Thanks again to weekend wordsmith
"She's never read any Jane Austen?"
"NONE! Not Pride and Prejudice even"
"But she's such a pseudo-romantic~well, she loves those sleazy romance novels, you know the ones with hot men and heaving bosoms on the covers. Aren't they sort of a lower class Jane Austen?"
"Yeah and all those rolling Irish/English countryside novels...the really thick ones with lots of characters and at least one rich-grumpy yet loving dowager matriarch."
"And her movies... You've got Mail and Sleepless in Seattle and Two Weeks Notice and Notting Hill. "I'm also just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her." Gross."
"BUT she's a middle aged, going gray, round, eye-glass wearing, still single librarian for God's sake! Don't they have to read Jane Austen to be allowed to check out books?"
"I know, but I'm telling you~she's never read Jane Austen!"
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Sticks and Stones, B**ch!
**Thanks to Weekend Wordsmith
"Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me" How many times had she heard Mama remind her of that little bit of playground wisdom? How many times had she spoken or thought those words? Plenty! Growing up poor, smart, wearing glasses ...she had been called lots of things. But she never let them bother her. She had lots of self esteem and knew exactly who she was and where she was going. Until the day when she was 11 and the slimy dad next door noticed she had boobs. Then the world turned upside down and nothing was the same. She was still confident on the outside, still smart, but she began to doubt herself just a little bit. Withdrew just a little bit. Stop trying so hard just a little bit. Not so much as anyone would notice~but she knew. When she hit her teens, she began to notice that the kinds of boys who were drawn to her were the "dangerous" ones. She really deep down preferred the neat, tidy chess club~math club~debate team boys but the only ones who bothered were the "stoners". So to satisfy that little missing piece she now had, she glommed onto every tattooed, wanna-be biker within a stone's throw of the place and put up with the shit. The digs, the slurs. "Damn your hair is nappy-you sure you ain't part black?" from the skinhead. "You cain't tell me you forgot cigarettes again, you stupid bitch." from the carny guy who ran the merry-go-round at the park. This pattern continued through college, where frat boys were her self destructive weapon of choice. When one of them would start a drunken tirade, she would just think, "Sticks and Stones, Sticks and Stones" just like Mama taught her.
When she married, she thought she had found the mythological "Mr. Right". He was the "math geek" of her dreams. He was not hunky, but he was brilliant! He had invented some piece of medical equipment and it gave him the money to follow his passions. He gave her a great life. They had rich friends, a nice home, fun vacations. They talked about the past and how her own deficiencies had caused her to choose poorly and wasn't it great he had found her to pull her up and set her right. So he was a little uptight-after all the chaos of her younger life, the control he possessed was like being rescued from the Titanic. And for a while it was good. He designed computer games, then taught High School Math. After each experience, he would say "That's not really me. I need to do something else. I need to find "the THING". She completely understood~he was her "thing" and she had searched for him just as diligently as he searched for his passion. So she stroked and petted and let him moan and complain because she understood. Then one day he threw the vase because she had let the flowers wilt in it. A few weeks later, he kicked the cat when it got in his way. Followed days later by the punch to the wall that just missed her head. She tried to help, but he just called her "Bitch" or "Dumb ass" and she chanted "sticks and stones sticks and stones" in her head like a mantra.
Then the day came. She knew it was coming, but she couldn't get out of her own way. She just braced for it. He had left yet another job that "made him fell dead inside". She had figured out that yelling and throwing and name calling made him feel alive~stirred his juices~made him feel passion. So she let him and then cried as she cleaned his messes and tried to forget the mean things he said. But this day...he hit her. It was the first time, but she didn't feel as shocked as she should have. He needed a release and the usual stuff wasn't working. She stood there thinking, "Well, at least I saw it coming." Then he did it. The one thing she had always said she would never put up with~the line she would not allow to be crossed~the one word she could not chant out of her head. He screamed "CUNT" in her face as he drew back to hit her one more time.
It was automatic. She dropped into the kick boxing stance her personal trainer had taught her and let it fly. She took every bad decision, every nasty name, every degrading feeling and that hit that hurt more than her face and put it into a kick to the groin, followed by a punch to the nose. As he crumpled to the ground, he was not stunned by the physical assault. What made him lay still and pray it was over was the look on her face as she leaned close and whispered,
"Sticks and stones, bitch, sticks and stones."
"Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me" How many times had she heard Mama remind her of that little bit of playground wisdom? How many times had she spoken or thought those words? Plenty! Growing up poor, smart, wearing glasses ...she had been called lots of things. But she never let them bother her. She had lots of self esteem and knew exactly who she was and where she was going. Until the day when she was 11 and the slimy dad next door noticed she had boobs. Then the world turned upside down and nothing was the same. She was still confident on the outside, still smart, but she began to doubt herself just a little bit. Withdrew just a little bit. Stop trying so hard just a little bit. Not so much as anyone would notice~but she knew. When she hit her teens, she began to notice that the kinds of boys who were drawn to her were the "dangerous" ones. She really deep down preferred the neat, tidy chess club~math club~debate team boys but the only ones who bothered were the "stoners". So to satisfy that little missing piece she now had, she glommed onto every tattooed, wanna-be biker within a stone's throw of the place and put up with the shit. The digs, the slurs. "Damn your hair is nappy-you sure you ain't part black?" from the skinhead. "You cain't tell me you forgot cigarettes again, you stupid bitch." from the carny guy who ran the merry-go-round at the park. This pattern continued through college, where frat boys were her self destructive weapon of choice. When one of them would start a drunken tirade, she would just think, "Sticks and Stones, Sticks and Stones" just like Mama taught her.
When she married, she thought she had found the mythological "Mr. Right". He was the "math geek" of her dreams. He was not hunky, but he was brilliant! He had invented some piece of medical equipment and it gave him the money to follow his passions. He gave her a great life. They had rich friends, a nice home, fun vacations. They talked about the past and how her own deficiencies had caused her to choose poorly and wasn't it great he had found her to pull her up and set her right. So he was a little uptight-after all the chaos of her younger life, the control he possessed was like being rescued from the Titanic. And for a while it was good. He designed computer games, then taught High School Math. After each experience, he would say "That's not really me. I need to do something else. I need to find "the THING". She completely understood~he was her "thing" and she had searched for him just as diligently as he searched for his passion. So she stroked and petted and let him moan and complain because she understood. Then one day he threw the vase because she had let the flowers wilt in it. A few weeks later, he kicked the cat when it got in his way. Followed days later by the punch to the wall that just missed her head. She tried to help, but he just called her "Bitch" or "Dumb ass" and she chanted "sticks and stones sticks and stones" in her head like a mantra.
Then the day came. She knew it was coming, but she couldn't get out of her own way. She just braced for it. He had left yet another job that "made him fell dead inside". She had figured out that yelling and throwing and name calling made him feel alive~stirred his juices~made him feel passion. So she let him and then cried as she cleaned his messes and tried to forget the mean things he said. But this day...he hit her. It was the first time, but she didn't feel as shocked as she should have. He needed a release and the usual stuff wasn't working. She stood there thinking, "Well, at least I saw it coming." Then he did it. The one thing she had always said she would never put up with~the line she would not allow to be crossed~the one word she could not chant out of her head. He screamed "CUNT" in her face as he drew back to hit her one more time.
It was automatic. She dropped into the kick boxing stance her personal trainer had taught her and let it fly. She took every bad decision, every nasty name, every degrading feeling and that hit that hurt more than her face and put it into a kick to the groin, followed by a punch to the nose. As he crumpled to the ground, he was not stunned by the physical assault. What made him lay still and pray it was over was the look on her face as she leaned close and whispered,
"Sticks and stones, bitch, sticks and stones."
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Go. Explore. Tell me all about it.
** with help from weekend wordsmith
For as long as she could remember, she wanted to leave. Just go. Wander the world, see the sights. Climb mountains, traverse rivers, frolic with sun kissed brown skinned boys on beaches in the moonlight, see as much as she could as far away from home as she could get... But getting pregnant at 19 meant the world took on a different meaning. Instead of vast deserts and endless prairies, she got vast piles of diapers and endless nights with a crying baby. But she loved that baby so! It was worth giving up her dreams. As her daughter grew, she decided that if she couldn't see the world, her baby girl would. They spent hours with books from the library, long before Baby Girl could even read, looking at pictures. She would read the passages, tell her all about places like the Australian Outback, the Himalayan Mountains, the endless blue depths of the Pacific Ocean. Baby Girl absorbed every word as they lay in bed together at night. She was the only kid in the Kindergarten class that knew that Hawaii's Mount Waialeale is the wettest place in the world or Angel Falls in Venezuela is the world's highest waterfall. She and her mother plotted and planned and saved for the day she could go and explore the world for them both. When ever she asked why, her mother always just said: ASK NOT WHAT YOUR MOTHER CAN DO FOR YOU. ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR MOTHER and what you can do for me is go and see it all and then tell me about it.
