"...you'll see me." -Part 2

Now that I've had a moment to sit and write again, I'll finish what I started in Part 1 of this entry.

Another fundamental part of my personality is that I am ambitious. Not blood-thirsty, step on the necks of others, scorching the earth and burning my bridges ambitious, but I am ambitious when it comes to my personal goals.
I have always wanted to go to college. In fact, not going to college has never been an option in my world for myself. And my parents have pushed me in that direction. True story:  on the day I was born, after things had settled down for a bit, my dad briefly left the hospital and created a college savings account for me. And he put money into it for my entire childhood, right up until I started college. And despite my trials and tribulations, I have always kept pursuing my college education. I have always wanted to be college educated. And through my journeys in life, I have realized how important it is to have at least some college education. It used to be that you could have a good job and a comfortable life without a college education, but those days are long gone. Not that people who don't go to college deserve to be poor or have a lesser lifestyle or are lesser people, it's just the cold, hard reality any more that you need at least a certificate from a local community college in order to be taken seriously in the job market. I learned the hard way. I lost my job as a phlebotomist, a position I'd had for about 4 years, and I was never able to return to phlebotomy as a job or career because I had only gone through an on-the-job training program to obtain my skills instead of getting an official certificate from an institution of higher education. Now I'm pursuing a certificate program that will train me to be a pharmacy technician, and I have recently discovered that at the end of this semester, I will have enough credits to graduate from the community college I attend with an Associate of Arts degree in Social Sciences. But I do plan to go on. I'm planning to pursue something in the medical profession, either a Doctor of Pharmacy (PharmD) program or MD program. This is something I want for myself, no matter how long it takes, and I will reach my goal, someday. I am strong enough and smart enough to do it, so I will.

Well, that was all I really had to say from the previous entry, but I'll let you into another aspect of my life that will help you see me for who I am. I am taking an online advanced fiction-writing course for credit through the community college I attend, and I will be posting the end results of my assignments on this page for all to read. Critiques will be welcomed. These writings will help you get a better glimpse of what I like to incorporate into my writings and what my thought processes on given topics, structures, genres, etc. are. You can actually tell a lot about a writer by what he/she writes about on preferred subjects and assigned subjects. I'll also let you know what sort of grade or score I get on the assignments to let you decide if you agree or disagree with the judgment on the quality of my work. Hope to hear from you!  

"Look in their eyes, Ma--you'll see me." --Tom Joad in "The Grapes of Wrath"

In the year 1913, trying desperately to free art from the dead weight of the real world, I took refuge in the form of the square.

