Amy Tells All

Amy Tells All

About Amy Lissa…

I am a shadow, a cipher. I love to look. I love to be seen. I’ll show you some leg if you like. I’m no prude. I’ve been around the block a few times. The planet’s been around the sun about 25 times since I’ve been on it. Isn’t that enough for a woman to be in need of storytellin’? I’m a word girl. That’s what I do all day. I like to hang with friends and get into their lives as much as I can stand it. I live mostly on the interior. No one thinks I’m shy. I have a salty tongue, they say. Maybe after a margarita. But if you want to hear a good story, you’ve come to the right g spot.

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Truth Cake: A Recipe

Here’s a recipe for one of Amy’s favorite dishes: “Truth Cake.”

Ingredients:
self-knowledge, 3 parts
awareness, 2 parts
presence of mind 1 part

Here’s how:
It is not an easy recipe to pull off, I’ll tell you that right up front. You have to know yourself, and very well at that, without glossing over your weaknesses and temptations. The dark side of your mind cannot be unexplored. You have to really get down into that cellar and fish around with a flashlight. The bodies you stashed away on your last murder spree must be exhumed and reported to the authorities. You knew that was wrong, right? You also cannot, out of modesty, fail to mention your qualities. You have to get up on that mountain top and admire how close you can get to heaven. You can sing your praises, so long as they are not counter-factual.

You have to pay attention to that which is raging around you. If your scene is cool, that’s great. If there’s an edginess going down, you must be aware. Do not miss the warning signs. Take advantage of opportunities that present themselves. Don’t confuse an edge for excitement. Don’t think that danger is always to be avoided or avoidable. If you get a bonus, take it to the bank. If you get hit by a stone, or a brick, look around for the source. Nurse your wounds. Don’t let them fester. Don’t forget to take care of your needs and to look out for yourself. Nobody else is in a perfect position, or any position, to do it. Weigh options, but be prepared to act.

Don’t allow yourself to zone out. Keep at it, and if distraction overtakes, throw some cold water at yourself and wake up. You might not be getting enough sleep. see above. Sleep in a safe place. When awake, stay that way. In a dialogue, keep up your side of the bargain. In games, play to win. In love, be prepared to lose. In war, be a good soldier and a compassionate general. If you fly, don’t mess up. If you swim, mind the sharks and don’t drown. If you dance, go in the right direction and don’t step on anybody’s toes.

The mixing is critical. Say, for instance, that you’ve been a faithful wife. You know your gifts and you know where you fall short. You know these things from both your side and from his. He likes his shirts pressed, you wish he’d press them himself from time to time. He likes the dishes washed, and you wish he’d tackle that chore himself from time to time. He knows you like to draw. You wish he’d let you do it from time to time. He sent you to law school so you could help with his business. You were bored by corporate, so you drifted into family. He decided that having a lawyer in the family might adversely effect the balance of power. He dealt with this decision of his by forbidding you to take the bar exam. He badgered you when you defied him, and eventually did away with the books. He does not seem to realize that there are libraries. Still, you are a faithful wife, and one that wishes to please. You also long to be appreciated. You realize that this particular man may not be fully capable of that. You understand your fault in the matter: you chose to marry him, having been drawn to his body and not so much his mind. His mind is not repulsive, at least it wasn’t when you married him. There enters into the scene a temptation. You conjured up an “off duty professor” and lo and behold he came to life. He has the mind you seek, but who knows what he looks like. His photos show him to be an aging Adonis, but photos can lie. You know how you stack up in your own. If life were fair (it isn’t), you could put that man’s brain in this man’s body and call it a day.

So what’s a truther to do? You’ve added your self perception to your awareness. You are aware of the risks. (The marriage might collapse. There might be difficult scenes.) Perhaps the hardest thing of all to do is to stir in that presence of mind ingredient. The husband is out-of-town. Now is the chance to talk to (and maybe even go meet) the professor. The risk is plain. You will have to disable that feature on your iPhone that tells your snoopy husband where on the planet you are. On the plus side, your husband shows almost no interest in Facebook or blogs. (He might, as un-luck would have it, develop an interest. In that case, your goose is cooked. You have done all you can do by way of luring the professor into your orbit. He will either make contact in a timely manner or he won’t. If he doesn’t, well, there might be later in life, or never. If never, then the truth expressed here is pointless. Suppose all goes according to crazy, speculative, fantasy plan. Suppose the professor is all that you imagine. The professor has been a faithful husband. Do you really want to upset that apple cart? The best way for this to turn out would be for a nice extramarital affair to develop. (You are running a huge, insane risk by sharing this recipe on a blog. It is a recipe for disaster.) Why can’t it be possible to follow the inclinations of a heart, no matter how risky, inappropriate, messy, jealousy invoking, and foolhardy? That’s the way the truth cake tastes best.

This version lacks the spiciness of a bank robbery or a murder plot. It does have a cherry on top. It would be great to enjoy this with a side of good fiction, and a few funky beats. If no vodka is available, then try warm milk.

Enjoy. Oops. I think I just ate the last piece.

Recipe for a Lost Cause

A friend writes in to say that he’s written a book he can’t sell. He says he can’t sell it because nobody’s busting down the door to read it. His wife won’t read it, his friends won’t read it, even the ones he mocked to make characters, and even he says he can’t read it. He thinks his readership is suffering because his book isn’t very good. His actual words aren’t printable here on a family blog, but basically he’s worried that his book stinks. He might be in need of consolation.

