There must be a reason, right?

 Writers block, writers block, writers blocks.

That is all I have to blame this three and a half year absence on. Probably that.  Maybe that. Could be that.  Or maybe it is just some laziness, or some huge fucking self doubt that anything I wrote will have a readership.  Do I need a readership?  Apparently, yes.

I had already decided not to enter the contest.  Because it both bores me and frightens me every single year.  How hard is it really to write a complete story in 101 words or less?  Really fucking hard if truth be told.  And yet I write them easily as soon as I sit down, popping out at least three of them without much effort, and knowing that if I enter them, at least one will be published.  Sad, but true, that I can now pick the one that will get to the final printing without any effort here either.  Because, honestly, they are good.  Well, at least one of them is always good. One is usually okay.  One is almost always crap, but finished just the same, so entered, along with the rest. One is all I need.

And one is what I got this year. Again. Another one published.  That makes at least one published every year I remembered to enter. I think the blahness of it, broke my desire to write at all. All the excitement I could muster amounted to shrugged shoulders.  The word meh completely defined.

I found out yesterday that one of the stories was published.  I opened the online edition and found the pages for the contest results, and poof, there it was. Black and white.  Proof that I am either a good writer, or a small crap writer with a good formula.  Still not sure which.

To that end, I am starting the blog again.  I need to write things longer than 101 words, and write them more frequently than once a year.  It has been a while since I sat down to type, and just let the words come, and have them mean something, or nothing, and not be worried about any potential audience.  The blog seems the best place. Especially as the new year is about to start, and instead of feeling thrilled about being published (again), I am disappointed that it is the only thing I did. Legit. Nothing else.  Not on my blog.  Not in word doc.  Not in my really beautiful journal. Zilch. Nada. Zero.

This is it.  Day one.  Writing so that I can say that I did.  Maybe work on my craft more than what I did for 99.99% of 2021. 

And maybe do some work on why I haven't bothered in 41 months.  I know there is a reason.  No idea what it is yet.

The day to day of a working girl

Tomorrow marks the end of the first three weeks at my new job.  I am bored.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually like the new job.  I just already know it.  Like pretty much everything about it.  I have done this kind of work for years, and but for a couple little tricks and local policies, this is the same job.

The cons: 

The new office location is in the basement of a really wonderful building.  Truly, the architecture is wonderful, the grounds are wonderful, the artwork is wonderful. I just don’t have a window to see any of it. And worse, the basement means zero cell reception.  So while I can connect to the network and have internet on my personal device, I cannot receive any phone calls or texts. None.  Which meant that I changed all the emergency numbers for my kids’ schools to my actual office number and I now receive all of my school notices for things like PTA meetings and basketball games to my work voicemail.  The upside is that I have visual voicemail so it gets sent to my email to listen to or read.  The downside is I have visual voicemail so it gets sent to my email to listen to or read. It is funny that the same technology cannot enter TWO numbers at the school in case my child is bleeding to death, but it CAN call me 17 a day to remind me that my child needs a good night’s sleep. Basement location is a con.

The new office is super friendly.  Which means you say hi to everyone.  Every six seconds or so. We have a bell the clients can ring if, for some strange reason, we did not see you standing there, saying hi every six seconds. And more than a few people we have already said hi to think that ringing the bell is just sweet, like a noise that we would not find annoying because, well, they said hi while ringing it.  Super friendly like, and often while giggling about ringing it to begin with.  Three weeks in, and you would not believe how many people ring the bell when we are actually talking to them.

The work never changes.  There are no problems to solve (but for the little bit of learning curve already mentioned). It is the same thing, different person.  Truly it is the same questions, the same logic, the same concerns.  We babysit everyone, and (see above) they are super friendly about it, but really, three weeks in, and unless there is some specialized type of something that comes up, this will be it. Every day. Forever.

There is not enough work.  I know that this should not even matter, because I make the same money, don’t have to fight for parking, have a computer, nice coworkers, music to listen to, a fan on my desk, and a cool stapler. And a friend pointed out to me that maybe I just forgot what a normal workload looks like, because it had been so long since I had had a normal workload, that this just might be what people who have regular jobs do. Like they go home at the end of the day with a semi clean desk and having accomplished some things, and then the work just continues without being fucking stupid busy all the fucking time (clearly I still have some resentment about my last job). But I feel like I could use a little more work to fill my day.  Even if it was just more of the same, just a bit MORE would be good.

