Ed is not a nice guy

 Yesterday I finished all the major revisions on my novel. I am awesome, I thought.

Then I got up this morning and crawled back to reality, picking glass out of my knees.

 I opened up Draft #342 and tore out Chapter Two. It had to be done. I’ve known it for awhile.  I made some coffee (if you can call Folgers coffee) and sat down to rewrite the introduction of my character Ed. I'll just have the tv on for background noise, my stupid brain told my stupid self. Two episodes of Supernatural later, I decided to go for a walk, write it in my head while absorbing vitamin d and the thick odor of Nehalem Bay. Two audiobook chapters later, I decided I’m addicted to other realities. Which is sad because mine’s not so bad. I mean, really, I spent my morning in leisure, the toughest decision revolving around walking on the beach or the bay. (True, I’ve been rocking a fever of 99 the past few days and feel like I’m hauling around lead, but I’m not dizzy or too fuzzy today.)

Anyhoo, here’s a tiny excerpt of my new chapter. Since it’s from chapter 2, introducing a new character voice, I’m not gonna’ worry about background information. I think you’ll get it. If you don’t, I didn’t do my job very well.

CHAPTER 2 B

            “Wait for me, Ass Hat!”

            “Watchyer mouth, kid,” Ed growled. He grabbed the cursing oaf, a gawky senior boy loping down the hall after his friends. The fifty-year old social studies teacher squeezed the back of the boy’s neck once, not gently, then thrust him away. The teen, surprised by the assault, almost knocked down two texting sophomores huddled by their lockers, probably texting each other. The boy straightened, turned as if to say something, then laid eyes on Ed’s ruddy, vein-laced cheeks, bulbous stomach, whistle necklace, and short-shorts. He shut his mouth and backpedaled, which made Ed grin sardonically, pleased at the response.

            “Sorry, Coach Nielson.”

            “I guess you are.”

The kid dashed away, tripping over his size thirteen Nikes until he hit his stride. Ed shook his balding head, leaned back against the wall outside his classroom, yelling, “No running in the halls!”

 Ass hat, he thought. I’ll have to remember that one. I know a few ass hats. His arched back and thick, nylon-clad hips crumpled a huge paper poster on the wall behind him. A poorly painted pirate yelled into the teacher’s well-endowed buttocks: OHS needs YOU! GO PIRATES!

Ed scratched the fringe of hair clinging to his red scalp, staring at the young bodies as they shot past on their way to the parking lot. The fact they all evaded eye contact made him feel powerful. Yeah, you fuckers better be afraid of me. I own you.

His hairy ears perked up as he heard a loud thump reverberate from Addison Taylor’s room across the hall . . .

Winner!

 Congratulations: BEN

Ben was one of many to enter the fun little writing contest on my website; he was required to write a sentence better than mine, using the chosen vocabulary word.

The following is the very long sentence winning sentence, using the term "cheeky," and a lot of other words. Well done, sir. 

“A clown,” he moved his hands in a circle and into triangles, trying hard to shape a circus tent into my head, “saved me from this life I have lived,” he gasped and continued, “Cheeky was his name, so sad, yet so happy and content with the chains we made him wear,” a breath of air, much like a snorkel diver down for too long, “but, how could he be so happy,” he motioned me close to his face and whispered, “this made me see that we could be so foolish not to tell you that I, me, murdered her…we…me and I,” again a pause and a motion of hands, “but forget this, because soon, we will all be clowns and jesters in God’s court.”    -Ben

The vocabulary word and sentence-to-beat for this coming week will be posted shortly. Stay tuned. Here's the low-down:

WORD CONTEST: 

Every Monday a new, interesting vocabulary word will be posted at http://hollylorincz.wordpress.com/.  I will also create a kinda' grammatically sentence using a form of the word.

Your job is to create and post a new, better sentence in the comment box, using the same word. Yes, you may change the form of the word. Yes, I'll be the judge. Yes, I am a subjective judge  ( I like clever or funny, I hate bigotry).

The winning sentence will be announced here the following Monday.

The check out line

I embarrass myself on a daily basis. Sometimes my big mouth gets me in trouble, especially when I think I’m being funny. Sometimes I’m clumsy, capable of knocking an entire string of kindergartners over like dominoes. Lately, it’s been my lapsing memory.