So when the day came, Baby Girl did just that. And it was so much more than what she expected! When letters and snapshots sent to her mother could no longer convey what she saw and felt, she began to write books and take the most amazing photos. When publishers and magazines began to showcase her work, no one was prouder than her mother. Anytime a reporter asked why she did what she did, she replied, "So my Mom can see the world." As her fame expanded, it was harder and harder to get back to her mom. When Baby Girl called and expressed her regret at not coming home, she only ever said, "You are doing just what I asked. Go. Explore and tell me all about it.".
Baby Girl was in the middle of an ocean, shooting the most staggering beautiful school of fish when the message reached her. "Come Home" was all it said. Her mother had never asked her to come home before. All she ever said was "Go. Explore. Tell me all about it." Baby Girl went.
Her mom was in the one place she never expected to see her~the hospital. Apparently she had been sick for months, but had never let on. The guilt was overwhelming, but when she stepped in the room, her mother's eyes opened and she said, "Tell me about where you were". So Baby Girl crawled in bed with her mother like she had done a million times growing up but this time she was the storyteller. She began to describe the blue of the sky, the depth of the water, the brilliance of the fish. Her mother closed her eyes and just when Baby Girl thought she was asleep, she whispered, "You know, I was always there with you. I could taste the salt of the water, or the rush of wind on a mountain, or the heat from the desert, I was always there. You always did just what I asked. You took me with you. I need you to do what I ask one more time." She then began to tell her own story, of the cancer that had spread and could no longer be contained and would take her life shortly. As she began to lay out her plan to end the pain, Baby Girl shook her head in disbelief.
"Mom, No!".
"Yes.", her mother insisted. "Remember, ASK NOT WHAT YOUR MOTHER CAN DO FOR YOU. ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR MOTHER. You have always done exactly what I asked. You have been my greatest gift and the best traveling companion that a woman could ever have. Please help me take this final trip."
After all the crying, begging and discussion would not sway her mother's quiet determination that this was what she wanted, Baby Girl took the horde of pain pills from her mother's hiding place and poured a glass of water. She crawled back in bed and fed them to her, one at a time. As the pain began to subside and peace came into the room, Baby Girl held her mother and whispered, "Go. Explore, Tell me all about it."
For as long as she could remember, she wanted to leave. Just go. Wander the world, see the sights. Climb mountains, traverse rivers, frolic with sun kissed brown skinned boys on beaches in the moonlight, see as much as she could as far away from home as she could get... But getting pregnant at 19 meant the world took on a different meaning. Instead of vast deserts and endless prairies, she got vast piles of diapers and endless nights with a crying baby. But she loved that baby so! It was worth giving up her dreams. As her daughter grew, she decided that if she couldn't see the world, her baby girl would. They spent hours with books from the library, long before Baby Girl could even read, looking at pictures. She would read the passages, tell her all about places like the Australian Outback, the Himalayan Mountains, the endless blue depths of the Pacific Ocean. Baby Girl absorbed every word as they lay in bed together at night. She was the only kid in the Kindergarten class that knew that Hawaii's Mount Waialeale is the wettest place in the world or Angel Falls in Venezuela is the world's highest waterfall. She and her mother plotted and planned and saved for the day she could go and explore the world for them both. When ever she asked why, her mother always just said: ASK NOT WHAT YOUR MOTHER CAN DO FOR YOU. ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR MOTHER and what you can do for me is go and see it all and then tell me about it.
So when the day came, Baby Girl did just that. And it was so much more than what she expected! When letters and snapshots sent to her mother could no longer convey what she saw and felt, she began to write books and take the most amazing photos. When publishers and magazines began to showcase her work, no one was prouder than her mother. Anytime a reporter asked why she did what she did, she replied, "So my Mom can see the world." As her fame expanded, it was harder and harder to get back to her mom. When Baby Girl called and expressed her regret at not coming home, she only ever said, "You are doing just what I asked. Go. Explore and tell me all about it.".
Baby Girl was in the middle of an ocean, shooting the most staggering beautiful school of fish when the message reached her. "Come Home" was all it said. Her mother had never asked her to come home before. All she ever said was "Go. Explore. Tell me all about it." Baby Girl went.