Another friend reminds me that if you want to ramp up the numbers on a blog, you need to share some recipes. So with that in mind, I’ll try to do a little of both in this post. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer the following recipe for “A Lost Cause.” It’s a cocktail. What better way to nurse your ‘writing problems’ than with a good stiff drink?

Ingredients:

4 oz club soda (Any brand will do, but since you’re not selling, I recommend generic.)

1 oz lime juice (It is a sour taste in your mouth to be unappreciated for what you went to such lengths to say.)

1 oz Gin (Again, the cheapest available. You’ll be drinking quite a few of these.)

1 oz Malibu Rum. (This is as close to Malibu as you’re going to get, dude.)

5 cubes of ice. (It is a frigid thing, your imagination.)

Here’s how:

Go find yourself a highball glass. It’s the tall one that remains in the set that you got for Christmas one year and have broken every other one in subsequent years through careless, drunken handling. Can’t find it? Well, that’s OK. Just use that plastic tumbler. Now put the five cubes of ice into the glass. Pour the lime juice, the gin, and the Malibu Rum over the rocks. You’ll need another implement for the next phase: a spoon of some sort. I suppose you could use a knife, fork or even a stick from the yard if you haven’t washed dishes in a while. In any case, now you stir in the club soda with the other stuff you’ve accumulated in that glass – or tumbler.

Now put that sour draught to your lips and sip. You may suck if you wish. Nothing parches like the failure to reach. There now, isn’t that better? Let me tell you a story while you wait for the rush to kick in.

I looked up the American poet Charles Bukowski on a friend’s advice. (The same friend who, on my advice, is now drinking his lost cause into oblivion.) It seems Bukowski wasn’t just a poet. He also tried his hand at a favorite and much maligned genre, the autobiographical fiction. His book, which came out in the late 70s, was called, “Women.” I discovered this because I wanted know which women went to bed with Chuck either despite or because of his pot belly. But when you search “Bukowski” and “Women” you get Bukowski’s “Women.” A novel. Talk about your ‘Book of Babes!’ A quick peek at this yellow jacketed volume reveals that it is so autobiographical as to be a virtual memoir. This is very much the barking up of the familiar tree. Now, Amy is pressed for time, and can’t tell all. But from what I read of these women in “Women,” I feel the tug of the lure. I may well have bedded this man, had I ever happened upon him at the post office or a book signing. There is something so attractive about a man with a lost cause. A man with a cause of any kind, lost or otherwise, is appealing. The lost cause, particularly, will cause a reddening of the gleam in the eye which, when gazed upon at close range, can exert a powerful pull on both matron and muse. We will want to soothe and re-ignite this soul whose fire is quenched from care.

So my friend out there with your bad book. Get back to work and make it better. As soon as you’ve gotten over your lost cause hangover, of course.

Holiday Miracles

Much is made at this time of year of miracles. It’s a miracle if you can keep your head on straight with all of the extra stuff you have to do. You’ve made all of those lists, hunted up all of those addresses, got the cards in the mail, hauled the boxes out of storage, decorated, baked, partied, and slept it off. Eventually, you’ve got to turn inward.

The first miracle you must accept, no matter how it happened, or what went down after it happened, is the miracle of you. Oh, don’t think Amy is going to go all soft on you. It is true, though, that the fact that you even exist at all is a miracle. There was the miracle that your parents met. Perhaps they didn’t think so after a while. Perhaps, as in my case, the many curses made it seem more like a curse. Then there is the miracle of biology. It could have been that you could not have happened. Sex does not guarantee pregnancy as a result. It could hace been that the you you know as you might not have happened. You could have had quite different genetic luck. What is luck but another word for fate, and fate another for miracle. It is a mystery, and it cannot be underestimated. You might have been a mutant. It is a miracle that you’re not.

The second miracle is that you made it this far. You did not get sick and die. You did not get hit by a truck. Your airplane did not go down. You ducked that big disaster at the amusement park where the roller coaster went right off the rails. You were out of town, or at a different filling station when that whack job pulled out an automatic and mowed a dozen down. You have not lost control of your vehicle when on the phone with Auntie Annie. So far, the drunk has not hit you head on. You have lucked out and not purchased or ridden in a death trap car when it was fated to exhibit its death trap behavior. You have not been drowned in a tsunami, or gassed in the subway. You have escaped the molten lava and ash, and you’re miles from a fault line. It is a miracle, you know, that you have not drowned in the bathtub.

These are the large miracles, but there are many lesser ones. You hare not homeless. You have not even been fired. You have not even gotten a bad evaluation. You are living pretty high off the hog. You have two beautiful cats. Your cage is gilded, not lined with straw. You are not friendless. Your friends are beautiful, intelligent, and entertaining. You yourself are not without talent. You know this, and miracle of miracles, you believe it. There are miraculous proofs of your gifts arriving each day by email it seems.

Look out at the miraculous world. There are little miracles happening all around. In the supermarket you see a man help a lost little girl find her mother. In the parking lot, the miracle of courtesy allows another driver to take the nearer space. The city has enough money to once again put up the wreaths and the lights and have a tree in the square. Given the acrimony in City Hall, that is truly a miracle. It’s a miracle your taxes aren’t higher than they are. It’s a miracle that you can afford to pay them. Ditto all of the other payments that you are called upon to make each month, quarter and year, and that you still have money left over to buy nice things. Dang! It’s an economic miracle.