 That quote above was one my Art History 1800 to Present professor put into the syllabus. I like it. How often I have wished desperately to take refuge in something--anything--other than myself.
The quote in the page header is taken from one of my favorite novels, John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath." It comes at the point where Tom is breaking away from the Joad clan in order to save them undue stress and misery at the hands of the authorities after he runs into some legal trouble while being involved in the workers' rights movement. His mother, knowing that she'll never see her boy Tom again, still asks when, if ever, he'll be back in her life. The passage the quote is from has Tom telling his mother that if she just looks into the eyes of the poor, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the lepers of society, she'll be sure to see him because he is one of them and he is fighting for them.
How the two quotes relate to me is that I often find myself among the legions of Tom Joads and those whom he is fighting for--there, but unseen. I often find myself wanting to escape from the world as a whole because I get very frustrated. Frustrated with the fact that I don't get noticed and appreciated for who I am as a person.
Let me explain what's been going on.
Obviously, if you've been reading the past couple of entries, you'll know I had a quasi love affair go wrong. (And, yes, mofo still has my barrettes. Not cool.) I'm not terribly hurt about the breakup of the relationship itself. In the long term, R-- and I weren't truly compatible. We had different goals. What bothers me is the persistent pattern of love gone wrong in my life.
The longest romantic relationship I've ever had in my whole dating life was the month-long relationship I had with my ninth-grade boyfriend, M--. I think the fact that we lasted a whole month was actually telling. Because for that month, M-- was a good guy, very conscientious and considerate. He just fell off the great boyfriend band wagon after about a month when he decided to no longer be a nice guy and dump me to pursue a girl who was clearly uninterested in him. (In fact, she refused his advances pretty good. He tried to come back to me after about 2 weeks of dogged pursuit of her, and I flatly refused to take him back because I thought that was rude. I was also pretty insulted that M-- had been so intent on that girl when he had me. If there's anything I don't like, it's coming up in second place for a man's romantic interests. After all, only one bitch wins the Westminster Dog Show. There's no runner up there. No "Congratulations! You were almost as good as the Standard Schnauzer this year!" or "Your 14-inch Beagle has the best personality of all the dogs here this year!" It's go big or go home there. Same for the Miss America competition. No one ever remembers or pays attention to whoever takes the "Miss Congeniality" prize at that event. After all, I, who am not a devotee of beauty contests, could probably name you half a dozen Miss America winners, but I don't even know if they award runner up, Miss Congeniality, etc. at the Miss America competitions. I don't want to know that I'm your second choice, that if you could truly have what you actually wanted, you'd have someone different. I think that's insulting and demeaning. It means I'm only "adequate" or "slightly above average" in comparison to another person. For someone who has always received "exceeds expectations" and "highly above average" marks in everything I've done in my past, being merely average--ho hum, so to speak--does not sit well with me. If nothing else, I'm a perfectionist about myself. If I don't think it's right, I do it until I am satisfied, no matter how long it takes. I realize that I am not perfect, and no one else is either, but I would like to at least have the impression that you think I'm a good 8 or 9 on a 10-point likeability scale.)
And that's been the whole problem with my dating life. If I could get a dating relationship to last beyond a month, I honestly don't know what I'd do with myself. Or the guy. I certainly wouldn't be pushing for marriage and children, but I'm at a loss as to where to go from there, if anywhere. I could honestly see myself saying at a 6-month or 1-year anniversary mark, "Dude, you're weirding me out! Can we just have breakup sex now and just get it over with?!" Honest to God, the number of times I've been told, "I've had a great time. I'll call you tomorrow/random day of the week/next week/etc." and then NEVER received a phone call EVER, could probably make the Guinness Book of Records. (Only Jenny at 867-5309 has received more nonexisitant calls. Especially after karoke night at the Elks.) And I swear to God, the next time some guy tells me that after a date, I'm going to lean really close to him, look him dead in the eye, laugh really loudly and falsely and obnoxiously and say really boisterously (to clearly draw the attentions of any and all people in the immediate vicinity), "OH MY GOD! YOU'RE HILARIOUS! TELL ME ANOTHER ONE! WOO HOO, EVERYONE! LOOK AT THIS DUDE! HE'S HOT AND HE'S FUNNY! DOUBLE THREAT! HA HA! *SNORT!*" The only reasoning I have for this plan of action is that perhaps it would be the only way to get through to said guy that if he's not going to actually call a woman, he shouldn't make the promise that he's going to call again. Yes, I'd be blatantly using shaming as an educational tool, but ladies who are coming around further down the line, you'll thank me. (Unfortunately, the plan of action is only implementable on a one-on-one basis at this point. I'm hoping recruits and disciples will flock to my methods once they see the successful outcomes I've had. Or not. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm not getting a second date, so I might as well be brutally honest because it's been a long time comin'.) You won't wait around for that particular guy to call you because he'll be smart enough to keep his mouth shut on the subject of future phone contact. Seriously, I can handle ending the night with "I had a nice time. It was nice to meet you. *Crickets*" and we shake hands or peck each other on the cheek and go about the rest of our lives like we never met. But if you promise me you will call, and you don't, you are being rude and hurtful because you have lied to me. At least with my method ("I had a nice time, nice to meet you---SILENCE!"), you're not a liar and a jerk, and my feelings aren't hurt because you were honest enough to tell me (albeit subtly) that you don't want future contact. It also doesn't get me all paranoid about having my number out in too many places because (again, subtly) you've indicated to me that you'll probably be discarding my number in some way. So that is the way I would like to be initially treated by someone in possession of a Y chromosome. You know. Like Aretha sang so masterfully:  "R-E-S-P-E-C-T!" Find out what it means to me, home boy. Humor me. For once.
I also have a problem with what I call "Boomerang Boy Syndrome." It's when you're dating a guy, and he, for whatever reason, suddenly stops calling, texting, e-mailing, etc. and falls off the face of your universe, only to return weeks, months, or even years later and expects to resume some sort of relationship with you with NO perfectly valid explanation for his past behavior or current motives (like alien abuduction, forced servitude in a penal colony, a spontaneous and lengthy bout of total amnesia, working a very covert spy mission for the CIA, looking for Jimmy Hoffa's body and finding out exactly what happened, taking a wrong turn in the Bermuda Triangle, tracking the last known whereabouts of D. B. Cooper and solving the case, working in HR at the North Pole workshop resolving conflicts between the elves' union and Santa, etc.). Guys will do this to me and be all offended when I'm like "I'm suspicious of you now, and I think you're shady, so step off" and don't drop my whole life and routine to be with them. They're also all flabbergasted when I go back to that previously mentioned issue of mine (not wanting to be runner-up in a man's attentions and affections) and tell them something to the effect of "You probably dropped out of my world to be with someone else, and when that didn't work out, you came back to me, and I'm not cool with that. I'm offended and insulted that you left, and I'm doubly offended and insulted that now you've crawled back to me to clean up that mess. Guess what? I'm not yo' mamma, and I don't clean up for you or after you! Fix your own problems! Who do you think I am anyway, Sigmund Freud, Florence Nightingale, or Mother Theresa? 'Cuz here's news:  I'm not any of them, nor do I intend to be." I'm not against second chances, but I haven't come across anyone who is worthy enough of redemption or has very valid reasons for walking out of my life suddenly and spontaneously reappearing later. Because here's my thinking:  if I started dating someone and something drastic and unforeseen happened that would cause me to spontaneously walk away but want to someday resume a relationship (like wrongful imprisonment), I would come to them and say, "Hey, I like you, but I'm being sent to the Big House for something I didn't do and I don't know when I'm getting out--if ever--so I'm turning you loose so you don't waste your life waiting for me. If the Supreme Court sees the light and lets me go, or the Governor issues me a complete pardon, or if I ever regain my freedom in some other way, I'll look you up. Until then, have a nice life. Here's looking at you, kid." (Yes, that was totally a "Casablanca" reference.) My point being:  if, for whatever reason, you can't be in a relationship right now but want one later, just give me a simple explanation as to why it's not going to work out right now. Don't just vanish, reappear, and then be hurt and mystified when I don't immediately fall all over myself to be back in your life. I have a life, too. And it doesn't involve being Rapunzel in a tower waiting for you, the Supposed Prince, to climb my hair and rescue me. Here's a hint:  I am perfectly capable of saving myself and taking care of myself. I am also like Melmoth the Wanderer, constantly, ceaselessly moving forward, never stopping, never resting, often to the point of delirium. If you expect me to retrace my steps and come back to you, you've got to give me a damn good reason to do so. Otherwise, you're just excess baggage laboring and impeding my progress. The thing about the past is that it is just that, the past--monolithic and unrepeatable, and often for good reason. To cling to it is to cling to chains and irons that only hold you and slow you. The best course of action for the past is to sever yourself from the unpleasant parts as though they were necrotic limbs, useless and fetid, and to cast small backwards glances at the wonderful parts and hold them close to your heart as you continue to put one foot in front of the other, day after day. Yeah, I roll up the welcome mat if you leave. I'm not going to be in an endless cycle of dysfunction of us being together, then you leaving for someone else, then you crawling back to me. I did that sort of thing with one guy for a couple of cycles. It was emotional hell. I was neurotic, jealous, suspicious, paranoid, nosy as hell, elated, and depressed all at once. It was exhausting, physically and emotionally. So I wised up. No more. No one does that to me any more. It's selfish to do that to another person, and I don't treat you selfishly, so you don't get to treat me like I am there for nothing more than your emotional and physical fulfillment. I am a whole separate being with separate wants, needs, hopes, dreams, goals, and desires, and I'm old and wise enough now to know that those things in me need to be respected in me first before I can respect them in you. Because if you do not respect those parts of me, I will not have cause to respect them in myself because you will violate them, which will lead to me devaluing them. And then I will devalue myself by staying with you, allowing you to disrespect me as a human being. And that I cannot do. Not any more. I am not stupid, and I am not weak. And you will not treat me that way repeatedly. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
And then there's the guys I always seem to nab:  The Guy Who Never Has Time For You. This type of guy is the kind of guy who asks you out on dates, but it fizzles out quickly because the length of time between his follow up texts and calls gets longer and longer until he no longer contacts you any more. You typically meet only sporadically because he just can't seem to fit you into his busy schedule except for once every harvest moon, blue moon, February 29, Pi Day, or Friday the 13th. Many times, especially if you have mutual acquaintances and friends, you'll find that he could have invited you out on this day or that afternoon or to that event he was already attending, but he chose not to, which is hurtful. He is not to be confused with the guy who only asks you on a first date and then never calls you again. This is a guy who asks you out for a first date, which typically goes really well, and then indicates rather enthusiastically that he'd like to see you again. Then he'll call a short while after date #1 and ask for another. And another. And then the dates will start becoming few and far between. You know when these dates become less and less frequent that there are plenty of times he could've asked you to go somewhere or accompany him, but he doesn't. Even if it is an event that you both like and involves mutual friends and acquaintances and he's definitely going and your schedule allows you to go, too, he doesn't ask you to attend. And the frequency of his other contacts (e-mails, texts, calls, etc.) drops off dramatically. He comes on strong and then fizzles out quickly, much like a firework. And dating him is about as satisfying as going to a fireworks show that only features one small firework going off. Then--POOF!--like a ghost at sunrise, he's gone. You even think he may have suddenly had to join the Federal Witness Protection Program, but then--BOOM!--if you have mutual friends/acquaintances, he'll be at your next mutual friends' annual cookout. Sometimes he'll even come up and talk to you at the cookout like you never dated. Like he never told you he thought you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen and that you were so nice and that he really liked you and wanted to continue to see you. Dude, I get that you may no longer want to date me, but just be kind enough to tell me gently. Don't just leave me wondering. That's just an integral part of my personality:  I like things to resolve. I hate, hate, hate stories, movies, etc. that do not tie things up nicely at the end. That's why I'm not really big on modern literature and movies. A lot of them have no resolution--they just kind of end--and then there's no follow up in a sequel. It annoys me in literature, and it drives me batty in my interpersonal life. I'm a big enough and strong enough girl to handle it if you say, "Hey, I'm just not feeling it. Let's just be friends." Initially, my pride might be a little wounded, but I'll get over it. Don't want to hurt my feelings? Well, it happens. Man up. And people I've come across in my life who've never had the opportunity to grow and change following a disappointment in their lives tend to be unrealistic, self-centered, and sociopathic, so I think a certain amount of getting your feelings hurt and your hopes dashed is necessary in the formation of a healthy, grounded, and pleasant personality. And, frankly, I'd be less hurt if you just told me something--anything--to let me know we're not compatible, even if it is "I don't want to date you because you smell like feet!" (Say that, and I'll sure as hell the problem is not with me because you are a phenomenal ass goblin. Especially since I wear Chanel perfume.) That way, I know if I need to work on something, or if it really is you as opposed to me. I just feel that a "real" man is honest enough and kind enough to not leave anyone hanging. I do my best to not leave anyone hanging. Sometimes, it might be a really long time before I return your call/text/e-mail/etc., but I will eventually respond to you. I don't think leaving other people without a resolution is very considerate. I also like having the satisfaction of letting people know at least once that they are on the rather small and exclusive Perpetual Shit List. It takes a lot to get on that list, so if you're on it, I feel that it's best for you to know that you're on it so you can avoid me and revel in the fact that I dislike you rather intensely. Since it takes a rather large effort to get on the PSL, I at least want you to have the opportunity to congratulate yourself on your accomplishments, since you're probably such a douche that you don't care that you made me mad enough to nominate you for the list's consideration in the first place. So I feel it's the least I can do, really. But fellas:  just be considerate enough to let me know you don't want to date me. It's not too hard, and it keeps you off the PSL.
And then there are guys like R--, the barrette hoarder. As someone who has listened to me and talked to me about this matter said:  he probably felt intimidated by my intelligence. (This was this person's observation. I'm not claiming I'm the sharpest pencil in the box. In fact, send me to MIT, and I'm pretty sure they'd start making "dumb right-brained woman" jokes at my expense. Yes, those smarties would invent a whole new category of insulting jokes just to deal with me when I couldn't grasp multi-variable differential calculus.) He was not a stupid man by any means, but he was one of those blue-collar guys who doesn't like their women to be as smart as or smarter than them, which is why this person thinks that he stopped talking to me/seeing me when I recently returned to college. (He said early on that he didn't have any problems being in a somewhat serious--as in living together--relationship with a woman who was "dumb as hell but hot.") And I'm not knocking blue-collar workers by any means. People who are gifted when it comes to mechanical things are very useful individuals, and I admire their abilities to fix and build stuff. A lot of times, it's the college-educated PhD people who come up with the latest awesome mechanical development, but it's the blue-collar people who actually take the idea off the drafting board and turn it into reality and work out the kinks in the design. But like I told this confidant about R--, if I'd ever introduced him to my family (who are all well educated, white-collar people, but not snobbish by any means), I would've had a damned hard time convincing them that I hadn't picked him up outside of the local Home Depot when I was looking for someone to spread the spring mulch shipment around the landscaping. (No offense to the day laborers, either. You people are awesome, too. But R-- wasn't. He's the only one I'm trying to offend here.) And, yes, that last statement was what I was going to tell you about R-- the last time we met, confidant. I remembered it probably an hour after I got home after we last talked.
Which leads me to the quote about taking refuge in the square. I don't by any means think I'm the brightest crayon in the box, in fact, I know of many instances where I was clearly the dumbest person in the room (or at least the only one willing to admit it and act upon it), but I am not stupid. Nor am I willing to act like it. And that causes problems with a lot of men, not just men who aren't well-educated. I've seen that look in many a well-educated man's eyes when I start to talk that indicates that he's no longer interested in me now that he knows I'm not dumber than a box of bricks. And that's fine. Woman I am, stupid I am not. I'm not going to play dumb, either, just to keep your ego going. I'll not be patronizing--in fact, I try very hard not to be because I think it's really rude to talk down to people--but I'm not going to baby-talk, either. But at what point do I stop being too smart? Why is it that I can never meet a man who wants an intellectual equal? I'm tired of smart guys who only want women who are all foam and no beer. I thought smart people were supposed to like other smart people. I have plenty of smart female and male friends, and I enjoy spending time with them, but I can never meet a man who is both romantically and intellectually interested in me. Which makes me want to open a big can of "Fuckitol" and crawl inside the square sometimes.
Unfortunately, that's a very fundamental part of my personality. I have NEVER wanted to be the prettiest girl in the room. I have ALWAYS wanted to be the smartest and most accomplished woman in the room. Looks fade and are largely subjective anyway, but intelligence and accomplishments are around forever. If I get a PhD at 35, I'll have a PhD until the day I die, but if I'm a "10" in the looks department at 35, by the time I'm 85, I'll probably be gray, wrinkled, saggy, deaf, demented, and incontinent, not really anything anyone would consider giving a second look at, unless I was trying to break out of the dementia ward again. And in that case, no one would find me attractive, just very frustrating.
I also don't like how pretty women are never taken seriously if they're intelligent, too. Apparently a woman can be smart OR pretty. Not both. Like Heddy Lamarr. She invented the signal frequency hopping that was first used during World War II to make radar-controlled underwater torpedoes invisible to the detection methods of the day that is now used by modern-day cell phones to get the best possible signal for your calls. But how many people know that? Not that many. More people are probably better acquainted with the fact that she also did the first full-frontal female nudity scene in a low budget silent Czech film titled "Exstase!" ("Ecstasy!") in the mid 1920s, which is still a rather obscure factoid generally known only by intensely passionate film buffs because of her large body of works done in the well-financed and well-publicized Hollywood studio system of the 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s. Heddy Lamarr is almost exclusively considered a very beautiful actress, not a very beautiful actress AND highly accomplished mathematician. Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield were both supposedly highly intelligent (in fact, it is rumored that Mansfield's IQ was in the 160s, placing her in the genius range of the IQ scale), but no one paid attention to them until they developed the "dumb, beautiful blond" routines. That cute little girl who used to play Topenga on "Boy Meets World"? Who's heard of her since she left acting to get her PhD in mathematics from an Ivy League school? (I have. I saw an interview with her shortly after she was awarded the degree for solving what was formerly thought to be an unsolvable calculus problem. She'd written a book for young teenage girls that was attempting to get them interested in higher mathematics.) In fact, especially in the sciences, accomplished women are viewed as bookish, cold, unrelateable, fashion-challenged, humorless, demanding, bitchy, nerdy, awkward, unpleasant, mannish, and unattractive. No wonder there is a problem with getting girls and young women interested in STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) careers! No one wants to go into a profession where they'll automatically be considered personally deficient just because they're in it! No one goes to a guy "Oh, you'd be so hot if only you weren't a mechanical engineering major with a 3.69 GPA! You probably never go to parties or get laid or laugh at jokes!" Generally, when you see a guy like that, he gets a certain presumption of innocence before he's automatically pegged as a "hag" or a "nerd." He has to prove he has the personality of a moldy wet blanket before he's labeled as having one. And he tends to pique the interests of others as being a "good catch," if only for his future income potential. Women who pursue a Doctor of Medicine/Doctor of Osteopathy (MD/DO) degree are frequently regarded as "ball-busters" and "anti-family" since many people who go to medical school go at a time when they are still young enough to have children or have young children. Who wants to study hard to become a cardiologist when you'll just be viewed as a shrew and bad mother? (That's why there are such disproportionate numbers of women who are nurses. Nurses are perceived as "warm" and "nice," even though they've never been shown to be any more warm, nice, affectionate, etc. than any other profession.) It's all very frustrating. I'm not cold because I can correctly interpret the periodic table of the elements. I'm not a hag because I find quantum mechanics fascinating. I'm not friendless because my favorite classes are microbiology classes and I get very good grades in them. And I'm not hideous and poorly dressed and sexless because I can talk intelligently on a variety of topics from politics (US and international) to art to ribosomal RNA production to Monty Python sketches and everything in between. But I'm not going to play dumb to make you feel superior. I don't want a relationship like that. I was always told as a child that I am the lateral of any of my peers, so I will not be servile to any man. Or woman. No one. I will respect you, but you don't get to dominate me. I am not a dog, I am a human, and I will not be submissive to you. That's just how I am.
Hmm...this has gotten a bit long, so I'm going to split it into multiple parts. Look for part 2 of this entry soon!                                