I see military officers all day.  Like fit, hardworking military officers.  Sexy, hot, funny, intelligent military officers.  This should not be in the con section, right? Um, yeah, they are all really young, relatively arrogant, and taken.  Yep, married/ engaged/ GF/ BF/ committed.  So eye candy, but not a single actual prospect for dates and stuff. 

The pros:

It is not my old job.

I have plenty of time to update my resume and apply for other jobs and it does not even effect my work.  Like not at all. Work is done, still got time. No one even questions it, like I am adult who can manage my time and all, all by myself. *snicker*

See this blog?  Yeah, I got to write it at work. Best. Pro. Ever.

 

 

 

Back to our regularly scheduled writing.

It is the middle of the night.  Like insomnia Hell.  Too many thing rattling in my brain. If I were to write a blog right now, and I am still not sure this will end up as a blog, I would start by telling you that I HAVE been writing, just not here, and not about my life.  Maybe that is a problem. I guess I am about to fix that.  After midnight is a strange creature.

I have been working on short stories and novellas.  I hope to submit them, eventually, and that portion of my creative juices have been all over the map, much like my life, and I have been enjoying the process, for the most part, when it happens at like normal hours.  No such luck today, but whatever. 

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and I have succeeded in registering.  That means only 10,000 words to go and I have more of the never-ending-novel done.  This is completely unrealistic, and deliciously un-doable, but I will be attempting it anyway. Not tonight, because the spinners are taking all my time.

So,  THAT writing process will not happen at all it I don’t get some of the things spinning in my head and heart out on paper first, thus, this blog. So here goes, a sorta stream of consciousness about where I am at.

I was dating a very *nice* man.  Yes, I met him online.  He is cute, has beautiful blue eyes (they melt me), has a job, is buying his house, has grown children, and likes puppies.  He drinks his coffee with cream, brings his dog breakfast leftovers, and knows how to fix anything on a car. He is a good kisser (more about this in a second), and is a gentleman when it comes to things like opening doors and paying the check (I tried to pick it up, he wouldn’t let me). I met him at his house one time, and (found out) he smokes heavily (like lighting one cigarette with the other one), his house smells like he chain smokes, with the additional lingering smell of “medical marijuana” (his roommate’s) mixed with stale beer (his, in bottles all over the counters and kitchen table). I have only been to his house that once, because previous to that one time, I had met him for dates at public locations, he didn’t smoke in front of me (never mentioned it actually, or had it listed on his dating profile), brushed his teeth and wore clean clothes,  making the kissing at the end of the dates very nice.  During those times he smelled like soap and laundry detergent, and coffee (we usually met for breakfast), and that good kind of man smell that goes with nice, hard working guys.  The time at his house was the most turned off (I didn’t even kiss him goodbye, and I liked kissing him) I have been in a really long time. It made me sad and unable to really talk to him because I haven’t yet figured out exactly how to tell him that I liked that being near him (yes, just the one time, the other times away from his house were fine)  but now it makes me want to take a shower.  Without him. At my own house. Immediately. I think I was in shock.  It goes with how much more I must really need to work on, because I can’t accept it, and don’t want to even try to move forward with it.  He has texted me every day since then, and I have answered, reminding him just how much I hate text conversations, and could he please call later that night after 9pm (kids in bed, priorities) and we can talk then.  He starts these texts (yes, every day) with “Sorry I couldn’t call last night.  Had a couple beers and fell asleep watching a movie”. I want to tell him why I won’t be seeing him again, but not via text. So I guess I have breakfast with him one more time. Publicly. No kissing.  I know this sounds like I am a bitch, but it would make me crazy on about 100 different levels to never be able to go to his house (presumable for sex, eventually, which would be a turn off, sorta defeating the whole thing, right?), and I don’t want to change him at all. I don’t even want to try to live with it.  I know, bitch.  But I have done this already, both the expecting a guy to change AND the saying nothing about it but living with it.  I am not saying that relationships aren’t compromises, but if something as basic as smoking and drinking is the thing that turns your partner off, shouldn’t you just acknowledge it and move on.  Politely (though how the hell I say “I’m sorry, can’t kiss you anymore, or come to your house, because you kinda smell bad.” is beyond me). 

