Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, #4

Continued from the May 5th, 9th, and 10th Blog Posts "Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun #1, #2, and #3"

The cab driver, who’s name was Cristobal, they found out, woke as the paramedics lifted him in the gurney to place in the back of the ambulance.

“Oh, my goodness! Where am I?”

As the paramedic explained what had passed, the group of women watched as the police officer and a tow truck driver went over the instructions for towing the cab.

“I don’t know about you, but my buzz is long gone!” Cristina grumbled as they all turned away from the cause of their current predicament. Vivian returned from checking on Cristobal, and assuring him that although shaken, they were otherwise unscathed.

“Cristobal says the ride’s on him,” Viv said with a wink. “I guess he’s been suspected of having epilepsy, but has never been diagnosed.”

Sputtering, Cristina could barely get the words out. “The ride’s…what?! Epilepsy?! Are you frickin’ kidding me?”

Anna elbowed Cristina and told her to “Shush!” as the police officer walked over to them after seeing off the tow truck.

“So you ladies have had quite a night, huh?” He tucked his thumbs into his belt, and surveyed them, obviously not convinced they weren’t partly at fault for the long line of parked cars that now had dented and scratched sides.

“You could say that.” Anna smiled and dug her fingers into the elbow of the still grumbling Cristina. “We are also stranded. We’ve tried to call Viv’s brother Ben, and Lulu’s boyfriend Aaron, but no luck. Ben is still working and Aaron is MIA. We’re a little leery of calling another cab…”

“Well, I don’t currently have a call to answer, so I can give you girls a ride. Someplace close.” He glanced around at them, then offered, “I’m Officer Bryant. Ian Bryant. Step this way, please.”

Ushering them towards his patrol car, he deposited them in the back seat, then told them to wait while he finished his notes and called in to dispatch from the front seat.

“Alright, where to?”

Vivian looked at the others, then suggested, “How about Logan’s? Ben can give us a ride when he’s off.” Ben’s work was closer than both Lulu’s house and the store so they all agreed.

Officer Bryant spoke into the radio, letting dispatch know his destination, then they were off.

Author's Note: I haven't given up, although current events seem to suggest otherwise. But posting once a day was so daunting a task that I threw up every road block I could possibly erect. I will now post once a week, each new post being due by Tuesday before 11:59 p.m.! And if I get on the blog more than that, so much the better! 

Thanks for reading!

Eat Pray Love or Hello, God? It's me, Barbara...

I promise to come back to "Cinco De Mayo or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" as soon as I claw my way up and over this mental block I've put up for myself. I look at it each day, but I just can't seem to grasp that transition I've been looking for. Stay tuned on that front. In the meantime, I have to keep writing, so here's something different. 

I recently listened to Eat Pray Love as an audiobook. Rarely has a book struck a chord with me as this one has. As a writer, as a woman, as a human being. Not necessarily in that order. I am not a world traveler. I have not explored farther than the confines of The Happiest Place On Earth, A.K.A. Disneyworld. And even though this book is partly about a woman traveling to other countries and immersing herself in the cultures of these places, trust me when I say that I do not have some burning desire to pack my one good suitcase, kiss my husband and kid good-bye and hop on a plane to head to France, or Australia, or wherever. At least, not for more than a couple weeks.

No, what really rooted itself into my brain was how this woman travels into her own mind, her own psyche, flays it open and dissects it before millions of readers. And we have all gulped it down like our second helping of Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing. It sure doesn’t sound like any kind of memoir I’ve ever read before! 

Elizabeth Gilbert admits in the book that when she proposed the idea of her book, she wasn’t proposing it as a literary travel documentary. She had no plans to discuss every aspect of each of the cultures she was going to visit. Rather, she wanted to explore a different aspect of herself “set against the backdrop of each of these places.” Pleasure, spirituality, and balance. These were what she sought.

I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t read it. And really, I’m not contemplating tonight on the actual story anyways. Tonight I’m reflecting on what pleasure, spirituality, and balance mean to me. Because I came very close to moving out of this town, and out of this state in the last couple months, to go in search of a more meaningful fulfilling existence for myself and my family. And even though I have placed the idea on the back burner, the reality is I still don’t know exactly what I’m doing with this life I’ve been gifted with. 