Bring It, Grumpy Cat!

"Oh look! It's shit and Friskies!" -Anonymous

As you can see from my past couple of entries, I am still trying to figure out how to get the paragraph spacing correct in my posts, so please be patient while I learn how to use this blogging software.

In my family, pets are never left out of the Christmas celebrations. Not even badass ones. This year, the maternal side of the family included a gift exchange for our four-legged fur children in addition to the one we always have for each other. All of the pets got a lot of really cool toys and treats, even though some of them most definitely deserve nothing better than a large truckload of coal.

You may ask yourself which fur child is such a jerk. I'll be happy to tell you.

It's my cat.

What caused me to come to the conclusion that my cat is such a creep? One word:  biting. She thinks that it is O. K. to bite. All of the time. I'll admit that the issues she has with biting were evident since the earliest stages of her kittenhood, but she was so small and delicate and in such a precarious state of health from the moment we got her until about her sixth month of life that she was so heartwarmingly cute that we overlooked it. We foolishly thought that she'd grow out of it; however, the only thing that changed in regards to the biting was the strength of the bite. She doesn't break the skin ever, but when my cat puts her sharp little teeth on you, you most definitely feel it and it always leaves marks.

And it's the frequency of the biting and the motives behind it that makes her a real jerk. For the most part, when my cat bites you, she is either playing roughly or demonstrating affection, but she also bites to get your attention or demonstrate that she is mad at you. In fact, my cat bites so often and for so many truly distinct reasons that we have a descriptive list of the most common types of bites she does:

• The Play Bite- This she does when she gets overly excited when you're playing with her
• The Love Bite- This usually happens when you're petting her
• The Shitty Bite- This bite is employed when the cat is displeased with you. When she administers this bite, the cat has a distinct, rather shitty look on her face that clearly says "Fuck you, Two Legs!" It is also accompanied by a rather fierce cuff from one of her paws
• The Kamikaze Bite- This is a version of the Play Bite in which the cat, when playing with you, will leave the room unexpectedly, only to return about two minutes later to sneak up on you and bite you when you least expect it. The look on her face when this bite occurs most definitely says "Ha ha! Me so funny!" (Yes, my cat has a poor grasp of English language usage. What do you expect--she's a cat.)
• The Center of the Universe Bite- This bite is deployed when the cat wants to play and you're not paying attention to her at that moment
• The Motorboat Bite- This bite isn't exactly a true bite since her teeth don't touch you when she's doing this, but it occurs immediately prior to the Love Bite. It gets its name from the fact that she will move her job up and down like she's biting and resembles the concept of having to turn over an old outboard motor several times before it actually begins to run
• The Good Morning Bite- This is the first bite that the cat performs of the day. The bite is only administered to my mom after she opens the master bedroom door in the mornings when she is getting ready for the day
• The Tasty Bite- This bite is administered randomly; however, it is done repeatedly and in a chewing fashion like the cat was actually eating you. Occurs most frequently to my mom, who probably tastes like red wine and dark chocolate since she frequently consumes these things
• The Hit-and-Run Bite- This is a version of the Shitty Bite where the cat administers the bite and then quickly runs away from you rather than sticking around to shoot you a dirty look like she does in the Shitty Bite 
  

And there are many more variations to my cat's extensive vocabulary of bites. Very few people are exempt from having to experience her periodontal communications--not even Santa, as you can see from my cat's written confession in the above picture. Thankfully, the police properly mirandized my cat before taking the confession, so Santa will be able to use her confession against her in a trial should he choose to press charges. (The jury is still out on that subject.)

But I digress. Back to the subject of Christmas presents.

For Christmas 2013, my cat and I received a fun little book titled "Test Your Cat's Personality" from one of my aunts. The book is basically a really long personality-type diagnostic test like the ones you find in women's magazines that can supposedly tell you which celebrity you are most compatible with or what style of kisser you are just by answering a few multiple-choice questions and adding up the responses' point values and comparing them to a set of results measured by a point value range. And while the test was fun and everything, I did have one main problem with it:  many times my cat's persona was not adequately represented by the list of answers I was given to choose from for a given question. Well, now that I've got a platform to publish my version of the personality test, which describes my cat's personality much more accurately, I'm going to write my own version of the questions and answers found in the booklet "Test Your Cat's Personality." Here goes.

Assume all answers are worth 5 points each.

1. How in tune is your cat with your various moods and emotions? I am merely here to entertain her, so my feelings are irrelevant and do not register in her world.

2. Bring yourself to eye level with your cat. How does he/she respond? By biting.

3. You are packing your bags for a weekend vacation. How does this affect your cat's behavior? She slinks around and hides under beds to avoid being taken on the vacation.

4. Which of the following best describes your cat's verbal skills? Randomly psychotic.

5. How would your friends and family describe your cat's personality? Eccentric and vaguely sinister.

6. In high school, which character would your cat have been? The weird, immature, overly-sheltered and inappropriately socialized home school kid from the polygamy cult who has issues with impulse control and disproportionate anger in social situations outside of the cult's compound.

7. If your cat were on a football team, what would his/her role be? Dr. Mengele, the team doctor, or Marquis de Sade, the personal trainer.