I totally know that I need to be okay with this decision, letting go and all, so read on.

  

There is another man I met recently.  Not online.  Not in a bar, though we were drinking.  The conversation was funny, interesting, easy, flirty, and we both mingled, talked to other people, had a great time the whole evening. I stole his Karate Kid button from the front of his shirt, and he kissed me good night.  It made me feel tingly.  I know, that sounds so teenager, but I don’t have a better word to describe it.  I am sure he has zero interest in going out with me, and we didn’t exchange numbers or anything, so it is kinda moot, but it reminded that I love that feeling.  The easy attraction.  The laughter and no jealousy.  The end of a really good evening, and the idea that it could be that easy all the time.

I miss that.

Some of you will read this and think what a pathetic loser that sounds like.  Giving up a guy who is interested in you because it doesn’t feel right, and feeling squishy over someone who doesn’t know you exist in the real world.  But it doesn’t sound pathetic to me.  It sounds, for the first time in a long time, as NOT desperate.  That if I really thought about it, I want someone in my life who makes me tingle without trying.  Maybe it’s not the guy with questionable taste in 1980’s movies paraphernalia, but it is not the guy with the pot-smoking roommate, either. 

And it is not a bad thing that I want it.  I want someone who meets my values, my interests, my background, my work ethic, my desires, my past choices, my beliefs, and my plans for the future.  Is it really too much to ask to meet someone who has not been arrested for DUI (I never have been arrested, is it really that hard?); or who doesn’t borrow money from his parents to pay his electricity bill (I haven’t done that in almost 30 years); or who votes (yeah, like for President) and doesn’t think you are wasting your time when you do; or has a passport (because it is an important document for things like, um, travel); or who has books on a shelf anywhere in his house (books he might actually have read)?  I can do all of that for myself, so why would I want anything less from a partner?  Why would they want anything less for theirs?  I WANT the conversation and I want the lust.  I want the giggles and I want the shoulder.  I don’t want someone just to sleep with, but someone to wake up with.  I want someone who I love and trust when we aren’t sleeping together .  I want a best friend who is also a lover.  A lot to ask, but why not?  The other way hasn’t worked, and I’ve end up feeling stressed about not getting enough, or frustrated by giving too much.  And since I am clearly single, and not really that sad about it, why is picking something better than what I have had a bad idea.  The worst that could happen is that I would still be single, duh, and make choices for myself that I get to enjoy. 

But I would watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High.  Maybe while writing, since, no doubt, this whole blog was just to kill time (and clear my head) instead working on my novel.  A little over 1400 words, too.  Just about what I would need to write daily for NaNoWriMo to have it matter. Good job, Elise, now that you are not spinning stuff in your head, maybe a good short story is in order. Or sleep, whichever.

Taking it to the streets.

Do you all know I write a blog?

I guess if you are reading it here, you might have been here before.  I write about my life, as I see it (my blog, duh) and I don’t make any apologies for it.  Okay, to be fair, I apologized once for calling this one guy a pussy whipped pathetic loser.  I didn’t actually apologize for what I said about him, but for not having warned him that I was calling him a said pussy whipped pathetic loser in a public blog that as high as a dozen people (not any of his friends) might read.  That, and that although I did not actually use his name, I would not feel bad in divulging his name if someone asked (mostly so they could avoid him, I am sure).  He called me a whore right after that (awesome!) when he read a few of my other uncensored blog posts and thought we couldn’t be friends then because of the sexual nature of them (again, awesome!).  My regret was that I hadn’t come up with anything more colorful to call him than a pussy whipped pathetic loser, but I can learn from my mistakes.