Her mom was in the one place she never expected to see her~the hospital. Apparently she had been sick for months, but had never let on. The guilt was overwhelming, but when she stepped in the room, her mother's eyes opened and she said, "Tell me about where you were". So Baby Girl crawled in bed with her mother like she had done a million times growing up but this time she was the storyteller. She began to describe the blue of the sky, the depth of the water, the brilliance of the fish. Her mother closed her eyes and just when Baby Girl thought she was asleep, she whispered, "You know, I was always there with you. I could taste the salt of the water, or the rush of wind on a mountain, or the heat from the desert, I was always there. You always did just what I asked. You took me with you. I need you to do what I ask one more time." She then began to tell her own story, of the cancer that had spread and could no longer be contained and would take her life shortly. As she began to lay out her plan to end the pain, Baby Girl shook her head in disbelief.
"Mom, No!".
"Yes.", her mother insisted. "Remember, ASK NOT WHAT YOUR MOTHER CAN DO FOR YOU. ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR MOTHER. You have always done exactly what I asked. You have been my greatest gift and the best traveling companion that a woman could ever have. Please help me take this final trip."
After all the crying, begging and discussion would not sway her mother's quiet determination that this was what she wanted, Baby Girl took the horde of pain pills from her mother's hiding place and poured a glass of water. She crawled back in bed and fed them to her, one at a time. As the pain began to subside and peace came into the room, Baby Girl held her mother and whispered, "Go. Explore, Tell me all about it."
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Six Word Memoir
weekendwordsmith has this challenge based on Not Quite What I Was Planning by Larry Smith
Write a six word memoir. Simple, right...Not so much, to quote a friend...so, ok, here goes...
1. wishing~hoping~dreaming~ praying~scheming~planning (my apologies to Dusty Springfield)
2. Mom, woman, librarian~yep, that's me!
3. Too much TV, not enough sex (that one belongs to my friend T, who would never post it herself!)
4. Had it, lost it, found it.
5. Living the 75/25 rule daily. (are the numbers words???)
6. Great kids. Great job. Great Life.
Wow, they do sort of flow after a while. What are your six?????
Write a six word memoir. Simple, right...Not so much, to quote a friend...so, ok, here goes...
1. wishing~hoping~dreaming~ praying~scheming~planning (my apologies to Dusty Springfield)
2. Mom, woman, librarian~yep, that's me!
3. Too much TV, not enough sex (that one belongs to my friend T, who would never post it herself!)
4. Had it, lost it, found it.
5. Living the 75/25 rule daily. (are the numbers words???)
6. Great kids. Great job. Great Life.
Wow, they do sort of flow after a while. What are your six?????
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Diet Coke with Lime
*from a seed planted by Weekend Wordsmith
Another Saturday Night at home. Alone. But it was OK. She had already been to dinner and a movie with friends and was just trying to push her brain into going to sleep. Sometimes Diet Coke-fueled insomnia was beat by reading, sometimes TV, even computer games. Tonight sleep inducing choice was a puzzle. She had just finished one with cows and green fields and a red barn and was staring at the puzzle piece left in her hand. "What the Hell?" she thought. The puzzle was complete ~finished~whole. Where did this piece of clear, cloudless blue sky come from?
Suddenly, the annoying sound of the IM on her computer broke into her musing. She ignored it and turned back to the puzzle. The computer refused to be ignored and "dinged" her again. She looked at it and did not recognize the name. Damn, she wished she had not signed up for that stupid online dating service. And even dumber, she had put her IM in her profile when she was all gung-ho about meeting someone. Just as she was about to close it out, a third message popped up.
Do you work on the fifth floor of the Hudson Building?
Who is this?
I was just looking on line at this dating service and I thought I recognized you.
CRAP!!!! she thought
WHO IS THIS!! Do I know you?
We have never met, but I work in the building sometimes.
Do you work for Marchall and Harvey?
No, I just noticed you. I have often walked by and listened to sound of your laughter when you are with your friends and thought about stopping, but I never had the nerve.
Ok, this guy is a freak....and a stalker
Listen...I don't know who you are..I'm out.
Wait!! don't sign off. Can I bring you coffee Monday and I'll just introduce myself. I'm a normal guy, I promise. I'll wear a blue tie so you'll know me.
Could this be any cornier? It was like a bad chick flick
OK, but I don't coffee, I Diet Coke with Lime :)
See you then.
Sleep was out of the question that night and the next. She had called a girl lunch and dissected this situation back~forward~up~down and her friends all agreed they had to find out who this crazy man was! She kept insisting she didn't care~she had two great kids, a job she loved, good friends~she had a full happy life! Why add an freaky, creepy unneeded piece to her puzzle? But in the end she acquiesced and even let her friends talk her into a new blouse for Monday.
