:::exhale:::
Wow! Quite a bit accomplished in 3 hours. Ain't gonna lie to ya - I'm pretty amazed.
Though exhausted, I slept fitfully last night. I was up around 5a, watching The West Wing; not paying attention, just distracted enough to keep the edge off the anxiety. Around 8a, I decided to channel that energy into cleaning: cleaned the litter box, the toilet, the bathroom sink, counters and cleared out clothes from a drawer in the dressing room. The drawer wasn't too bad as it was mostly t-shirts and shorts I don't wear. Figured that was a good sign of things to come once B showed up.
She got here around 11:30a and went right to it. She had a plan, she was very systematic, pushed when I needed it and backed off at the appropriate times. In order to get through the tossing out, I had to do a lot of pre-emptive striking: before she could say "Do you really need/wear/want this/that/the other?" I had to do it. That helped and hurt; I threw out clothes without thinking. I didn't want B to say anything, I wanted it to look easy; like I was okay with it. I wasn't.
So, B had a plan: attack the closet first. Ai yi yi! We went through all the items, one by one. Some stayed, most didn't. It was so empty. That was the first painful twinge - you just threw out X-amount of money! Pushing that aside, we continued. I wasn't going to share this part because it shows my warped way of thinking...but that's why it should be shared. :::exhale:::
In my closet sat a white hamper. This white hamper used to sit in my parents' bathroom. Then, it was passed to me while I was in high school. This white hamper moved with me in and around Riverside then out to L.A. This white hamper sat in my closet, stuffed. I didn't know what it was stuffed with or how long it had been since I opened it (to me it was another flat surface on which to pile more things). B told me I had to get rid of it. Ohh, easy, Turbo! I had to go through it - what if there was a top I could wear? Or towels? Or something, anything I could wear in there?! B said if there is something in there a) I probably already bought one to replace it or b) it just doesn't matter now. So, sight unseen, the whole hamper was tossed. Without me looking in it. And that brought about another twinge - although I KNOW that was exactly what should be done.
We moved from the closet to the trifecta - the 3 places in my living space in which I pile clothes: the rolling rack, the stacked bins and the unstacked bins. The rolling rack was easiest as the clothes are on hangers already. We moved those into the recently cleared out closet. Then we tackled pile A - clean clothes. We put each piece onto a hanger then into the closet. Then, pile B - did the same thing. Clothes in the closet. Amazing.
3 hours, 3 trips to the trashbin, 4 bags to Goodwill, 2 baskets of laundry & dry cleaning, clothes on hangers in the closet. Not too bad for Step 1, eh?
To my credit, I didn't cry until B left.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
i see the edge, i look, i fall
Like some glutton for punishment, I've been watching the TV shows Obsessed and Hoarders on A&E. Good grief. I really want to know and understand how & why I became a hoarder. I thought the shows would be interesting, obviously fascinating and, hopefully, insightful or at the least inspiring.
Yeah, right.
I watched the season one finale of Obsessed about Richie, an excessive compulsive hoarder. For that hour, I was anxious and upset and crying. Richie was speaking his truth; in it, I heard my own: how difficult it is to throw out a piece of paper, how emotionally attached he is to most everything in his home (paper, books, magazines, stuff). It was heart-and gut-wrenching to watch.
Then, Hoarders started. Good grief. The first show focused on a couple who were on the verge of having their children taken away because of the clutter/hoarding in the home; the other segment was a woman who is a food hoarder threatened with eviction. Let's just say it was horrific, at best. Thank God I'm not a food hoarder! But her 'logic' or reasoning for the clutter aligns with mine - throwing out stuff is throwing away money. Boy is that a thought I struggle with...it's my Mom's voice ringing in my head: don't waste this or that, money doesn't grow on trees, etc. The one good thing about these shows is that I've opened up to people, shared my 'dirty little secret' (no pun intended). The more I share, the more I expect people to judge me. However, the more I share, the more accountable I feel; the more compelled I feel to do something.
Several weeks ago, I opened up about my hoarding/clutter to my friend B. She shared her experience with hoarding - her aunt is a compulsive hoarder who slept in a chair because it was the only place with no clutter. B offered to help clean up/clear out. I (as usual) thanked her profusely and politely declined.
Last night, I started to watch the new episode of Hoarders...that anxious feeling returned; and so did the tears. I asked B for help. Her first piece of advice? Stop watching those damned television shows! "You're emotionally cutting. The shows aren't helping you." I deleted them from my DVR.
B is coming over on Saturday. I/We are starting the process. :::exhale:::
My goal? To have people in my home by the end of the year. For the first time.
Yeah, right.
I watched the season one finale of Obsessed about Richie, an excessive compulsive hoarder. For that hour, I was anxious and upset and crying. Richie was speaking his truth; in it, I heard my own: how difficult it is to throw out a piece of paper, how emotionally attached he is to most everything in his home (paper, books, magazines, stuff). It was heart-and gut-wrenching to watch.
Then, Hoarders started. Good grief. The first show focused on a couple who were on the verge of having their children taken away because of the clutter/hoarding in the home; the other segment was a woman who is a food hoarder threatened with eviction. Let's just say it was horrific, at best. Thank God I'm not a food hoarder! But her 'logic' or reasoning for the clutter aligns with mine - throwing out stuff is throwing away money. Boy is that a thought I struggle with...it's my Mom's voice ringing in my head: don't waste this or that, money doesn't grow on trees, etc. The one good thing about these shows is that I've opened up to people, shared my 'dirty little secret' (no pun intended). The more I share, the more I expect people to judge me. However, the more I share, the more accountable I feel; the more compelled I feel to do something.
Several weeks ago, I opened up about my hoarding/clutter to my friend B. She shared her experience with hoarding - her aunt is a compulsive hoarder who slept in a chair because it was the only place with no clutter. B offered to help clean up/clear out. I (as usual) thanked her profusely and politely declined.
Last night, I started to watch the new episode of Hoarders...that anxious feeling returned; and so did the tears. I asked B for help. Her first piece of advice? Stop watching those damned television shows! "You're emotionally cutting. The shows aren't helping you." I deleted them from my DVR.