So back to writing this blog.  You still reading?  Good, because I need readership.  Yes, perfectly self serving and possibly a little desperate, but today I would really like people to read this stuff. And what does that have to do with you, you ask?  Here goes:

1) Read this blog.  You are already here, so thank you!  I get a little obsessed about my numbers sometimes. Yes, there is a way to track this, and every blogger (okay, most bloggers) out there knows how many hits they got on a particular post at any given time.  I want this number to be higher.  So while you are reading it right now, I want you to also log on and read it from your hand-held device, your smart phone, your work computer, your boyfriend’s computer, your second cousin’s pet tarantula’s computer, and anywhere else you so desire.  See, each time you read it from a different device, I get a hit.  Hits are good in this case, and more (in this case) is what I am shooting for.

2) Follow this blog.  You already read it, so now click the little button in the right hand side that says “JOIN THIS SITE” and you get to be one of my fans.  I don’t know what actually happens after that, like if there is some “Follower Genie” that will send you emails telling you when I have once again posted something amazing for you to read, but you might as well have your little icon picture right there on my page.  Oh, and let me know if you have a blog.  I like to follow blogs.

3) Tell your friends.  You are enjoying reading and following the blog, so share the wealth.  You can have book club meetings about it even, all of you reading the blog, sharing with people what you gleaned from the amazing value it brought into you life, and how inspired you are to continue to read and grow.  I suggest you do this over a few (I suggest a half dozen) glasses of wine or pints of beers,  in a smoky dive bar, in a part of town you are not likely to be seen.  It is more fun that way.

4) Give me feedback.  No, I don’t really want you to point out spelling errors.  Or grammar errors.  Or suggest that I use too many non-sentences.  I know all that.  It is a style thing.  I am good with that part.  But, what do you want to read?  I have a gazillion stories about the woes of being a single mom with amazing kids and an idiot for an ex.  I could talk endlessly about surviving my mother. I could brag on my kids forever.  I can save you a little trouble here and say that I don’t post pictures because: a) selfies as a fad needs to go away, b) I want my kids to have a little tiny bit of privacy (I will use the pictures against them later at my discretion), c) If there are no pictures of me I have deniability in court, and d) you do not really need me up in your face with scary pics of myself in a too tight tank top, or some silly graphic that I pulled off bing.  But other than that, tell me what you DO want, and I will listen (as much as my creativity will allow).  And since you are now a fan (remember you are now FOLLOWING my blog, right?), you might as well have some semblance of ownership, no matter how false it actually is, and read what you like.

Feel free to go back and read older blogs.  I never actually read them myself, because honestly I was a huge mess back then.  If you do like to read expose-type blogs, reading from the first blog forward in time will give you the best picture of who I was, who I am, and where I am going.   It will also give me tons of hit-counts to my page views.  Win Win.

Are you still reading here?   Awesome, Thanks! Now go tell someone else, and feel free to share the link anywhere you want.  I won’t mind.

 

 

 

 

It is harder than it looks.

These are my short stories. I had them published in a 101-word contest that happens annually. Writing a complete short story within the confines on 101 words is challenging, especially to someone like me who likes to write and write and write, expaining things over and over and over, forever and ever and ever (got it?). Every time I have remembered to enter, I have been fortunate to have at least one story published. In 1999 I won the contest. In 2009 and 2011 I had all three that were entered (three is the limit) published. Here they are. Read. Enjoy. Share.

Listed by year
Then the link to the published site.
Then the title and each story

1999:
Link to 1999 Story

Memories
She remembered the way he tasted. Salty. Warm. Of coffee and brandy and toothpaste and cigarettes. She remembered his coal-black hair falling in his eyes. Short and slightly curled above the ears. She knew his eyes. The color of new jeans just washed and damp. Damp, the way his hands were as they touched her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and back, and between her legs. She remembered every moment. Every detail. Every movement. She remembered. She knew him. Even as she identified him as number three in the rape suspect line-up.

__________

2005:
Link to the 2005 Story

Poetic Justice
A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money.

__________

2009:
Link to the 2009 Stories

Freeze Frame
The last painting hung, as always, on the south wall, corridor 6, gallery 17. The curators removing exhibits took down other paintings, placed them in sleeves, then crates. What remained, proving the painting had not been alone, were faint square and rectangular scuffs that ringed the room. It was as it always had been; paintings coming, going, enhancing the last painting’s beauty by their meager presence. The last painting’s perspective never changed. It only saw the north wall, the velvet stanchions, the admirers. It longed to be stolen, taken to a home in some no-extradition country, just to change the view.