To be continued…

Author's Note: This turned into a longer piece, so I split it in half, and will post the other half tomorrow night to give it to you in easier gulps, as I've heard from some of you that it is better to do it that way. 

Reverie

Running through the grass, skimming the blades with your laughter

Cherry red cheeks, sticky sweet and summer bright

Take my hand

I know every strand of your hair, its burnished golden shine

Your eyes, so like theirs, delighted by our game

We twirl

Your chubby cherub limbs spread wide, your skirts a floating bell

Infectious giggles, sparkling smile, wild imagination

Let’s play

Just a little longer…

But your giggles echo, each one farther away than the last

Cheeks once vibrant with life, now translucent, transparent

The silk of your hair slips through my fingers, and I can no more grasp it than I can grasp wisps of the sunshine

I knew you once, for a very long time, for a fleeting moment

But I have to say good-bye

I will love you always

But I have to say good-bye

Firsts

My first broken bone happened when I was six. I was swinging on the monkey bars in the neighbor’s backyard, dangling what seemed like miles from the ground. I remember wanting to be as smooth in my motions as the neighbor’s daughter, a girl three years my senior. I wanted to be able to let go of the bar and drop gracefully to the ground, unmarred and coolly collected. But when I brazenly let go of that bar, and dropped the six feet to the ground, I didn’t account for the fact that I am, well…me. My leg crumpled beneath me, and such a striking, searing pain shot all the way through my body. The screaming brought my dad all the way from next door. The ride to the hospital was horrendous, and the doctor put me in a cast from hip to toes. I spent the first eight weeks of first grade swinging down the halls on my crutches, trying not to fall or hit anyone with the cumbersome extremities. Who knew trying to fly would get me into so much trouble?

My first book I had to hide from my parents was R. L. Stine’s The Snowman. My stepmother studied with Jehovah’s Witnesses and had brought the teachings of the religion into our home when she moved in. From the time I was eight-years-old until I moved in with my mom when I was thirteen, I studied with them as well. You did not celebrate holidays or birthdays, you did not miss the minimum of three church meetings each week, you studied your bible and your literature, you did not partake in school parties, and you did not read unsuitable books. Some kids hide drugs, dirty magazines, and shoplifted items. Not me. I was probably ten when I officially had a hiding system down pat. I had books hidden in my bottom drawer of my dresser, between the mattresses of my bed, and tucked at the bottom of the stuffed animals basket. I won’t regale you with what happened when my stepmother finally found my stash in the bottom drawer a couple years later. It wasn’t pretty. But it didn’t stop me from reading everything I could. I merely transferred my hiding places from my house to my girlfriend’s. Problem solved.

My first kiss happened in an empty apartment in the complex I lived in when I was thirteen. After being sheltered for so many years, the freedom of that summer knocked the wind out of me, and when I could finally breathe again, I discovered how delicious oxygen could be. The boy was visiting his dad for the summer, and we spent most of our days swimming in the pool with the other kids our age, loitering in the parking lot like the good little hoydens we were, and generally being unproductive and enjoying the hell out of it. The apartment complex was small, and the owners, a small elderly couple, lived there with their slobbering bulldog, which liked to wipe its face on my ankles. The night before the last day of summer vacation, the owners took pity on the kids, and let us play in one of the empty apartments. What they were thinking, I will never know! I cringe as an adult to contemplate it! But there we all were, playing cards on the empty living room floor, flashlights our only illumination. When there was a lull in the card game, and the boy and I were abandoned by the others to go out onto the balcony, he leaned over, pushed my glasses up my nose for me, then kissed me. Caught between being mortified by my stupid slipping glasses, and wondering why I had suddenly sprouted the longest, clumsiest limbs and head, I simply stared at him. Probably with my mouth half open, and drool leaking out, although I don’t quite remember. Then he took the cards and shuffled them a couple times, and dealt out the next hand of Speed, as if nothing had happened. Two days later he left to return to Michigan, and I never saw or heard from him again.

Thinking of firsts gives me the opportunity to explore memories I may have shoved into the back of the closet, to bring them out and dust them off and see if they have any sparkle to them. I will be doing more of these on days when I am not trying to create something new. Feel free to give me ideas of other good “firsts!”

Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, #3

Continued from the May 5th Blog Post "Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and from the May 9th Blog Post "Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun #2"

“You’ve got to be kidding me! We got the epileptic senior citizen cab driver?!” Cristina unbuckled her seat belt and dove head first over the front seat, righting herself swiftly and grabbing the steering wheel.