Today’s incident: standing at the grocery checkout, pinning the squirrely six-year-old to the counter with my thighs in order to avert the great escape, digging for my wallet as the final items slide across the scanner . . . my stomach started to do little twirlies. “Auggie, remember when you were looking for quarters? Did you take anything out of my handbag?” “No, Momma, why do you ask?” “ Well, son, here we are with a plethora of non-biodegradable plastic bags, filled with food and my hair products. But I cannot pay for these material goods unless I find my wallet.” “Just use your credit card, Momma.” “Well, son, I appreciate your grasp of my usual spending habits, but I think you are missing the point – my credit card is in my missing wallet.”

Here’s where the cranky, gum-popping Doogie Hauser of checkers chimed in, clearly focused on her application to NASA instead of her current customers. “Ma’am? Your total is $122.48. Do you have a Fred Meyer reward’s card?”

It must be exhausting listening to the peons in the check out line all day. Her big brain had shunned mine and Auggie’s conversation, as well as my frantic pawing, then me dumping out the contents of my beautiful Dooney & Burke (best birthday gift ever) on her counter, sticky Easter jellybeans shouting for joy as they rolled free.  I’m sure she took those moments to solve world hunger.

           

“Uh, I can’t find my wallet. Can you hold these groceries for me?”

           

“I can hold them for a half hour.”

           

“Will you hold them longer? I live 45 minutes away.” That’s right, the nearest big store is almost an hour away. A wise woman would have actually checked to make sure she had a form of payment with her before pulling out of the driveway. Not me. I made sure I had my lip balm. Which I love, by the way.

           

Customer Service was busy listing all the ways in which they could not service me, Auggie was trying to open un-paid for fruit roll-ups, ex-students, ex-neighbors and ex-boyfriends kept strolling by . . . oh, thank god, my friend in town answered her phone.  And was willing to pay for my groceries.   I promise, my dear friend, my check will not bounce. Probably. If I can find my checkbook.

           

Boy, I hope no one finds out about this.  

Ugh. It's the end of time. Again.

Following is a recent short story I wrote. I don't normally write fantasy adult stories, but I kinda' like this one . . . 

An Instrument of Time

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door.

A hissing gust of relief quaked his thin, white lips; a brown laurel leaf jolted to life with the force of the breath. He’d waited in the dying, musky hedge for two days, his heart beat thickening, praying for this decision as the world grayed.  Seventeen times she’d approached the heavy, ornately carved front door, seventeen times she’d moved back into the depths of the cavernous rooms.  Each return to the kitchen, or the fireplace, or the sunroom brought him a tiny bit nearer to death.

She’d come so close this morning. His heart had stopped as the crystal doorknob, squealing, protested the twist. But then a faint ringing, rooms away. He saw, through the wavy window, her head tilt quizzically, her soft peach lips purse. The weak sunlight rested in her startling red hair, settling on her porcelain nose, as she pondered answering the phone. Her body decided for her, lightly galloping away as the second ring hung in the air.

Slowly, oh so slowly, green blood churned back into his brain. He realized he could not freeze like that again, he’d never make it through the door in time.  

He consciously practiced deep breathing techniques, all the while flexing his muscular fingers, in, out, pinch, fist, squeeze. As she vacuumed and sang, ironically, It’s the End of the World, he flexed and breathed. As she brewed strong coffee, the smell wafting it’s way through minute cracks in the wall, he flexed and breathed. As she pried the worn copy of Love in the Time of Cholera from the bookcase, body dropped sideways into the oversized armchair, legs dangling over the side, he flexed and breathed.

Finally, she dog-eared the page, slid the strap of her tattered green messenger bag over her slender shoulder, grasped the doorknob.

He was ready.

As the monstrous wooden slab lurched inward, sticking briefly on the seal, he used the burst of air to propel himself inside.  Looking down on her head, he yearned to touch her, her warmth, her humanness, but moved forward, knowing she must not see him. His gold eyes darkened with purpose.

His wings were stiff, sore, aching with misuse and sickness. He pumped once, twice, three times, risking a glance backward. The woman moved briskly into the failing world, unaware of him or his mission, kicking dead leaves as she walked down her front steps.

There. The grandfather clock. Sitting on the mantle above the stone fireplace, the magical timepiece had stopped. The tinker faery flew, his bones grinding with broken shards and dust, the glory pouring from him with every not passing second. With a thump, he landed on the rounded hump of the clock, slid down the dark, silken side and leapt onto the tarnished silver key protruding out the back. His fingers, kept limber, grasped and twisted. The key did not budge, time did not re-start. He used his weight to move the key, his tiny faery body equal to the pocked metal’s length and heft. Tears bled from his eyes, squeezed shut with the supernatural effort.

