Ghosts in the Machine

My sister and I had a walk-in closet growing up. It was a great space my dad built over the garage and attached to our bedroom.

It held many an awesome thing, but what really made it special was that it had no windows. If you turned the lights out in there, it was pitch black. Which was fantastic. You see, the sister and I would bring groups of friends in there, sit in a circle with a flashlight, turn off the lights and tell ghost stories.

Unlike the sister, I was never much for the great outdoors. The bugs were the main turn off, but there was also a high creepy factor to being out in the middle of nowhere in the dark. So, no camping for me, but I still really liked ghost stories. Which made the closet perfect. All the necessary darkness from the safety of home.

Sometimes we’d make up stories. Tales of horror and woe that had us shaking in our Rainbow Bright stirrup pants. On other occasions I would read stories from the books that I had picked up in different places. Whenever we went to a historic site with the family, I always tried to get a book of ghost stories from the location.

My interest in ghosts did not wane over the years. In fact, when I was considering colleges, one of the things I put on Gettysburg’s “pro list” was that it seemed to have an abundance of ghost stories.

Now, I've yet to encounter a ghost, but see no reason to give up hope. One day when I finally own the haunted house I have always dreamed of, I’m fairly confident in my ability to make some spooky friends. And then once I’m ghost myself, I’m really hoping that the job my dreams have been training me to do pans out.

In the meantime, though, my sister has been kind enough to give me a spectacular gift: a vintage Polaroid camera. Seeing as nobody has used it in awhile, it wasn’t very surprising to us that some of the doohickeys (technical term) need to be cleaned. But the thing is, we couldn’t really figure that out until we’d taken a couple pictures. And once we put a packet of film in, we didn’t want to ruin it by opening the camera up to clean things. All of this has led to something wondrous. Faux ghost photos. Both creepy and awesome. Enjoy.

After a tragic accident involving a banana peel, a kerosene

lamp and a lot of hay, a young bride and her father now 

haunt the barn where she was to be wed, posing for 

wedding pictures that never took place. 

The Siren of the Sea. She haunts a small coastal village,

luring many young men to watery graves. Not because

a young man had anything to do with her own passing.

Just because she thinks it's fun.

Known as the Murderous Maniac, this ghost reveals

himself every 14.5 years on either his birthday or

his half-birthday. Legend has it, he's fairly friendly.

Just really loves yelling "Surprise!" and "Happy Bday!"

Nothing murderous or maniacal about him. Apparently,

the person naming ghosts that day was prone to hyberbolic

statements and an avid fan of alliteration. 

And now, for the most terrifying ghoul of all...

The towel bunny. Nobody knows his story. But everyone

knows to stay the hell out of his way.

 

It May Take A Few Days....

Greetings all!

I have returned. Victorious, of course. I was quite successful in my vacating. However, being the experienced vacationer that I am, I know what's coming next – I’ll be going through the Five Days After Vacation. Here’s how it’ll likely shake down:

Monday:

“Man, that vacation was awesome. I mean…I kissed a dolphin! And totally shot some arrows. Not at the dolphins! Just at targets. And it was awesome. Oh! And I saw a play! And ate my weight in dessert almost every day! Absolutely fantastic. I feel great. Going to be keeping this glow for a while. Sure, I’m back at work, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to lose my vacation shininess. Not a chance. I’ve turned a corner. Holding on to this sweet relaxed mindset for life. Hmmm, 10:13. Sounds like it’s time for second breakfast! And what time did I schedule today’s massage for?”

Tuesday:

“Are you kidding me?!? You people expect me to do work for the WHOLE day? How am I going to have time to get to the buffet? THERE’S NO BUFFET?? This is so unfair. Why does everything happen to me? This is totally your fault. That’s right, people who worked steadily during my week of vacation, I’m looking at you. What were you thinking including me on all these emails that I now must catch up on?? All. Your. Fault.”