B is coming over on Saturday. I/We are starting the process. :::exhale:::
My goal? To have people in my home by the end of the year. For the first time.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
In-Class writing assignment 07.02.09
For in-class writing assignments, we get a topic and 15-20 minutes to write. I usually sit for 5 minutes trying to think up something...
Assignment: Write about an incident in history you'd like to change; rewrite history.
OK ~ let me just state for the record that this is what came to mind. I do not wish it to be true. It's creative writing, people.
I seemed to have a real knack with the scissors. It was cake and pie as soon as the shiny metal touched my strong fingers. I was nimble and quick and made my family quite happy. The true test would come when I could work with real people.
At age 20, I became an apprentice with Hank. He had one of the busiest shops in town; mainly because of his location was so close to the TV station. My job was to sweep, get hot towels, clean the brushes, tend the straps and straight edges. I was quick and thorough, yet still took the time to watch, listen and learn.
One very busy day, Mr. Ed came in unexpectedly. Seems he fiddled with his sideburns, making a mess.
Artie! yelled Hank. You gotta handle Mr. Ed here. He ain't got time to wait. Get ovaheeya!
Thus began a beautiful relationship. I became Mr. Ed's preferred then personal barber. I would make special trips to the station, even his home, as well as tend to him at the shop.
One day, while at the station, Mr. Ed pulled me aside, talked a few minutes then slipped me folded bills. I walked back to the shop to find the four young lads from England waiting for me.
Mr. Ed told us you do a great shave and comb. No cut please. one of the shaggy-haired boys said.
I smiled slyly, sharpening my straight edge razor. And scissors.
Assignment: Write about an incident in history you'd like to change; rewrite history.
OK ~ let me just state for the record that this is what came to mind. I do not wish it to be true. It's creative writing, people.
I seemed to have a real knack with the scissors. It was cake and pie as soon as the shiny metal touched my strong fingers. I was nimble and quick and made my family quite happy. The true test would come when I could work with real people.
At age 20, I became an apprentice with Hank. He had one of the busiest shops in town; mainly because of his location was so close to the TV station. My job was to sweep, get hot towels, clean the brushes, tend the straps and straight edges. I was quick and thorough, yet still took the time to watch, listen and learn.
One very busy day, Mr. Ed came in unexpectedly. Seems he fiddled with his sideburns, making a mess.
Artie! yelled Hank. You gotta handle Mr. Ed here. He ain't got time to wait. Get ovaheeya!
Thus began a beautiful relationship. I became Mr. Ed's preferred then personal barber. I would make special trips to the station, even his home, as well as tend to him at the shop.
One day, while at the station, Mr. Ed pulled me aside, talked a few minutes then slipped me folded bills. I walked back to the shop to find the four young lads from England waiting for me.
Mr. Ed told us you do a great shave and comb. No cut please. one of the shaggy-haired boys said.
I smiled slyly, sharpening my straight edge razor. And scissors.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Rissa's Guide to Pancakes at The Griddle
Creative Writing homework assignment 06.18.09 ~ describe in detail a meal you've had recently...
I’ve enjoyed quite a few pancakes in my time ~ IHOP, Denny’s, summers at Girl Scouts’ Camp Azalea Trails, Mrs. Gilbert’s god-awful blueberry mess, my Mom’s Sunday morning smiley face masterpieces. If a place serves pancakes and I’ve been there? Chances are I’ve eaten pancakes. However, the pancakes at the Griddle in West Hollywood are thee best pancakes I have ever had! They’re huge; they’re filled and/or topped with yummy deliciousness and taste just as yummy as they look.
I go to the Griddle for pancakes about once a month; and have been doing so for at least five years. Here is Rissa’s Guide to Doing Griddle Pancakes Right:
1 – Which to order? With close to 20 pancake choices, your head will undoubtedly spin. If you like bananas, try the Banana Nana – brown sugar-coated bananas mixed in buttermilk batter; Feeling like Violet Beauregard? Try BLUESberry – blueberry pancakes topped with blueberry sour cream and powdered sugar. There are pancakes that taste like coffee cake, all cinnamon swirled and streusel topped. Eyes Wide Open with chocolate chips and a shot of espresso. Or, my favorite ~ Tis the Season – pumpkin pie filling in the pancake mix, topped with whipped cream, more pumpkin pie filling and powdered sugar. Mmm! Oh yeah, they have plain good ol’ fashioned pancakes, as well.
2 – How to order. These are not normal-sized pancakes, my friends – ohhh no no no. The Griddle calls them “over-sized.” I call them huge. HUGE! They’re bigger than my head. Let’s see…they’re the size of a…a Frisbee. Possibly bigger. These pancakes are so big, they hang over the edge of the plate. Now THAT’S big! A regular order is 3 pancakes. That’s A LOT of pancake! A short stack is 2 pancakes – this is what I usually order. Of course, you can order just one pancake.
3 – How to prep your pancakes. The plate of huge pancakes comes to your table steaming, with lots of yummy goodness on top ~ be it melting butter, whipped cream, pumpkin pie filling, powdered sugar or blueberry cream. I’m giving you my personal prep technique: Take your fork and spread all that yummy goodness all around the pancake, avoid the edges (reason for this to follow). Push that pat of butter over the hot pancake, let it melt…let it seep in…concentrate all that yummy meltiness in the middle. Use your fork to cut a hole smack-dab in the middle ~ push some of that mix of butter, pumpkin and whipped cream in there; let your entire stack be touched by the yummy goodness. Mmm!
4 – Eat! A couple of things: you probably won’t finish the stack. I never have. No, I’m completely serious. I’ve never eaten an entire short stack of pancakes. And, come on now, I. CAN. EAT. The other thing? With these pancakes, all the goodness is in the middle; so, start there, avoid the edges (you’re welcome).
The second bite is my favorite ~ the first one, you’re just trying it out…testing the texture…the temperature…checking to see if it’s a combination of flavors you can tolerate. But the second bite? Ooh, yeah ~ the cool whipped cream hits the tip of your tongue, that hot fluffy pancake soaked with hot buttery goodness, a smattering of pumpkin all comes together…mmm! Oh, sorry – I’m salivating.
