I Forgot About The Blog Again

 I'm sorry. So here's the beginning of an essay I wrote on finding out about factory farming;

I ordered a duck club sandwich at an outdoor café in Paris and considered myself living the good life. I’d never eaten duck before, nor had I been to Paris, but since I was only fourteen and I was sitting with my parents, there was no real cause for such an inflated sense of self. My sassy older sister seemed to be experiencing the same burst of worldly independence, though she had the nerve to angle her chair away from the rest of us. Dad was tickled that I had ordered duck. As a simple family from James Island, the idea of consuming any bird other than chicken was lofty and refined - possibly too big for your britches. With enthusiastic spontaneity, Dad quacked at me as I took my first bite and it caused an immediate, heartbreaking revelation. Think how many broken hearts have sat, quietly brooding outside of a Parisian café; how wonderfully romantic. But how many were caused by the sudden realization that a duck died for your sandwich? The reality dawned on me as my dad continued to cluck and flap his elbows. I stopped mid-chew, completely repulsed. My sister edged farther away from us.

Though I haven’t eaten duck since that one bite that day, I can’t say why the Duck Club Revelation of 2004 didn’t cross the Atlantic with me on my way home. Life in a “meat and three” region doesn’t promote existential thinking about the origins of your meals. The popularity of eating some animals over others tainted my reason. Chickens were made for eating because idyllic marketing images said so, but ducks, well, they swim in ponds with fuzzy yellow ducklings and scoop up breadcrumbs. It would be cruel to eat the family.

 

Fourteen years later, after our muggy, backyard wedding, my new husband and I sat to write our wills. I had fought against taking his last name because I am not a trinket under his ownership. “That’s not what it means,” he scoffed, equal parts proud of and annoyed by my independence. We did however agree that if one of us kicked the bucket, we should have the right paperwork in place to prove that we loved each other. Both of our wills say, "he/she gets it all," but the lawyers wrote it in Shakespearean for some reason. Signed, sealed, filed away in case of emergency. But what if we’re smothered out together, holding hands in a fiery blaze at an illegal Folly bonfire? What would happen to our "assets" (small collection of animals and one overpriced rug)? We spent time researching non-profit organizations that do a good job allocating finances to the causes rather than the well-meaning pockets that started them. That’s when I had a second Duck Club Revelation.

"Wait, go back," I said, as The Fella clicked through the pages. "What's that one?".....

Sticky Things

I was sprawled across the porch sofa, reading essays on animal rights. My legs dangled over the arm of the couch while my head was propped up with two pillows. The weather was warm but a balmy breeze tickled my hair as I breathed in the heady scent of summer. Brett was working in the garage, clanging metal together, or whatever he does in there. I turned to the next page of my book with great anticipation when suddenly, something cool and damp clapped down over one side of my face. My left eye saw only darkness as I registered the wet hand of a deranged killer grabbing for his next victim. I let out a loud, guttural scream. The kind of scream our caveman ancestors reserved for an attack on their rocky villages. I've never made such a sound before. I reached up to push away the sticky hand and run for it, and as I scooped across my eye, I felt no resistance. As I adjusted to the light, I saw my wet attacker flying through the air. 

Brett came running from the garage, all puffed up the way guys do when they're fixing to partake in a physical altercation. My attacker fell to my feet. I looked up at Brett as he ran towards me. Both our eyes wide with concern. I looked down. My assailant hopped in frantic circles as it looked for a place to hide. 

"What happened!" Brett asked, "Are you ok?"
I sat curled in an upright ball on the sofa, humiliated by the scream. "It was a frog," I said shamefully.
Brett immediately depuffed and then became politely irritated with me. "You scared me," he said. "That sound you made..."
"Well it scared me! It leapt over my eye onto my face. It was sticky." I could hear the childishness as I spoke. "I thought it was a person!"

Brett looked at me blankly and then sauntered back to the garage without saying anything. I had to go inside to wash toad residue from my face. We never spoke of the outburst again.

All dogs like to sit like this, right?