Wednesday:

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m being unreasonable. But we can work something out. How about this, I’ll read most of my emails and then I get four days off for a short snorkeling trip. No? ALL my email and three days, no snorkeling, just some sitting on the beach. Wow, you’re really playing hardball here. Fine. All my email, one substantial assignment in exchange for two days off, no traveling, just hanging around the apartment. Oh, come on! Still no? No, wait, wait! Don’t walk away. Here’s the new plan. You’ll love it! All my email, two substantial assignments, one day off so I can unpack. No? Really? All right. I guess if anyone needs me, I’ll be under my desk. I mean, at my desk! Of course. Doing all my work. I promise. Hey….would it be okay if I took a long lunch?”

Thursday:

“I’ll never get back on top of things. It’s just not possible. But that’s fine. I’ll just live my out the rest of my life at this desk. No more vacations. After all, what’s the point? They can’t last forever. I just end up back here. Having to do work. I don’t know what I was thinking in the first place. Oh, look, another meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Friday:

“Would you look at that. All outstanding emails have been addressed and I finished those assignments? When did that happen? Guess it’s not going to be that hard to get back in the swing of things after all. That’s nice. And I really did have a wonderful time away with the fam. Well worth a few rough days back in the office. But, I am back now, and it’s time to buckle down. Other people should get to go on vacations, too. I can pick up their slack while they’re gone. After all they did the same for me. See? Things aren’t going to be that bad. Just back to the normal routine. Oooh, check out this Living Social deal for a weekend getaway. And I am still packed…Yeah, so totally back to the norm….starting Monday.”

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N

Roomie has told me that my vacation packing habits are ridiculous. She has described them as “elderly” and, harkening Aladdin, “big cosmic powers, itty bitty living space.”

I’ll address the “elderly” claim first. I can’t really dispute this as Roomie’s grandmother and I once had an extended conversation about the fun of early packing, but I will say that I think there’s also a child-like element. Basically, I’m this kid:

 

I try to hold off packing, really I do, but eventually the anticipation gets to me.

I leave for this summer’s vacation this evening. I managed to suppress the packing urge until about two weeks ago. Then I was just too excited and had to start throwing things into a suitcase. Which leads to Roomie’s second issue with my packing style.

I don’t believe in the boundaries set forth by suitcase dimensions. I see them more as guidelines.

As a chronic over-packer (how do I know for sure that I’m not going to need twelve different dresses on a five day trip??), I slowly build teetering piles of belongings in the base of the luggage. I don’t stop until I am absolutely positive that I am prepared for any ensemble situation that I might run into. Then I sit on the suitcase until it closes. Which, admittedly, sometimes takes a while. But the struggle is well worth it when someone on the trip says, “It’s a little chilly tonight,” and I can respond, “I have a lovely collection of cardigans for you to choose from. What color did you have in mind?”

Plus, here’s a little secret I’ve discovered: Clothes get a lot more compact when you weigh them down with books. Sure, my suitcases tend to weigh upwards of a billion pounds, but that’s why you can get them with wheels, right? Also another reason I continue to enjoy traditional books. I just don’t think an eReader would provide as much packing heft. 

So, I stand by my packing choices. (And, maybe...just a little bit...judge the fact that Roomie doesn't pack until the morning of a trip and is rarely prepared if the journey suddenly gets extended by a month or so.)

But enough about preparation, now is the time for action. To that end, I'm off to cruise the high seas. I’ll be back on the 20^th. Hope to see you here!

Setting Priorities

My goodness, this is a busy summer.

We’ve had the Olympics and the Mars landing. Campaign season is in full swing. And now Shark Week is almost upon us.

It’s enough to make your head spin.

Something that I have found to be helpful in dealing with times of overload such as this, is having your priorities straight.

Take this time last year. Shark Week was a’comin’ and I was, quite naturally, thrilled beyond belief. You know...because of the sharks. But sadly, life’s little details don’t always treat Shark Week with the proper amount of respect and continue to badger at you. In this instance, the little detail that wouldn’t leave me alone was that we had run out of toilet paper in my apartment. Generally, no biggie. This time, though, running out to pick some up was taking precious moments away from shark watching.

Still, I soldiered on.  