So, there you have it ~ Rissa’s Guide to Doing Griddle Pancakes Right. Whaddya doing Saturday morning?
I’ve enjoyed quite a few pancakes in my time ~ IHOP, Denny’s, summers at Girl Scouts’ Camp Azalea Trails, Mrs. Gilbert’s god-awful blueberry mess, my Mom’s Sunday morning smiley face masterpieces. If a place serves pancakes and I’ve been there? Chances are I’ve eaten pancakes. However, the pancakes at the Griddle in West Hollywood are thee best pancakes I have ever had! They’re huge; they’re filled and/or topped with yummy deliciousness and taste just as yummy as they look.
I go to the Griddle for pancakes about once a month; and have been doing so for at least five years. Here is Rissa’s Guide to Doing Griddle Pancakes Right:
1 – Which to order? With close to 20 pancake choices, your head will undoubtedly spin. If you like bananas, try the Banana Nana – brown sugar-coated bananas mixed in buttermilk batter; Feeling like Violet Beauregard? Try BLUESberry – blueberry pancakes topped with blueberry sour cream and powdered sugar. There are pancakes that taste like coffee cake, all cinnamon swirled and streusel topped. Eyes Wide Open with chocolate chips and a shot of espresso. Or, my favorite ~ Tis the Season – pumpkin pie filling in the pancake mix, topped with whipped cream, more pumpkin pie filling and powdered sugar. Mmm! Oh yeah, they have plain good ol’ fashioned pancakes, as well.
2 – How to order. These are not normal-sized pancakes, my friends – ohhh no no no. The Griddle calls them “over-sized.” I call them huge. HUGE! They’re bigger than my head. Let’s see…they’re the size of a…a Frisbee. Possibly bigger. These pancakes are so big, they hang over the edge of the plate. Now THAT’S big! A regular order is 3 pancakes. That’s A LOT of pancake! A short stack is 2 pancakes – this is what I usually order. Of course, you can order just one pancake.
3 – How to prep your pancakes. The plate of huge pancakes comes to your table steaming, with lots of yummy goodness on top ~ be it melting butter, whipped cream, pumpkin pie filling, powdered sugar or blueberry cream. I’m giving you my personal prep technique: Take your fork and spread all that yummy goodness all around the pancake, avoid the edges (reason for this to follow). Push that pat of butter over the hot pancake, let it melt…let it seep in…concentrate all that yummy meltiness in the middle. Use your fork to cut a hole smack-dab in the middle ~ push some of that mix of butter, pumpkin and whipped cream in there; let your entire stack be touched by the yummy goodness. Mmm!
4 – Eat! A couple of things: you probably won’t finish the stack. I never have. No, I’m completely serious. I’ve never eaten an entire short stack of pancakes. And, come on now, I. CAN. EAT. The other thing? With these pancakes, all the goodness is in the middle; so, start there, avoid the edges (you’re welcome).
The second bite is my favorite ~ the first one, you’re just trying it out…testing the texture…the temperature…checking to see if it’s a combination of flavors you can tolerate. But the second bite? Ooh, yeah ~ the cool whipped cream hits the tip of your tongue, that hot fluffy pancake soaked with hot buttery goodness, a smattering of pumpkin all comes together…mmm! Oh, sorry – I’m salivating.
So, there you have it ~ Rissa’s Guide to Doing Griddle Pancakes Right. Whaddya doing Saturday morning?
Sunday, June 14, 2009
it's been a long time...
Writer's block.
That's the problem. Writer's block.
I haven't blogged since April. I know! I haven't really written since April. Which, coincidentally, coincides with my last writing class. So...maybe I was just on a break.
Yeah, that's it - we were on a break.
Writing class has started again. Our first in-class assignment (15-20 minutes to write on a particular topic) was to write about something that happened to us in the 8 weeks since our last class. Below, is mine:
I turned 42. And I wasn't even traumatized. No, I'm serious! I was not traumatized.
OK...me, 3 girlfriends, birthday weekend plans ~ road trip to San Luis Obispo (SLO), wine tasting, birthday dinner, English Beat - yay! A couple of weeks...plan, plan, plan. Excitement grows. *My* plan? Fly to Sacramento on my birthday to see the English Beat (yay!), then meet the girls in SLO.
B backs out on week prior - ok, fine. D and J decide we should all drive up to SLO (3 hours) together - stop at a winery or 3, nice leisurely drive up the coast. Ok, fine. I buy a one-way ticket back to Burbank, book a hotel and watch a chunk of my birthday money go bye bye.
It's Friday, my birthday. Me. Sacramento. The English Beat. Birthday song. Birthday hugs, kisses and wishes. Birthday shots. Yay!
Fast forward to Burbank Airport - me still riding high on my birthday night festivities. I walk off the plane, through the airport, out to D's car. No J.
"Ready to go?" I ask.
"No. I'm sick. I don't want to go."
"Wha?"
"I don't feel good at all."
Silence. I only spoke to give her directions to my house. I get out of her car. I get into my car. I yell 'Fuck!' a dozen or so times. Then, I cry. Do I go? Do I not go? Fuck! Fuck it. I'm going!
Before I can stop crying, a call comes through: a problem at the hotel in SLO with the suite I booked. The sweet girl at the Marriott - so apologetic - can we move you to another room? Sobbing, I said "Put me in a tub witha pillow and blanket - I don't care! It's my birthday weekend and all my friends just bailed on me." ::sniffle:: She stammered. "No, we have a room for you..." ::sniffle:: Ok, fine.
On the 101, I blast Rage Against the Machine for over an hour, yelling, screaming, raging. Then, I was done. By the time I hit the hotel, my makeup was smeared, my hair was indescribable and I wanted a bed.
When I gave the gal my name, she let out a little gasp. Then, her manager stepped forward - do you have plans tonight? Well...nooo...since my friends bailed, I need to find a place for dinner, then I'm going to the Downtown Brewing Company. "We would like to treat you to dinner - here's a $50 voucher to our hotel's restaurant. Happy Birthday! Enjoy!"
And, I did!
