Call me Possum

I saw three wild turkeys this morning as I was headed into work. Along 118, there, at the new rent-all place – you know the one I'm talking about? It's just before you go under the railway trestle.

Well anyway, two of the turkeys were inside that fence and the other turkey was on the outside. You should have seen them. They were desperate to get to each other, running back and forth alongside the fence, gobbling and flapping their big, awkward wings. I felt like stopping and saying, "Just fly over the fence, you stupid bird! You got wings! Use 'em!"

Lately I've been feeling a whole lot like that turkey on the outside of the fence.

Possum

In other news I was watching Places in the Heart last night, the 1984 movie with Sally Field where she played a widow woman during the Great Depression. Love that movie. It was John Malkovich's first movie role – I didn't know that until Robert Osborne talked about it during the movie's introduction.

The kid's name in the movie is Possum. I turned to Dave and I said, "Dave? Will you call me Possum?" He was half-asleep. He mumbled, "yeah," but he hasn't called me Possum. Not yet, anyway.

If I could have any name I wanted I think it would be Possum. Maybe Scout, from To Kill A Mockingbird, cause that's pretty good, but Possum is better. Cute and cuddly, just like me. With whiskers, just like me.

No rat tail, though. Just turkey feathers.

I don't know if it's Scout I have a thing for or Gregory Peck.
Wait. I totally know the answer to that question...

Money woes

Dave spent 20 minutes this morning venting about money worries and then another five minutes at the front door trying to get me to cheer up before he went to work.

"I'm not going until you cheer up," he said. I smiled crookedly, fuming on the inside. Really? Let's get all depressed and then be cheery on the way out? He feels guilty, I think. He just bought a used motorcycle, using his credit line. Nah, we couldn't afford it. We were stupid to do it. Then again, life is short. If it's at all possible to do something you love, do it. Another one of my acquaintances is in hospice with terminal cancer, came right out of the blue. She was fine, she found a lump, two months later she's in hospice.

Dave grew up with motorcycles but he hasn't had one for 20 years. When my brother-in-law Don got one, when our friend Richard got one, Dave got all itchy to get one, too. Peer pressure, I guess. Next thing I know he was cruising the online classifieds and before you can say Bob's your uncle (thanks Susan), there was a motorcycle in our garage.

Last night we went for a ride. It was fantastic. Cool evening air blowing in my face. Watching clouds scud across the setting sun. As miles ticked by my frustrations of the day slid behind us like our lengthening shadow. Last night it was worth every penny.

This morning reality has set in yet again. Dave wants to talk about budgeting. Just the word budget makes my teeth ache.

We have our own money, Dave and I, although it's not like he hoards it or anything. We share. But he has his bills, I have mine. Because he makes twice as much money as I do, at least twice, he pays the mortgage, the taxes, the trailer payment and the utilities. (Fecking hydro is enough to choke a goat.) I pay the Jeep payment, groceries, internet and my own credit card. I also give my ex-husband, Doug, a little money here and there for child support. Not a lot – because I don't have a lot – but what I can. He's good that way. We have an agreeable relationship, not like some who only see each other in court as they either demand more money or refuse to give more. Anyway, times are hard for Doug, too. He has asked me for more money and I honestly don't have more money to give. My pay cheque disappears as soon as it lands in my bank account.

I haven't had a substantial raise in pay since I started working there (yes, there has been an occasional cost of living increase, which is so barely noticeable that I'm not 100% sure if I got them or not) and I have just found out I won't be getting one. Ever. Period. I am at the top of my pay scale so it doesn't matter how hard I work, or what I contribute to the company, I will not be compensated for that extra effort financially. I must be content with what I bring home right now. This, in spite of the fact that my responsibilities have increased substantially. Sometimes I think, "why bother?" Just do what you have to do, try and keep your nose clean, and forget about the rest. But that's not who I am. I have to do my best, all the time – that's just the way I roll, baby.

I'm not alone there, that's for sure. There are a lot of other people in the same boat. We're all lucky to even have jobs, I know. But being lucky doesn't help put food on the table.

Meanwhile, the cost of groceries has pretty much doubled in the last six years. Back then $130 paid for food for a family of four for a week. It's rare that I spend less than $230 these days. Gasoline has also jumped. So has hydro. Everything keeps going up and up – everything except my pay cheque.