Unrelated, I am 21,000 words into the writing of my first novel. It's a love story, which is odd for me. I don't read love stories or romance novels, or even many fiction books for that matter. So the main point there is, I don't know what I'm doing. A couple weeks ago I read The Notebook to see how a well received romance novel reads and I found it a little corny and embarrassing. The concept isn't lost on me but something about predicability and cliches cancel out the good bits. Which I guess is why I don't read romance novels. 

What's been interesting about writing a love story is that I can't make it sound very intellectual. The things I read and think about, and sometimes even how I speak, are filled with philosophical questions, introspective considerations, and artsy metaphorical ideas. But when I sit to work on this book, it comes out rather juvenile. Since I don't like cliches I've been on a mission to make it "real." I don't want sticky flowery doe-eyes and cupcakes.  I want the indecision and doubt, and the sick to your stomach with excitement and hopelessness of falling in love. Cause that's the real stuff. So when I write my character's inner monologue, it comes out just like people think and talk - which is with very basic human logic. Which makes for a book that I feel like anyone could write. Which makes me feel like a shallow writer. Of course no one falls in love in a dignified way (that would spoil the fun of it), but I was hoping to infuse meaty thoughts into a story everyone knows.

Maybe there is a reason that romance novels are not regarded for the writing per se. 
Maybe falling in love just isn't all that intelligent. 

Writing Prompt: Memories That Make You Feel Warm

I’ve written before about the collection of memories I have that would serve to torture me if I was ever kidnapped and kept in a shipping container for several weeks. They are cozy home memories, foreign adventures, and moments of heart-racing tenderness. When I think of these things I feel the warmest kind of sorrow that wraps you up in a comfortable blanket and hold you until you fall asleep. They are wonderful memories. And they are over now.

And it’s not that they can't be revisited or even reattempted. Every Sunday dinner is a representation of my wonderful childhood. I could certainly fly back to Scotland or Greece or New Zealand and stand where I stood once before. But whatever it is about a moment in time that stands out amongst all the memories and days and breaths of your life is much to specific and undefinable to ever recreate. That’s why I love nostalgia. 

When for a split second your brain short-circuits and pauses on a sensation from years ago and you feel fourteen years old again, sitting in homeroom on a cloudy morning or you’re twenty-three starting a new job. These moments aren't really even memories but your brain forgets where you are in your story and flips through a few pages to find the present. For a moment you do go back in time and its usually sickening, wistful, or exhilarating. And you can’t hold on to it either. Your brain quickly remembers the page you’re on and drops you right back into the present. 

I feel warm when I think about the holidays and rainy days and lazy dock days. Oh but I'm a sucker for morning light coming through an airplane window. I love morning on an overnight flight. The real morning, not the simulated one. People slowly open the shades and the flight attendants fill carafes with hot coffee. You’re almost there. It’s so hopeful and joyful and sleepy.

A Short Story From 2016

A cop pulled us over on the way to dinner. The policeman slowly approached the driver-side window where Brett and I looked out with unbridled curiosity. Brett wasn’t speeding. The lights were on. What's the problem?

“Maybe they really do pull people over for being too sexy,” I joked. Brett was not amused. He rolled down his window.

“Evening.”

“Evening Officer,” Brett replied. The cop looked fresh out of high school.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” Officer Babyface asked.

“No Sir,” Brett said. I could tell he hesitated on the “Sir.” Who is the elder here? How does this work?

“You made this turn here without using your turn signal,” he stated pleasantly.  Even he seemed to find this offense not so offensive. “May I have your license and registration, please?” 

Brett rooted around in his pants for his wallet, fished out his drivers license and handed it to the officer. 

“I think my registration is in my glove box,” Brett said both to me and the officer. I pulled the handle to lower the glove box door and out flooded magazine clippings of attractive men of all ages. 

“What?” I hissed. I shuffled through the glossy images. A man posed by a horse. Another strutted the streets of New York. A third rested casually across leather luggage.

“The registration,” Brett reminded me, pushing the pages to the floor and reaching into the glove box.

“What’s all that?” I asked quietly. 

“From my haircut. I’ll tell you later.” Brett frantically searched the compartment for the folder with his registration. He couldn't find it. He darted back to his wallet. It wasn't there. “Check the center console,” he told me. We frantically tore apart the car. The officer wandered back to his computer, choosing to run Brett's license while we looked for the registration card. 