Out I went to the grocery store across the street. It was going to be a quick trip, I was sure. Once in the story, I quickly made my way back toward the toilet paper aisle. On my way, a colorful box caught my eye. Shark Bites! (shark shaped fruit snacks*)

I was beside myself with excitement. What could make this evening better than shark themed snackage? Needless to say, I quickly picked up a box and skipped merrily to the register, giving passer-bys enthusiastic high fives.

It wasn’t until about two hours later, when I was happily chomping on my fruit snacks, that I realized I’d forgotten the toilet paper.

So, you see….priorities.

Now, as you get ready for whatever epic lengths you go to for your own Shark Week celebrations, I leave you with this video (sure to chill you right down to the marrow):

*Side note: I never called them fruit snacks growing up. Still don’t. Bothers Roomie to no end. They were always fruity bootys. Not sure why, but I’m guessing it had something to do with my lifelong desire to be a pirate.

In Opposition to White Walls

I read this post today and it got me thinking about the things I keep around me while I work.

Regardless of what kind of work I’m doing, I find that I like to be surrounded by objects that inspire me to create. Even if I can’t get to that “creating” until a later point.

I really can’t stand white walls. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I love white walls when I move into a space, because of all the possibilities. I can stand in the blank space, envision what I want it to look like when it’s done and then get to work on making it happen. Buckets of awesome.

But if I don’t do anything with them? Then they drive me crazy.

It’s like being surrounded by nothing but blank pages, knowing the story you want to write, but not having access to any kind of pen, pencil, marker, crayon, stick with your blood on it…

Madness quickly overcomes me.

So, to avoid all this shenanigans, I do my best to keep some color around me. Now, I am not at liberty to paint my work office, so some creativity came into play.

Here’s an inventory of the things I can see from my desk:

-          Pictures upon picture upon pictures

o       Family, friends, pets, and all the places I’ve been.

-          Canvas

o       One of my attempts at art. Moderately successful. Definitely brings more color to the room.

-          Drawing done by the big bro circa ‘91

o       A circus lion who’s just finished eating his tamer. Perfect for work. Some days I’m the lion. Some days I’m the tamer.

-          Tin lunch boxes

o       Wizard of Oz and Star Wars. Classics.

-          C3PO Kooky

o       Because of the awesomeness.

-          Framed postcards

o       One from Paris, one with the Love This Life manifesto.

-          Small pile of pennies

o       Saving them for a rainy day. Or until I get sick of having them on my desk and decide to hide them randomly amongst Roomie’s belongings.

-          Cake Vs. Pie chart

o       Peanut butter pie wins forever.

-          Random doodads from staff parties.

o       Valentine’s Day puppy and heart erasers

o       Leap Day leap frog

o       St. Patrick’s Day rubber ducky

-          Notes left on my desk by Roomie

o       One states, “Drank some of your soda. Ha.” What a jerk. This is why I hide pennies in her things.

And finally, with a little Tennessee Williams action…

-          Glass menagerie

o       Damian (green frog)

o       Melvin (goldfish)

o       Edgar (pink & green turtle)

o       Cecily (clear swan)

o       Hugo (blue hippo)

o       And growing…..

So, even with white walls, I’m surrounded by funzies. Making it that much easier to hang on to what is left of my sanity.

What about you? Anything you need in your workspace to keep your creative brain from going off the deep end? That is…if you’re so inclined to put effort toward such a goal. Maybe you like feeling bonkers. I’m not here to judge.

Not-So-Gulity Pleasures Redux

Not long ago, I wrote about some of my not-so-guilty pleasures. I can happily report that given the increased number of page hits on that post, I’m not the only one with some marginally embarrassing weirdness in my closet. Always a lovely thing to find out.

Even better than this, though, is that there are people out there who are willing to share their own bizarre proclivities. Case in point, Lauren Grimley, (author, blogger, and teacher extraordinaire) who I had the pleasure of getting to know at the Backspace conference. Here’s what she had to say:

My Not-So-Secret Guilty Pleasures

1. Reading Kelly’s post on guilty pleasures I realized that apparently my first guilty pleasure is revealing too much. As I started to rattle off a list of the dorky things I love in life, it occurred to me that I’ve never bothered to keep such things secret. When I wanted to be a greaser from S. E. Hinton’s Outsiders, I dressed like Ponyboy, rolled t-shirt sleeves and all.  When my obsession switched to Harry Potter I created t-shirts with sayings like “I believe in Nargles,” which I actually wore out in public. When my seventh graders starting talking about Pretty Little Liars, I jumped right in, without even considering the fact that I could have, and maybe should have, pretended not to know what they were talking about.