I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to look around for another job. Or perhaps take a second job. Maybe delivering pizzas or working at Wal-mart. Every time I drive by Domino's and see the sign in the window that says "Now Hiring Drivers" I want to run in there and apply. Maybe me and Dave could do it on Friday nights, together, like a date. Maybe we could do it on his motorcycle, tomato sauce in the saddle bags, the smell of pepperoni in the wind in our hair ...

Dave takes Angus for his first ever motorcycle ride. Gus loved it!

Middle-aged Mutant Turtle Hero

Why did the turtle cross the road? I don't know – maybe because her GPS is broken? Or maybe because she's laying eggs? Who knows with turtles. Their brains are the size of lima beans.

Seems like everyone has a saving-a-turtle story lately. Just last Thursday my friend Leah came into work and announced she had picked a painted turtle off the road and deposited it safely on the side. "As soon as I picked it up, it peed all over me," she said. "Just let go. Shusssssssssshhhhhhh." She made the peed-all-over hand motions because even though Leah isn't Italian she has Italian hands that wave for dramatic effect. All I could think of, as she was waving her hands around, was microscopic drops of turtle piss flying into everyone's coffee cups.

The very next morning I looked out the window and saw a painted turtle in the middle of our road. Dave was already gone to work and I was still in my pajamas. "Ah, man?" I thought. "Ya mean I gotta go outside and rescue that stupid turtle?" Obviously there was no one else in the house willing to do it. I put on my flip-flops and a hoodie – my turtle rescuing superhero outfit – and marched outside to do the dirty deed.

Now,  I may not be a girly-girl in most respects but there's one thing I draw the line at and that's touching ooky things. Ooky includes bugs, spiders, fish, worms, snakes, frogs, toads, leeches and turtles. And other stuff, probably; I may not be able to list all ooky things but I know ooky when I see it. Cat barf? Ooky. That video of popping the biggest zit in the world? OOKY. Did you SEE that video? OMG. I mean, there's nothing I love better than popping a big zit, but this one was like a tube of toothpaste, or squeeze mayonnaise. Oh yeah, totally like squeezable mayonnaise. Here's the link but I warn you, it's the most disgusting ooky thing you will ever see. CLICK WITH CAUTION!

So where was I? Oh yes, flapping outside to rescue the stupid turtle in the middle of our road. On the way past the garage I grabbed the old broom pole we keep by the door to prop it open. I figured I would use it to prod the house-on-claws to its way back to the river, you know, without actually touching it. In fact, I thought a gentle nudge would do the trick. Nuh-uh. The turtle just turned-turtle and pulled its head and feet in. Oh great. Standing in the middle of the road in the pouring rain with a turtled-turtle. I poked it again. Nothing. Fine. My only alternative, other than picking it up, which wasn't going to happen, was pushing it across the road with the broom pole.

And that's precisely when I noticed the huge mudder-tucking leech glommed on the turtle's hiney. It was SO gross! Ooky to the nth! Poor turtle. I tried to wipe the leech off its back with the pole. Didn't move. I gently tapped it, trying to squish it or convince it to leave. Didn't move. I threw sand and pebbles at it. Hung on like, well, like a leech. I would have ran back to the house for salt if the turtle wasn't in the middle of the road like a kamikaze suicide pilot waiting for the next available mini-van to come by and toaster-size it to turtle-pizza glory.

"Fine," I thought, and started pushing the turtle towards the river, using the pole. Have you ever tried to push a round object with a stick? It doesn't go straight ahead. It kind of turns. Is this how hockey was invented? Some poor idiot in her pjs schlepping a spinning turtle across the road?

Stick-handling the turtle across the pavement wasn't too bad, although the turtle may have road rash to contend with, but once we hit the shoulder, gravel and sand started building up in the turtle's front end. She'd stick her head out as if to spit out her mouth full of gravel and I'd say, "Well if you don't like it, put your feet out and WALK." But she'd look at me with her best "meh" expression and pull her head back in so I was, like, "FINE, eat dirt then, stoopid turtle." She finally got the idea when we got to the riverbank. Suddenly she plonked out her four wheel drive and made a beeline to the edge of the two-foot drop and then, whooooooosh, dove off the edge and onto the sandy beach below.