She got to work and started in on the pile of work and tried her best to not think about the coffee guy. Her friends kept stopping by all morning to "help"her.
There's a guy on 3 with a blue tie.
The boss had on a blue tie today.
Old Mrs. Miller has on a blue scarf.
"GROSS!!! GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!! "
By the afternoon, nothing had happened. No guy with blue tie had stopped by, no coffee had appeared on her desk. She had had enough and was calling it quits. First she was going to stop by the break room and get her daily Diet Coke for the ride home.
She had her head down and was digging for change when she bumped into someone in the doorway. It was the soda machine guy. He was lifting a case of Diet Coke with one hand and had a lime in the other. Looped around his neck was a blue tie. The exact same shade of blue as the leftover puzzle piece from Saturday night . He smiled. Just a normal guy...
Two months later she was up late working on another puzzle. This time she did not work alone and every one of the sky blue pieces fit.
Another Saturday Night at home. Alone. But it was OK. She had already been to dinner and a movie with friends and was just trying to push her brain into going to sleep. Sometimes Diet Coke-fueled insomnia was beat by reading, sometimes TV, even computer games. Tonight sleep inducing choice was a puzzle. She had just finished one with cows and green fields and a red barn and was staring at the puzzle piece left in her hand. "What the Hell?" she thought. The puzzle was complete ~finished~whole. Where did this piece of clear, cloudless blue sky come from?
Suddenly, the annoying sound of the IM on her computer broke into her musing. She ignored it and turned back to the puzzle. The computer refused to be ignored and "dinged" her again. She looked at it and did not recognize the name. Damn, she wished she had not signed up for that stupid online dating service. And even dumber, she had put her IM in her profile when she was all gung-ho about meeting someone. Just as she was about to close it out, a third message popped up.
Do you work on the fifth floor of the Hudson Building?
Who is this?
I was just looking on line at this dating service and I thought I recognized you.
CRAP!!!! she thought
WHO IS THIS!! Do I know you?
We have never met, but I work in the building sometimes.
Do you work for Marchall and Harvey?
No, I just noticed you. I have often walked by and listened to sound of your laughter when you are with your friends and thought about stopping, but I never had the nerve.
Ok, this guy is a freak....and a stalker
Listen...I don't know who you are..I'm out.
Wait!! don't sign off. Can I bring you coffee Monday and I'll just introduce myself. I'm a normal guy, I promise. I'll wear a blue tie so you'll know me.
Could this be any cornier? It was like a bad chick flick
OK, but I don't coffee, I Diet Coke with Lime :)
See you then.
Sleep was out of the question that night and the next. She had called a girl lunch and dissected this situation back~forward~up~down and her friends all agreed they had to find out who this crazy man was! She kept insisting she didn't care~she had two great kids, a job she loved, good friends~she had a full happy life! Why add an freaky, creepy unneeded piece to her puzzle? But in the end she acquiesced and even let her friends talk her into a new blouse for Monday.
She got to work and started in on the pile of work and tried her best to not think about the coffee guy. Her friends kept stopping by all morning to "help"her.
There's a guy on 3 with a blue tie.
The boss had on a blue tie today.
Old Mrs. Miller has on a blue scarf.
"GROSS!!! GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!! "
By the afternoon, nothing had happened. No guy with blue tie had stopped by, no coffee had appeared on her desk. She had had enough and was calling it quits. First she was going to stop by the break room and get her daily Diet Coke for the ride home.
She had her head down and was digging for change when she bumped into someone in the doorway. It was the soda machine guy. He was lifting a case of Diet Coke with one hand and had a lime in the other. Looped around his neck was a blue tie. The exact same shade of blue as the leftover puzzle piece from Saturday night . He smiled. Just a normal guy...
Two months later she was up late working on another puzzle. This time she did not work alone and every one of the sky blue pieces fit.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The Illegible Manifesto
She found the letters while cleaning out the garage the other day and they had to make her smile. She remembered writing every one! They had gotten her through those long nights of hysteria and insomnia and wanting and hoping and wishing for him to come back. She had given him some~she couldn't talk to him then, so when he came to pick up the kids she would just hand one to him, watch him ignore it, toss it on the seat beside him. She would then go in and cry~both for the kids leaving and his tossing aside both her and the letter.
