Tell a story.

It’s fiction, don’t worry, and not important fiction at that. A story for the lunch table at work, a story for waiting in line in the women’s room. A good one, and parts of it need to be whispered, but not a new one.  The best bits are the oldest.

Tell a story. It’s not hard if you have the narrative well in mind; easiest if the protagonist is based on the person you know best. Make it yourself. It will be, anyway. Change her name just in case.

Then tell the story. Tell what she did, what she said, who was there and who wasn’t. Put in what she was thinking when she made the call, when she crossed the line, when she left the room; the name is different, remember. Don’t make it pretty. No one will know.

Just tell the story. Tell it all. Bring it up into the screenlight, the smell of bleached and rotting cotton, the mirror she checked her lipstick with. The cat she left behind. The green bile in the chipped white toilet bowl, her head on her knees and nothing left inside. The lies she told. The lies and lies.

Then write it down.

Read it.

Try another ending. It’s fiction, remember?

Tell a story.

Oh my.

Did I blow NaBloPoMo or what?

We preempt tonight’s post…

… for Castle and crochet. Back later.

Ague and goiters and boils, oh my.

One thing I knew about walking pneumonia:

• You can sing it to the tune of “Waltzing Mathilda.” Similarly, “diverticulitis” scans beautifully to “Gary, Indiana” from The Music Man.

Two things I didn’t know about walking pneumonia:

• It is not merely a vernacular reference to an undefined group of diseases; it is in fact a generally accepted name for a specific atypical pneumococcal virus.
• I have it.

Which gives me medically-sanctioned and spousally-enforced time to rest, recover and ponder other things, like: what about all those other folksy disease names? The ones from Chaucer through Shakespeare and well into Wodehouse, a vast array with which I am casually acquainted but not intimately familiar? “Chilblains,” said the husband, and I replied, “Frostbite… maybe? Hmmm.”

Still considering NaBloPoMoooo…

Commitment? Meh.

Commitment? Good for me.

Commitment? Probably inevitable at some point.

Cogitating.

“Mrs. E is not at home, madame.”

The magic hour of my everyday life is round about eight p.m. By this time, the humans are fed, the non-humans are parking themselves for the night, the husband is wrangling the child into or out of the bathtub. Generally, no one is vomiting, defecating in an inappropriate location, screaming or falling down the stairs. I am trying to let the adrenalin of the day dissipate – a daunting task for this anxiety junkie. I may even be doing something creative; if not, at least my mind is free to vegetate in whatever stew of TiVoed pap I want that night.  I want. The pronoun is crucial.

Several nights ago, just as the warm haze of eight o’clock was settling in, I thought I heard our mild-mannered doorbell ring. Seconds later, someone banged on my door. Let me make this perfectly clear: someone opened the glass door and pounded on the wooden front door of my home with all of their strength. Hammered. The way you would if, say, you were trying to let your neighbor know her house was on fire or if you were being attacked by dogs or if you had been horribly injured and desperately needed help. The kind of sound, like a phone ringing at three in the morning, that sends people (at least, ones like me) into full alert.

Surviving abuse post? Look on the Pages widget…

… down and to the right. I’ve been getting questions about where it went; I just moved it to be a permanent feature.

Thanks, everyone, for the feedback.

Late night suspicion

There are four animals, three humans, and a VERY VERY BAD SMELL in this house. Either someone, probably the big dog, is crop-dusting, or it’s the lingering traces of the brussels sprouts we had with dinner.

If that’s not guilt, I don’t know what is.

Working my way back into posting

Tough, because most of the things on my mind are related to awful family matters – which wouldn’t have been a problem several months ago, but now some of my kinfolk actually read this thing. But I miss the outlet, and now that some of the shock and stress has dissipated, it feels a little more natural again.The other thing I want to start doing is commenting regularly on the blogs I read. I hadn’t realized until the last few weeks how much this network connects me with some truly fabulous people, and really, I’d like to be a better member of the community. Plus my tags need some serious help…

Anyway, since digging around in the muck and sewage of my deepest fears is way fucking exhausting, I thought I’d make a list (love lists) of my lesser fears, from phobias to mere shudders.

Ooh, forgot: date night at the Euphrosyne household!

The offspring is being spoiled by the grandparents for the night… time to break out the face spackle and the good underwear. We’re probably going to The Landing, where we will NOT be sitting outside this evening. It’s cold and drizzly.

Got to go hoist the girls into battle position. Night all!