soft material caressed her curves, his touch followed. That dress was his polar beacon to follow around the island. The material was used like a conquistador flaunts a cape to entice a bull. The tropical sunset couldn't hold a candle to the magic that fabric radiated.
Red was the color of his face as the accusations flew. The screams sailed off the liana like the birds of paradise returning to the tree tops. Wings carried them across the lawns and on to the sand, where the words were pulled away by the salty tide. She could hear no serf pound now, no mandolin hummed. She only focused in on his angry distorted face with shocked fasination. When the spittle from his barage sprayed across her face, she finally blinked and reached up to her ear, pulling the flower from her hair and tossed it into the air. And then she threw back her head and laughed.
"That read is spelled R-E-A-D, not R-E-D", he said in a disgusted voice, as they sat buckled safely in their seats awaiting take off. "Really," she answered without paying him any attention while looking back at the small crowd of people waving goodbye from the hot tarmac. "Maybe you should know I don't do cross word puzzles. But I do know how to spell," Kiss my sunburned ass."" "Maybe I'll try giving that a whirl", he answered, looking hopefully across the tops of his sunglasses at her. She turned from the window and answered with a smile as she rolled her eyes, "Maybe you will. But get me one last slow gin screw for the road, will ya?" And she never looked back.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Practicing Being Ancient
I day dream more now of the past than I do of the future. It is easier for me to revisit memories than make up new unexplored fantasy's. My life is set, my destine plotted out in stone. I have my husband, my home, my career and two point three kids. But before I close my eyes and sleep at night, I do not feel a longing or desire for the unknown. Maybe I am just too tired or too old. Maybe it is the same thing.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
My Marlboro Man
Dale was everything to me. Everything a seventeen year old girl could dream of. He was a handsome older man, exotic, mysterious, and unknown to my family. And he had good reason not to be familiar with my family. Because he was the man every mother hid their daughters from.
I met Dale in his brothers bar. It was the old post office/general store, Dale's brother had renovated. Less than a mile away from our house, it was the only business, other than the garage in the rual ghost town we lived. I was never carded when I when in the dark tacky saloon. Maybe because Dale's brother was desperate for my money. I had always hung out with an older crowd, and a single girl was always welcome there. If there was an available woman in the bar, the men would stay longer and drink more. And at the end of the bar, that's where Dale always stood.
I was flattered with the obsessive attention he poured on me. That was before I realized he was so stoned that he found my minutiae fascinating. Not ever having been exposed to a loser, I had no idea the caliber of nair d'well I was drinking with. I was having way too good a time being in a bar with a man in his thirties. We would party way past last call and then close the place and dance on the empty dance floor. Sometimes, when he got the munchies, we would eat breakfast at 3:a.m. With all the neon bar lights and music and meals at all hours, it was my Las Vegas.
And sometimes he would take me back to his parents cabin on the lake, and we would talk about our future. Or more like he would talk about his future, and I would listen, tucked underneath the saddle blanket beside him in his bed, and try to picture myself with him on a ranch out west.
Dale was our post man, when our regular mail carrier took time off. Which was often because the full time carrier drank in the bar regular too. But Dale never once drove me home, or picked me up either for that matter. He was such a chicken he would hang up if my dad answered the phone when he called me. That alone should have been my red flag. But even when I started to see Dale for the low life he really was, the trill of my indiscretion still lured me in.
When he started tripping aacid and disappearing for a month or two at a time, it was hard on my still tender little heart. I wanted to save him. I tried everything a juvenile girl could do to rescue him from himself. I would become so wasted myself, or I let him think I was, he would have to take care of me. Or I would throw a fit, pick a fight and storm out of the bar, so he would come running after me. The last time I tried that with Dale, when he picked me up on the side of the road, I tricked him into driving me into the next town, to an A.A. meeting. He dropped me off on the side of the road outside the building. I remembered watching the tail lights of his Nova as he drove away from me thinking this time, I really was going to sleep over at a girlfriends house were my parents had always assumed I was.