That's the problem. Writer's block.
I haven't blogged since April. I know! I haven't really written since April. Which, coincidentally, coincides with my last writing class. So...maybe I was just on a break.
Yeah, that's it - we were on a break.
Writing class has started again. Our first in-class assignment (15-20 minutes to write on a particular topic) was to write about something that happened to us in the 8 weeks since our last class. Below, is mine:
I turned 42. And I wasn't even traumatized. No, I'm serious! I was not traumatized.
OK...me, 3 girlfriends, birthday weekend plans ~ road trip to San Luis Obispo (SLO), wine tasting, birthday dinner, English Beat - yay! A couple of weeks...plan, plan, plan. Excitement grows. *My* plan? Fly to Sacramento on my birthday to see the English Beat (yay!), then meet the girls in SLO.
B backs out on week prior - ok, fine. D and J decide we should all drive up to SLO (3 hours) together - stop at a winery or 3, nice leisurely drive up the coast. Ok, fine. I buy a one-way ticket back to Burbank, book a hotel and watch a chunk of my birthday money go bye bye.
It's Friday, my birthday. Me. Sacramento. The English Beat. Birthday song. Birthday hugs, kisses and wishes. Birthday shots. Yay!
Fast forward to Burbank Airport - me still riding high on my birthday night festivities. I walk off the plane, through the airport, out to D's car. No J.
"Ready to go?" I ask.
"No. I'm sick. I don't want to go."
"Wha?"
"I don't feel good at all."
Silence. I only spoke to give her directions to my house. I get out of her car. I get into my car. I yell 'Fuck!' a dozen or so times. Then, I cry. Do I go? Do I not go? Fuck! Fuck it. I'm going!
Before I can stop crying, a call comes through: a problem at the hotel in SLO with the suite I booked. The sweet girl at the Marriott - so apologetic - can we move you to another room? Sobbing, I said "Put me in a tub witha pillow and blanket - I don't care! It's my birthday weekend and all my friends just bailed on me." ::sniffle:: She stammered. "No, we have a room for you..." ::sniffle:: Ok, fine.
On the 101, I blast Rage Against the Machine for over an hour, yelling, screaming, raging. Then, I was done. By the time I hit the hotel, my makeup was smeared, my hair was indescribable and I wanted a bed.
When I gave the gal my name, she let out a little gasp. Then, her manager stepped forward - do you have plans tonight? Well...nooo...since my friends bailed, I need to find a place for dinner, then I'm going to the Downtown Brewing Company. "We would like to treat you to dinner - here's a $50 voucher to our hotel's restaurant. Happy Birthday! Enjoy!"
And, I did!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Creative Writing final assignment ~ short story
As you may or may not know, I've been taking a creative writing class with the wonderful Miss Pamela Des Barres (author I'm With the Band). In this session, we worked on character development with the end goal being a short story. Below is my final assignment...
Tracks trudged down Los Angeles Street, shoulders hunched with the weight of her world. The sun is bright this morning, heating the dark asphalt of the streets. Though she sweats through the many layers of clothes, Tracks is cold. It’s a cold the sun can’t chase away. It’s the cold that is lives in her bones. She trails her hands over dusty windows, stucco walls, wrought iron bars, chain link fences and corrugated metal. “Closed. Closed. Closed.” She repeated. “Stay out.” She stopped to peer through a metal grate into a tailor’s shop. “Stay out.” Yolanda dropped her elbow onto Tracks’ shoulder. “Baby girl, it ain’t to keep us out. It’s to keep them in.” They stood a moment longer, staring at the mannequins, sewing machines and pin cushions. Then continued on their way.
Harlan Haines strode confidently past tinted storefront windows, discreetly checking his profile every few steps. From a distance, he looks like every other downtown-working businessman – dark suit, white shirt, bold colored tie. Up close, the details set him apart. Harlan still wears cufflinks. His son, Hunter, had scoffed when Harlan gave him his first pair. Since when did cufflinks become passé? Harlan wondered. No matter. Harlan liked the glint when caught by the sun at the right angle. He liked the double H monogram – simple, not haughty or tasteless. All of Harlan’s shirts were monogrammed with the double H on the pocket. He and Gwendolyn liked the subtlety of tone-on-tone. Both of them thought flashy was tawdry. Both of them were elegant in simple ways, evidenced in their homes, their cars and their appearances.
Harlan stopped in front of the doors, adjusted his cufflinks and sleeves; gave himself the once-over. He patted at the sweat on his upper lip. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. He adjusted again. He hesitated. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Harlan walked into the bank.
Inside the Downtown Women’s Center, Tracks and Yolanda ate lunch. The yellow walls and rows of windows, while meant to be warm and cheery, sadly highlighted the age and wear of the building. More bars Tracks observed silently. DWC is one place she feels safe. She wishes they could stay…
“After you shower, I’ma go. I’ll be back to shower before it close” said Yolanda, her mouth full of pasta. Tracks never asked where Yolanda went or why she went alone. She always came back for her. Yolanda always came back…usually stoned and happy, sometimes with money, one time with a black eye and bloody lip. No, Tracks never asked where Yolanda went or why she went alone.
“Good afternoon, Mister Haines.”
“Hello, Donna. Safe deposit box, please.”
“Certainly, Mister Haines. This way.” Together they walked to the far corner of the bank. Harlan filled out the form and signed the entry sheet. The buzz alerted Harlan the lock was disengaged. He pushed through the door. Donna slid a card key through a scanner then entered her key when a tiny light turned green. Harlan followed her into the vault. “5-5-Oh” she said, sliding her key into the bottom lock. “Thank you Donna.” Harlan slid his key into the top lock and together they opened the small door. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Donna nodded, “Take your time, Mister Haines.” She left him alone.
Harlan removed the box, set it on the table, and lifted the lid. Inside were copies of his and Gwendolyn’s wills, their passports, several envelopes, two ring boxes and an Airweight snub-nosed revolver. He grabbed the envelopes, pocketed the gun and called for Donna.