Lulu was in hysterics, envisioning cars falling off steep cliffs and head-on collisions with semi-trucks. “Stop the car, stop the car, stop the car!” Anna grabbed her by the shoulders and forced Lulu to look at her.

“Lulu, hush! We’re going like five miles per hour. No one dies going five miles per hour, especially in a boat like this. Look, Cristina already has the wheel.”

Cristina did have the wheel, although she was having a difficult time getting the driver’s leg off the gas. She finally resigned herself to sitting completely on the old man’s lap, nudging his leg off the pedal with her longer one.

“If you wake up with a boner, I swear I will personally escort you to the closest crematorium, so help me!” With that dark promise, she eased the cab to a stop.

She grabbed the keys, and they all escaped what Lulu was convinced was the devil’s own death vehicle. Standing around in a small circle of orange cast by a streetlight, the women stared at each other, speechless for the first time that night, possibly ever in their entire acquaintance.

A worried line appearing on her brow, Viv examined the man’s face closely, checking his pulse and placing her ear next to his mouth to check for breath. He snorted in her ear, and she jerked her head up, bumping it against the roof of the cab.

“Ugh! Gross! Yeah, he’s breathing. He could be taking a nap in his rocker on his front porch! What are we going to do?” She massaged the back of her head, shaking it in amazement at the peaceful slumber the man seemed to be enjoying.

“Try to shake him awake, while I call 9-1-1.” Anna pulled out her cell phone.

The other three took turns attempting to shake, startle, and in Cristina’s case, shove the elderly driver awake, without success. When the patrol car pulled up, followed immediately by the ambulance, they were perched atop the cab’s trunk, listening to Vivian leave a third message on Ben’s voicemail, begging for a ride.

To be continued...

Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, #2

Author's Note: I won't bore you with all that happened this weekend that kept me from logging on to post. I did write a bit, but not enough to be worth adding. I am forgiving myself for not fulfilling my goal this weekend of posting every day. Today is a new day. Here is your next installment to the story. Please see the post from May 5, 2011 to read the first part of the story. Enjoy!

Continued from May 5th Blog Post "Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"

Cristina reappeared at the backdoor, waving an empty bottle of tequila in front of her like she was performing some sort of voodoo curse, which was not entirely improbable for the New Orleans native.

“I thought you said, ‘Come over and we’ll celebrate Cinco De Mayo’ Lu! It’s only six. How can we pretend to celebrate without the necessary ingredients?”

“I thought there were two more bottles in the cabinet!” Lulu rose to accompany Cristina inside. Seconds later they both slunk back out.

“Well, that settles it! Guess we’re going for a tequila run.” Cristina slanted her eyes towards Lulu, who had the grace to at least appear sheepish.

Twenty minutes later, all four women stood at the curb in front of Lulu’s house, watching the cab they’d called pull up. It was already ten minutes late.

“You beautiful ladies called for cab, yes?” The cab driver looked to be at least eighty-five, with long, bushy white eyebrows, a gray fedora perched just above them. He exited the cab, and walked with such stilted steps towards the back door that Anna fell into step beside him, thinking he was going to keel over right there. He stooped, slow and stiff, to open the cab door, and ushered them inside. They watched as he made his way back around the cab with more shuffling and wobbling.

“Think Grandpa here can see the steering controls?” Cristina asked, only half joking.

Lulu gave her unsure-but-game smile and brushed her blond hair behind her ears. “He’s just a bit sluggish, guys. It’s fine.” But she scooted closer to Anna so they could share a seat belt.

“Uh huh. I have a feeling we’re about to find out just how slow he is.” Cristina clicked her seatbelt and pulled it tight across her chest.

Anna gave the driver their destination, the grocery store a few miles away.

“You sit back. Enjoy ride.” The driver spoke with a thick Greek accent, and winked at them before pulling back onto the road. Cristina glared at him through the rear view mirror as he sped down the road at a neck-breaking speed of ten miles below the speed limit.

“It’s going to cost us more in cab fare to get there than the actual alcohol will!”

“Cristina, have you decided yet if you’re going to come to South America with us this winter? You’re the only one left who hasn’t decided.” Anna, with the diplomacy of one well versed in defusing her friend’s fiery temper, talked about the itinerary of the trip, and the various details still to be decided.