“Your haircut?”

“Yes!” Brett sneered, “I took those pictures in to give the girl an idea of what I wanted.” Laughter burned in my throat. 

“Because it kind of seems,” I paused, looking for the best words, “... a little gay,” and I let a giggle escape through my nose.

“I know how it looks!” We had no luck finding the registration and we didn’t know how to proceed. The officer reappeared by the window. 

“I’m sorry Officer,” Brett said, “You’ve caught me with my pants down.”

“Don’t say that!” I whisper screamed.

“I can’t find my registration.” We all shared a brief silence and then Officer Babyface elected to just give us a warning and sent us on our way. Brett and I cringed and giggled all the way home.

Unfinished Story #1

“Sir, would you like to tell us what in your bag?” This particular TSA staff member seemed to have bought his vest from Baby Gap.

“Pardon?”

“Sir, this will all be easier if you work with us.” another staff member chimed in.

“What do you mean?” my Dad asked. For a well-traveled and seasoned member of society, he conveys the most genuine look of innocence when he is confused. My Dad is a manly man: strong, hairy, and has big, calloused hands. He delights in his manliness and thinks it a great prize to be a man. The most wonderful part of manly men are when they break character: when you catch them giggling or delighting in something trivial, like a birthday cake. It would never occur to Dad that his bewildered expressions or the way he swings his toes around to theme songs would be the things that made him so endearing and revered.

The agent busting out of his vest motioned with his head and Dad was surrounded by the TSA.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

. . . . . .

At some point during my Dad’s travelling career, my Mom began packing cat paraphernalia into Dad’s suitcases. My parents are very different people. For every virile and bold trait of my Dad’s, my Mom has a delightful and polite contradiction. She’s a Southern lady; gentle and kind and harbors away a wicked sense of humor that would shock all of her church friends. My Mom’s brand of humor is often lost on Dad. His hearty guffaws were mostly prompted by bathroom humor and the misfortunes of others while my Mom was easily entertained by the unexpected and the absurd.

The cat crap Mom tucked between his button-downs was placed purely to surprise and disgust Dad when he finally made it to his hotel and unpacked his things. Dad thought it is not manly to like cats. so Mom enjoyed imagining his eye-roll as he flung a cat calendar across his hotel room.

Post 9/11, the efficiency with which Dad could glide through an airport was lost to the depths of the good old days, along with the freedom to perform a much needed mid-flight shave. Though proudly born in the USA, Dad’s parents passed along their Lebanese noses and swarthy complexions, so in the wake of a Middle Eastern born tragedy, Dad was selected for “random” searches each Tuesday morning as he set off for that week’s collection of business meetings. This had a two-fold outcome. Not only was my impatient father held up at security while his bags were unpacked piece by piece, but the cat crap became a public display. Mom was enlivened by this news and her feline schemes grew alongside Dad’s humiliation, packing a last minute stuffed kitten or a photo album of cats from years past. On one occasion, Dad looked over during his search and noticed a framed picture of their cat, Googus, propped up on top of his toiletry bag, facing out for the crowds to enjoy. Onlookers chuckled at my Dad who only glared that that good-humored security agent.  

. . . . . .

“The package in your suitcase, Sir. What’s in it?” The head of security sat Dad down in a small interrogation room in some unknown part of the airport. Dad realized he might be in real trouble. What kind of cat crap could cause this commotion? He was flying to Tennessee for a wedding and Mom had packed a gift for the couple on top of his suit. He hadn’t concerned himself with what was inside. 

“I don’t know.” Dad said honestly.

“You don’t know?”

“It’s a wedding gift. My wife put it in there.”

"We’re going to open the box, Sir."

“Ok. Sure.” Dad said, being as agreeable as possible. His nose already made him a suspicious airport character.  He picked up his phone to call Mom and she answered his call with a happy, singsong 'Hello'.

“Nancy,” Dad shot at her, “What’s in the box?”

“Huh?” she said.

“The wedding gift. What is it?”

“Steak knives!” Mom responded happily, pleased with the thoughtful notion. And then she gasped a sharp inhale and burst into tears.

“I gotta go!” and Dad hung up the phone. 

The next thirty minutes inched by....