8. You turn on a video for cats that features different stimulating sights and sounds. How does your cat react? This question is discriminatory because my cat is legally blind.

9. Which of these words best describes your cat? Mental.

10. How do your neighbors, friends, and family feel about your cat? The only creatures they are more afraid of are the people who "took care of" Jimmy Hoffa.

11. During a severe thunderstorm, how does your cat react? She's unaware that the thunderstorm is happening.

12. If your cat had a favorite movie, what would it be? Cecil B. Demented

13. Your cat is your:  Dysfunctional, eccentric, and hyperactive child

14. You fall and injure yourself while home alone. What does your cat do? Take a bite to see if I'm as delicious as I look.

15. You put out a catnip mouse for your cat. What does he/she do with it? Deliberately knocks it into the hall closet repeatedly for the amusement of watching you reach in and pull it out for her every 15 seconds.

16. When you get home, how does your cat greet you? First she runs into the front room to see who has arrived, then she runs into my room and hides under my bed for a bit, and then she comes out to play with me.

17. How often does your cat behave aggressively toward you? If she were a rottweiler, I'd be dead.

18. When you wake up in the morning, your cat is:  Two inches in front of my face so that I can feel her hot kitty breath on my skin, as if I didn't already have enough pressure to get her "kitty breakfast" on time every day of the year.

19. Which Jim Henson character is most like your cat? Swedish Chef.

20. A visitor brings her dog for a visit. How does your cat react? By trying to kill the dog in a brutal fashion.

21. You try to sleep with your bedroom door closed for one night. Your cat: Tears wildly and at full speed up and down the hallway, yeowling, until someone lets her into my room.

22. You're sitting on the couch watching TV, and your cat approaches. When you acknowledge his/her presence, he/she:  Will proceed to bite me if I don't get up and get a toy for her immediately and start playing with her.

23. Which famous cat is most like your cat? The cat that occasionally pops up in the "Pearls Before Swine" comic strip. Oh yeah, she's got a missile launcher, and she's not afraid to use it.       

24. Does your cat like to be held? I'll give you $10 towards your medical bills if you want to find out for yourself.

25. How does your cat respond to a sudden loud noise? My cat would have to be mentally on the same planet as the noise in order for her to react to it.

26. If he/she were a person, how would your cat spend his/her leisure time? Urban graffiti art and violent, psychotic criminal behavior.

27. You sit down at the breakfast table with your newspaper. Your cat:  Jumps up in my seat like she owns it and refuses to move. 

28. How would you describe your cat's walking style? "When I'm a-walking, I strut my stuff, and I'm so strung out. I'm high as a kite, I just might stop to check you out." 

29. Your cat looks up into your eyes. His/her eyes are:  Batshit crazy.

30. What kind of friend is your cat? One who would help you steal a car and drive it Thelma-and-Louise style over the Grand Canyon.

31. How does your cat respond to other cats? She's the feline equivalent of Typhoid Mary, so we keep other cats away from her.

32. If your cat had a job, what would it be? Arsonist for Hire.

33. When you bring your cat to the vet, how does he/she respond to other animals in the reception area? She curls into a tight little ball and sticks her face in the corner of the carrier, trying to be as invisible as possible.

34. What would your cat's favorite website be? An online archive of vintage snuff films--the gorier, the better. 

35. You leave a roasted chicken on the kitchen counter. Your cat:  Ignores it. She only likes to eat dry cat kibble.

36. You have just decorated your Christmas tree. Your cat:  Chews the wire branches in our artificial tree and sleeps on the velvet tree skirt underneath it. 

37. How does your cat react to a new brand of cat food? If it's dry and crunchy, she'll eat it willingly.

38. Your cat's favorite kind of music would be:  Electroswing.

39. Your cat's ideal vacation would be:  A staycay. She loves to roam the backyard (under supervision) in the spring and summer.

40. How does your cat respond to the sound of his/her name? She always recognizes her name, but whether or not she'll come to you depends on her momentary whims.

41. If your cat were a historical figure, who would he/she be? Joan of Arc--demented and feisty.

42. You open the cat food. Your cat:  Doesn't notice you've done anything. She's so not food motivated.

43. If your cat were a person, what would his/her usual attire? Four-point hospital restraints attached to furniture that's been bolted to the floor.

44. What would your cat's ideal first date be? At a human sacrificing ceremony.

45. Something in the kitchen catches fire. How does your cat respond? "What fire?"

46. Which section of the newspaper would your cat like best? Weird news and conspiracy theory sections of tabloids. She's probably a distant cousin of that Bat Boy they found living in a cave in West Virginia in the late 1980s.

47. What kind of movie would your cat like best? Surrealist performance art movies, like the one they have of a clown screaming repeatedly at the Art Institute of Chicago.

48. You accidentally step on your cat's tail. How does he/she react? By biting you in retaliation.

49. Which musical instrument would your cat play? Jaw harp.

50. When it comes to observing you, your cat:  Follows me obsessively from room to room throughout the house all day, so it's more like having a fur-coated stalker instead of an observer.

51. Where is your cat while you sleep? Usually near the foot of my bed, stretched out so that she takes up 3/4 of the width of the bed, which has led me to fall out of bed occasionally in the night like I used to do as a child.

52. When does your cat purr? When she's biting.

53. What other kind of animal does your cat most resemble? A chupacabra.

54. At a job interview, your cat would:  Go for the interviewer's jugular. 

55. At a party, your cat would:  Violently kill someone and cannibalize the corpse in front of everyone.

56. What is your cat's favorite book? Anything by H. P. Lovecraft.

57. You accidentally leave the front door open. Your cat:  Is afraid to go outside by herself, so she'd still be inside the house when the door was discovered to be open.

58. You buy a new toy for your cat. He/she:  Sniffs it and pointedly refuses to acknowledge it for exactly one week. After that, she's cool with playing with said toy.

59. How often does your cat settle down in your lap? She only does that when forced to wear a cone after having major surgery.

60. If your cat went out on a date, he/she would be:  Constantly looking for places to hide her date's body.

Results:  (300 points) Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?! Your cat is the only known example of a successful mating of a cat and a vampire bat. Good luck with that.

*So evil*

The disadvantage to living "Cheers" style

Dear People I Live With,


Please stop nagging me about my household chores!


A--, I realize you are an extreme clean freak and that hates a dirty kitchen after noon, but I will get to cleaning the kitchen today. Just not at the exact moment you want it done (which is always 2 hours ago). I realize that it is now almost 4 p.m., but I have been extremely busy since the moment I got up today (which was well before you, I might add) at 6:20 a.m. And it's truly important stuff. It's a project that's worth one quarter of my final grade in my college class. It can't be put off! I realize you like a very clean house, but no matter how many times you come and harass me in a rude tone, the kitchen won't get cleaned any sooner. I can't stop working on my project until I reach a point where I feel I can walk away for a few minutes. I have to do some writing for this project, and I'm not one of those people who can start a sentence--or even a paragraph--and leave it in the middle for a while and then regain my train of coherent, articulate thought when I come back to it. I'm sorry. My brain just ain't hard-wired that way. Trust me, I can assure you that the kitchen will be cleaned up before it's time to start dinner. Or, better yet, you seem rather unoccupied since you come by my workstation about every 15 minutes to snottily ask me when I'm going to clean the kitchen, so why don't you do it? (Novel, innovative idea, I know.) God gave you two arms and a pair of hands that work, so if it's truly important that it be done, well, you could do it yourself. But that would take the fun out of interrupting me to nag, so I understand why you don't pursue this option.


And B--, when I am doing dishes, YOU ARE IN NO WAY TO SET FOOT IN THE KITCHEN! All you do is throw a few random utensils that could go in the dishwasher into my dish water (and you always seem to know exactly when I'm one measly dish away from being done cleaning up so you can add to my workload at the very last minute) and then criticize the way I wash the dishes and clean the kitchen, WHICH IS NOT HELPFUL! I know how to clean a kitchen and wash dishes--I've been doing it now for 20+ years--and I don't really need you to stand over me and nit-pick my handiwork. And if the way I clean a kitchen and wash dishes is so sub-standard, the joke is on you because you've been eating food off inadequately cleaned dishes prepared in an imperfectly sanitized kitchen for at least 20 years!


Also, B--, when I am cooking, please, please, Please, PLEASE do not come to "help" me prepare the dish! Again, NOT HELPFUL! I do not appreciate you standing over my shoulder, watching me like a hawk, as I chop up every vegetable and simmer every sauce, and telling me to do this or do that to improve the recipe. Yes, sometimes those things may greatly improve the recipe, but maybe I don't want to do those things to the recipe. I also really hate when I set something to simmer or cook for a while and leave the kitchen to do something else quickly and I come back to find you tinkering with my cooking. I'm sorry, but that's just RUDE in my eyes. If I want your help, I will gladly ask for it, and I always know where to find you. However, going behind my back to alter a recipe I'm making just sends me the impression that you don't like my cooking, which leads me to the question of why would you continue to ask me to cook if you're unhappy with the food I prepare. And if you're that unhappy with my cooking or my selection of recipes, YOU CAN MAKE DINNER! Won't bother me a bit if you do. I like to cook, but if I'm going to be harassed and persecuted throughout the preparation of the meal, I want no part of it, understand?


Well, that's my epic bitch that should keep me from needing to bitch about anything or anyone for at least the next month. Please pay attention to what I've said because if there is anything I hate more than being nagged and wheedled with, it is repeating myself.