As they debated on the number of days that should be spent basking on white sandy beaches with tropical drinks being delivered to them by hot Latin waiters, and the number of days spent exploring the rainforest and zip lining, Lulu’s neighborhood disappeared behind them, and they pulled onto the main thoroughfare. It wasn’t until the discussion turned to whether they’d attempt to rent a car while down there that Anna looked out the window.

“Um, this isn’t Johnson Blvd. Where are we?” All four women swiftly peered out of the passenger windows.

“We’re on Doolittle,” Vivian stated, with her forehead pressed against the glass. “Hey, sir, why are you driving on Doolittle? You’re going the complete opposite direction of where we should be going! Sir? Sir!” 

Suddenly, the cab swerved, screeching as it sideswiped a row of parked cars. The screeching seemed to last forever as they were still traveling at a snail’s pace, and the screams inside the car matched the screeching metal outside with uncanny precision.

Anna lunged forward and tugged on the driver’s shoulder, and he fell back against his seat, a peaceful snore fluttering the old man’s long white mustache.


To be continued...

1:42 A.M.

So I've technically missed my deadline for posting today. Yes, its still Friday, May 6th in my book, even if its already 1:42 in the morning. But I have to admit, its been a damn good day. Its been one of those days where I seized the world by the horns, pulled the snorting bull down to look him in the eye, and told him, "You're mine..."

After working all day towards numerous deadlines, and feeling like for once I've actually got a handle on them, I went to Crossfit. For those of you who don't know, its the gym I go to. Its the way of life I'm trying to adopt. Its the scratch I've just got to itch. And its the kick in the butt I need. Had a slight run in with my good ol' enemy, Allergies & Asthma, but not until I had completed the workout. Thanks John and Nehal for inspiring me once again!

Granted, you'd think I'd go home and crash after this, right? Nope. Had to run home, take the world's fastest shower (seriously, folks, I would've called Guinness, but I didn't have the TIME!), and jet off to see my best gal and guy pals for a night out at Hop Sing's and then Powerhouse to see Wonderbread 5. And even though its been a long day, and I have to get up at the ungodly hour of 5 A.M. to go do the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5k, I have to admit its been an excellent night. Perhaps even fodder for a future story...I swear I'll change the names for this one!

I know, I know. I literally just posted two nights ago that this wouldn't be a journal. But all forms of writing are practice, even if some posts end up being less snazzy and world-changing than others. And I have to give myself a pat on the back for even logging on after such a day. So goodnight, bright world. I look forward to seeing your shining face tomorrow, when a new crazy, over scheduled day is due to commence. Goodnight, goodnight.

Cinco de Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

“All I have to say is your boob was hanging out one window, and Matt’s booty was hanging out the other!”

“What?! I don’t remember that! Are you shitting me?”

The margarita pitcher made the rounds as the four women surrounded the patio table, talking with and over each other. As the night floated down to fall gracefully on them in cooling breezes, twinkling stars, and persistent mosquitos, they dwelled in the luminescence of being together.

Anna, a stickler for telling it like it is, grinned and held up her hands. “I swear it on my Grandmama’s Virgin Mary statue collection! I thought that poor lady was going to swerve into oncoming traffic when she glanced your way and saw your tit hanging out the limo, practically poking its way into her minivan!” She brushed her long, coal black hair over one shoulder, then circled one tit with both hands and pretended to lean over and point it at Vivian, who bent over the side of her chair, laughing like she had no bones left in her tequila soaked body.

“Did Aaron say anything?” Lulu tried to keep a modicum of composure as she inquired after her boyfriend’s level of attentiveness, but she couldn’t quite hide the sly smile that hid at the corners of her lips.

“Your boyfriend was as sloshed as you were, dear,” Vivian gasped, still clutching her side from her giggling fit. “He probably couldn’t tell the difference between Matt’s bum and your boob! Man, that was the best birthday idea ever, Lu. I have to do wine tasting for mine next year!”

“Not to mention the fifteen bottles of wine she came home with from everyone…That couldn’t possibly be a factor.” Cristina took a long draw of her margarita, wincing as the icy coldness pierced her temples.

