satisfaction…

“Meow…tasty little tweety,” thought the kitty as he licked his lips. Swatting the toy mouse across the heart pine floor, he yawned.  Like the king in his castle, he sauntered to his favorite spot in the golden sunroom. Sunlight streamed through the bay window, warming his silky fur. He plopped down, lifted his leg and began to lick his…paw. Satisfied, he drifted off for a cat-nap to dream of far-away lands full of field mice.

…fool’s song

Pencil

Paper

Glass of Wine

In Hand

 

Words

Tools

Emotions

Worn on a Sleeve

 

Break

Crush

Simplicity

At its best

 

Feel

Know

Think

And Grow

 

Healthy

Toxic

Which way

Do I go

i are serious cat, this is serious thread

Quickpost this image to Myspace, Digg, Facebook, and others!

In the Shadow of the Queen

In the Shadow of the Queen

I hear Sam’s music long before he comes tearing around the corner in his 356 Speedster. My stomach, doing flip-flops, stops mid-flop, as he zips past my house pulling into the neighbor’s driveway. I remind myself to breathe. Grabbing the magazine at my feet, I flip to my horoscope and feign interest. Careful not to give myself away, I peep over the top of the magazine. Looking in his rearview, he tousles his sandy hair, grabs the low-raked windshield and the camel-colored bucket seat, and swings his lean body out of the cabriolet. As he turns towards me, I pop the Seventeen back over my eyes. He rounds the front of the car and pauses to buff the Porsche’s emblem. It glistens and twinkles in the summer sun, almost as much as his golden tan.

“Hey Elle,” he waves. “I’ll call you later babe.” I throw my middle finger in the air and crank ‘The Boys of Summer’ tune playing on my boom box. He shrugs, sauntering up to her door.

“Damn her,” I curse under my breath. My ears begin tingling, heat crawling up my face. He has blown me off twice this week, cancelling our standing M&M (Main Street and movie) binge, to whisk her off to God knows where.  

What does he see in her? I am his best friend. I introduced them. Why am I am getting the shaft? I try to focus on my horoscope, hoping the growing tension in my head will subside. It says the change in my love life that I am hoping for, is right at my fingertips. My heart starts pumping. I throw the magazine on the ground and grab the baby oil, smoothing it up to my bikini line.  

Violette Salisbury. Her name sounds as if someone combined Barnie with a slab of beef. All she needs is a side of mash potatoes and we have a full meal. 

“She’s named after the famous French ballerina Violette Verdy,” Sam told me one afternoon. Sounds dramatic to me.

Violette Salisbury and her mother moved to Kings Mountain a few weeks ago, from Los Angeles – the Valley she called it – after her parents’ divorce. She told me her Dad was some big shot movie producer in Burbank, whose hands had the uncanny problem of wandering up in his production assistant’s skirts. Her mother had more than enough of her husband’s indiscretions, and the Silicone Valley, to last her a lifetime. Learning her childhood “summer cottage” on Moss Lake was on the market, she made long-distance plans to purchase it. Sight unseen she bought the property and high tailed it back east, Violette in tow, to lick her wounds in the comfort of her Alma Mater. This landed the Salisbury team of two, and their foofy Pomeranian duo, to flank my house to the east sharing a common sidewalk.

My Timex beeps, jolting me out of the thoughts in my head and signaling me to start baking my backside. The two lovebirds exit Violette’s house. Violette is giggling and chewing on a piece of her flaxen hair. Our eyes meet.

“Oh my God Elle!” She says running over to me. “Like, thank you so, so much for introducing me to Sam. He like just asked me to go with him to Denny Hagedorn’s big bash. I was so totally worried about moving to this podunk city at the end of the school year. I thought, like I wouldn’t make any friends and would just have the most boring summer vacation ever. You totally fixed that.”

My jaw dropped. Sam, my Sam, was taking her to the biggest social event of the school year. The Sam that hid beneath the willow trees creating mythical lands and creatures with me, best buddies since we were nine years old. The Sam that set rabbit traps in the cotton fields, plunged from the rope swing and sunned on the banks of Moss Lake with me summer after summer. He had gone with me to Denny Hagedorn’s big year-end bash since Denny had moved to Kings Mountain in the sixth grade. 