I save a special place in my heart for the miracle of having an affinity emerge with someone special. I’m sure you understand what I mean. You are going along just fine, thinking all is well with the world, and then by virtue of some miracle, you discover another being out there that shares your love of something. Maybe it’s that someone sees something in you that you knew was there, but wasn’t part of the acknowledged skill set day-to-day. Sure, your known as a doctor, lawyer, or indian chief. It’s a miracle when someone sees that you shine. I’ve had my share of miracles over the years. I look forward to many more. Lately, though, it seems as if the miracle dispenser has lined up on a string of limes. I can’t keep up, I’m so blessed.

For Connections: The Truth About the local Clubs

Hi, all of ye denizens of the dip!

I’m here to treat you to a survey of the local hotspots.

Let’s start with the eponymous “HotSpot” at 3417 Murdoch Avenue. We went there, didn’t we girls? We had a great time. The drinks are overpriced, but the scene is nicely decorated, and in the swirling lights, you can forget your troubles and just have fun. Not to be missed are the salty snacks and margaritas. We knocked down a few and cut some rug. The dance floor is a bit crimped for space. Still, nobody moved, nobody got hurt. We boogied down within inches of each other, and a good time was had by all. Recommended.

Club 47 is, alas, com si, com sa. It’s at the intersection of Camden and Division, and that location puts a certain hex on its star. Camden should rightly pertain to New Jersey, and Division pertains to math. We hate math. As for New Jersey, we struggled through a single episode of “Jersey Shore” in which the Guidos and Guidettes duked it (or puked it) out. We gotta say, what happens in Jersey should rightly stay in Jersey, and should not, repeat not be on national television. Yet, it is. And in “Rolling Stone.” Go figure. This digression is directed at the American Culture as it exists, per se, and not to the Club 47, as it exists per se. Club 47 is a typical “meet market” bar. If that’s you’re thing, have at it. As for me, I need more suave.

I had high hopes for Coyote Gone Wild. (800 7th) The name says much to me. Often a life can need a bit of a pick me up, and a chance to have gone wild of an evening can do much to refresh one’s outlook. This Coyote showed up in tall boots and got a table. The place was busy, but not frenzied. The band was “The Darndest Things” and they were excellent. They played a salty of current hits and oldies. Some of the current hits are hard to do live, we’ll admit. As for the oldies, we never get tired of “Old Time Rock and Roll.” I only wish that those taking to the dance floor would stop hitting themselves in the forehead over that one. Find some new moves! (You can do it!)  Good food, great decor that features much satin and lace. A coyote will find herself at home here.

Sad to say, we may have now exhausted our home state. Luckily, there’s another state just spitting distance from here. Ohio. Ohio has Marietta. In Marietta, there is the “Locker Room Sports Bar.” It’s at 217 Greene St. in Marietta, Ohio. Got it? Get it. Good! Quite a few of my sisters and myself have been to this place. We like it. The term “spots bar” generally puts us off, because we picture jocks having a meltdown after a few too many. That is not generally the case in this place. I found that I could gather my peoples in comfort at a table and not be hit on to death. On the other hand, if you are looking to score, you might find pay dirt here. It’s a family blog. I’d be remiss to suggest that there are scenes that don’t require a certain amount of discretion. This club is one of these. It is what you can make of it.

If you’re doing Marietta, don’t (or do) pass up the “Double L Dance Hall and Saloone.”  It does not seem to be pulling in the business of the “Locker Room.” It’s almost on the river, or more accurately at the spot where the Ohio and the Muskingum converge. (112 Front Street.) If you get fed up with the action inside (or lack thereof), you can go outside and look at the twinkly lights of the traffic on the water. If you can get your date (or that madman you just hooked up with) to join you, you might be tempted to steal a kiss. Be sure to return it! The food at the saloon is acceptable. A burger and fries might hit the spot if you’ve over-imbibed. The selection of microbrews is excellent. The decore is country inflected, with wagon wheels and barrels and such. I sat at the bar for a while and enjoyed the feeling. You might also.

Antiquing Downtown

Looking around at my environs, I came to the conclusion that we could use some sprigs and splashes of something or other around here by way of a facelift. I thought a bit of antiquing might be fun. I got all dressed up in some finery, so as not to seem like such a ragamuffin to the shop owners and struck out for the heart of Parkersburg.

My first stop was at Twigs ‘n Thyme, Country Primitives and Antiques at 3003 Murdoch. They have a very attractive web site, and it sports a Bible verse, so you can figure they’re good people. Luke 9:27 “But I tell you of a truth, there be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the kingdom of God.”

Some standing is required, because there is so much to see! They have all manner of items, some antique and some simply interesting, arrayed on distressed furniture. The candles caught my eye, since they were burgundy colored and rough-hewn. Another highlight for me was the crockery. So many fascinating old pots were displayed, each one calling out to be examined and considered for purchase. I love these because, even though it’s winter now, I know the spring will come and I’ll be needing a new planter or two. Our driveway is much too bare for my taste. I want to be welcomed home by the petals of roses and lilacs. I bought some candles and jugs.