“Oh! Brain freeze! That’s karma for ya!” Anna raised her cup in salute across the table to Cristina. “Personally, I felt more sorry for the old guy that Matt mooned. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

Wrinkling her nose at the thought, Cristina grabbed the margarita pitcher and made her way inside to freshen it up with the next batch.

“What I want to know is, where the heck did Ben go with that super old chick? One minute he’s spouting off about the ‘complex backbone’ of the red they were sipping, and then next minute they were gone! Left their glasses full and everything!” Lulu, who loved gossip and would love her own personal edition of US Weekly with articles dishing on everyone she knows, looked to Vivian for the down-low. Viv’s brother Ben had a habit of disappearing with women old enough to be his mom.

Vivian grimaced. “Ugh, the outhouse. He said there was no indoor bathroom at that winery so he had to improvise!”

Peals of laughter erupted all around the table.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Stay with me folks. This is a fun scene that I want to continue tomorrow. I can't keep staying up till midnight every night to do this, so I'm cutting myself off tonight. 

Everything but the kitchen sink-Author's Note

So I need to clear a few things up, as I am still very new to the blogging community. Some of you have had issues posting comments. I don't know if this was the cause, but I had my comments settings set so that only people with Google accounts could post a comment. Don't ask me why, its not like I have a secret soft spot for Google or anything. I just didn't look at it that closely, I suppose.

So I changed it so that "anyone" can post comments. It will still ask for a word verification, to help ward off spammers, but after that, you shouldn't have any more issues blessing me with your infinite wisdom and  critiques. Please let me know if anyone is still having issues. I don't want to miss anything of what you have to say!

Another question that came up was if someone could post my blog page on Facebook. I don't have any issue with this. I told her the more the merrier, and that's the whole idea behind this, to discipline myself, and to entertain. But I haven't figured out how to protect my work from copying and so forth, if protecting myself at all is even possible. I'm sure its just a matter of a little research online and possibly a plaintive call for help from a person I happen to know has already gone forth into the publishing world. So I have no problem getting sent out on Facebook, but I just ask everyone to wait until I can protect myself as much as possible. I will make sure to let you know when I have taken care of that! Its a huge compliment that this was even asked of me, so I will get on this very quickly!

Lastly, since I've taken on the challenge to write something everyday, I am sure some are concerned that this blog will take on the note of a personal journal more than a platform to practice my art. Rest assured, this is not my intention. If I decide to write something true, something about my life, it won't start with "Dear Diary..." or any such nonsense. And in fact, we may all find that the stuff that happens in real life may very well inspire and delight us much more than the scores of fictional characters I may someday create. A friend told me on the first day of this blog that "lots of great writers get their best material by writing about their friends. Naturally, don't write about me." It doesn't get much better than that, ladies and gentleman!

So I leave you tonight with this addendum to my original "Barbara's Policies and Procedures on Writing a Blog" and will be back again tomorrow with something new and hopefully fun. Thanks for riding this roller coaster with me!

Added an hour later: Ok folks. Looked up info at www.copyright.gov to see what it says. I'm telling you in case anyone else was wondering this as well. According to them, your (my) work is protected from the moment it is created and fixed in a tangible form that is "perceptible either directly or with the aid of a machine or device." Registration is not required to be copyrighted. Obviously if you write a book, make a movie, take a picture that you plan to sell, registering with the copyright office is an excellent idea. But at this stage in the blog, I'm not going to worry about it. So share with anyone you feel like! Thanks!

On Top Of Spaghetti

“Now babe, let’s just talk this out rationally, alright?”

The granite covered kitchen island stood between them, a veritable battlefield. The leftover dishes from that night’s dinner still cluttered the top of it. His eyes flickered to the long wooden serving spoon in her hand, brandished before her like a broadsword. Was she going to…? He ducked as she swung it towards his left ear, then shot up to stare at her as if she’d sprouted four extra arms and a set of horns to boot. She sure did…

What she wouldn’t give for a set of handcuffs and a Billy club right about now! And now he had the audacity to stare at her as if she was the lunatic? Glancing quickly at the island before her, perusing for a new weapon, she lighted upon the strainer of leftover spaghetti noodles. The corners of her mouth lifting just enough to worry him even further; she reached in and grabbed a handful of sticky clumps of pasta. Waiting for him to duck again, she lobbed the limp strands into his face as soon as his head appeared above the countertop again. Bulls-eye!