Thank You,


Your Cantankerous Curmudgeon Dwelling Sharer and Friendly Household Slave      

Some people want to see what I see...some people have an evil eye...

Yes, I am totally jamming to the new Franz Ferdinand album, "Right Thoughts, Right Words, Right Action." But that is to be expected if you give me a gift card for Christmas. But anyhoo.






I am currently experiencing some problems with the guy I have been dating as of late. See, I get the distinction that he's just not that into me. It could be the fact that he never invites me to go anywhere or do anything, that whenever we do get together to do something, it's always to have sex at his place, which is about a 20 mile drive from my place (he never reciprocates by driving to my place or even agreeing to meet me at the state line), that I've only ever spent one night at his place and that was only because I pretty much came up with the idea and invited myself over (and that he totally forgot I was coming over for an all-night-full-on sexathon, which obviously never happened), and that when I text (my only method of communication with him, since he hates to talk on the phone supposedly), he either never responds at all or takes days and days and days to respond to a simple "yes or no" question. It could also be the fact that the times I tried to have discussions (via text, as always) with him about rebuilding my sex toy and naughty lingerie collections (with the expressed intentions of trying to be more appealing to him), he has fallen oddly silent.







Call it a feeling, a hunch, but you, R--, just aren't that into me. Chalk it up to experience. That every guy I have ever dated in the past has done the same exact same thing to me, come on strong and then blown me off, is irrelevant, but it does give me insight.








You, sir, are a Douche Extrordinaire. And that's fine. It reflects more upon you than it does me. That I am eager to please and give freely of myself is not a fault of mine. It means that I am kind, accepting, open, tolerant, fun-loving, generous, and optimistic. That you use me up and throw me aside like a used tissue shows that you are a selfish user, a narcissist who cares only about you and your needs and not about the fact that others have needs, wants, desires, and feelings. People like you are empty and hollow and are forced into shallow relationships that have no depth and meaning and intimacy. You yourself even admitted to me that you only kept your exes around to avoid being alone, even saying (and this is a direct quote), "My ex-girlfriend was dumb as hell, but she was hot." I should have known you weren't much of a deep one if you were willing to have a fairly serious (living together) relationship with someone who was intellectually vapid when you are not a stupid man. (You are immature, very, very immature, but not stupid.) Apparently, you don't want an intellectual match, you just want a woman who can suck chrome off a bumper. (And given your fondness for being on the receiving end of fellatio, that is exactly what you want sexually out of a relationship.)





In fact, I'd be willing to write you off entirely, except for one thing:  You have my favorite barrettes. Yes, you do. I know you do. Because I deliberately left them at your place the last time I was there. You know, that time I spent the night. The time you forgot that we'd agreed that I could spend the night. The time we'd planned to have mind-blowing sex until dawn, yet after screwing me all of 10 minutes, you rolled over and said that you had to get up early, so you were going to sleep. And then proceeded to snore like a bleeping chainsaw for the next 8 hours while holding me in a vice-like death grip, so I couldn't move all night. And fart. You farted all night in your sleep. It was so gross. Trust me, I was not imagining this. You were holding me so tight and snoring so loud that I couldn't have slept if I'd taken a whole bottle of ambien with a fifth of tequila. (Yes, I'd made the mistake of not bringing my sleeping pills with me when I spent the night because, silly me, I thought I'd be spending my night doing everything but catching Zzzs.) And the smell was pretty horrible. I tried to get up and let myself out quietly several times in the night, but you were holding me so tight that when I tried to get up, you would half-way wake up and pull me tighter to you, so I couldn't have broken your iron embrace without causing a scene. So I laid there. And listened to you snore and fart.
I'm sure Grumpy Cat could say something witty about that. ("I stayed the night at R--'s place once. It was awful.")





And stare at the mountain of overdue bills you have pinned to the bulletin board next to your bed. I can understand being broke, but your spending habits are ridiculous. You recently spent about $5,000 between buying a barely-running jeep you don't need (when you have a perfectly good, fairly new ford fusion that you owe about $6,000 on), a winch to do some massive work on said jeep (like dropping a new engine in it and the like), and a new 9mm handgun (which I so don't understand because you already own several other handguns and have a large, scary assault-rifley thing hanging on the wall of your apartment--what's with all the guns, nutfreak?).


And the real kicker:  you owe $938.67 to the Disney Movie Club. I have no idea what that is, but I suspect it has something to do with a "coffee of the month"-type of subscription to Disney movies. Now, there's nothing wrong with liking Disney movies, but c'mon. You're 31 years old. I haven't dropped any money on a Disney movie since I was like 10. And I'm 30. So grow up. Besides, nothing is a bigger buzzkill when you're trying to romance a woman and she looks over at your entertainment center and sees a copy of "Aladdin." Trust me. I really had to work at getting my groove back after that one.


But anyway. Back to the bitch at hand.


You have my barrettes, motherfucker. I want them back. Yes, I made a mistake in leaving them at your place. But it was an honest mistake. Generally, when a girl leaves something a guy's place, it's because she either wants to come back to his place on the pretense of retrieving the left item (but in reality, she's always coming back to see the guy again), or she wants him to come to her place to "return" the left item. Either way, she desires further and future contact with the possessor. The item itself is almost irrelevant. Except in this case.  


You see, turd burglar, those barrettes mean something to me. Yes, they only cost $1 and were in the clearance bin at Michael's, but that's not what makes them so special. You see, those barrettes were the last thing my beloved maternal grandmother bought for me back when she still had some faculties. We knew about the Alzheimer's at that point and were basically looking for a long-term care facility at that point, but grandma was still able to interact with the family then, and we took her shopping. She insisted on buying me something. And because she was my grandmother, and because I didn't feel that I should abuse her generosity and limited funds, I chose those barrettes out of the clearance bin. Shortly after that, grandma became a permanent resident of a dementia ward in the greater Kalamazoo area. Those barrettes were a symbol of her freedom. And her love.


And, fucktard, I've told you that. But you can't even bother to return my texts. All I want is my barrettes back. That's it. I don't want to scream or cry or start a fight or have some drama at your apartment or in public. I just want to get my $1 barrettes back.


You, I can do without. Haute couture, not so much.

A small glimpse into my portfolio...

This is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago around Halloween. I've had a serious case of writer's block ever since, but I am slowly getting back into the groove by forcing myself to write a little every day. If I come up with anything good, I'll post it here. In the meantime, enjoy this story...