2. This brings me to my next guilty pleasure: teen television shows. My DVR recordings more closely resemble those of the thirteen-year-old girls I teach than those of an average educated thirty-two-year-old woman. Vampire Diaries, Pretty Little Liars, The Lying Game–I love them all. What’s really sad is that these are a step up from what I used to watch when I first started teaching. The Suite Life, anyone? I thought I was becoming a sophisticated viewer when I moved from Zach and Cody to Damen and Stefan. Or maybe I’d just developed a stronger liking for eye-candy.

3. Candy. Another place I lack sophisticated tastes. Out of all my food favorites, the one I’d consider a somewhat embarrassing guilty pleasure is my love of Sour Patch Kids. Most people above the age of fifteen lose their enthusiasm for shredding their taste buds with sour crystals. Not this girl. I can polish off an entire package of these gummy goodies in one sitting and have been known to lick my finger so that I can dip it in the bitter crumbs. Sour, sweet, gone. Yum!

4. Guilty pleasure number four is all about tactile gratification. If that sounds dirty, I promise you it’s not. I just love all things fuzzy. While most women trawl the local T.J. Maxx with an eye for fashion, I walk through the aisles running my fingers along everything I see. If it’s sexy but scratchy, forget it. Frumpy but soft and fuzzy, I’m likely to wear it. I’ve even been known to delay washing new sweatshirts long past the first or second wear just to retain the maximum fuzz factor. Okay, so I guess it is dirty, in the unlaundered sense.

5. My last guilty pleasure (at least the last one I’m posting on the internet) I alluded to in number one. I love to eavesdrop. As I child I would hide in the dark corner of the living room so that I could listen to half of whatever telephone conversation my mother was having. As I teacher I pretend to be checking email during study halls, while I secretly snoop on my unknowing students. I listen to people at the grocery store, in waiting rooms, on the beach. I’m so nosy, I’ve been known to pretend to listen to who I’m with while really listening to the couple two tables over. Hey, I can’t help it if my friends and family aren’t that interesting to me anymore. Besides, as a writer, I chalk this one up to “research.” 

Actually, I suppose I could claim all of these pleasures are merely research for my writing. But that would be a lie. I love what I love. And I’ve loved being a geek long before Kelly got me to confess here like a Catholic schoolgirl. Still, it’s nice to know that when the dork parade marches through town, I’ll have plenty of company. So thanks, Kelly!

Bio:

When Lauren Grimley isn’t sharing her quirks with the world, she’s writing or teaching in central Massachusetts. If she finds free time beyond these activities, she’s likely to spend it on a beach with a book and bottle of wine close by. She’s recently published her first novel, an urban fantasy entitled Unforeseen. The second book in the series, Unveiled, is off to the publisher, while the third is being dragged, kicking and screaming, from Lauren’s imagination.

Links to learn more about Lauren and her projects:

Personal website: http://www.laurengrimley.com

Blog: http://blog.laurengrimley.com

Twitter @legrimley:  http://twitter.com/ - !/legrimley

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/AuthorLaurenGrimley

Links to Unforeseen and “Unknown” (a short from later in the series)

Amazon:

Unforeseen  http://amzn.to/Iyas63

“Unknown”   http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00865C4DM

Smashwords:

Unforeseen   http://bit.ly/KESWTO

Barnes & Noble

Unforeseen   http://bit.ly/M7v5MK

Dreamstate

I go through periods where I have particularly bizarre dreams and I appear to be smack dab in the middle of one now.

It began the other night with a doozy about Michael Phelps asking my sister to swim one of his races for him. She did swim the butterfly in high school, so he could have made a more illogical choice – me, for instance. Much like Fezzik, I only doggie paddle. – but still, it was strange.

She took gold though, giving her the distinction of being the most winningest athlete in my dream Olympics.

