I am a lot of things: the sum of my experiences—most of which have been pretty weird. This is apparent in my writing.
I am also an animal lover, cats in particular. I am a freelance writer and have been very fortunate in getting gigs. Well, most of the time.
I don’t have any kids which I sort of regret because I think I’d have been a good mother. IF they’d been born not a minute before my late 40’s. Before then I was too selfish and narcissistic. My children would have been snotty little criminals if I’d had them in my 20’s.
These are some things I like:
Languages, linguistics, learning about obscure subjects, obsolete punctuation, rainy days, dreaming, being alone, writing, more writing, moose, Connecticut, Chicago, Europe, the paranormal…
I’m kind of wimpy but am beginning to grow a backbone. I come from a long line of strong capable women; it makes no sense that I am just now learning to stand up for myself. Yet another of life’s cruel jokes, it seems.
I miss all my family and friends who have passed away, and look forward to seeing them again. I won’t blatantly force this reunion.
This post has evolved into an incoherent ramble.
In short, I don’t know who I am exactly.
If my therapist were still around, I’d ask her. If anyone knows who the hell I am, she does.
Is it just me, or does anyone else wonder about the lone shoe or boot on the side of the road?
How does that happen? Do drivers and/or passengers take one off and dangle it out the car window until it slips from their grasp? If so, why?
Is it fun?
Are these people snubbing their noses at the bourgeois?
Or maybe, pedestrians are the culprits!
Picture it: a person is walking along and suddenly decides the left shoe is no damn good and ditches it on the spot. Get thee behind me, bad shoe!
Notice how you never see a pair of errant shoes, it’s always just one.
Why keep the right one? This pair of shoes has spent a lot of time in one another’s company. Surely, even in the shoe and boot microcosm, bad habits and questionable ideologies rub off.
When the sudden thunderstorm began to taper off, “Fly Me to The Moon” was playing on my iPod. I love that song.
All that money spent on a professional make-up artist, streaming down my cheeks like an insane child’s finger-painting. People hurried past, concerned with their own affairs, scarcely glancing at my psychedelic face. That just goes to show you how self-absorbed people could be nowadays. If I passed someone whose face looked as if it had been mauled by a rainbow, I’d at least offer them a tissue or call 911. Clearly, people from Nebraska were more attuned to their fellow human beings than New Yorkers.
Crap: a stoplight. I stood on the curb with 24 (I have an OCD that forces me to count everything) New Yorkers, when a 3-legged tabby— who was either pregnant or had a jam-packed belly full of worms—tried to scramble up my right leg. My Gucci nylon was a bloody (in every sense of the word) shred. Watery carmine snaked down my leg, (anemic, again?). The song, “Cat Scratch Fever” wound through my mind. A man decorated in a three-piece-suit who reminded me of the guy on the Quaker Oats box stared at me as if I were a freak of nature. He opened his mouth to speak but apparently had second thoughts and closed it. Smart move, oatmeal-man.
The red light finally turned green and some moron offered me a Hello Kitty! umbrella which I politely refused. I wanted to be wet, and so did my face. Wet and clean. There went my theory regarding New-Yorkers. Maybe the moron was from elsewhere and new to the city, like me. No matter. The cat was hopping after me like a spastic bunny rabbit. I scooped her up to ensure she wouldn’t get smashed by a careless, mean shoe. Anything can happen in a place like this.
Oh, geez! I had five minutes to get to my interview at the “Ouí Chic Unique” modeling agency. I scanned the numbers on the brown buildings for 1110—the address that would change my life.
Spotted it!
Of course, I was on the wrong side of the street. I hated crossing streets—no good ever came of it. The cat grew antsy; annoyed by the lingering rain that had turned into a shower, and burrowed inside my coat. It turned out that rather than a pregnant girl, this was a little boy: a glimpse of his dangling modifiers gave it away.
I ran across the street, forgetting to look both ways as I am wont to do.
Vroom! Vroom!
An old Indian motorcycle with a suicide shift on the side (that’s how I knew it was an Indian motorcycle) ran over my left foot. There went the brand-new magenta Prada shoes. Well, one of them anyway. The right pump was free of tread marks but of what use is one magenta Prada? Nothing was going right, but at least I had a new cat: Moon-Doggie.
My toes were beginning to swell. They pounded a heartbeat inside the squashed Prado.
Safely inside the building, I hobbled to the elevator only to discover that it was “Out of Order.” There was no choice but to ascend the five flights of stairs to Ms. Abrams’ office. Halfway there, I met her on the staircase. She was humming “Fly Me to the Moon.”
I wondered if she was from Nebraska, too.
Fly to the Moon Again (Photo credit: LividFiction)
Ergo, the Ogre 