La Femme en Bleu

She thought that once she’d moved out of the sprawling 1930s-era farmhouse with the endless veranda porch in Cassopolis, Michigan and into a minuscule apartment in New York City that she’d never go back. But here she was, another victim of the bad economy, calling her parents to see if they’d let her come back, at least temporarily.
"Of course you can come back, sweetie," her mother cooed over the phone. "You’re always welcome here."
"Thanks, mom," she said sheepishly. She was 30 years old, and moving back in with her parents was a real blow to her pride. "I–I’m sorry I won’t be able to pay something in rent or food for a while--"
"Don’t mention anything of the sort! Having you back will be a joy to me and your father, and we understand that you don’t have any money because you got laid off." What Clara was not about to admit to her mother was that the reason that she didn’t have a savings "nest egg" was that she had a serious fetish for Jimmy Choos and Chanel, two highly developed tastes she’d acquired shortly after moving to New York at 22.
"Darling," her mother continued, "do you need some money for air fare?"
"Yeah, thanks, that’d be real helpful, mom."
"I’ll have your father deposit the money into your shared account this afternoon. Let us know when you’ll be arriving."
"Thanks, mom. I will. I love you," she finished meekly.
"We love you, too, sweet pea. Come back to us safely."
Three days later, Clara was unpacking the remains of her New York life in her old room at the farm house. God, it was so depressing to be home again after nearly a decade of being a self-sufficient adult. She loved her parents dearly, but she’d barely been home an hour, and she was already finding life with them rather stifling. She felt the undeniable urge to have a cigarette, so she grabbed her pack of smokes and headed to the front porch.
"Oh, Clara, honey, I wish you wouldn’t do that," pleaded her mother.
"I know, ma, but I can’t help it."
"Yes you can. I wish you’d never dated that Justin Baylor boy in high school. He turned you on to such a dirty habit. Did you know he’s in jail now? I guess he was selling those methamphetamines that are all the rage with kids these days."
Clara merely rolled her eyes, went out onto the porch, and lit a cigarette. She enjoyed the nicotine as it rushed through her bloodstream and watched the sun color the sky with pinks, oranges, and purples as it made its final serenade to rural Cass County. A part of her enjoyed the quiet serenity of farm life, but another, stronger part of her yearned for the hustle and bustle of the never-ending life cycle of the ultimate of cities, New York. She could tolerate farm life for now, but she was definitely going to move on. Hopefully back to another position in the city, but most assuredly not into a local position. She’d paid her dues in the county and was well within her rights to leave for good. She finished her smoke and returned to her room, reluctantly finishing her unpacking. This was going to be a long stretch of time–whatever duration it might be–and she was anxious for it to end as quickly as possible.
She slept fitfully her first night, constantly awakening to listen for the noises that had been at her old apartment: the trains, buses, and cars, the obnoxious neighbors blaring their television sets until all unholy hours, the police and fire sirens crying out over a distress, and the garbage workers bitterly crashing about in the wee small hours. She listened yearningly, yet heard nothing other than the meditative chirp of the occasional cricket or the lone howl of a far-off dog or coyote. Even the cows on the farm seemed to be walking on eggshells in regards to waking her during the nocturnal period of the earth’s rotation.
"Ugh! It’s too fucking quiet!" she said in disgust to no one in particular as she rolled over yet again in a vain attempt to get more comfortable in the bed that hadn’t been hers for years. Her cat leapt onto her chest and began to purr as if in agreement to her outburst.
"At least you understand, Mishu," she said to her furry companion as he started to knead her with all four of his feet, his needle-like claws gently pricking her skin through her pajamas.
Finally, at about 4 a.m., she heard her parents begin to stir in preparation for completing the never-ending sets of chores that come along with a 400-acre farm with an equal number of head of cattle. "As good as time as any to start the day," she mumbled grumpily to herself.
She ambled downstairs to the kitchen where her mother was brewing the coffee and her father was frying some eggs and bacon. Her father always did the cooking because her mother always had a knack for completely incinerating any food item she was entrusted with making edible. Coffee was the one thing she could do, and she did it well. Clara suspected that in the early years of her parents’ marriage, her mother had felt rather guilty about having her husband doing all the cooking after spending countless hours in the fields and pastures, but after 35 years of the arrangement, she’d grown remorselessly acclimated to it. Clara also suspected that, at one point, her father initiated a hostile takeover of the meal preparation after eating one hopelessly-charred dinner too many. That thought made her smile a bit as she envisioned her usually stoic and sedate father grabbing a frying pan and yelling "I can’t take it any more!"
"Mornin’, sunshine," her father said in his gruff bass. "How’d ya sleep?"
"Oh honey," exclaimed her mother, "we didn’t wake you, did we?" Her concern was deep and genuine.
"No, no," said Clara. "I just couldn’t get comfortable. I’m so used to the city noises, and it’s so quiet out here. I guess you don’t realize how quiet farm life really is until you leave it for a while. Besides, I have a busy day ahead of me with job hunting and all that."
"Fair enough," said her father decisively. "Sport! Go fetch the paper!" he boomed to the border collie mix lazing around on the front porch awaiting his first of many commands of the new day. The dog completed the task effortlessly and was soon back on the porch, eagerly fixated on his reward for a job well done, a cut of the breakfast his keen nose could tell was being expertly prepared in the skillet. He whined slightly until the food was placed in his bowl, then tore into it like he’d never been fed before in his entire life.
"Do you need me to do anything to help out?" Clara asked out of politeness. She’d always hated doing her farm chores and was not eager to restart them, but she felt obligated to at least make the offer.
"Well--" her father started.
"No, I don’t think so, sweetie," her mother cut him off. "Just work on finding a job. That’s what’s most important. Besides, Jake, Brian, and Ted all help out around here now." Jake and Ted were Clara’s brothers. Brian was her sister Patti’s husband. "Oh, and Patti’s got a job now in Kalamazoo. She works on the x-rays in the hospital, so Brian’s going to be bringing the kids with him."
Patti and Clara had never been especially close due to their polar opposite personalities. Patti was the extrovert, the cheerleader and prom queen, who’d followed in the very ingrained tradition amongst the local girls by marrying her high school sweetheart immediately after graduation and quickly springing forth a new generation of life-long Cass County residents. She’d recently completed an x-ray technician program at a local community college, no small feat given that she had three children under five and a fourth on the way. It wasn’t that Clara disliked children–she did love her niece and nephews–but she found Patti’s highly active brood a bit overstimulating. Great, Clara thought, I won’t be able to get anything done today.
Just then, Brian’s truck pulled up the long driveway on the north of the property. He barely had time to take the vehicle out of gear before his bleary-eyed, pajama-clad offspring were popping out of the cab and tearing up to the house.
"G’ma! G’pa! Auntie Clara!" they cried vigorously as they wound their arms chaotically around the three previously solitary adults.
"Hey! Don’t get out of the truck like that again until daddy says so!" bellowed Brian. "Mornin’ Chuck, Edna, Clara," he said as he nodded to each. Brian and Clara had never truly liked each other. Clara was too independent for Brian’s tastes, and frankly, with her two bachelor degrees in computer science and economics, she was too threatening in the intelligence department as well, though they’d never squared off intellectually. He secretly thought Clara was extremely full of herself, though Clara had never given him any reason to even have an inkling of thought in that direction. They were civil to each other out of family loyalty, but had family not been involved, the two would’ve gone their separate ways caring neither hide nor hair of the other.
"My! Look at how big you’ve grown!" Clara said as she quickly turned her attention back to the children. She started warmly giving out abundant hugs and kisses.
Ted and Jake pulled up a short time later, and everyone ate a hearty breakfast. The men then left for the farm work while the women cleaned up the kitchen. The children had been conveniently placed in front of the television while it played cartoons and were drifting in and out of various states of wakefulness.
"The kids will probably be fully awake around 9," Clara’s mother explained. "Then we’ll give them a snack and clean them up for the day. After that, I have them help around the house until the men come in for lunch. After lunch is when Patti comes to pick them up."
"Thanks, mom," Clara said. "That’s going to really help me plan my day."
By the time Clara got finished in the kitchen and cleaned up and ready for the day, the kids were up and about and not too keen on being washed up and dressed. To keep them out of her mother’s hair, Clara read to them, took them to the chicken coop to find eggs, helped them to harvest some nice-looking tomatoes and peppers from the garden, and played tag with them in the orchard to the south of the property. By lunch time, Clara’s mother had completed her household chores and the children were sufficiently tired out so they would be good for Patti when she took them home. But Clara had one last trick up her sleeve.
"Who wants to help Aunt Clara make lunch for grandma and grandpa and Uncle Jake and Uncle Ted and daddy and mommy?" she sagaciously asked the wild bunch.
"Me!" they all cried out in unison.
Clara quickly put them to work blending the eggs and vegetables they collected earlier with some cheese and spices to make a simple quiche. The dish had just finished baking by the time the men came in from the fields.
"Mmm. Smells good," said Jake. "What’d ya make, sis?"
"Just a quiche. Nothing fancy."
"Nothing fancy? Sounds pretty exotic to me. Did you learn how to make it in New York?" asked Ted.
"Yeah. My first room mate was a quiche-a-holic. We used to make them together all the time."
"Well, let’s stop flappin’ our gums and eat," said Clara’s father.
Everyone sat down and enjoyed their lunch. Everyone except Brian. The quiche disgusted him. It wasn’t that it was bad–in fact, he found it rather delectable–it was just that he saw the quiche as yet another way Clara was showing off her fancy-pants ways she’d acquired in New York. He was unusually sullen and silent at the noon meal.
Patti arrived, heavily pregnant, shortly after the lunch dishes had been cleaned and put away and collected her slightly drowsy kids.
"I think I’ve got them all set for nap time," Clara said with a wink.
"Yeah, thanks, sis," came Patti’s reply. "I really appreciate it. They have me working twelve-hour shifts at the hospital, and it really takes it out of me. I don’t get it. I was never this tired all the time with my other three. This baby’s literally kicking my butt!" She smiled. "Oh well. Just four more weeks, and I’ll have another bundle of joy. I hope you’ll be around for the birth. I would love to have you with me."
Clara shuddered slightly. She hadn’t planned on being in town that long.
"Yeah, Patti, I’d love to be there. I’ll do what I can, O. K.?"
Patti grinned, and they hugged. This was a feeling of closeness she had never felt before with her sister. Clara was genuinely flattered that her sister wanted her to be present during the birth of her next baby.
"Well, I should get them home before your magic wears off and they wake up," said Patti. Clara and Patti hugged one last time, and soon everyone was gone, leaving Clara alone in the house with her mother.