Anyway, since then, it’s been weirder dream after weird dream. There have been murder mysteries, close encounters with the third kind, track & field events, and one instance where I’m pretty sure I got stuck in a TV set.

I could be wrong, but I think my subconscious might want me to sleep more and watch the Olympics and Mars landing less. But since that’s unlikely to happen, I’ll just have to embrace the bizarro dreams.

To that end, today I present five fun dream related TV episodes:

• Nightmares (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) – It may not be one of the standout episodes of the series, but the scenes between Xander and the clown make it well worth a look.
• Sleepless (The X-Files) – Creepy super soldier program leads to man who can kill with dreams. You’d think after Bruce Banner’s issues, people would realize these “building a better warrior” experiments always go sideways.
• Conscious (Alias) – Possibly the trippy-est episode in the series, but at least you start to get some answers as to what the frick frack is going on in season three. Plus there’s an awesome scene between Dixon and Lindsey. Plus Will Tippin!
• Noche de suenos (Eureka) – Dream sharing may be horrifyingly awkward…but it’s also pretty funny. Except, you know, for the part where it might kill you.
• Chuck Versus the Tooth (Chuck) – The Intersect may be slowly killing Chuck’s brain, but as a consolation prize he get’s to have terrifying dreams with real life implications…so, there’s that.

On second thought, maybe I should be listening to my subliminal messages. If there’s one thing that these shows illustrate, it’s that if you tick off your subconscious, it will most likely use dreams to kill you or those in close proximity.

Guess I need to get more sleep…for everybody’s sake.

Bad Movies/Good Party Themes: From Justin to Kelly Boating Soirée

Remember when American Idol first started?

It was a strange time. Those fuzzy years before Ryan Seacrest was named the Grand Pooba of all things that need hosting. He wasn’t even flying solo on Idol yet. Brian Dunkleman, who I knew better as the guy who tried to buy the engagement ring Chandler was going to get for Monica, joined him in this duty.

And viewers watched the battle unfold between the lady from Texas and the gentleman from Pennsylvania.

Ah, yes. The good old days. Sometimes I still miss them.

Of course, when that happens, I just put From Justin to Kelly into the DVD player and all is right with the world once again.

Now, not everyone has as sophisticated a palate as I. Case in point, this conversation with a friend before movie night:

FJtK Hater: I hate that movie so much. I remember watching it with you all the first and only time I've ever seen it thinking, "I love bad movies- this will be awesome."

Me: You'll get to give it a second chance next month AND LOVE IT.

 FJtK Hater: And it was not awesome, Kelly.  IT WAS NOT AWESOME.

Me: You just didn't know enough of the songs and dances. We'll hold a tutorial beforehand. No worries.

FJtK Hater:  IT WAS TERRIBLE.

Me: STOP SPREADING FALSEHOODS.

FJtK Hater: You can't make me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me:  I totally can AND WILL.

FJtK Hater:  NNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooo!

Me: It's gonna happen. We will watch it. You will be there.

FJtK Hater:  No.

Me: Don't fight it.

FJtK Hater: I. just. can't.

Me: YOU WILL. And you know what? To commemorate this viewing I'm going to make you your very own tie skirt, a la Kelly Clarkson.

FJtK Hater: No.. -please, just no.

Me: Already picking out the ties.

FJtK Hater: It's just too awful. It's too terrible. And too bad.

Me: It's going to look great on you. I think you can really pull it off.

FJtK Hater:  ............

Despite my friend’s clear descent into madness, this movie is absolutely awesome. Particularly when you pair it with a boating theme. As you will find upon viewing this cinematic masterpiece, the fastest way to show that you are a tried and true boat-er is to wear outfits made up only of differing shades of white.

It should also be noted that the scene in which this is hammered home is the one my friends and I dubbed, “From Justin to Murder.” Check it out and you’ll see why.

Crackerjack dialogue to look forward to:

-          “God, how could you curse me with the perfect body and the gift of persuasion?”

-          “Heck, yeah. I mean, hell, yeah. I say hell all the time. Hell, hell, hell.”