Tracks was relieved to find the arts and crafts room empty. Fresh air and sounds of the street blew through the open windows. Tracks removed one envelope from the front of her jeans emptying its contents on a table under the window. Pictures, postcards, paper and Polaroids spilled across the tabletop. Pushing her damp hair back, Tracks began to arrange the items – girls here, boys there; smiling, not smiling; groups of people; places. She studied each picture, making up her own story to go along with the faces. She didn’t know why people threw out the pictures; she didn’t care, really. She liked having them; having them close.
Tracks read the labels on the craft boxes – pencils, pens, crayons & markers, glue, glitter. She took the pens, glue and glitter to the table. She found orange construction paper and scissors on a shelf then sat down. Tracks picked up a stack of pictures, thumbed through and selected. In the picture, a group of boys in party hats made silly faces at the camera. On the table in front of them sat a huge pepperoni pizza, 3 pitchers of soda and presents. Tracks carefully cut around the boys, their pointy hats and elbows, the pitcher, the pizza and the presents. She glued this onto a sheet of construction paper. Tracks folded the paper in half so the picture was on the outside and wrote “Thank you for the food” inside. Tracks sat uninterrupted in the arts and crafts room for 3 hours, making cards with most of the pictures, postcards, paper and Polaroids from the envelope. She cleaned up her mess; put everything back into its proper place and walked downstairs.
Harlan sat outside the Starbuck’s checking voicemail. He skipped through the first four messages – Patricia will answer those. At the fifth message – which was marked Private and Urgent - Harlan froze. “Harlan, it’s Jack Leverett. Come see me.” Jack Leverett was the company’s Senior Counsel. He never left a message. His secretary left messages for him. Harlan loosened his tie. Tiny sweat beads sprang up across his upper lip and forehead. Could he…? No. No! Jack? Jack?? No. No way. No way. Harlan closed his eyes. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Harlan took a minute to scan his emails on the blackberry. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He relaxed. Slightly. He pushed 4 on the phone which rang his office.
“Harlan Haines office.” Harlan wondered if she’d heard anything about his call to Leverett’s office.
“Hi Patricia, it’s Harlan. I’m at Starbuck’s – would you like anything?” Did you hear – I took money from the company? I took lots of money from the company.
“No thank you Mister Haines. Would you like your messages?” Business as usual. Does she sound suspicious? Does she sound different? She does. She doesn’t. His stomach cramped. I’ll give you money if you don’t tell. Shh! It’ll be our little secret.
“Yes, please.” She rattled off his messages. “Thank you, Patricia. I’m going to the 17th floor then I’ll be in the office.” He hoped she wouldn’t be suspicious. She didn’t sound suspicious. His head pounded.
“Yes sir. Bye.”
His stomach cramped, his mouth dry, his head pounded. Harlan trudged to his office, shoulders hunched with the weight of his world.
Curled up on a cot, Tracks dreamt of home. The pretty green house with white shutters; rose bushes, flower beds and kids running through sprinklers on the front lawn; a blue hammock in the shade of 2 trees. She’s running and laughing with the children but they don’t see her. She’s pushing the hammock but they don’t see her. She yells and screams. But they don’t see her. She cries and screams herself awake. Vanessa, the Day Center manager, is sitting on a cot next to her. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re at the Center. You’re okay. Here’s some water.” She placed the cup of water into Tracks’ shaky hands. “Let’s go outside, Tracks. Come on. Let’s get fresh air.”
Harlan sat in his Mercedes, head on the steering wheel. Relief. Sweet relief! Jack wanted to talk about secretaries. Secretaries! Harlan practically giggled with delight when Jack asked if he could promote Patricia when his assistant left in September. “Of course you can, Jack!” Harlan bellowed. “Of course you can!” No, Harlan didn’t need to think about it. Yes, Harlan will tell her. Great, great. Yes, it’s great. Though relieved, his heart beat wildly. His stomach still cramped. His head still pounded. The bottle of water did nothing to his dry mouth. Harlan pulled the car out of the garage and merged into downtown traffic.
Tracks sat in the shade, against a wall in the empty parking lot - chin on her knees, the tears dried on her face. She rarely thinks of home. She often dreams of it. She can never go back after all of the horrible things she said, all of the lies she told, all of the things Zeke did. Too embarrassing! Her stomach cramped at the thought of it all.
Harlan pulled his Mercedes into the empty parking lot, coming to a stop across 2 adjoining spaces. No one around – perfect. He pounded his fists on the dashboard and steering wheel, yelling and screaming, crying and screaming.
Tracks watched the car speed into the lot and screech to a halt. He didn’t try to park, he just stopped. He was yelling at someone or something. He was hitting the steering wheel. She liked the glint of whatever the sun caught – his watch or something? She stood up, watching the lights dance out from the car.
Harlan calmed himself down. He took the envelopes out from the front of his pants, careful to arrange them on the dashboard. He removed the cufflinks and his watch and wedding band and put them in the envelope marked Gwendolyn. He sat turning the gun over and over in his hand. It was unraveling…he would bring shame to his family, his reputation dirtied by accusations then ruined by the truth. He started to cry...body shaking. His sobs became moans. His façade cracked as his moans became wails. He screamed with the gun in his mouth.
The man’s screams wrenched her gut. He was crying in pain. Tears sprung to her eyes and her body wracked with release. She stood, staring into the car, shaking her head. Tracks said no. No. No, repeating it over and over, louder and louder until she was screaming and wailing. Hugging herself, Tracks rocked on her heels.
Harlan stopped screaming, but the screams did not stop. He opened his eyes and met those of the screaming girl.
Tracks trudged down Los Angeles Street, shoulders hunched with the weight of her world. The sun is bright this morning, heating the dark asphalt of the streets. Though she sweats through the many layers of clothes, Tracks is cold. It’s a cold the sun can’t chase away. It’s the cold that is lives in her bones. She trails her hands over dusty windows, stucco walls, wrought iron bars, chain link fences and corrugated metal. “Closed. Closed. Closed.” She repeated. “Stay out.” She stopped to peer through a metal grate into a tailor’s shop. “Stay out.” Yolanda dropped her elbow onto Tracks’ shoulder. “Baby girl, it ain’t to keep us out. It’s to keep them in.” They stood a moment longer, staring at the mannequins, sewing machines and pin cushions. Then continued on their way.