I turned eighteen when he was out in South Dakota. I welcomed in my adulthood without him. My friends took me back to the neighborhood bar to celebrate my becoming an adult. There was a party already going on, as Dale's grandfather's will had died and left the family a huge wad of cash. Dale's brother paid off the bar. Dale invested all his money in an expensive race horse.
The horse died ten days later.
Some years back, I learned Dale had married a barmaid. They moved out to Arizona where the desert air is easier on the lungs as Dale died of lung cancer.
I picture Dale driving his mustard colored Nova, wearing his cowboy hat, a white t-shirt, baggy shorts, and tall pointy toed boots, delivering our mail. I used to imagine myself, instead of hiding behind the cedar trees in our yard to get a glimpse of him, running and jumping into his car, and pushing him aside, and driving him myself to an A.A. meeting. Or to South Dakota. Anywhere that was not an unhealthy smoke filled bar.
But that too, died.
I met Dale in his brothers bar. It was the old post office/general store, Dale's brother had renovated. Less than a mile away from our house, it was the only business, other than the garage in the rual ghost town we lived. I was never carded when I when in the dark tacky saloon. Maybe because Dale's brother was desperate for my money. I had always hung out with an older crowd, and a single girl was always welcome there. If there was an available woman in the bar, the men would stay longer and drink more. And at the end of the bar, that's where Dale always stood.
I was flattered with the obsessive attention he poured on me. That was before I realized he was so stoned that he found my minutiae fascinating. Not ever having been exposed to a loser, I had no idea the caliber of nair d'well I was drinking with. I was having way too good a time being in a bar with a man in his thirties. We would party way past last call and then close the place and dance on the empty dance floor. Sometimes, when he got the munchies, we would eat breakfast at 3:a.m. With all the neon bar lights and music and meals at all hours, it was my Las Vegas.
And sometimes he would take me back to his parents cabin on the lake, and we would talk about our future. Or more like he would talk about his future, and I would listen, tucked underneath the saddle blanket beside him in his bed, and try to picture myself with him on a ranch out west.
Dale was our post man, when our regular mail carrier took time off. Which was often because the full time carrier drank in the bar regular too. But Dale never once drove me home, or picked me up either for that matter. He was such a chicken he would hang up if my dad answered the phone when he called me. That alone should have been my red flag. But even when I started to see Dale for the low life he really was, the trill of my indiscretion still lured me in.
When he started tripping aacid and disappearing for a month or two at a time, it was hard on my still tender little heart. I wanted to save him. I tried everything a juvenile girl could do to rescue him from himself. I would become so wasted myself, or I let him think I was, he would have to take care of me. Or I would throw a fit, pick a fight and storm out of the bar, so he would come running after me. The last time I tried that with Dale, when he picked me up on the side of the road, I tricked him into driving me into the next town, to an A.A. meeting. He dropped me off on the side of the road outside the building. I remembered watching the tail lights of his Nova as he drove away from me thinking this time, I really was going to sleep over at a girlfriends house were my parents had always assumed I was.
I turned eighteen when he was out in South Dakota. I welcomed in my adulthood without him. My friends took me back to the neighborhood bar to celebrate my becoming an adult. There was a party already going on, as Dale's grandfather's will had died and left the family a huge wad of cash. Dale's brother paid off the bar. Dale invested all his money in an expensive race horse.
The horse died ten days later.
Some years back, I learned Dale had married a barmaid. They moved out to Arizona where the desert air is easier on the lungs as Dale died of lung cancer.
I picture Dale driving his mustard colored Nova, wearing his cowboy hat, a white t-shirt, baggy shorts, and tall pointy toed boots, delivering our mail. I used to imagine myself, instead of hiding behind the cedar trees in our yard to get a glimpse of him, running and jumping into his car, and pushing him aside, and driving him myself to an A.A. meeting. Or to South Dakota. Anywhere that was not an unhealthy smoke filled bar.
But that too, died.
Friday, August 18, 2006
The Things My Boss Will Never Know
I listen to drinking music when I drive around the campus in my Jeep. My "Drunk and Disorderly" cd, and AC/DC's, "have a drink on me" are my current favorites.