It wasn’t until Clara came into the house and saw her mother knitting and watching her soaps that she felt tired. She went out on the porch again to smoke a cigarette and get motivated to start harassing people she’d been networking with while she was in New York. She checked the signal on her cell phone and was highly impressed. Who knew that she’d get a halfway decent signal in the middle of nowheresville? She pressed 1 on her speed dial.
"Charles Schwab Information Technology Department, how may I help you?"
"Hi," she began nervously. "Could I speak with Hassan Ansari please?" She and Hassan, who was the general manager of the department, had met at an information technology conference about two years ago and had dated briefly. They had amicably decided that they made better friends than lovers.
"He’s in a meeting right now," came the disembodied voice of the anonymous receptionist. "Can I tell him who’s calling?"
"Um, yeah. Tell him to call Clara Sybille on her personal cell. He’s got the number on his phone, I think."
"O. K. I’ll do that. Did you need anything else?"
"No. That should do it."
"All right. Thank you and have a nice day."
"You too." Great, thought Clara, I’m not going to be able to use any of my contacts because no one will return my calls. Unemployed and stuck in Cassopolis–two things she found highly undesirable.
Clara’s prediction was only about half right. By the end of business hours, she’d managed to actually talk to 20 of the 37 people she’d called and had managed to fax off and e-mail an equal number of resumes. She hoped to finish going through her Rolodex by the next day. She was workin’ it big time.
Dinner came and went uneventfully, and she decided to unwind by reading a cheesy spellbinder novel that she’d bought while she was waiting for her flight at the airport.
Some time around midnight, she began to feel tired, so she marked her place in the book and went out for her final cigarette of the night.
She stepped out onto the porch and was nearly engulfed by the blackness that is the night in rural southwestern Michigan. She fumbled in the pocket of her pajamas for her smokes and lighter, and finding them at last, hastily sparked up a cigarette. It was then that something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.
Standing across the driveway on the north side of the property was an elderly woman. She was clad in a full-length, frumpy, and rather shapeless, sky-blue crepe dress with a matching blazer and hat. She was as visible to Clara as if she’d been standing under the marquees of Times Square at high noon, despite the fact that the only light on that side of the property was a medium-sized florescent bulb that lit the entrance to the barn. Clara opened her mouth to speak to the woman–to ask her why she was on the property or if she needed help–but then quickly snapped it shut in a stunned, silent horror. The elderly woman was staring straight at Clara from two empty eye sockets, her mouth--which was full of crooked, rotten teeth--contorted into a scream and encircled with fresh blood, her grey, moldering hands on either side of what was left of her face, the nails clawing into her cheeks and hair–it was all frighteningly real. Clara closed her eyes rapidly and shook her head. The ammonia in the farm fertilizer must be getting to me or something, she thought. When she opened her eyes again, the old woman was gone. Clara didn’t bother to finish her cigarette and went back inside and straight to bed, blaming the apparition on a combination of jet lag and lack of sleep on the previous night. She hastily got under the covers and promptly fell into a deep, even slumber.
Clara didn’t realize how late she’d slept until her curious niece crept up beside her bed and startled her into alertness by asking, "Auntie Clara, aren’t you ever going to get up?" It was 9 a.m., and Clara felt the dire urge to resume her job search.
"Sure, honey, I’ll get up now."
The morning passed smoothly enough. Clara spent most of it on her cell phone and on the internet, desperately trying to find some sort of employment. After Patti came to pick up the kids, her mother even tried to get in on the act.
"Clara, dear, I could take copies of your resume down to the banks in town here and Dowagiac since I’m headed that way on my errands today."
"Thanks, mom, but I was looking for a position not so–, so--" she just couldn’t find the right word that wouldn’t offend her mother. The woman had a hard enough time when Clara first moved away to New York. She didn’t want to reopen the old wound.
"Local? I understand," her mother said in a definitively "I’m highly offended" tone of voice, but like a good Midwesterner, Clara’s mother had learned to be highly reticent at an early age.
"No, mom, no," Clara pleaded. "It’s not that I don’t like it here–I do–it’s just that I’d probably be over-experienced for anything up for grabs in this area. I worked writing banking coding software at Bear Stearns. I wasn’t a simple teller. In fact, I probably wouldn’t be qualified to be a teller, and I certainly don’t want a managerial position."
Clara’s mother looked away, her lips pursed into a stony silence. Clara shrugged and went back to her Rolodex.
Shortly after her mother left, Clara’s cell phone rang. She answered it excitedly, a little prayer on her lips that it would be at least an interview offer, if not an outright job offer.
"Clara Sybille speaking."
"Hi Clara! It’s Zara, what’s up?" Though the phone call from her best friend from high school wasn’t exactly what she had wanted or expected, she was still pleasantly surprised to hear a friendly voice on the other end of the phone.
"Not a lot. You know I lost my job when Bear Stearns went under?"
"Oh no! That’s terrible! Well, how about a pick-me-up? Jill and I are both in town until Sunday. Do you want to do something some time between now and then?"
The prospect of reuniting with her two closest friends was too much for Clara to resist. "Sure! I’d love to! When? Where?"
"Well, we were thinking about going to Kalamazoo to go bar hopping tonight."
"Sounds great! When can someone pick me up? I’m kind of wheelless since my dad sold my old car a while back."
"We’ll come get you at 8. Jill’s designated driver and she’s got her grandma’s old Lincoln. We’re gonna be big pimpin’ tonight!"
"Excellent! I’ll see you then."
"All right. Ta-ta my cha-cha," Zara said in her flawless Latin Lothario accent that she’d worked on perfecting with Clara and Jill in high school Spanish classes instead of doing the assigned verbal drills.
The rest of the day flew by, and soon enough, Jill and Zara pulled up in the rusting hulk of the car that would barely get them to Kalamazoo and back but would have to suffice. Hey, you can’t be picky when you’re borrowing someone else’s wheels.
On the drive up, the three old pals chatted like they’d never been separated. Jill was finishing up her Ph. D. in nuclear chemistry at the University of Chicago, and Zara was principal cellist for the San Francisco Symphony. They were a perfect grouping. They’d been the shy, nerdy girls in school who always knew the right answers and always had their homework perfectly done. They’d come together almost as if by the hands of fate because they were always assigned to the same classes. That they’d managed to keep in touch for so long after high school and through so many geographical changes was a herculean effort, but they considered the pay out to be well worth it. Zara and Jill were just in town because of the upcoming Labor Day holiday, but they were very empathetic to their dear friend Clara. They even offered to pay for her bar tab, but Clara flat-out refused. She still had some money left, after all.
The night was deliciously wild, yet the girls, feeling their advanced ages, called it an early night. Clara was home by 3:30 a.m. She stepped onto the porch and waved goodbye to her friends, then paused to light a cigarette as she watched Jill and Zara drive off.
Suddenly, Clara had the irresistible urge to look towards the north of the property by the driveway. She felt like she was being stalked by something. She quickly and sharply turned her head to the north.
The old woman was there, like she was the previous night, only there was something different about this appearance. At first, Clara just stared at the apparition helplessly, desperately trying to figure out what could be so sinisterly changed by this situation.
Abruptly, she heard the slow shuffle of feet across the gravel of the driveway and realized that not only was the old woman closer to her than she had been last night, she was coming even closer. Clara felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and her pulse started to go wild. She quickly threw her half-smoked cigarette into the front yard, dashed inside the house, and clumsily locked the door. Her breathing was rapid and heavy as she dashed up the stairs and flew under her blanket without bothering to get ready for bed like a silly, frightened child. She was highly unnerved, yet she managed to fall into an undisturbed slumber.
Her parents let her sleep until noon. Patti had the day off, so Brian didn’t need to bring the kids over. Clara was still upset about the incident with the old woman when she’d arrived home in the wee hours, but she mentioned it to no one as she went about her daily job hunt. They’ll just think I’m cracking up, she told herself. Best not to let on. And who knows? Maybe farm life is starting to get to me.
That night, Clara felt it best to skip her nocturnal cigarette and instead went straight to bed around 9 p.m.
Again, the tranquility of the farm jarred her awake at about 2 a.m. Instantly, as though she were an automaton, she grabbed her smokes and headed for the porch. It wasn’t until she was almost done with her cigarette that the thought of the old woman crept into her mind. I’ve won, she thought. She hasn’t appeared yet. She really was just a figment of my imagination.
As Clara turned to go into the house, she heard the sound of footsteps coming very rapidly towards her across the gravel driveway. She whirled around to investigate and saw that the old woman was on the other end of the veranda porch, her arms outstretched, the smell of death and decay so prevalent you could practically taste it. She was gaining on Clara.
Clara threw the front door open with such force that it cracked one of the door’s glass panes, slammed it shut, and did up all of the locks and bolts she could find.
Suddenly, she heard both an aggressive pounding and scraping on the door and the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Instantly, the light in the foyer came on, and Clara’s father appeared in his robe carrying a cocked and loaded hunting rifle.
"What in the hell was all that about?" Clara’s father demanded angrily, but his features dramatically softened when he saw how genuinely terrorized his daughter was.
"Dad! D-dad! There’s someone out there! An old lady in blue! She’s trying to hurt me!" was all Clara could choke out in her present state of mind.
"Oh Clara, honey! What’s wrong?" her mother said as she came down the steps.
"The old lady–she wants me! She’s trying to kill me!"
"Oh honey," cooed her mother. "There’s no old lady. There couldn’t be. You know the nearest farm has been abandoned for at least 20 years."
"I’ll go check the property," Clara’s father said as he unlocked the door, hunting rifle in tow.
Clara’s mother made coffee and chatted to calm Clara down. When Clara’s father came back to the house and said he couldn’t find a trace of anyone or anything out of the ordinary, Clara put her head in her hands and cried softly to herself.
"She was there! I saw her so--clearly!" she mumbled as her mother took her back to her bedroom. She laid down obediently, but she refused to close her eyes and sleep until the faint traces of dawn started to creep through her window and she heard her parents stirring about as they began their daily grind. She felt guilty, and she felt like a fool, but eventually, she drifted off into a restless slumber.
She awoke with a start at 11 a.m. The house was eerily quiet. She cautiously made her way down the stairs towards the kitchen.
She poured a cup of cold coffee and switched on her laptop and cell phone. Just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She nearly leapt out of her skin. She dropped her coffee cup, and it shattered on the perfectly varnished hardwood floor. She spun around.