Tick.

His heart beat cleared, the sludge in his veins thinning.

           

Tock.

The ropy muscles in his forearms sprang back into place, filled out.

Tick.

His thoughts were less fuzzy, color returning to the plants.

Tock.

Suddenly, the sun was full, warm, sparkling, breathing and laughing. The tinker faery heaved another sigh of relief, this one robust, leaving the air tinged with magic.

Trying out for a talent show

Do you fear work presentations, or barf in your mouth when you pick up the karoke mic? Not my kid.  My boy made me so proud today; he walked tall with the big boys at the elementary school talent show tryouts! Remember, he's in kindergarten. When he insisted, with screwed up eyes and balled fists, that I had to pick up the ball I dropped and get in his registration . . . well, I tried to explain to him gently he can't really dance or sing at a performance level. I swallowed the "or at all" part. 


No, no, no, NO! He thrust a wrinkled, dirty, overly-stapled book of folded notebook paper into my hand. He wanted to read one of the books he's written/illustrated, sure that the whole school will love it as much as I do. And he's right. My little man belted out those factoids on rocks and minerals like a natural born speaker. Love. Him.


Sure, today he thrilled an audience of 20. Let's see how he does with a microphone, a document camera and an audience of 150. Momma might need a valium. 

5 REASONS CHRONIC ILLNESS IS FABULOUS

5 REASONS CHRONIC ILLNESS IS FABULOUS

1. Weight loss

Sure, at first you gain weight, laying around on your ass, eating bon bons and watching reruns of Charmed and Gossip Girl. Not to mention the midnight sugar bowl runs brought on by the anxiety medicine cravings. BUT, given enough time, you will lose your job. This means you will no longer be able to afford food. Bonus. Plus, you won’t be able to afford the prescription for anxiety meds, which leads to weight loss on two fronts: you will no longer get the munchies, and your muscles will constantly be working and rigid, sometimes shaking from anxiety caused by losing your income. BOOM. Weight loss.

2. Mastering legal document writing

If you can survive your illness, survive the insurance company claiming you aren’t ill, survive losing your job, survive maneuvering through PERS, Social Security and lawyer documentation (thousands of pages of legalese and hundreds of doctors appointments) . . . if you can survive all this, you can teach a class on mastering legal document writing. Too bad you’re too sick to teach the class. And who in the hell wants to take that kinda’ class anyway? You’d be spending your day with a bunch of masochists, lawyer-wanna-bes wearing hair shirts and razor rings under their smurf tshirts.

3. Pop Culture Diva

You finally have the time to read US Weekly, People, TMZ online, Cosmo . . . all the real important news sources that help you maneuver in social situations. Now when you go to a party you can wow the locals with your breezy, well-supported monologue regarding J-Lo and her child lover. Unfortunately, if you actually make it to a party, you’ll be too worn out to pry yourself out of the chair in the corner. But you better go. There’ll be free food.

4. Media Savvy Children

Your son, at the age of six, will be able to snowboard better than Sean Smith on the Wii, navigate to any (ANY) website, build a stock portfolio online, update your Facebook photos and beat any teenager at any videogame. He will also be able to clean, feed and dress himself. You will learn to love the Hobo look. Your chronic illness will make your kid the savviest kid on the block, having to spend hours each day entertaining himself, unable to carry you around despite his greatest efforts. He’ll become the cross-legged guru of the tree house, teaching the neighboring children how to make-out and smoke cigarettes, but he’ll also be able to explain the General Surgeon’s stance on std’s and lung cancer.  Don’t worry, your kids won’t be drinking this cult leader’s KoolAid . . . we can’t afford it.

5. Get Out of Jail Free Card Regarding Appearance

You’ll be too poor to get a color and a haircut, but that’s okay. Cut your own hair. After having your arms in the air for ten minutes, you will become exhausted. Thankfully, you can blame the uneven, chunky shag on fashion. For gel you can use toothpaste, that stinky lotion you got for Christmas, last year’s sunscreen, or lip gloss that was left in the car for two years. Then dig out your Halloween makeup, find the black stick and create yourself a smoky eye. You probably have some colored hair gel in there – go with the pink, very hot right now. Trust me. I’m a pop-culture diva, remember? Throw on some black tights and a tshirt from your fat days and BAM. You are now a hip chick. Take your hot little self down to the local bar, get someone to buy you a pity martini. While you’re out, use your last $10 to pay a neighboring kid to clean your house. When your husband gets home, he’ll find your floors clean and you lying on the couch, slurring your words.  He’ll assume you’ve overdone it, used too much energy cleaning, which always leads to dizziness, nausea and slurred words. Hell, if you’re gonna’ have a disease and suffer from these symptoms anyway, use it to your advantage.