The time my dishwasher hurt his back, it wasn't because he hurt it tossing heavy crap into the dumpster. Him and I were having a high kick contest, aiming at the hanging pots above the counter when he kicked a little too high and slipped, landing on his tail bone. I won by default.
All those beets I cooked last week was not for my guests. I was making hair dye for the line server/future rock star drummer.
My mug with the company logo on it and a tall gin and tonic in it is a good thing.
My camera phone is in my pocket at all times. I have quite the nice collection of celebrity ass.
It is hot in my kitchen. I grill with the walk in cooler door wide open. Screw the grumpy matenace guys who have to come defrost the motor when it freezes up. Rumors are the morning chef cooks nude. But I won't be stopping in early with my camera phone to prove that one.
Saturday night I sent all the left over prime rib and what ever food I can find home with Alice, my seventy four year old "assistant". It will feed her kids and grand kids and half the trailer park known as "little Chicago", she lives in. I also due her dishes. And her floors. So fire me for that.
I come up with most of my own recipes. When guests ask me to write them down, I make stuff up.
That self conscious chick that came in last month, the one with anorexia, that you wanted me to measure out her food and hoax her to eat, I didn't. I found out she lived on ice cream when she did eat so she and I sat together at my desk and ate Sundays and read some of my cookbooks. She left with my book that came with my ice cream maker. And five pounds.
I write out my cheques at the liquor store with my company pen. And I laugh. And ask the cashier if she will gift wrap.
I liked that scitzophenic chick who was delusional. Gave me something to look forward too, wondering if she would come to dinner dressed as Madonna, or J. Lo. She was a good eater and very grateful.
The souvenirs that my co-workers asked for from my recent trip were, a shot glass from Finland, a Hard Rock T-shirt from Sweden, Black Death, a beer stein, and porn. I drew the line at porn. But I told them all about it.
When I call over to the main kitchen and ask for you to send Josh over, it's not because he is a great help. I'm helping him get into collage. Poor kid has way too much future to spend his life here.
I save all the scraps off the plates and leave a big plate of food out by the dumpster for the feral cats. If I ever get close to that big manx, he is going home with me.
I don't understand the coincidence between between the big flat top grill not working when that big guy lazy counter leaning guy I don't like very much cooks breakfast, but I do know a little puff of breath aimed at the pilot light will cause it to go out.
I am not qualified for this job. Did not have the experience. Wonder every day how I ended up here.
I do a killer impersonation of you. My biggest fear is you walking into my kitchen and catching me doing you.
The time my dishwasher hurt his back, it wasn't because he hurt it tossing heavy crap into the dumpster. Him and I were having a high kick contest, aiming at the hanging pots above the counter when he kicked a little too high and slipped, landing on his tail bone. I won by default.
All those beets I cooked last week was not for my guests. I was making hair dye for the line server/future rock star drummer.
My mug with the company logo on it and a tall gin and tonic in it is a good thing.
My camera phone is in my pocket at all times. I have quite the nice collection of celebrity ass.
It is hot in my kitchen. I grill with the walk in cooler door wide open. Screw the grumpy matenace guys who have to come defrost the motor when it freezes up. Rumors are the morning chef cooks nude. But I won't be stopping in early with my camera phone to prove that one.
Saturday night I sent all the left over prime rib and what ever food I can find home with Alice, my seventy four year old "assistant". It will feed her kids and grand kids and half the trailer park known as "little Chicago", she lives in. I also due her dishes. And her floors. So fire me for that.
I come up with most of my own recipes. When guests ask me to write them down, I make stuff up.
That self conscious chick that came in last month, the one with anorexia, that you wanted me to measure out her food and hoax her to eat, I didn't. I found out she lived on ice cream when she did eat so she and I sat together at my desk and ate Sundays and read some of my cookbooks. She left with my book that came with my ice cream maker. And five pounds.
I write out my cheques at the liquor store with my company pen. And I laugh. And ask the cashier if she will gift wrap.