-          “Girl, my hair won’t even fit through there.” “I’m from Texas, I’ve seen bigger.”

-          “Yeah. Five and a quarter an hour, scraping beans off plates and filling urinals with ice.”

For a From Justin to Kelly Boating Soirée of your very own, here’s what you need:

-          From Justin to Kelly (2003)

-          Volunteers to call out every time they see something that was stolen directly from Grease or Dirty Dancing.

-          Lots and lots of white clothes. Large brimmed hats are a bonus.

-          Appropriate boating food (we went with shrimp, scallops and crab cakes, followed by cream puffs and dainty deserts in fillo shells).

-          Group of American Idol diehards and/or individuals who live for pointing out continuity errors and/or folks who you can trust to yell funny things out when there is an awkward pause in the on-screen dialogue.

An added tip: When you get the DVD, watch the Extended Version. Pretty sure this takes the movie from 80 to 86 minutes and you get two additional songs. Two of the best in my opinion. Can’t remember their actual names, but we refer to them as “Summer Lovin’” and “Stranded at the Drive In.” Of course, the “drive in” is actually the world’s longest jetty and some hovercrafts, and…no, you know what? I don’t want to spoil it for you.

Just go watch it.

You can thank me later.

The Claw Machine

Good morning, all. Today's post is a response to Chuck Wendig's most recent flash fiction challenge to write a story half from the viewpoint of the protagonist and half from the antagonist's POV.

Hope you enjoy!

******

She’s holding my hand too tight.

It hurts. “Lemme go!”

“Stop it.” She squeezes tighter.

I don’t like her face. It’s frowny. And mean.

Mommy told me to be good, but the girl’s not good. And Mommy’s not here. I even looked around, just to make sure. She won’t see.

The frowny girl makes a funny noise when I kick her leg, but she still squeezes my hand. It hurts more.

She puts her face next to mine. It’s even meaner up close.

“Listen to me, you little monster. If you don’t cut the crap, I’m going to tie you to a lamp post and leave you out here.”

I don’t wanna stay out here. I like the inside. And the lady with the scary brown dog is coming down the street.

But the frowny girl is still mean. “My hand hurts.”

“You’ll live.”

I don’t know what that means. But she lets go of my hand, so it’s something good. Except now both her hands are on my shoulders.

She’s pushing.

“Daddy says no pushing.”

“News flash, kid. Daddy’s not here. Now, get inside the store.”

I want Daddy. And Mommy. Where are they?

“Inside.”

I take a step before she pushes again, but something stops my foot and I fall. The floor hurts my knee.

And my hand still hurts where the mean girl squeezed.

And I don’t know where Mommy and Daddy are.

The mean girl is talking. Her frowny face is even frownier. When she picks me up her voice is low and scary. “Stop crying. I didn’t push you. Your shoe’s untied.”

She drops me on an inside bench. Hard. “Sit here and tie your shoe. Do not leave this chair.” Her voice gets even lower. “And stop crying.”

Frowny girl walks away.

I don’t know how to tie my shoe. Daddy showed me, but none of the loops are working now. I make sure the frowny girl isn’t looking and I stick them inside my sneaker. She’ll never know.

There’s music in the back. It’s my favorite. It comes out of a magic box filled with toys. There’s a big claw inside. But, don’t worry, it’s okay, because Mommy says that it doesn’t hurt the toys.

He’s still there. My favorite.

His name’s Clyde.

Sometimes Mommy and Daddy let me try to get him. But I can’t. They said we could come back and try again.

But they’re not here.

I don’t think the frowny girl’s gonna let me try.

Clyde wants to come home with me, too. I know it. It’s mean to keep him in this box. Even if it is magic. He’s getting all squished. He’s too big. Like me.

That’s why Mommy and Daddy say I can’t sleep in their bed anymore. I’m a big boy. Too big for their bed. Just like Clyde is too big for the magic box.

But my room’s big enough for both of us.

And I can save him from being squished.

***

Where the hell is the peanut butter?

Luke wants a “PB sammich.” Which I’m sure would be just freaking adorable if Mrs. Duncan had peanut butter. And if her kid wasn’t a mini nightmare.