A Woman and Her Beard

I have endless days ahead of me, able to write about an infinite amount of topics. So I think I’ll write about body hair.

Last year, an Italian woman on Real Housewives of New Jersey admitted to dry shaving the hairs on her chin and lip. Of course, this is second hand information since I would NEVER watch that train wreck of a reality tv show. Never. Anyway Caroline Manzo was bashed hardily by viewers, commentators, and even her supposed reality peeps. Hypocritical bee-otches. For sure that spicy little Theresa had some serious wax strips ripped off the day she hulked out on Danielle . . . or so I’ve heard.

My point is, men shave openly while women aren’t supposed to shave at all. They must be born hairless or dispose of the offensive follicles magically, silently, alone.  Males with a five o’clock shadow are revered for their virility. They certainly don’t have to hide the fur.  On the other hand, women with a five o’clock shadow have to spend their days plucking in dark corners, tucking their chins into turtlenecks, spending hundreds of dollars a month – or week – on waxing /slash/ shriek fests. Further, the pink- faced ladies are shamed into silence, only able to open up about the undisciplined hair growth after a four pitcher margarita session with the girls. Never, ever, with the boyfriend or husband. The looks of dismay and resulting physical distance are not worth it. 

Of course, this is second hand information since my own body hair is completely normal for a woman. A Greek woman. The hair hypocrisy in this society is out of control . . . or so I’ve heard.

To TV or not to TV

The economy sucks. Most states are hovering around 8-10 percent unemployed. A much higher percentage go to work, serving coffee to bitchy bikers or hammering nails in the rain, but “live” in poverty.  If you can call drinking Western Family  coffee instead of fresh roasted beans living. 

Whew. That’s a hell of a lot of people making tough decisions every day. Decisions like: how long should a “check engine” light blink before you sell your kidney to raise the mechanic’s fee? Are dollar store multi vitamins a good replacement for fruits and vegetables? Is scurvy easy to cure?   Should you use the see-through packing tape to hold the broken window in place, or just give in and use the duct tape? Can you bring the patch-look back into fashion, or should you just make those pants into shorts? Will frostbite really lead to amputation?

The biggest decision of all? Should you cut off your cable. Turn off the tv? Live without the escapism? If you switch to Netflix to provide your tv crack cocaine, can you live without sports and news? Remember, you can always read. Reeeeeaaaaadddd. Because reading about the Blazers is better than watching them (well, sometimes it is). Time to break out the radio, revert back to grandma's kitchen, your hair in braids, bacon and eggs on the table, NPR or Tom Brokaw filling the greasy, sunny air. It's easy to say "oh, I never watch tv, it's disgusting" if you have the choice not to watch tv. High moral stands are easy to make when you have a sturdy platform of cash under you.  

You want funny? I got funny.

You want funny? I got funny.

(Hang on a second, I gotta find funny).

Ok.

How many of you have camped out of a car? If you have, you will understand the title of a feature story I’ve been researching/writing for years:  CAMPING OUT OF A CAR or How to Dig a Shallow Grave.  Granted, not everyone’s travel partner is chasing surf or wind like my partner but  . . . still, partner? Please. After a 24 hour period trapped in a bucket seat with a human fart machine that loves Rush the term partner morphs into “you mother@#$% moron,” whether it’s said aloud or not.

After six trips down to the tip of Baja, Mexico, from the top of Oregon, I’ve learned a few survival tricks. Self-hypnosis is one. Really, it’s handy. Other than that, I’ve created a comprehensive list of supplies, a list of anti-supplies, a list of tested and approved conversations for the sequestered, and a list of emergency skills and/or contacts. Some examples: bring your own tampons, condoms and a pregnancy test, those things are hard to find and can be sold for gold. Real gold. Do not drive a fully loaded car into the back woods; it’ll come out no-loaded, if it comes out at all.  Pepto Bismo tablets are delicious, the toilet paper is provided by you, only you, and coyotes love a full moon at night.