Young Innocence, Old Guilt
“Mom, can I tell you a joke?” “Sure, honey.” “Why did the barbeque cross the road?” “I don’t know, why?” “To get to the CHICKEN!” I laughed again, thinking it was just as funny this time. My sweet 4 year old crawled up on my lap. “Mom, when is dad getting here?” It was Wednesday night, 30 minutes past the scheduled pick up time. “I don’t know, babe.” I did know. It was why I’d left. He called at 7:30, after bedtime. I’m sure he would explain. “Hello.” I could smell the brandy before the first word was said.

Family Style
My ex-husband’s mother, and her charming, but unrealistic spouse invited me, and her grandchildren, to spend Christmas Eve at their house. Having spent every holiday there, being offered punch and English toffee, for the past 10 years, you might think I would have been delighted at the prospect. But here, in the sanctity of the house my children and I rented alone in May, away from alcohol-induced tirades, and words seething with cruelty and humiliation, we have a new tradition. It’s called happiness. I have been told they are inviting everyone, including the new fiancé. I’ve heard she likes punch.

__________

2011:
Link to the 2011 Stories

The Closet

For my eighth birthday, my mom bought me a new pair of purple Converse All-Stars. My old shoes were worn, and too small. I put the old shoes in the trash. I found them today, in boxes in her closet, with one-hundred-fifty other pairs. I’d moved out when I was eighteen, escaping, leaving behind everything I was now sorting, plus twenty-five years more. The 42-year-old in me wondered how my mother’s hoarding had gotten so bad. The eight-year-old in me touched every pair on the shelf, searching for the purple birthday shoes.


The Loss

The week before had been joyous, until the ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. She’d been unable to call him from the doctor’s office, she had said, shaking, and the nurse had called instead. He remained calm. Two days and a stillbirth later, she had taken her few packed possessions and left the hospital. “I’m going. I can’t come home until the bedroom is an office again.” It had come down to a choice between flying elephants and pastel crayon scribbles. Sitting on stacked paint cans in what would have eventually been the nursery, his emotions overwhelmed him.


The List

Her current partner, a sweet man with sparkly green eyes, knew a thing or two about sex, but lacked a little in the erotica department. A future “erotic memoir” entrant, but only just. She wanted the tingly feeling on the surface of her skin, just because the object of her longings was in the room. Tingling not from touch, but from knowing. Desire. Warmth deep at the core, that a person knew you, even if you never met. She wrote his name down as the last on the list, sighed, and then added the next number and left the line blank.


__________

2012:
Link to the 2012 Stories

About Face

I knew you didn’t expect me to go. Not after all this time. As you sat there. Staring. I knew I wouldn’t save you. Couldn’t save you. You didn’t want to be saved. Not really. And I had long since thought saving you was beyond my ability. It was true. I could only save one life. The life would be mine. If I could get it right. I knew the bottle in my hand would be mourned. Not by me. So I spilled the amber liquid. Purposefully. On the sidewalk. And I, for the first time in years, walked away. Sober.


By a Hair

She’d cut her hair “flapper” short, dyed it fuchsia, when the vomiting first started, grateful no one had to hold back her hair over the toilet. She’d shaved it completely when the tufts left after chemo reminded her of a neglected Chia-pet, and kept it that way, alternately choosing to wear a Santa hat or bunny ears as the season dictated. Her reward, on the last day of her life, was a little girl of 7, also baldly fighting cancer, using her head as a canvas with colorful body-paint crayons as the pair laughed, sitting by the koi pond.


__________

2013:
Link to the 2013 Story

Ground Up
It wasn’t enough, that casual piece of affection, given daily in the form of a perfect foam heart on top of his latte. Maybe “enough” would have been an extra stamp on his frequent drink card, or a free mini-scone. But having given all that at one time or another, it still wasn’t enough for him to read her badge correctly. So when he spoke while taking his change, “Jordy” came out as “Judy” and her whole world fell apart. In the reality of completely unreturned love, Jordy quit her job, went home, and smashed all of her coffee mugs.