I liked that scitzophenic chick who was delusional. Gave me something to look forward too, wondering if she would come to dinner dressed as Madonna, or J. Lo. She was a good eater and very grateful.
The souvenirs that my co-workers asked for from my recent trip were, a shot glass from Finland, a Hard Rock T-shirt from Sweden, Black Death, a beer stein, and porn. I drew the line at porn. But I told them all about it.
When I call over to the main kitchen and ask for you to send Josh over, it's not because he is a great help. I'm helping him get into collage. Poor kid has way too much future to spend his life here.
I save all the scraps off the plates and leave a big plate of food out by the dumpster for the feral cats. If I ever get close to that big manx, he is going home with me.
I don't understand the coincidence between between the big flat top grill not working when that big guy lazy counter leaning guy I don't like very much cooks breakfast, but I do know a little puff of breath aimed at the pilot light will cause it to go out.
I am not qualified for this job. Did not have the experience. Wonder every day how I ended up here.
I do a killer impersonation of you. My biggest fear is you walking into my kitchen and catching me doing you.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Battle Cries
Thier low menacing growls didn't really frighten me. When they escalated into all out attack, teeth bared, flesh and muscle ripping, I was not in a calm state of zen, mind you, but I dealt. The sight of spit flying, claws scraping, and blood dripping, was not exactly what I'd plan at next years party. Especially when it was my own blood. It was the sound of her hysterical piercing shrieks that unnerved me. It scared me shitless. I know if I heard that sound again, I'd bite the dog next to me.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Anything But Nothing
When I could no longer love him unconditionally, I had to hate him without reserve. Living without passion was just not an option.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Progressively Nordic Thoughts
Oh the sound of the natives talking sounds so musical. Kinda magical.
What? We are walking around at 11 pm? No way. It feels live maybe 4 in the afternoon. Cept I'm tired. And the bars are hoppin. Sunshine is good.
Dang they are all so gorgeous here. She could be a model. So could her. And her. Natural beauties. I'm the ugliest person here.
Look at that big long word. There are more letters in that word than the sentence, look at that word. What the hell could in mean? Bet it's magic, that's what that is.
Oh fresh salmon.
That building is so ornate. Man that's pretty. And yellow.
They are polite here.
Ha ha. Seagulls are so cute. I want one for a pet. Hope my kid actually catches one.
Where is the stinking reindeer on the menu? Is the word for reindeer reindeer. I bet it is something close like, reindeersuoienlieninmovi.
We need trains and busses like this back in the states.
Every block has patio seating. That's picture perfect, all those beautiful people drinking coffee in the sunshine.
They don't make eye contact here.
I'm not going back. I'll immigrate. Or defect if I have to. I'll become a defective immigrant, that's what I'll be.
Woo-hoo. Ha. She thought I was a native. I love that. I wonder what she asked me for? I should of pretended I was a native and pointed her to that magic word store.
This hotel is so coolimienin!
How the hell do I turn on the lights?
Oh it's a gay porn store. So that's what that big magic store is.
Not salmon again.
Pay to use a bathroom? Get out.
How do people not run into each other here? They are so busy avoiding anything even close to eye contact and gabbering on their Nokia's, how do they not bong into each other? Oh I will make one of them look at me, I will...."Where you been? Since yoou've been goone, seams like it's been forever bla bla bla."
When do we get too see a reindeer anyway? Elk ya. Caribou ya. Iwanna see a damn reindeer.
Anything but salmon.
Can't anyone sew some curtains in this place and block out that cursed sun? I need my sleep.
Oh yeah I like seeing new places, I just don't like getting there. So do I like traveling or not? LOOK AT ME!
*Help. Oh help. Help Help Help.
What? We are walking around at 11 pm? No way. It feels live maybe 4 in the afternoon. Cept I'm tired. And the bars are hoppin. Sunshine is good.
Dang they are all so gorgeous here. She could be a model. So could her. And her. Natural beauties. I'm the ugliest person here.
Look at that big long word. There are more letters in that word than the sentence, look at that word. What the hell could in mean? Bet it's magic, that's what that is.