My heart was a freight train going downhill. I wanted to burst into tears but refused to do to do that in front of Violette Salisbury. My nostrils flaring, I managed a smile matching hers. After all, I was in drama club.

“That’s terrific Violette. I’m sure I’ll see you there.” I said. “We’ll have to hit the shops in downtown Charlotte to look for dresses before the party,” I lied. 

“Perfect,” she purred. “Ok, well, were off. So, like, I’ll talk to you soon?” She rocked back and forth on her heels, making her golden mane swing back and forth, causing me to hate her more.

“Mm hmmm.” I was tempted to stick my foot out as she walked by, but I knew that would create issues between Sam and I. As it is now, he seemed oblivious to my pain.

“Cool,” she said. She walked to where Sam was waiting in the car before turning and calling out over her shoulder, “I can’t wait.”

Next, Sam did something that blew my mind. He got out of his precious Speedster, walked around to the opposite side, and opened her door. Never, I mean never, had I seen him do that. That is when I knew: My days of sun and Sam would be over from this point forward.

I bolt upright in bed. My heart is pounding as if it is going to leap out of my chest. My breathing is erratic. My cotton jersey sheets cling to my sweat soaked skin. I start laughing making my sides clench into tight balls of iron. It was all a dream. 

The clock flashes eleven. The sun is waxing its mid-morning peak. I throw on my bikini and run to the kitchen to devour a bowl of Special K.

Grabbing the phone on my way to the door, I dial. “Dude! Are you up yet? Get over here. You and I have a date with the rays and bottle of baby oil. Ugh, and I had the worst dream ever. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.” I say. “Hurry up.”

In the yard, I plop down on my towel and crank my tunes. The Eagles, Hotel California, is playing on the radio. The lyrics make me laugh. As I am sloshing on my baby oil, I look up to see a shiny Mercedes Benz turns the corner. A forty-foot Atlas Van Lines truck follows. The Mercedes pulls over allowing the truck to pass. The truck driver downshifts to a stop at the neighboring house and backs into the driveway. The blood drains from my face as a young, buxom, honeysuckle blond and her mother exit the Mercedes.

Running into the house, my mouth tasting of vomit, I hurl myself on my bed and start crying.

FREE TO GOOD HOME

My twenty-two pound math-for-liberal-arts-junkies book lands on the floor with a thud, jolting me out of a mid-term studying infused sleep. I scan the room for my cell phone. Flicking it on, I realize its 4:30 AM. I have no missed calls and no texts. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree, in the same state as when I dozed off, calculating the god-forsaken Pythagorean Theorem. The television, originally on for background noise to quell the quiet creakiness, is now blaring. A daytime-drama-has-been and her fateful counterpart are taking turns droning on about how my life will change: if, and only if, I am one of the next ten callers to order their very-special-one-of-a-kind-miracle-vegetable-chopper. Yeah right. Off goes the boob-tube.

Room by room I do a quick check on the kids, flipping off lights, tripping over chew toys and Barbie dolls. Where is my husband? He promised he wouldn’t be out late tonight. I check Mini-Me’s room. No husband there. In my room (again) Mini-Me is laying on top of the covers, spread-eagle, Curious George panties smiling at me. I can never keep this kid clothed. No husband there, either. Glancing in on the Other-Child, moaning in her sleep as usual, I simultaneously blanket curse the neurologists, epilepsy and Phenobarbital. No husband there.

Slightly annoyed I grab the cell again. My mind sing-songs, “Oh where, oh where, could Cookie be?” I text him. “LIAR!” A split second later I’m punching the qwerty keys. I dial his number once, twice, three…twelve times. Persistence is one of my better virtues.

“Hi and thanks for calling,” I hear Cookie’s voice. Blah, blah, blah; I depress the power button avoiding the greeting. I’ve been relegated to voice mail. Bastage!