They glared at each other for a breath, a heartbeat. Then the storm broke in riotous chaos.

Having no more time for caution, he grabbed the large saucepot and flung the cold contents directly into her face. Red rivulets of sauce streamed from her bangs, turning the blond hue a burnt orange. Clumps of ground beef and onions slid down the side of her head to plop onto her shoulder and finally falling to the floor, as she gaped at him. Lifting the pot in front of him like a mighty shield, he ducked behind it and ran for the pantry a few yards away. Just as he slammed the door closed, he felt it reverberate as the garlic bread, a whole half loaf, thumped against it. Then darkness.

Her narrowed eyes took in the closed door with the garlic butter streaked down one side. He couldn’t stay in the pantry forever. She would just make some necessary preparations as she waited him out. With the calculating look of a war commander, she pulled open the fridge, condiment jars rocking and rattling on the shelves. She grabbed the jar of green olives, the ketchup and mustard, the strawberries, a package of hot dogs, and the flat of eggs. After almost closing the fridge door, she jerked it back open and grabbed the leftover enchilada casserole. Everything went onto the kitchen island, jars opened, caps flipped up on bottles, and the trusty wooden serving spoon went into the enchilada casserole. Plucking her apron from its hook next to the fridge, she tied it as she took her stand behind her island of ammunition, and called, “Hey babe, its time to come out of the closet!”

The pantry had a single light bulb with a long chain to pull to bring it to life. In the swinging shadows and illumination, he rushed to the shelves on his right to peer at the contents there. Canned goods and homemade jarred preserves and sauces resided there, from floor to ceiling. That wouldn’t do. He wanted to meet her on a fair playing field, not put a can-sized dent in her head.  Well, at least not in reality…Turning to the middle shelves at the back of the pantry, he found boxed goods, Ricearoni, Pastaroni, dry oatmeal, cereal boxes, and bags of beans and rice. That was more like it. He grabbed the bags of beans and rice and emptied them into his pot. He did the same with the cereal, oatmeal and boxed pastas. As he emptied the last Pastaroni, he glanced to his left and froze. Jars of baked beans and boxes of brownie mixes flickered back at him in the dim swinging light. He opened a jar of baked beans and put it to the side, then tore a hole in the brownie mix bag and set it next to the beans. As he hefted up his pot to rest on his hip, leaving his other hand free to load and reload, he heard her taunting call. He winced at her choice of words. She always did have a way with them. Steeling his back, he set his hand on the pantry doorknob, and turned.

First the olives and strawberries. The green and red orbs flew through the air and hit him in the chest with deadly accuracy, leaving pink imprints on his white t-shirt. She promptly sealed her mouth closed and squinted her eyes as showers of what she thought was a mixture of beans, rice, and Honey Bunches Of Oats rained on her, sticking to her tomato sauce plastered hair like bakery sprinkles stick to the frosting of a cupcake. He seemed to have a rather alarming supply of this mix, so she stepped it up and grabbed the bottles of ketchup and mustard. With a feral shriek, she loaded each hand and shot red and yellow streams onto his legs and newly acquired Dolce & Gabbana sneakers. That got his attention!

The ruins of his shoes were barely visible under the gobbets of ketchup and mustard. He couldn’t believe she went after the shoes! Seeing he only had half his dried goods mixture left, he twisted his body to avoid to worst of the small pig intestine wrapped missiles being launched at him, and reached in to grab the first jar of baked beans. It was the thick kind with lots of brown sugar infused into it, more likely to act as glue as it hit its intended target than the store bought varieties. He set down the pot and scooped out a handful of beans, took aim, and flung the mess. It landed with a very satisfactory splat! right in the middle of her chest. With fevered determination, he scooped more out as she grabbed the wooden spoon, scooped a large wad of enchilada casserole, and pitched it at him with enough veracity to make any lacrosse player envious. 

A lull in the pandemonium, both paused for a moment, their laborious breathing and the wet plop! of various liquids and solids hitting the floor as it fell from their clothing was the only sound in the kitchen, maybe in the world. She shifted her eyes from the mess that was her husband, to the mess that was her kitchen island. She’d used most of what she’d laid there, with the exception of the flat of eggs. It all looked strange, alien, her battered brain not comprehending the dregs of war. She picked up an egg with the utmost care, wondering if she’d handled her marriage with such care would they be having this “discussion” right now? Focusing on him once more, barely recognizing the bag of brownie mix powder in his hands, poised on the brink of being tossed in her face, she dropped the egg. It exploded on the ceramic tiles, the white liquid coating the floor as the yellow yolk oozed more slowly, a sluggish amoeba venturing forth to claim the territory for its own.