Harlan Haines strode confidently past tinted storefront windows, discreetly checking his profile every few steps. From a distance, he looks like every other downtown-working businessman – dark suit, white shirt, bold colored tie. Up close, the details set him apart. Harlan still wears cufflinks. His son, Hunter, had scoffed when Harlan gave him his first pair. Since when did cufflinks become passé? Harlan wondered. No matter. Harlan liked the glint when caught by the sun at the right angle. He liked the double H monogram – simple, not haughty or tasteless. All of Harlan’s shirts were monogrammed with the double H on the pocket. He and Gwendolyn liked the subtlety of tone-on-tone. Both of them thought flashy was tawdry. Both of them were elegant in simple ways, evidenced in their homes, their cars and their appearances.
Harlan stopped in front of the doors, adjusted his cufflinks and sleeves; gave himself the once-over. He patted at the sweat on his upper lip. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. He adjusted again. He hesitated. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Harlan walked into the bank.
Inside the Downtown Women’s Center, Tracks and Yolanda ate lunch. The yellow walls and rows of windows, while meant to be warm and cheery, sadly highlighted the age and wear of the building. More bars Tracks observed silently. DWC is one place she feels safe. She wishes they could stay…
“After you shower, I’ma go. I’ll be back to shower before it close” said Yolanda, her mouth full of pasta. Tracks never asked where Yolanda went or why she went alone. She always came back for her. Yolanda always came back…usually stoned and happy, sometimes with money, one time with a black eye and bloody lip. No, Tracks never asked where Yolanda went or why she went alone.
“Good afternoon, Mister Haines.”
“Hello, Donna. Safe deposit box, please.”
“Certainly, Mister Haines. This way.” Together they walked to the far corner of the bank. Harlan filled out the form and signed the entry sheet. The buzz alerted Harlan the lock was disengaged. He pushed through the door. Donna slid a card key through a scanner then entered her key when a tiny light turned green. Harlan followed her into the vault. “5-5-Oh” she said, sliding her key into the bottom lock. “Thank you Donna.” Harlan slid his key into the top lock and together they opened the small door. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Donna nodded, “Take your time, Mister Haines.” She left him alone.
Harlan removed the box, set it on the table, and lifted the lid. Inside were copies of his and Gwendolyn’s wills, their passports, several envelopes, two ring boxes and an Airweight snub-nosed revolver. He grabbed the envelopes, pocketed the gun and called for Donna.
Tracks was relieved to find the arts and crafts room empty. Fresh air and sounds of the street blew through the open windows. Tracks removed one envelope from the front of her jeans emptying its contents on a table under the window. Pictures, postcards, paper and Polaroids spilled across the tabletop. Pushing her damp hair back, Tracks began to arrange the items – girls here, boys there; smiling, not smiling; groups of people; places. She studied each picture, making up her own story to go along with the faces. She didn’t know why people threw out the pictures; she didn’t care, really. She liked having them; having them close.
Tracks read the labels on the craft boxes – pencils, pens, crayons & markers, glue, glitter. She took the pens, glue and glitter to the table. She found orange construction paper and scissors on a shelf then sat down. Tracks picked up a stack of pictures, thumbed through and selected. In the picture, a group of boys in party hats made silly faces at the camera. On the table in front of them sat a huge pepperoni pizza, 3 pitchers of soda and presents. Tracks carefully cut around the boys, their pointy hats and elbows, the pitcher, the pizza and the presents. She glued this onto a sheet of construction paper. Tracks folded the paper in half so the picture was on the outside and wrote “Thank you for the food” inside. Tracks sat uninterrupted in the arts and crafts room for 3 hours, making cards with most of the pictures, postcards, paper and Polaroids from the envelope. She cleaned up her mess; put everything back into its proper place and walked downstairs.
Harlan sat outside the Starbuck’s checking voicemail. He skipped through the first four messages – Patricia will answer those. At the fifth message – which was marked Private and Urgent - Harlan froze. “Harlan, it’s Jack Leverett. Come see me.” Jack Leverett was the company’s Senior Counsel. He never left a message. His secretary left messages for him. Harlan loosened his tie. Tiny sweat beads sprang up across his upper lip and forehead. Could he…? No. No! Jack? Jack?? No. No way. No way. Harlan closed his eyes. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Harlan took a minute to scan his emails on the blackberry. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He relaxed. Slightly. He pushed 4 on the phone which rang his office.
“Harlan Haines office.” Harlan wondered if she’d heard anything about his call to Leverett’s office.
“Hi Patricia, it’s Harlan. I’m at Starbuck’s – would you like anything?” Did you hear – I took money from the company? I took lots of money from the company.
“No thank you Mister Haines. Would you like your messages?” Business as usual. Does she sound suspicious? Does she sound different? She does. She doesn’t. His stomach cramped. I’ll give you money if you don’t tell. Shh! It’ll be our little secret.
“Yes, please.” She rattled off his messages. “Thank you, Patricia. I’m going to the 17th floor then I’ll be in the office.” He hoped she wouldn’t be suspicious. She didn’t sound suspicious. His head pounded.
“Yes sir. Bye.”
His stomach cramped, his mouth dry, his head pounded. Harlan trudged to his office, shoulders hunched with the weight of his world.
Curled up on a cot, Tracks dreamt of home. The pretty green house with white shutters; rose bushes, flower beds and kids running through sprinklers on the front lawn; a blue hammock in the shade of 2 trees. She’s running and laughing with the children but they don’t see her. She’s pushing the hammock but they don’t see her. She yells and screams. But they don’t see her. She cries and screams herself awake. Vanessa, the Day Center manager, is sitting on a cot next to her. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re at the Center. You’re okay. Here’s some water.” She placed the cup of water into Tracks’ shaky hands. “Let’s go outside, Tracks. Come on. Let’s get fresh air.”