Hijacking his personal tweet-deck, I bang the keyboard, “It’s 5 am; do you know where your husband is? It’s 5 am; do you know where mine is?” Since blowing up his cell, for the last thirty minutes, hadn’t done much good, maybe going public would. Being the fourth time in a few weeks this has happened, my concern over his personal safety has waned. I don’t question whether he’s dead or alive anymore. I deduce he’s alive; at least until he gets home.

I’m washing my face when the wiener brothers begin whining at the back door. My overstuffed dapple sausage Jack, le chien névrotique des deux, barks. Roscoe wags his tail, stares at Jack and then sniffs his ass. Patiently, they wait as the key turns slowly in the lock.

Enter stumbling husband. Enter foul smell of beer. Nice. Just what I’ve always wanted, I think, grabbing the can of vapor flowers to cover the acrid, rotting-bread smell.

I’m standing, half-hidden, when he enters the house. “Where’s your cell phone?”  The question takes a moment to register in his beer-soaked brain.

He stares back at me blankly before fishing his cell out of his back pocket. “Oh, nine missed calls. Hey, did you call me from a blocked phone number?”

Oh, nine missed calls, whoop-die-doo. My inner monologue mimics. “No. Why? Who else is calling you at 5:00 AM?” Hmmm…that’s funny; I called twelve times, only nine registered?

I feel the sting of four half-moon craters puncturing the flesh on my palms. “So where have you been? Game ended at 11:30 PM. It’s now after 5:00 AM and the bars close at 2:00 AM. Did you forget it’s your daughter’s birthday party tomorrow?”

“No, I didn’t forget. I’ll be up early tomorrow to get my stuff done. Downtown was crazy! People lining the streets, like Mardi Gras. I was at Clubhouse, then Pine Street Bar” he pauses, “what’s that place…the one I kept running next door to watch the game that night because they didn’t have cable? Matador is it?”

Was he stalling? I pressed. “I don’t know. What I’m interested in hearing is where you went after 2:00 AM?”

“After the bars, we wandered the streets. Then I went to this girl’s house. She’s a radio personality. I don’t even remember her name. But, there was like two girls there and six guys. We were all hanging out. There was some other radio guy there. Stone something-or-other; he’s a stocky guy, lots of tattoos.”

“Interesting. So let me see if I have this straight. You stumble in after 5:00 AM, drunk, after being at some girl’s house ‘hanging out’ for the last few hours. You ignore my phone calls and can’t be bothered to send a status text. You must be aiming for consistency, because this is the fourth time it’s happened in the past few weeks. I don’t appreciate it. In fact, come play-offs, I won’t be available to watch the kids while you’re off gallivanting the city all night.”

“Oh really,” he retorts. “Well, come final play-off games, I don’t plan on coming home at all.”

I’m half expecting him to stick out his tongue, throw his thumbs in his ears and say nanny-nanny-boo-boo. I could scream. I’d really like to pick up a blunt object and ram it into the side of his head, but I’ve watched enough ‘Forensic Files’ to know better. Our eyes are small slits, our gazes fixed. We’ve reached stalemate.

“Really?” I say. “Won’t come home at all, huh? We’ll see about that.” I turn on my heel, crawling in bed to cuddle with Mini-Me.

I awake a few hours later; phone ringing, head pounding. The barrage of phone calls has begun. Girlfriends want to know if I’m okay. Guy friends just want to know.  No, I’m not single…yet.

I rummage through the purse to find the 800 mg horse pills to turn-my-frown-upside-down. I pop those, along with a couple of fat burners, and my daily prescribed dose of Adderal. What the hell, it’s Sunday. I grab a Xanex and chase the whole lot with Perrier. About 30 minutes later, I’m feeling no pain. Cracked and mellowed, but focused. I grab my computer and pull up my Facebook account.

“What’s on my mind?” it asks. Vague and leading, daring me to unfurl my innermost ranting-raving desires or what have you. I post the following cathartic ramble: “Free to good home: 5’10” male; adept at taking out trash and doing dishes; may require obedience training; comes with full wardrobe and two adorable wieners.”

Cookie doesn’t grace us with his presence until well after noon that day. Needless to say, the Other-Child’s birthday party with Chuck-E is postponed. The reprisal: Cookie gets a wicked sinus infection. Guess I didn’t need that blunt object after all