As she opened the first one, it hit her like a wave. They were obviously the diatribes of a lost soul~someone she didn't know and didn't remember being. They were long and rambling~rants, mostly, against him, his mistress, herself. They would be crazy with threats and blame and cussing, then turn to misty thoughts of past love and begging for a future if only he would come back to her then back to how glad she was he was gone. There was one written to her mother, her grandmother about putting up with the men in their lives and how she now totally understood. And the handwriting~she didn't recognize it~it seemed illegible to her. It couldn't be hers, could it? When the writing was sane, it was neat and tidy, angry was scrawled, love was loopy and girlish~little hearts even dotted the "i". She didn't even have to read the words to know the emotion behind them. As she slid to the floor with them in her hand, she began to understand how she survived those first few months after the betrayal. She had become schizophrenic. By day, she was together and a mom and a survivor. By night~and sometimes all night~ she would let out the angry bitch and the scared little girl and the woman who wanted to be loved and each would write in their own journal~in their own voice, their own handwriting. An illegible manifesto, written to her, from her. A guidebook about how to overcome and move on~but to never forget. None of those women could have survived on their own, on the surface. But each had a voice that needed and deserved to be heard.
She smiled through the tears as she put the letters back. When she needed them, they would be there~still illegible, still a manifesto to herself, from her old friends. The hysterical laughter of the schizophrenic didn't start until she remembered the ones she gave to him. He had told her he read them and kept them in case he ever had to use them against her. No wonder he afraid of her back then. No wonder he was still a little cautious around her to this day~he never knew when those crazy bitches in the illegible letters would come back! And that was just how she liked it!
As she opened the first one, it hit her like a wave. They were obviously the diatribes of a lost soul~someone she didn't know and didn't remember being. They were long and rambling~rants, mostly, against him, his mistress, herself. They would be crazy with threats and blame and cussing, then turn to misty thoughts of past love and begging for a future if only he would come back to her then back to how glad she was he was gone. There was one written to her mother, her grandmother about putting up with the men in their lives and how she now totally understood. And the handwriting~she didn't recognize it~it seemed illegible to her. It couldn't be hers, could it? When the writing was sane, it was neat and tidy, angry was scrawled, love was loopy and girlish~little hearts even dotted the "i". She didn't even have to read the words to know the emotion behind them. As she slid to the floor with them in her hand, she began to understand how she survived those first few months after the betrayal. She had become schizophrenic. By day, she was together and a mom and a survivor. By night~and sometimes all night~ she would let out the angry bitch and the scared little girl and the woman who wanted to be loved and each would write in their own journal~in their own voice, their own handwriting. An illegible manifesto, written to her, from her. A guidebook about how to overcome and move on~but to never forget. None of those women could have survived on their own, on the surface. But each had a voice that needed and deserved to be heard.
She smiled through the tears as she put the letters back. When she needed them, they would be there~still illegible, still a manifesto to herself, from her old friends. The hysterical laughter of the schizophrenic didn't start until she remembered the ones she gave to him. He had told her he read them and kept them in case he ever had to use them against her. No wonder he afraid of her back then. No wonder he was still a little cautious around her to this day~he never knew when those crazy bitches in the illegible letters would come back! And that was just how she liked it!
Romance
It was a long day, in the middle of a long week. She needed something~anything~to see her through. She decided she needed romancing. Knowing this wouldn't happen without a little nudging, a little direction, she set the stage. Candles in her favorite tropical scents, lit and placed strategically around the bathroom. Big fluffy towels, deliciously soft bathrobes hung on the hook. As she ran the womb-warm water in the tub built for two, she poured in a generous measure of the bath oils her darling had bought her last Valentine's Day~his favorite scent for her, both in and out of the tub. Quietly, so no one would wake up and burst her self-indulgent bubble, she slid in to the arms of the silky, scented water and sighed...Heavenly. She closed her eyes and gave into the multitude of sensations~all of her senses relaxed but alive. The smells, the lighting, the touch of warm water, bubbles, oil on her skin..she began to feel the anticipation build. She slid a rough loofah over her arms, legs, shoulders, then finally over her breasts, shivered. As the water cooled and the bubbles burst, she prepared for her partner in romance to join her. This was the moment she had waited for~the moment she really needed. She stood up, the bathwater running off her body and reaching for the shower massager, washed away both the glimmer of the oil and her need. As she stepped out of the bath, she dried off with the luxe towel, slid on a satin nighty and slipped into the embrace of the robe. She had been romanced and she was happy. In a cloud of the balmy scent of the oil, she padded into the bedroom and slid under the covers, knowing the aroma of his favorite scent would wake her husband and he would give her what she really needed to get through~love.
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