I am in the market for a new writing desk. Now that I’m writing so much, hither and yon, I thought it might be good to stop doing it on the couch. Looking around in Twigs ‘n Thyme revealed only weathered or painted furniture that might take some work and even then not fit my decor. So I consulted my iPhone and found that a trip up to Vienna to Maher’s would be in order. Northbound I was.

Mahers, at 75 61st Street, is not much to look at from the outside. Parking is plentiful, and that is always a welcome discovery. Once inside, the wares are astonishing. This is very well crafted antique furniture, in very good shape, apparently fresh from the estate sale of the very well-to-do who have been taking immaculate care of their possessions right up until the moment they expired. Ah, the stacking bookcases! How that makes my library gene tingle! My many books would thrill to be in such a bower of boxwood. (Ok, maybe it’s oak, but that does not aliterate.) They ship anywhere, too. Here too, is more stoneware, all of it beautifully glazed and ready for a suitable liquid or powder. Keep your powder dry, people. Mahers has the goods. There’s a collection of delightful curly maple items, a sideboard to die for, and a butler’s chest. This last was the piece of my dreams. It would make a great writing desk, with plenty of cubbies for all of my nibs and such. I did not taste death just then, but I nearly did when I saw the price on this apple of my eye. Mahers wants $3700 for it. My sugar daddy will flip when he hears me wail and moan for this. Of course, you may want to get down here right away and beat me to it. Highly recommended for the appreciator of the finer things.

The kingdom of God notwithstanding, if you are spending any time on this side of paradise, I recommend getting out and about in our fair Parkersburg and environs. There is much to discover here, and we shall, in future posts, be exploring more of it. Until then, let your light shine!

A New Old Demon

Noodling with crayons, colored pencils, I added another vision of my own personal hell to my “Book of Demons.” Winter is upon us, and that means that soon it will be time for those dreaded holidays. This demon attempts to mash up Christmas Past, Present, and Future into one sick puppy. Simple enough to execute, really. You draw three lumpy circles, three radically different diameters, and stack ’em up on the page. The biggest one is on the bottom, so this demon sort of has a club foot. That bottom one is Christmas Past, and it is biggest because of childhood’s memories and the wish for lots of things. “Things” might include gifts, for surely I wanted all the usual stuff as a kid. Bikes, ponies, kittens, dogs, dolls, all of these were on my list at one time or another. “Things” also meant intangibles like peace. Peace was hard to come by. In the tense atmosphere at chez Andersatz, the holidays seemed to always bring out the worst. Things could get quite ugly. I don’t have to tell you. I’m sure you know what I mean. It is a huge circle of wishes that never quite came true. I got the bike, for sure. I got the kittens, certainly. Other things were always just out of reach.

Then above that, in a sick green, is Christmas Present’s circle. What do I wish for now? My own airplane is my craziest physical wish-list item. My flyboys have completely corrupted me. I suppose I could also use a license to fly. It remains just out of reach, like so many other of my dreams. I can flip through these catalogues of Ultralights, and imagine getting the boys to put it together for me. There I’ll be in my little green flying suit, helmet strapped on, all strapped in, and the guys’ll yell “clear!” and pull the rope for me and I’ll be set to taxi. Onward and upward. But that notion must be crumpled up and pitched in the circle above this one, the future file.

What else is in this medium sized bowl of punch in the gut? I wish I didn’t have to spend so much energy figuring out gifts for the people who have everything already. The three evil sisters? They are swimming in stuff. We give each other the gift of our company, but you can’t really show up at a party empty handed. So there’s that. I wish for gifting inspiration. The flyboys also have it all. See above. They’ve got licenses and aircraft. Nifty. I wish, and it’s a bigger wish, that the culture we exist in didn’t get so crazy at Christmas. It shouts at us to spend and makes us feel guilty about maybe missing somebody, about doing it at the last minute, about not really caring about it, or worse, having too much ‘bah humbug’ at heart. Then there’s the Martha Stewart syndrome; everything has to be just so. The tree all trimmed and properly watered, the house decorated with enough light to guide a nearly blind alien in for a precision landing (or is that Santa’s ride, just all pimped out?), and so much care spent on cookies and cakes. If I ate even a tenth of what arrives in this house, I’d look like a blimp. Not the bird I want to be, let me tell you!

At top is a tiny little mostly empty circle. It is a faint yellow, because I know so little about what might go on there. It has, as noted, a crumpled little wish list. It has all my high hopes for survival. I dare not hope for prosperity or freedom. The bird in a gilded cage can drive herself to neurotic death seeking the way out. Oh. My. Boo Hoo. I add the limbs, the branches on this off kilter tree. The nose is Pinocchio’s nose. She cannot tell a lie. (She cannot tell the truth.) The mouth is screaming. The eyes are wide, but unseeing. You’re going nowhere, girl.