You think I’m kidding but I’m not. The article is already at page 12, thanks to years of journal entries. Some entries are so splotched and smeared by tequila and tears, they’re hard to read, but I’ve been able to decipher the gist of the messages: don’t do it.

But if you’re gonna do it, keep an eye out for my article. I'll let you know where it's published as soon as I know where it's published.  

Insurance company a.k.a. dark overlord

I approached noon happy . . . tired but happy. Then I got the mail. I did not see that bat to the head comin'.

Coping with being sick, being fatigued and foggy, is challenging enough. Losing the ability to teach was a whopper. Now the insurance company is saying I can work, just not teach, so it's the boot for me. Get a stationary job. Oh, yes, insurance company, I been sittin' around, stoked out about my diminished capacity to focus and verbalize for extended lengths of time, luxuriating in the inability to cope in a workplace. Yep. Good times. Recently, my "foggy" brain had me convinced I had a tumor or alzheimers. I started writing a book so my brain wouldn't totally evaporate, even when writing meant one sentence a day. Hence, two hundred and fifty pages taking me a year to produce. Believe you me, I want to be a worker bee again. Those of you who know me, know I'm a charge ahead kinda' gal. Frankly, having to convince some desk jockey that I'm not a loser is giving me insomnia. It makes me feel skungy, sketchy, vulnerable to an out of control train. And the fact that trying to work will incapacitate me, put me back in bed for weeks at a time, has my stomach crawling out my mouth.

I was a hard worker, loyal for so many years. Why is this happening to me? If I apologize to Karma, can we just sweep whatever mean-girl crap I pulled in a past life under the rug?

Next up: new round of doctor appointments, appeals, lawyers . . . I'm so tired. But I'm not giving up. How can I? Auggie Mar needs a momma, a momma that feeds him and washes his underwear.  He goes through a lot of underwear. Besides, we wrote a children's book together today. That puts me back to happy.

WHAT IS YOUR BOOK ABOUT?

May Day! I was awakened by a flute shrieking next to my head, a flute I thought was well hidden. The piercing squeal created flowers of lightening in the dark sky of my brain. . . which is perfect for the first day of May, the day to deliver flowers and run. But Auggie didn’t run quite fast enough. I am once again in possession of the flute. Happy May Day!

A question I expend a lot of energy to avoid: WHAT IS YOUR BOOK ABOUT?

Ugh, for such a straight-forward novel, it’s hard to explain. One, pinning it to a genre label is tough, no matter how badly publishers want to stab it neatly to a corkboard. Two, the basic storyline sounds so self-indulgent it’s embarrassing.

Literary genres are delightful. And by delightful I mean acidic rubs on scalped skin. They’re helpful for readers who want to find dystopian science fiction, or feline erotica; they’re helpful for publishers looking to sell vampire fantasy or historical meta-romance. They are not helpful for writers of general novels that can fall, partially, into the following: comedic coming of age lit, commercial lit, general lit, school lit, chick lit (noooo!), sport lit.  In order to understand what I’m saying, I guess I’ll have to tell you what the book is about . . .

Let’s start with theme. The big picture: David versus Goliath. Littler pictures: coming of age, discovering inner strength. Next, the storyline: Addy, a brand new English teacher, starting out at a tiny rural school. She is afraid of conflict, rarely speaking up for herself (her internal monologue is sarcastic, biting, but never leaves her mouth). The first day on the job ends with her being forced to coach a debate team, a job that provides plenty of internal, love interest, administration, and competitive conflict. There’s even conflict with Mother Nature.

Yeah, I know. It sounds somewhat like my life. But let me remind you, I’m not afraid of conflict. Just ask my husband. Or co-workers.  Speaking of co-workers – no, you are not in the book. Stop asking me. I swear, your secrets are safe with me. Unless you piss me off. Bwahaha. For instance, the woman who showed up to work with her pants on backwards and mismatched men’s socks . . . you might consider sending me a supersize Carmello. Perhaps a case.

The characters in the book are made up people, though I do pull from stories, experiences, values, traits and dressing habits of the many people who came through the school doors, including myself.  I’ve enjoyed reviewing my classroom and speech team experiences through storytelling.

I hope to be done with all edits and revisions in the next couple weeks and then have an agent and publisher fall in my lap, bearing a case of large bills. While I’m working on that, I’m also writing three other projects. One is a children’s book that Auggie and I have been writing together. He is an excellent storyteller, which plays out with every elaborate lie he tells. I’m predicting he’ll be a famous author or a successful Congressman.