Oh fresh salmon.
That building is so ornate. Man that's pretty. And yellow.
They are polite here.
Ha ha. Seagulls are so cute. I want one for a pet. Hope my kid actually catches one.
Where is the stinking reindeer on the menu? Is the word for reindeer reindeer. I bet it is something close like, reindeersuoienlieninmovi.
We need trains and busses like this back in the states.
Every block has patio seating. That's picture perfect, all those beautiful people drinking coffee in the sunshine.
They don't make eye contact here.
I'm not going back. I'll immigrate. Or defect if I have to. I'll become a defective immigrant, that's what I'll be.
Woo-hoo. Ha. She thought I was a native. I love that. I wonder what she asked me for? I should of pretended I was a native and pointed her to that magic word store.
This hotel is so coolimienin!
How the hell do I turn on the lights?
Oh it's a gay porn store. So that's what that big magic store is.
Not salmon again.
Pay to use a bathroom? Get out.
How do people not run into each other here? They are so busy avoiding anything even close to eye contact and gabbering on their Nokia's, how do they not bong into each other? Oh I will make one of them look at me, I will...."Where you been? Since yoou've been goone, seams like it's been forever bla bla bla."
When do we get too see a reindeer anyway? Elk ya. Caribou ya. Iwanna see a damn reindeer.
Anything but salmon.
Can't anyone sew some curtains in this place and block out that cursed sun? I need my sleep.
Oh yeah I like seeing new places, I just don't like getting there. So do I like traveling or not? LOOK AT ME!
*Help. Oh help. Help Help Help.
Let me eat my salmon in piece you flying rat. Shoo you retarded seagull!.
Oh those are reindeer. Dude they are big.
Why didn't I pack a stinkin snow suit.
When is breakfast I want my salmon.
How can they all sit out here in the bright sunshine drinking coffee in the glaring sunshine? They look like rows of daiseys with their faces turned up to the sun. Find some shade. For me.
That's it. My future is settled. I'm buying this place and turning it into the only pizza place for two hundred miles.
I just want to sit on a couch and watch American tv. I will not walk, bike, bus, train ride, sail or fly another place. Oh look at that pretty yellow building. I hope they have salmon there.
Bar. Bar. Bar. Bar. Bar. Bar. My hotel. My hotel bar. My hotel restaurant bar. My room. My mini bar. Ah I almost need a drink to hide the smell of all my stinking dirty laundry. Naw. I'll just wash them in the sauna.
I don't want to leave. Ever. But I gotta go now. "Hey you speak English? Know how long this salmon will keep?"
* That is the though racing through my mind when I got off the train mistakenly when heading towards the Helsinki airport with my bags and all our passports and money and I looked across the tracks and realized the rest my boys and sister had not gotton off. It was the worse case senerio. I did not know where I was, didn't speak the language, didn't know where my family was, and had a plane to catch. Pictures to follow.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Aboriginal
The Finns rode their bikes with purpose. With their backs straight, elbows in, eyes forward and mouths set they put their best stoic face forward. They pedaled within the lines, manueuvered around pedestrians skillfully and with lots of distance left inbetween.
My sister rode like her ten year old self-hair flying, elbows out, Marimekko bag slung across her back, head up and her eyes pealed for adventure. She pedaled over cobblestones, junped curbs, swerved around the traffic, coasted down hills and pedaled like the devil going up. She discovered castles and churches that looked like castles, markets full of fresh peas and produce, war ships and submarines, the best ice cream and salmon always salmon.
written by my Sis Deb after Turku/Abo Finland
My sister rode like her ten year old self-hair flying, elbows out, Marimekko bag slung across her back, head up and her eyes pealed for adventure. She pedaled over cobblestones, junped curbs, swerved around the traffic, coasted down hills and pedaled like the devil going up. She discovered castles and churches that looked like castles, markets full of fresh peas and produce, war ships and submarines, the best ice cream and salmon always salmon.
written by my Sis Deb after Turku/Abo Finland
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