Thursday, September 6, 2012

Pandora’s Box Love Kit

   I’m truly ashamed of the three big ol’ donkeys that were so sure they were ready to cart themselves in a minivan for nearly three-quarters of a day. The road-trip took a turn for the different-and-unexpected, when Mah got behind the wheel.  I don’t remember a time where I’ve ever been worried about her driving. But I’m still stunned that we made it to Idaho. I also suspect that she’ll be getting a traffic ticket in the mail soon. (Those flashy-photo-mechanisms at intersections don’t lie) I’d sooner forget the rest of the drama that followed for the rest of the trip, thank you verra much! (Going, and returning)
   The most bizarre highway occurrence was seeing another car turned up and over onto its roof. The windshield was cracked, but the roof wasn’t smashed in or flattened, so I hope the passengers escaped somewhat unscathed. When we passed by it, traffic was already being directed around cop cars and fire trucks, and an ambulance was taking off, screeching it’s siren in the hot-n-dusty eastern Oregon air.
   The most write-worthy part of the road-trip was stopping at a ‘Not Quite Mom-n-Pop’ gas station for fuel—the petrol, and caffeinated variety. Who knew they still had condom vending-machines in the ladies (poor-excuse-for-an-actual) bathroom.

   By the time I slipped my card-key into Meridian’s finest Motel 6, I needed decompressing, and did NOT want to leave the air-conditioned space for anything. So I missed—but was not completely missed at—my niece’s b-day party. There were over 20 other relatives or friends attending, and rug-rats as near as the auditory nerves could stand. Also, I’m Baptist, and I was going to be there for the next three-ish days, so I failed to feel any guilt. (My bloated, crampy, bitchy presence wasn’t needed anyhow)

   On the upside of the trip, I finished the Chelsea Cain, and started feasting on another novel I’ve “been meaning to get to,” as I say about all books that I truly am “meaning to get to”. Kathryn Stockett’s 'The Help' is a great read, y’all. I highly recommend it. And please, don’t sneer at the ‘chick-lit’ genre it’s been given. Yes, it’s about relationships women have. But, men, you have no idea just how insidiously evil powerful women can be towards other women, when they want their way. I guarantee you won’t regret allowing yourselves to read this ‘chick-book’.
   So, now I need to consult my stack of unread books, and see what I’ll dine on next, while also proofing, editing, and revising my own manuscript. I’m not allowing myself to call it the ‘B’ word until I feel I’m really done, and present it to an agent one day. But even if I’m told to revise some of it, I’ll still feel good about it, I believe. I hope, anyway.
   The job search is back on. I’ve consulted Job Connections at Goodwill, trawled Craigslist, and have sent out several more query letter-emails and résumés. So I hope something promising comes along. At this rate, I’d accept a mind-numbing, paper-stapling job, just to earn a salary once again. Sigh! 
   But after listening to Bill Clinton’s speech last night, I know I can’t give up. I have to hope that my three years of (ungraduated) college education will benefit me somehow. One of my dream jobs would be to work in a bookstore. (Ooh, that would be fantastic!)
     In the meantime, some of my lame-o poetry. (Feel free to pretend you’re at a coffeehouse and snap your fingers, or applaud lightly. No hecklers, please)
Trente, venti, grande, or tall,
Sometimes an espresso is too bloody small.
Frappuccinos, cappuccinos, macchiatos, oh my
I long for the caffeine to give me that high.
Wrapping my hands around that hot, steaming mug,
Is the equivalent to receiving a motherly hug.
My coffee never fails me, and it gets me through the morn,
It makes me glad for the day I was born.
Decaf simply won't do it for me.
I'd sooner accept a strychnine I.V.

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