"Oh! Mom! Hi! Uh, sorry about the cup!" she said nervously.
"Don’t worry about it, sweetie. In fact, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"I–well, that is, your father and I–think you’ve taken this lay off thing a bit hard and that you’re trying too hard to find a job and that that’s what caused you to be upset in the night. So, please take a day off, O. K.? I know I can’t make you, but you need to focus on your health first and foremost, so your father and I are begging you to just take one day off, O. K.?" Her mother’s plea had taken over her whole face, the effect of which made her normally youthful features seem 75 instead of her actual 57. Clara relented at this profound show of concern.
"All right. I’ll just go get a book from the library to read today."
"Thank you, sweetie," her mother said as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss Clara’s forehead.
Clara got ready and went to the library as promised. She found a couple of books that were nothing but literary brain fluff, promptly checked them out, returned home, and settled into her favorite recliner to enjoy a day of reading. She was grateful to be able to find some books that were insipid and predictable, yet stimulating enough to be a distraction. She was quickly lost in her first chosen book, and the day passed in a peaceful, rapidly quiet manner.
After dinner, while there was still some sunlight peeking through the clouds of the approaching nightfall, Clara was smoking what would be her last couple of cigarettes of the night. After what had happened in the smothering darkness of the previous hours, she’d learned her lesson and learned it well: no more cigarettes after dark. She didn’t know what was after her, or why, but she didn’t really care to find out. She just wanted to survive her stint in Cass County in one piece.
Her head hit the pillow as the creeping darkness that ends a twilight began enveloping the land. She fell into a sound slumber almost immediately. Perhaps the day off had done her some mental good.
Around 3 a.m., a scratching, sucking noise aroused her out of her nocturnal reverie. She sat up in bed and began looking around to find the source of the sound. She almost instantaneously discovered what it was that was disturbing her: though there was no moon that night, there was the old woman, clear as the midday sun, her face pressed against Clara’s window, her hands clawing the panes that separated them, her mouth sucking hungrily at the midnight air. Any ability to scream or cry out had been horribly frightened out of Clara. She grabbed her copy of the King James bible from her bedside table and thrust it against the glass. This only caused the old woman to become more determinedly energized, and she began aggressively assaulting the window. Clara promptly dropped the book and ran to the crawlspace in the basement, where she remained amongst the boxes and cans of preserves until she heard her parents get up. Only then did she venture out of her hideout.
"Oh, Clara, there you are, honey," her mother cooed. "I thought I heard you get up. Is something wrong?"
The question ripped through Clara like a hot knife through fresh butter. She quickly tried to regain her composure as much as possible because she didn’t want her parents to think she was cracking up. Hell, she didn’t want to think she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, though every fiber of her being was shrieking otherwise. She pushed her emotions back as much as possible and tentatively answered:
"No. Nothing’s wrong. I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all."
Her parents could tell she was lying (she’d always been a rather obvious liar in the past), but they could tell from her body language that they shouldn’t push the issue. Clara’s father broke the deafening silence.
"C’mon, Edna, let’s get some coffee into the girl before she decides to go back to bed."
Clara’s mother did as she was told because she trusted her husband’s judgment about their daughter implicitly. Clara and her father, due to their reserved, methodical natures, had always been able to read each other extremely well and were therefore very close. That is, until Clara moved to New York, but there was still an almost unnatural understanding there.
Breakfast progressed as usual, and Clara perked up enough by the end of the meal that her mother simply turned a blind eye to the fact she’d switched her laptop and cell phone on. Farm people are not deeply psychological by nature and prefer action to deep meditation, so Clara’s mother took the attitude of "at least she’s trying to be productive today" in regards to Clara’s regaining touch with the larger world via technology.
Boy, was Clara ever bummed by what she saw when her e-mail finally loaded on the fickle wireless network she’d installed herself at her parents’ home last Christmas. Form rejection e-mail after form rejection e-mail. "Thank you for your interest in the position at our company..."
"Ha! My ass!" Clara said bitterly as she slammed her laptop closed. She decided to go back to her bedroom and get ready to help around the farm for the day.
She’d almost forgotten her most recent nocturnal encounter with the old lady in blue as she headed up to her second-floor bedroom until she reached the threshold of the door, which was just to the left of the staircase. From there, she could see out of her window. At first, all she could view was the encroaching dawn upon the scenic landscape, except for the rather large smear smack dab in the center of the glass, but as she got closer, she noticed the filth on her window was not from some poor hapless bird that had haphazardly flown into it. No, it was blood. And soft, wet earth. And scratches. Tons of scratches. She shrieked in horror. The old woman was real.
At her cry, Clara’s mother ran to her side, saw her daughter’s distress and the offending mess upon the glass, and promptly made a mental note to get Clara to see a doctor promptly.
"Oh, honey," she sighed. "A bird must’ve flown into your window in the night. It’s all right." She cradled her sobbing, hysterical daughter in her arms. "Don’t worry yourself about the chores. Just lay on the couch and relax and watch some TV. I’ll clean the window."
She turned to her husband (who had flown up the steps behind her when Clara screamed) and whispered, "Chuck, call Dr. Stendhal." She didn’t have to say for what or how soon. They both wanted Clara to see the good doctor as soon as humanly possible.
Clara spent the rest of the day idly flipping through the myriad of channels on her parents’ satellite TV service. Dr. Stendhal paid a visit to Clara’s house as an emergent favor to her father, who’d been his best friend since high school. The doctor merely shook his head and clucked his tongue at Clara’s story. She was too stressed out, he concluded.
"Here, get this filled right away and insist that she take it every four hours," he commanded her mother as he hastily shoved a prescription for a powerful sedative into her hand. "After a week, try to get her into some talk therapy. She’s not dealing with this well at all. Hopefully the combination of the sedative and the therapy will bring her out of this state, but only time will tell. The damage that’s been done may have been permanent."
"Thank you, Earl," Clara’s mother said to the doctor as the tears slowly fell down her cheeks. Her daughter must really be in a bad way, she thought. As soon as the doctor left, she drove to the nearest pharmacy and filled the prescription.
Clara took the medication as directed, and she saw instant improvement. It was as if the prescription was a magic talisman against the old woman. She completely stopped seeing her. Wow, thought Clara, it really was just all in my head. She was able to resume all of her regular activities, and by the end of the week, Dr. Stendhal dropped the recommendation for talk therapy. He had declared her case a success and had formulated a plan for Clara to wean herself off the drug.
Things were even looking up in the employment area of Clara’s life. Hassan Ansari called and offered her a job. The best he could do at the present moment was entry-level programming, but, hey, it would pay the bills. Clara was psyched. She was going back to New York! Though she wasn’t supposed to start for another two weeks, she eagerly began packing her belongings.
"Oh, Clara, dear, we’ll miss you," said her mother when Clara delivered the news over dinner. Everyone except Brian was in agreement with that statement. Brian couldn’t wait until she was gone for good. Not only was she stuck on herself and her fancy-ass city life, she was a few beers short of a six pack. Best not to have her around the kids. She’s too unpredictable.
"I’ll miss you guys, too, but I’ll be back for Christmas for sure," Clara said genuinely. She’d miss them, but Cass County had never felt like home to her. New York did. New York was where she belonged.
Dinner finished late with tentative plans for a going-away party. Clara cleared the table, but her mother insisted on doing the dishes. Not objecting to her mother’s wishes on the subject, Clara took to her room and promptly began to read the last of the books she’d checked out of the local library the week before. The night was unseasonably warm, so she opened the window to let in the fresh end-of-summer breeze. She debated staying up all night because she felt too excited, too alive, to go to sleep.
About midnight, a skunk walked by, the scent of which disturbed the meditative stupor she’d fallen into while reading her book. She got up and closed her window, checked her watch, and decided to head out to the porch for one last cigarette before hitting the hay.
The skunk scent had dissipated by the time she stepped out onto the porch, which struck her as odd because, as anyone knows, the eau d’parfum of a skunk tends to linger long after the animal embodied of the stench leaves the area. But she quickly shook the thought out of her head and rejoiced the fact that said smell was no longer present. She lit a cigarette, took a long toke, and exhaled the noxious fumes serenely. God, it was going to be great to leave the farm again.
Suddenly, there was a faint scraping noise to her right, which was toward the north end of the property. It startled her a bit, but she quickly dismissed it as a foraging raccoon. She turned back to her cigarette and was rudely surprised. It was the old woman in blue, and she was roughly an arm’s length away from her. Clara went to scream and flee, but the old woman was too close. She caught Clara’s face in both of her decaying, claw-tipped hands and drew it close to hers. She then opened her mouth and a horrible gurgling, sucking sound came forth from the opening. The noise became increasingly louder as the distance between their faces got smaller and smaller and smaller...
Clara’s father thought it was odd that her bedroom door would be open and the lights on when he got up for the day, but he dismissed it as her being too excited to sleep. He got some eggs out of the refrigerator and began to cook them as his wife made her way downstairs.
"Sport! Go get the paper!" he commanded the dog. The animal merely whined in response. Puzzled, he looked out on the porch and saw a dark form laying motionless across its planks. He went out to investigate.
"Oh my God! Edna! Call a doctor! It’s Clara!"
The paramedics arrived, but it was far, far too late. Clara was most obviously dead. They radioed the State Police for assistance.
Dr. Christopher Melli, the medical examiner on duty at the time, made the official pronouncement. "Death by exsanguination," he said matter-of-factly to his assistant.
"What does that mean? English, please," said Detective John Bunchen, the lead homicide investigator who’d had his sleep rudely interrupted by the call to start investigating this case.
"Blood loss," said the doctor curtly. "There’s not a drop of blood in her body. See? Even the deep gashes on her cheeks didn’t bleed when they were inflicted." He pointed to the angry cuts on Clara’s pale, flaccid face. A small trickle of blood oozed slowly from the right corner of her mouth as if to spite the doctor, but that was the only blood present at the otherwise ghastly scene. Off to the north side of the driveway, there was a faint scraping noise, so slight it was nearly inaudible. Those who heard it thought it was merely the wind.