He dropped the brownie mix, spraying them both with chocolate flavored clouds. Taking a step forward, he held his arms out in surrender, in supplication, in consolation, and waited. She pressed her body to his, her tomato and garlic flavored head tucked under his chin as he wrapped his ketchup and mustard and enchilada sauce slathered limbs around her, and both breathed in the aroma and stench…of the beginning, of the end.

Reincarnation...according to an eight-year-old.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Gabriel?"

"Where do we go when we die?"

I look at my son in the rearview mirror as we drive down the long stretch of 680 southbound, and watch him watching the large semi trucks fall behind us, his forehead crinkled and his eyes pensive. He won't look back at me.

"Where do you think they go, buddy?" I've never imprinted on him any one religious or philosophical view. I've always shared with him what I've learned by studying with different denominations of Christianity, and that I don't believe one faith trumps another. Inviting him to question what people believe was one of the few gifts I could give him, a gift that was withheld from me early on.

This isn't the first time he has asked me this particular question. He has experienced loss more often than any mother would wish, and he hasn't come out of it unscathed.

"Well...I think we get born again into new people...or animals." Gabriel finally looks at me, and I can tell he's looking for more than my reassurance that this isn't just a silly idea, that his need to believe this idea is practically vibrating on his small face.

I choose my next words like a surgeon chooses the correct gauge of needle to begin the stitching of a large jagged rip in the skin. "That is definitely a possibility. Do you know that there's a word for that? Its called reincarnation."

"I've heard of that." Gabriel states.

"Its believed that our souls live on after our bodies die. That eventually, in no specific amount of time, our souls are reborn into another body. Most people who believe this believe that we only become humans again, not animals." I make it as simple as possible, as simple as speaking of the metaphysical world with an eight-year-old can be. "So that's what you think happens when we die?"

"Yes," Gabriel tries to remain stoic, but his face is like the glass front of an old antique clock, and I see the cranks and wheels turning and clinking together, as he works out this new dimensional awareness of self, however short-lived.

For some reason, I feel the need to add a disclaimer. "You know no one really knows for sure what happens when we die, right? The only people who really know, aren't around to be able to tell us. So figuring out what you believe is very important. Because no one can tell you for sure. Its called faith."

"Like Nana? And your Grandpa and Grandma? They know, right?"

"Yes, they know, buddy."

Gabriel pauses. "Bear knows too. I think Bear is happy now, Mommy."

My eyes burn and I blink rapidly to clear my vision.

"Know what I want to be after I die and come back, Mommy?"

"What's that?"

"Stitch."

And once again Gabriel is artlessly gazing at me in the rearview mirror, his bright eyes no longer shadowed with the weight of meditations aged far beyond his eight years.

"Stitch?? Oh boy..."

The Beginning...

I have goals, as I'm sure everyone does. I want to raise my son to love learning, books, nature, being active, and all the brilliant little sparkles of life that can be found in this world. I want to be the kind of wife my husband is eager and grateful to share his life with. I want to finish school, and thrust my diploma in the air so that all the people in my life who have supported me on that journey, those still with me now and those who have gone on to the Elysian Fields, will bask in the accomplishment with me. I want to stay driven to be successful at whatever job I do, but I want to find the balance between that drive and my own personal passions.

And lastly, I want to write. This may be the simplest, yet the most daunting of all my goals. I find myself imagining what it would be like, to speak to others through stories and poetry. To touch someone's soul, or maybe their spleen, with what I have to say. Some may like my take on the world. Some may shrug their shoulders and say they've heard it all before. Some may downright hate my voice and interpretations of life. But you know what? I'm ready for it all.

So I'm joining the blogging masses, and taking my little piece of cyberspace and turning it into my own personal library of Barbara-isms, short stories and poetry and journeys into Wonderland. Let me know what you think. What you like and dislike. I'll never learn to get better unless I hear from you! And let me know how your spleen is doing when I'm done with you.