Like peanut butter on toast, she landed upside down.

Stoopid turtle.

With a sigh I climbed down the riverbank and used the pole to set her upright. She swam away without a thank you or a backwards glance, the leech still glommed onto her ass, sucking turtle ass-juice for all it was worth.

50 Shades of Good Writing

Imagine my excitement when Jon Strother, THE Jon Strother, the King of Friday Flash Jon Strother, asked lil old me to be a regular correspondent with Friday Flash Dot Org!

In case you've never heard of Friday Flash, it's a phenomenon Jon founded to encourage and promote flash fiction writing. The deal is you write a story 1,000 words or less, you post it on your blog, you link it to the Friday Flash website and you promote it on Facebook and Twitter. Then you go around to all the other writers and read their flashes. The upshot of it is, you hone your own skills as a writer, you gain confidence and feedback from an incredibly supportive community and you make new friends. Some of my best blogging buddies come from Friday Flash. I can't recommend it enough.

When I was thick into Friday Flash I wrote a story every week for about a year. I almost never missed a deadline, coming up with stories the week I got married and all through my honeymoon. Writing flash became a need, an addiction and as time passed and my fingers flew across the keyboard I started to think that maybe, just maybe, I was a real writer after all.

I haven't written a Friday Flash for some time but that doesn't mean I'm not writing. I am, in fact, three-quarters done writing a novel, something I wouldn't have thought of doing in a million, zillion years if it wasn't for Jon Strother and Friday Flash.

This summer I'm all wound up about the publication of The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2, in which not one but TWO of my stories will be included. And it's not just an e-book, it's an ACTUAL, physical book! Everybody on my Christmas list will be getting at least one in their stockings! When launch day comes I'll be sure to let you know about it. (Just try and stop me!)

In the meantime, if you want to check out my first post over at Friday Flash Dot Org, I have a piece about 50 Shades of Grey as it applies to so-called "good writing." If you're in the mood for some self-important blathering, you'll find my pearls here. And if you're looking for some fabulous writing from some really swell people, click here.

Shelagh's place

I have just read the smartest thing. It applies to how I've been thinking lately and I thought it might apply to you, as well.

 “There is a story of a woman running away from tigers. She runs and runs and the tigers are getting closer and closer. When she comes to the edge of a cliff, she sees some vines there, so she climbs down and holds on to the vines. Looking down, she sees that there are tigers below her as well. She then notices that a mouse is gnawing away at the vine to which she is clinging. She also sees a beautiful little bunch of strawberries close to her, growing out of a clump of grass. She looks up, and she looks down, she looks at the mouse. Then she just takes a strawberry, puts it in her mouth, and enjoys it thoroughly. Tigers above, tigers below. This is actually the predicament that we are always in, in terms of our birth and death. Each moment is just what it is. It might be the only moment of our life; it might be the only strawberry we’ll ever eat. We could get depressed about it, or we could finally appreciate it and delight in the preciousness of every single moment of our life.”
― Pema Chödrön

I found this perfect philosophical paragraph at Shelagh Duffett's place. I call it a place, rather than a blog, because Shelagh has carved out an internet space of such rare and bright beauty that I feel I am a guest in her splendid Nova Scotia home, not just a reader lurking on a blog.

Today I went to her Alice in Paris Loves Art and Tea site to see what was new and when the page opened my mouth actually opened up in a completely round circle and I said "oh" out loud. For there, in front of me, was a painting of such high exuberance that a smile washed over me from head to happy toe. 

I am such a fan of Shelagh's paintings. I bought one of her calendars and it hangs in my office at work. Sometimes when stress gets the better of me I look at it and just have to smile. Such brilliant, colourful splendiosity. Yes, I made up that word because there are no words that accurately describe how her work makes me feel. 

While I was visiting Mizz Duffett I sat in a lawnchair surrounded by forget-me-nots and went to a trendy coffee shop which sold decadent homemade chocolates, beautiful cappuccino from Italy and tiny, strange and beautiful skeleton dioramas. We visited an art gallery together and talked wildly about a dress made of steak, then had lunch with her mum. Finally I sat with her at the edge of the Atlantic, hearing grass whispering in the breeze and watching impossibly blue waves crash against the shore.


Shelagh, it was such a nice visit. Please, let's do it again soon.