I swear if he kicks me one more time, I’m kicking back. See how he likes it.

There it is! Thank God.

The lady at the register smiles at me. “You okay, honey?”

“I hate babysitting. My mom said this is karma, ‘cause apparently I wasn’t the most easy going kid. But, you know, I think that karma stuff only works if I have a kid who’s crazy. Not if I’m watching someone else’s. This is just a news update waiting to happen. Crazed Sitter Slays Tot, story at eleven.”

That was too much. Stop talking.

Okay, she’s not even looking at me now. I get it. Crossed the line with the whole slaying sitter thing. But the look of horror is a little dramatic. It’s not like I actually killed him.

Her mouth opens and she points behind me.

Okay, so it’s not me bothering her. Good. Pretty sure I won’t get paid if someone calls the cops on me.

And she’s still pointing. Fine, I’ll bite.

I turn around.

No. Freaking. Way.

The kid’s in the claw machine.

Oh, this is so not good.

I run to the back of the store. “What the hell are you doing?”

Naturally, the kid’s smiling now. All temper tantrums and tears from the moment his mother left, but now life’s hysterical. Of course.

He yells something. His voice is muffled through the glass, but it sounds like “Clyde.” I’m guessing that’s the stuffed dragon he’s clinging to.

The guy who had been restocking the shelves is standing next to me now. “I don’t think he should be in there.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

I can make out his muffled voice this time. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

The register woman joins us in time to laugh at this. Not horrified anymore. Lucky her. “I suppose his parents aren’t going to love the addition to his vocabulary.”

“I’m thinking they’re gonna notice the claw machine first.” I bang on the glass. “Luke, climb out of there. Now. I’m not kidding.”

He’s still smiling. “Tried. Can’t.”

Fantastic.

The woman says, “I called the fire department. They’ll get him out.”

Luke stops smiling. That’s right, kid. You’ll be out soon and then you’re mine. Be very afraid.

Yeah, he definitely looks nervous.

Wait, not nervous. Something else. I recognize that face.

No.

I bang on the glass again. “Absolutely not, Luke. Do you hear me? You hold it in.”

“What’s the matter, honey?”

I don’t bother looking at the woman. I just have to stop the kid. “Luke, listen to me. Do not – ”

But he does. I can tell. And now he’s smiling again.

I close my eyes. “He peed.”

This is so not worth ten bucks an hour. 

******

The Olympics: Fostering Goodwill....at least in our apartment

I am not what you would call an athletic person.

I think the Roomie could accept this fact if I at least had some interest in watching sporting events. Which I don’t. Almost ever.

If you want me to watch something sports related, your best bet is a Disney movie. (Even I can't resist a knucklepuck.)

This isn’t to say I don’t ever try to appreciate the more sporty sides of life. I go to root on the Roomie at the occasional soccer performance. To prove that I’m paying attention and not plotting the next couple of chapters of the story I’m working on, I have taken to texting her every few minutes to comment on something I saw on the field. She has told me that coming back to find thirty-two texts after a sixty minute game is not the athletic appreciation she is looking for. And to stop calling them soccer performances. And that “Break a leg!” is not an appropriate way to wish her luck before a game.

As I’m sure you can see, she’s fairly high maintenance.

We have however found one athletic topic we can agree on: The Olympics are awesome.

Watching the best of the best from countries all over the world is just inspiring. I may root hard for the U.S., but that doesn’t take away from the genuine awe I feel watching the athletes from other countries do their thing. I am consistently floored by the feats all of the Olympians can get their bodies to complete.

Plus, at times it is like you’re watching a Disney sports movie, given the dramatic statements frequently made by the commentators. Things like “The question is, would you go for the throat while your opponent is sobbing?” And the twice repeated “They will, as champions always do, walk together forever.” If only there was a Queen song playing over all of this, it would be absolute perfection.

So for now, the Roomie and I are in sync in our viewing choices for the evening. And in feeling mildly floored that most of the Fab Five were born the year the Magnificent Seven won the gold (which sadly means they probably totally missed out on choices like getting an Amanda Borden haircut).

In conclusion, peace has settled over the apartment.

At least until the twelfth.