The M Word

Ha ha.
Gotcha, again! Not that ‘m’ word, this one:
The evil sisters and I got together for drinks at Fitzwonky’s again. It’s a dive. The same old dive. We were slumming it. So Red says,
“I’m just not gettin’ any.”
“None?”
“None.”
Blondie says,
“That’s just not the way we were informed, as young pups, that guys did.”
“Young pups? Beg pardon. I’m still a babe in the woods.”
“Well, relatively speaking, I mean.”
“I love the drawl girl. You must be about to tell us about the ‘m’ word.”
“Ah-yup.”
Giggles. I say,
“It’s a tale of two ‘m’ words, then.”
“Yes,” says Red. “You get married, and you figure, this is it, I can toss the vibrator. I was careful, I paid attention. We were hot and heavy for, what…”
“…at least a year,” says Blonde, who knows her well, better than I.
“So. We’re going along good for a few years, but then, sadly, he gets sick, and boom. No nookie. I thought, OK. You gotta stand by your man. And a hernia is some heavy shit. Just imagine the excruciating pain down in that sensitive zone! However, he’s been better for a while now. He’s back to hauling lumber. But when I approach, he pulls away.”
“Ya think he’s seeing someone else?”
“I don’t think so, really. I mean, what do I know, really? You think I should hire a dick?”
Serious giggles. I say,
“Red, you keep saying I’m the writer…”
“…you are!”
“…but that was one hell of a word choice there!”
“No shit,” says Blonde, who has pretty much both spit out her margarita and wet herself.
“She means,” I say for the sake of clarity, should any nearby be overhearing, “a private detective.”
“Right! He still chats me up. It’s like he’s a castrated cat. He says all the same right stuff, he brings me flowers, he cooks and cleans…”
“…Purr, purr.”
“…he gets me by the scruff in his teeth, he flips me over on my back, and then he sort of looks like he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do next.”
“Does he…can he, you know? Get it up?”
Blonde, the clinical.
“Oh, yeah. Serious woody in the morning.”
“Well, then, why don’t you hop on that, so to speak?”
“Because…”
“Yeah? Spit it out sister!”
“…Oh, this it so hard to say…”
“…Hard?”
“Oh, Amy! Give it a rest!”
“Let the woman speak,” moaned Blondie.
“It’s just that I always associated the morning woody with his…”
“…having to urinate?”
“OK, there you go, Amikins. Points.”
“So,” continued Red, “I consider it, the morning boner, as not counting.”
“Not counting…?”
“Right. It’s not for me, that stiffie.”
“Like erections come with labels or purposes.”
“So. He’s physically able, but psychologically impaired.”
“Yeah.”
Sister Red is looking a bit put upon.
“It’s Ok, Red,” says Christine, “He’s a good man. He’ll get it back. You can help him find it. We can help you help him.”
“Blonde, that sounds a bit off. I think it’s going to have to be my cross to bear.”
A silence. I say:
“So. You’re not getting any. What do you do about it?”
“I mail ordered a vibrator.”
“You can’t let your fingers do the walking?”
“Oh. I can. But…”
“Yes?”
“Yes? Do come forth!”
“I’ve always been a vibrator girl. I found one online called the ‘who needs a man’ model.”
“Oh! I know that one!”
“You do, Blondie? You, too, are doing the good vibrations?”
“I am! I mean, I’m getting some, indeed, but, ahem, me and my man use it as an enhancement.”
“Wow,” I say. “You two are really kind of blowing my mind. I guess I’m Ms. Natural. If I can’t find a man, and I have to say, decent specimens are few and far between around these parts, I am a digital wizard. I can find it, and get it, in short order. No power tools required.”
“Have you ever tried the ‘power tools?’”
“Nope. You can tell about ‘who needs a man.’”
“Oh, it’s huge. I mean, it’s not one of those little peckers that you can plug in and cuddle up to. It takes some serious two handed handling to get it in the right place.”
Giggles. Helpless.
Blondie chime in with:
“My man once fixed the broken power cord on my little shaker. I like little as opposed to big or huge. I could wrap my legs around it, but it had a tendency to shock me. So I asked him to fix it for me and he did.”
I say:
“That’s true love, love.”
Laughter. But then, silence. Have we spent ourselves on the topic?
Red asks,
“Oh Queen Bee Amy, you said ‘a good man is hard to find.’ If you, with all of your wit and allure can’t find one, what is the sisterhood coming to?”
“Ha! I said that? You know me, I’m always making shit up. But, yeah, I have to say the ‘jean pool’ around here is pretty shallow. We liked that dancer slash bandmaster a few weeks back, but he never made it to first base. We did the dance, but he didn’t want to take the chance.”
Blonde asks,
“Did he ask?”
“No,” I say, “He had his quiet dignity and he took my hand. He looked. He clearly wanted to, but I think we’ve backed the careful ones into a corner.”
“What do you mean by that, Amy?” asks Blonde.
“I mean we’ve turned them into sheep with feminism. If a man has read the books and gotten the notion that women are in control, they won’t then mount an approach. At all. So when I was willing, and giving out my best signals, without being brazen or rude about it, I could see that the man was in a bind. He wanted to ask, I could plainly see that, but he was holding back. All the way back. He was a gentleman, respectful, he walked me to my car, he said ‘thanks,’ he said ‘good night,’ and then, following that particular script, with my keys in hand, all I could do was open the door, get in my car, and drive home. When I got home, I drew a bath, sat on the bed, and…”
“…and?” asked Blonde, rhetorically.
“…what?” asked Red, pensively.
“I indulged in the ‘m’ word. Otherwise, I’d have gone nuts.”
“There are men that aren’t so ‘well read,’ as you put it,” said Blonde.
“I know. With another sort of dude, you have to almost call the cops,” said Red. “I hate going to the bars alone on account of that. I have a husband. In this dinky little town, don’t most of ’em know that? I mean, my husband might be out of commission for whatever reason at the moment, but I’m quite sure he’d take serious umbrage at infidelity on my part.”
“Have you asked for permission to swing?” I ask. Gotta ask.
“No.”
“Do you think he’d deny you?” asked Blonde.
A pause while Red thinks about this. At length, she says,
“I think he would say, ‘if you must. I know I’m derelict in my duty. But it will complicate things for us.’”
“Wow,” says Blonde.
I am silent. I know Red’s husband pretty well, after all. We live in a smallish town. We’ve shared a few drinks, me and him. I know that she’s right. He’d say just that, and I can hear him saying it. Not only that, but if she wanted to move beyond the vibrator to something more real, he’d tolerate it, and support it. I am not going to come down hard against all men. Most of ’em, yes. By and large, they can’t be trusted, are problematic. But the ones that have a brain and have done the research, the ones that you really should be hanging out with, despite your wild side inclinations, they will both let you alone to be what you are, fail to satisfy you, and let you hurt them with infidelities. Until, of course, they fall in love elsewhere. That is the ‘human condition.’ It is better, therefore, to learn how to find your own g spot.
“You know where I like to do myself the most?” I ask, taking the talk to the ‘beating a dead horse’ level.
“Do tell,” says Red.
“Behind the wheel.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Red, “I can picture you barreling down the twisting roads in that snappy black Honda with your lily white hand between you legs.”
“Oh jeez,” says Blonde. “Do I also have to picture it?”
I’m shaking my head. Have I said too much? It’s girl’s talk on girl’s night out.
“What do you do when the truckers pull along side on the interstate?” Asks Red.
“That’s funny, Red. It’s happened, actually. Once, at least. I gave him the biggest smile and nod that I could under the circumstances.”
“But you didn’t let up?” Red asked.
“Nope. When I get to a certain point, I just can’t.”
It’s true, you naughty boys out there. When a girl gets to a certain point, she has to keep going. Otherwise it hurts. Isn’t that the way it is for you, guys?
The ‘m’ words matter. Much.