Harlan sat in his Mercedes, head on the steering wheel. Relief. Sweet relief! Jack wanted to talk about secretaries. Secretaries! Harlan practically giggled with delight when Jack asked if he could promote Patricia when his assistant left in September. “Of course you can, Jack!” Harlan bellowed. “Of course you can!” No, Harlan didn’t need to think about it. Yes, Harlan will tell her. Great, great. Yes, it’s great. Though relieved, his heart beat wildly. His stomach still cramped. His head still pounded. The bottle of water did nothing to his dry mouth. Harlan pulled the car out of the garage and merged into downtown traffic.
Tracks sat in the shade, against a wall in the empty parking lot - chin on her knees, the tears dried on her face. She rarely thinks of home. She often dreams of it. She can never go back after all of the horrible things she said, all of the lies she told, all of the things Zeke did. Too embarrassing! Her stomach cramped at the thought of it all.
Harlan pulled his Mercedes into the empty parking lot, coming to a stop across 2 adjoining spaces. No one around – perfect. He pounded his fists on the dashboard and steering wheel, yelling and screaming, crying and screaming.
Tracks watched the car speed into the lot and screech to a halt. He didn’t try to park, he just stopped. He was yelling at someone or something. He was hitting the steering wheel. She liked the glint of whatever the sun caught – his watch or something? She stood up, watching the lights dance out from the car.
Harlan calmed himself down. He took the envelopes out from the front of his pants, careful to arrange them on the dashboard. He removed the cufflinks and his watch and wedding band and put them in the envelope marked Gwendolyn. He sat turning the gun over and over in his hand. It was unraveling…he would bring shame to his family, his reputation dirtied by accusations then ruined by the truth. He started to cry...body shaking. His sobs became moans. His façade cracked as his moans became wails. He screamed with the gun in his mouth.
The man’s screams wrenched her gut. He was crying in pain. Tears sprung to her eyes and her body wracked with release. She stood, staring into the car, shaking her head. Tracks said no. No. No, repeating it over and over, louder and louder until she was screaming and wailing. Hugging herself, Tracks rocked on her heels.
Harlan stopped screaming, but the screams did not stop. He opened his eyes and met those of the screaming girl.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Observations from the Deck. Observations from the Line.
Thursday night ~ VH1 Save the Music benefit ~ Carnival Cruise Line 'Splendor' ~ John Mayer, Jordin Sparks, Gavin Rossdale, Sara Barellis, OAR and 2 other bands
Observations from the Deck:
~ when given the option, most girls go for fashion over comfort (me included)
~ 20something girls are really young ("I LOVE YOU JOHNNY! I LOVE YOU GAVIN!")
~ open bar and open cruise ship food is a good thing~ perhaps 'open bar' shouldn't be so open to some people (the 2 ladies in front of us and the whole row of girls behind us for example)
~ Gavin Rossdale really is hot!
~ goody bags are aptly named
~ cruise ships need better decorators
~ when there are several singers on a bill, limiting each to 2 songs is brilliant
Saturday night/Sunday morning ~ Prince ~ Club Nokia @ the Nokia Plaza downtown Los Angeles
Observations from the line:
~ when given the option, most girls go for fashion over comfort (me included)
~ the Religion of No Mirrors has a larger following than I suspected! I'd hate to think friends let friends go out of the house without commenting on outfits...
~ curiosity gets the best of people - if there's a line, everyone wants to know what the line is for
~ one raspberry beret
~ a lot of purple
~ there really is someone for everyone!
~ some people will do anything to not wait in line!
~ $40, if propositioned to the right guy, will get you a place in line
~ waiting 3 hours in line + starting the show an hour late is worth it if Chaka Khan shows up to sing 'Sweet Thing' with Prince on guitar
:)
Observations from the Deck:
~ when given the option, most girls go for fashion over comfort (me included)
~ 20something girls are really young ("I LOVE YOU JOHNNY! I LOVE YOU GAVIN!")
~ open bar and open cruise ship food is a good thing~ perhaps 'open bar' shouldn't be so open to some people (the 2 ladies in front of us and the whole row of girls behind us for example)
~ Gavin Rossdale really is hot!
~ goody bags are aptly named
~ cruise ships need better decorators
~ when there are several singers on a bill, limiting each to 2 songs is brilliant
Saturday night/Sunday morning ~ Prince ~ Club Nokia @ the Nokia Plaza downtown Los Angeles
Observations from the line:
~ when given the option, most girls go for fashion over comfort (me included)
~ the Religion of No Mirrors has a larger following than I suspected! I'd hate to think friends let friends go out of the house without commenting on outfits...
~ curiosity gets the best of people - if there's a line, everyone wants to know what the line is for
~ one raspberry beret
~ a lot of purple
~ there really is someone for everyone!
~ some people will do anything to not wait in line!
~ $40, if propositioned to the right guy, will get you a place in line
~ waiting 3 hours in line + starting the show an hour late is worth it if Chaka Khan shows up to sing 'Sweet Thing' with Prince on guitar
:)
Friday, March 20, 2009
gimme an S
swirly
strange
smitten
struggling
stressed
separated
I woke up this morning feeling those things
strange
smitten
struggling
stressed
separated
I woke up this morning feeling those things
Monday, March 16, 2009
Creative Writing homework 03.15.09
In my creative writing class, we're working on character development. The end result will be a short story. Our homework was to describe the bedroom of our character.
- Bedroom -
For the past two nights she slept in the doorway of a Wells Fargo Bank near LAX. Though she and Yolanda blocked the ATM atrium entrance, she didn't care. Much. She liked sleeping in a space like this - three walls of protection. Yolanda sleeps on the outside - her fourth wall of protection.
She pulled her knees close to her chest, stretching her sweatshirt over her knees and leaned her head against the beige colored stucco wall. She rubbed the bumps and closed her eyes.
"Mom, I don't like the bumpy stuff. Can't we get rid of it?"
"Honey, it's up to you."
She hugged her Mom tighter. Her parents were giving her the best 'Sweet 16' birthday gift ever ~ a bedroom makeover!