Car gods, renounced.

I took a drive up into the hills yesterday. My ride is a black Civic. It’s nicely tricked out with a good sound system and aluminum wheels. Not quite pimped, but pretty well pumped. It’s not new, but fairly late-model. I confess that I don’t keep up with maintenance.

I’d been downtown and was shopping around at the knick knack places, you know, Fenell’s finer glass assitude, and the Elusive Vapor; the vision there again eluded me, but I found a little unicorn that found its way into a shopping bag. I’m a sucker for unicorns and dragons. Anything you can capture and make miserable, or anything that has a stunning purple sheen that you can get to toast up your Quiche in the mornings. Always on the lookout for anything that breathes fire. I delight in light. This little light of mine, it can surely be allowed to shine. So, there I was, out and about. I rang up Red, but she was having a bad day at work. Blondie had a cold. Boo hoo. I offered to bring over some soup and support, but she said she felt and looked like poop, and urged me to stay out and about. I hunkered down at a coffee place and got hit on by a dork with a doughnut. Fenced him off with a feint to the menace, but he bounced back with a parry to the nary. His name wasn’t Perry. He offered to carry my bags to my Honda, but so help, help me Rhonda, I don’t take tips.

I then encountered a good lad, lovely in his body and blonde locks, behind the counter, so I decided to linger for a moment at the Trans-All Used Books. I couldn’t read a thing he’d written. It was a non-verbal moment. He looked and so did I. Eyes are aimed at Amy. Amy tells all. I wanted to know if he wanted to take a walk with me in some West Virgin bower, over by the lake and up above the river. I couldn’t find the words in the spur of the moment to ask. He broke the silence with a question.
“How are you doing today?”
“I’m OK, today thanks.”
“Are you finding something good to read?”
“Not so far.”
“Too bad.”
“Do you have a suggestion?”
“What sort of thing do you like?”
That mind of mine raced. So many good replies went in and out behind my eyes.
“I like the sort of thing you like,” I didn’t say.
“I’d like to be your page and paragraph,” I left unsaid.
“I’d like to press a flower in your index, M’lord, went unused.”
“I like poetry. I was just Googling Rothke,” I did venture.
“Oh, we’ve got some of that in here for sure, though I’m not sure we have any Theodore Rothke.”
Amy’s giving him points for knowing the first name of the poet, but taking perhaps a half-point off for flirting with her by showing off his knowledge. Amy is complicated that way. Amy, can’t really even, to tell the wicked truth, recall her usual grading scale at the moment, since she’s only indulging in this chat because he works at the bookstore and he looks like a rock star, perhaps a bit like the young Ziggy Stardust, or maybe even Bowie before that. He’s getting her highest grade for beautiful blonde hair that has a lot of body. Amy already mentioned his other body.
“Oh that’s ok. I’m really just looking.”
At him. Shamelessly.
“Sure. Let me know if I can be of any help.”
There’s her best, thousand watt smile.
I could not take a greater chance this afternoon. I have forgotten to wear my rings. I am a liar in this lair. I did linger a bit longer among these books for sale, but I didn’t find one to buy. On the way out, I said “bye,” and again smiled at the man. He smiled back, but was a perfect courteous bookstore employee and nothing more. I felt a wisk of pity, and wistful relief.