The result was better than she'd imagined! Standing at the door, the opposite wall is glossy grass green. The window to the backyard has white vertical blinds, white sheers and a green polka dot valance. The other three walls are flat Navajo White. The wall to the right of the door is covered with pictures: framed photos of family vacations, friends at school, at school events, at sleepovers. Postcards of places she's visited and places her friends visited. Posters of Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill and High School Musical. Opposite the photo wall is the framed Michael Parkes print 'Gargoyles' that used to hang in her Mom's first apartment. She'd found it in the garage, had it re-matted and re-framed. Below the Parkes print is her desk and computer. Next to the picture, the walk-in closet door painted the same glossy grass green as the other wall. Her four-poster bed is on the wall opposite the green accent wall. The comforter, dark green on one side, light green on the other, was smoothed across the bed - light green side up. The sheets are white with tiny green and yellow flowers. Six throw pillows, in varying shades of green, are strategically arranged in a haphazard fashion with the darker colored pillows in the middle. Atop the dark green pillows sits a small stuffed doll - wheat colored hair wearing a green jumper and flowered shirt. Her cheeks were faintly pink and her lips a pretty red.
Tracks jerked awake. Some street noise, that's all. In the faint light, she reached for her backpack. Feeling around inside, she grabbed the corduroy. Putting the doll on her lap, she gently finger combed its hair. She lifted the jumper, pulled up the shirt and stared at the hand-stitched heart around the name. Her name.
- Bedroom -
For the past two nights she slept in the doorway of a Wells Fargo Bank near LAX. Though she and Yolanda blocked the ATM atrium entrance, she didn't care. Much. She liked sleeping in a space like this - three walls of protection. Yolanda sleeps on the outside - her fourth wall of protection.
She pulled her knees close to her chest, stretching her sweatshirt over her knees and leaned her head against the beige colored stucco wall. She rubbed the bumps and closed her eyes.
"Mom, I don't like the bumpy stuff. Can't we get rid of it?"
"Honey, it's up to you."
She hugged her Mom tighter. Her parents were giving her the best 'Sweet 16' birthday gift ever ~ a bedroom makeover!
The result was better than she'd imagined! Standing at the door, the opposite wall is glossy grass green. The window to the backyard has white vertical blinds, white sheers and a green polka dot valance. The other three walls are flat Navajo White. The wall to the right of the door is covered with pictures: framed photos of family vacations, friends at school, at school events, at sleepovers. Postcards of places she's visited and places her friends visited. Posters of Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill and High School Musical. Opposite the photo wall is the framed Michael Parkes print 'Gargoyles' that used to hang in her Mom's first apartment. She'd found it in the garage, had it re-matted and re-framed. Below the Parkes print is her desk and computer. Next to the picture, the walk-in closet door painted the same glossy grass green as the other wall. Her four-poster bed is on the wall opposite the green accent wall. The comforter, dark green on one side, light green on the other, was smoothed across the bed - light green side up. The sheets are white with tiny green and yellow flowers. Six throw pillows, in varying shades of green, are strategically arranged in a haphazard fashion with the darker colored pillows in the middle. Atop the dark green pillows sits a small stuffed doll - wheat colored hair wearing a green jumper and flowered shirt. Her cheeks were faintly pink and her lips a pretty red.
Tracks jerked awake. Some street noise, that's all. In the faint light, she reached for her backpack. Feeling around inside, she grabbed the corduroy. Putting the doll on her lap, she gently finger combed its hair. She lifted the jumper, pulled up the shirt and stared at the hand-stitched heart around the name. Her name.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
character meets me
In my writing class, we're working on character development. The end result will be a short story. Below is my character meets me:
Once a month, I volunteer at the Downtown Womens Center to teach sign language to its residents and visitors. Several women show up, a handful actually participate. Last month, after several months away, Yolanda showed up with a young girl in tow.
"Rissie! Where you been, girl? You still cookin' in the kitchen?" We hugged.
"Yep, still cooking on Thursdays." We'd met last year on a DWC cooking night. She threw her arm around the young girl.
"Tracks, this here's Rissie. She cooks sometime, she serve lunch sometime and she teach those sign things to the ladies."
"I'm Rissa. Nice to meet you. Tracks? Where'd that name come from?" She shrugged a little.
"Come from me. One - she from the other side of the tracks. Two - this girl can run! I seen her outrun Jackson and you know that nigger fast, girl!"
"Are you staying for the class?"
"Nah, not today. We came to sleep and shower, get clothes and eat. You make them two times potatoes?"
"Not this time," I said. "Pasta shells, green salad, garlic bread and jello."
"Mmm!" She playfully punched my shoulder and walked off to the day room. Tracks stood there, staring at me.
The seven ladies arranged their chairs in a circle, while Tracks sat on the sofa against the wall, directly in my line of sight. We reviewed the ABC's and numbers, each woman spelling her name and signing her favorite number. I introduced colors by asking some women their favorite color then showing her the sign.
"Tracks, what's your favorite color?"
She signed green.
Once a month, I volunteer at the Downtown Womens Center to teach sign language to its residents and visitors. Several women show up, a handful actually participate. Last month, after several months away, Yolanda showed up with a young girl in tow.
"Rissie! Where you been, girl? You still cookin' in the kitchen?" We hugged.
"Yep, still cooking on Thursdays." We'd met last year on a DWC cooking night. She threw her arm around the young girl.
"Tracks, this here's Rissie. She cooks sometime, she serve lunch sometime and she teach those sign things to the ladies."
"I'm Rissa. Nice to meet you. Tracks? Where'd that name come from?" She shrugged a little.
"Come from me. One - she from the other side of the tracks. Two - this girl can run! I seen her outrun Jackson and you know that nigger fast, girl!"
"Are you staying for the class?"
"Nah, not today. We came to sleep and shower, get clothes and eat. You make them two times potatoes?"
"Not this time," I said. "Pasta shells, green salad, garlic bread and jello."
"Mmm!" She playfully punched my shoulder and walked off to the day room. Tracks stood there, staring at me.
The seven ladies arranged their chairs in a circle, while Tracks sat on the sofa against the wall, directly in my line of sight. We reviewed the ABC's and numbers, each woman spelling her name and signing her favorite number. I introduced colors by asking some women their favorite color then showing her the sign.
"Tracks, what's your favorite color?"
She signed green.
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