Out into the autumn afternoon I went.

Up into the mountains I headed, driving east. Having thought of the lake, I made away from both the river and the park. I was unconsciously turning away from the eyrie, where the eagles in my life took wing. I drove a road I knew well, as it eventually led to cities I loved and had lived in. Eventually, I rode into a place called Salem, and though I was no witch, I twitched. I knew that the wolf was just ahead, and that I’d best get out and stretch my legs. I strolled around in little Salem. I had forgotten that there was a school here, and onto campus I strolled. I watched the coeds about their business, a rare burst of varied colors in contrast with the uniform caucasian brand of the surrounding locales. I could blend in here, still just young enough at my quarter century to be just another college girl. There might be a professor here who would ask me out on a coffee date. An off duty professor that would remind me of my father and yet be no kin. We could sit opposite one another and speak the truth. I went in to a nearby off campus bar, because Salem is actually tiny, and had a drink. I was not approached. I had my martini dry, with none of the dirt my evil sisters adore. How I wished to have brought them with me here! The sister act would have fit right in out here. I slipped in here and as I sipped it I slipped into a fantasy.

I conjured up my off duty prof, his silver mane a badge of exalted high learning. I had had them aplenty on-duty and they’d learned me some law. The one I now imagined spoke my language. I could picture him so well, I could see him now before me. In a dignified stroll, he comes in. I let him do it in my passive voice. He walks over to the bar and orders his drink, white liquid in a bat shit bottle, poured out neat. At least two fingers, maybe a double. He turns and sees me. We smile at each other. Can he read my mind? Can he tell how badly I need to talk to him? I see him approach me, and I know he can, in fact tell.
“I saw you smile. Do I know you? Are you, or were you, in my class?”
“No, what do you teach?”
“Good! I’m getting more senile than I thought in my dotage if I’d forgotten your face! I teach Mediated Learning in Telecommunication. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, without objection, so ordered.”
“Are you, with such language, in Criminal Justice?”
“Nope. I did Family Law.”
“Wonderful. Counselor.”
He tips his glass, this beautiful man of a certain age. This Fig Newton of my imagination.
“Almighty God?” I might say to this delicious wit.
“No, but I am old enough to be your everlasting father, oh princess of peace.”
I sip. I imagine we sip. In my imagination, I don’t want to know what the hell he’s referencing. I don’t want to be caught dead liking dead composers. You know that, sisters. The evil sisters don’t do that classical shit. Play something we want to hear.
“Those are some fine and flattering words, professor, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
At this, I hear his laughter for the first of many times. And, since it’s my kinky fantasy, he doesn’t break my heart by parading his knowledge. My Ass Prof stays pitch perfect.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not a counselor. I haven’t taken the Bar.”
“Haven’t taken it or haven’t passed it?”
“Haven’t taken it.”
“Why not, darling?”
In my imagination, familiarity does not breed contempt. But I wonder If I’d want him to be so familiar quite this fast.
“Well, Silver-Haired Daddy of Mine, I haven’t managed to find the time.”
“Point taken and point scored. Hitting the books does take time, and from this I gather that you’re a busy woman. I also get that you’re not a student here. We do Education, Nursing, Physical Education, Business, but not Law. Pardon my unwarranted and obviously unwanted familiarity. And I note that you do Country and Western.”
How can my own imagination be so hard on itself? Amy, you’re killing off your own fantasy before you can even get what you came in here to find. Your next imaginary riposte has to be more flirt and less hurt. You have to forgive the man for apologizing since you inflicted it. Let it go if you care.
“May I ask your name, Professor?”

Do I have a name for this character? Have I finished my drink? Don’t I need to be getting home? Well? Here I sit in spitting distance of Salem’s International University, face to face campus, conjuring up a believable character that might instruct at that historically Baptist institution, yet who might still be sexy enough to keep me entertained. As an additional challenge, the school is nowadays so infra-dig as to allow you to do your pop degree online, and the man I’ve conjured teaches Bloom’s Taxonomy, not the English Lit I crave. That’s just not going to cut it. So I cut it, to conjure it up again in another place later, and head out the door to my car for home. It’s edging towards twilight.

As I strolled in my fashionable heels back down the sidewalk to where I’d left that Honda, I recalled that the automobile has been exhibiting some distress lately. I’d been routinely ignoring the fact that the engine temperature display has been peaking after some 10-15 minutes of running time, only to then settle back down towards normal thereafter. What do I know about automotive? That’s a job for the boys at the Eyrie. Now, as I approach my car, I see that it has leaked liquid that is glowing green in the sunset and pooling in the curb. Uck-fay! I know from my experience with flyboys that this is not a good thing. The liquids should not be coming out of the car (or plane). In such a situation, what is a girl to do? I could drive the car anyway. It turned over when last I parked it. The green shit I know, even in my relative ignorance, is antifreeze. I offer the incantation to the auto gods: shit-fuck. I get out that iPhone and I call over to the Bald Eagle Eyrie for some roadside assistance.

Father and Me

“Hey Dad?” I start in.
“Yes, daughter?”
“What did you do in the war?”
“Which one?”
“Well, you missed WW I, I assume.”
“I missed WW II, also. You’re only (…) years old.”
Blush. :- Amy not tellin’.
“You’re a swordsman, I know.”
“Yeah. Drop the s and you’ve got me categorized by the balls,”
“Wordsman. Right. I’m a wordwoman. The Queen of words. It is mightier than the sword.”
“The poisoned pen.”
“The purloined letter.”
“I rode into town on my paper steed about the time of the troubles in DC over the war.”
“Aha. So there was a war on.”
“Yeah, the Vietnamese War.”
“Oh. That one.”
“Yeah that one. We hated it. We meaning the whole counterculture.”
“So you were a hippy?”
“I wore my hair long and I did drugs.”
Blush.
“You also counted coup?”
“You are too smart for me, girl.”
“You know. Took scalps. Kept a tally of the women you bedded.”
Laughter.
“Nope, not me.”
“No sex for you?”
“No tell of it to you. You are the living proof that I had sex at least once.”
“Just once?”
“Don’t push your luck. You know what became of your mother.”
(…)
“What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know. I love you, Dad. I want to know you better.”
“You know me better than anyone. You inherited the writer gene.”
“That’s a gene?”
“The way you write is a gift.”
“You are a proud father.”
“I am seeing you as you are.”
“I’d be happier if someone other than my father or my girlfriends took a shine to my writing.”
“Well, who gets to see it?”
“Anybody with a computer or a smart phone!”
“But there’s a lot of competition in that neck of the woods. How does anybody find you?”
“Good point. By accident, I guess.”
“How do you advertise a blog?”
“How do you advertise a book?”
“By doing a book tour.”
“How many books do you sell, Dad?”
“Not nearly enough. I barely break even.”
“So what makes you think I’d do better in the market place.”
“Well, you’re very beautiful, for one thing.”
“That’s the proud father speaking.”
“Again, it’s provable. Walk into that bar right there and count the minutes it takes for you to be hit on.”
Blush.
“Ok, Dad.”
“Can you hook me up with an agent?”
“Probably.”
“There’s a huge problem.”
“That being?”
“I don’t have anything I can stand to see in print.”

It’s very circular, this game. I’m blogging about a conversation with my dad that was about the writing on my blog. That’s because I let him drive the conversation. I tried getting him to tell me about the peace march, but he deflected it. Shall I get back on him about that? I’d bet it’s a good story?

OK, here goes. Later, still hanging out with dad.

“Dad, so what happened in DC at that Vietnam protest?”
“We got to DC, having taken the bus.”
“We meaning?”
“Me, some friends, my main squeeze.”
“Not Mom.”
“Not. I think I might have met her on that trip. I’ve blocked it. She’s dead, and she was such a huge problem before that.”
“No need to remind me. I’m still wading through that shit.”
“Right.”
“So we got into town at about 8 in the morning, as I recall, and by that hour, the mall was full of people. Maybe as many as three hundred thousand people. By the end of the event, which was in November of 1969, as many as six hundred thousand people had thronged the Capital. When I say thronged, I mean you have no idea. We were kids. We were just old enough that our parents (Gramps and Mamps, God rest their souls) were foolish enough to let us do it. I remember working them quite hard over that bat-brained scheme. I played the ‘history in the making’ card, the ‘civic awareness’ card, the ‘we won’t get in trouble’ card, and all of the other various gambits I could muster. We raised the money ourselves. Our teacher, old Mr. Morgan, finally went to bat for us and that turned the tide. As I say, the place was packed. Here’s what I remember. We heard a few speeches. We did some chanting. ‘Fighting for Peace is like Fucking for Virginity!’ We chanted. ‘Stop the War! Nixon’s a whore!’ We chanted. Pete Seeger sang, Joan Baez sang, Arlo Guthrie sang, and then there were more speeches. There was a constant parade of people down Pennsylvania Avenue. As they walked past the White House they called out the name of a dead soldier. There were many dead soldiers, so it was an endless supply of names.”
“Wow, Dad, that sounds amazing.”
“It was. But after a while, we got bored with the chanting, the singing and the speeches. We also got swept up into some side protests going on; one, I remember was a huge gay rights contingent. They picked me and my babe Lynn up on their shoulders and we ended up over by the museum of history and technology. It was new at that time…”
“You’re talking about the Smithsonian, right?”
“Right. They’d just done this huge new building and it had all the flags and trains and cars and phonographs. We were just enthralled. We went around reading placards and pushing buttons. By the time we got back out on the mall, the action had moved elsewhere. We drifted, walking. We ended up at Dupont Circle, where a fight broke out. We saw the police go for the tear gas, so we ducked into a bookstore.”
“I always get hung up at the Smithsonian in the aviation museum.”
“I know, Lana. You’ve always loved airplanes.”
“I’d get in there, and stare at the Bleriot that Quimby died in, and the “Vin Fiz” that Rogers died in, and the “Spirit of Saint Louis” that Lindberg didn’t die in, and the Lunar Lander that Armstrong took his moon walk from…”
“Don’t forget the “Gossamer Goose!”
“No, I can’t forget that one.”
“The words ‘national treasure’ come to mind.”
“So, I almost hate to ask, how’d you meet Mom, at the moratorium?”
“I almost hate to answer. I can’t answer. I can’t think about that. All I can say is, Lana, your gonads can get you into all kinds of bad trouble. Please be careful when you get the urge.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll keep that in mind.”