The Bored Housewife Chronicles, at last

I've spent some time editing and arranging selected Fantasy Friday posts, regular posts, and short stories from the Bored Housewife years into a collection, and it's for sale on amazon.com as an e book. Shortly, it will also be available in paperback.

Mostly, I've done this as a way to inspire myself to continue writing, and to memorialize the time I spent here in Blog Land...it feels like a whole separate lifetime.

I used a pseudonym, in the hopes of maintaining some sense of anonymity, but I'll probably end up telling everyone I know, anyway...ha.

Here is the link, if you want to see my (pen) name in print!! Kind of fun...

Not trying to hawk my wares, so to speak, but would really love if anyone wants to leave a review. You've all read it already, no need to buy.

(yes, I'm whatever the inverse of "natural salesman" is, why do you ask?? haha!)

(and definitely weird to see a pen name instead of MY name. Might have to change that...)

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007JE6C5M

Happy Daylight Savings to you all...grumble...yawn....

Turmoil

From the sea, to the mountains and finally back to the sea...
and now?
Without even looking for it, or asking for it,
we are offered a new life in the
middle
of this country.
A new start, a new era.
I feel in my bones that it is the right choice for us,
that it is our destiny,
inevitably rolling along and we are but passengers on this glorious ride.
But my heart is breaking...
I guess no one can have EVERYTHING they want, eh?
True Love?
check
Living in Maine again after all those years of yearning?
check
Having enough money to thrive here?
Nuh-uh.
And I find myself wishing that money didn't matter.
Because I sure as hell know that it doesn't matter as much as my love for this rugged and harsh landscape,
finely detailed with rocks and trees and winding roads that take my breath away every single day.
And I damn sure know that money doesn't hold a candle to the amazing friends and family I have here--the people I've known my whole life, the people I missed for the half of my life that I lived in the desert west and the people I've only been life-long friends with since meeting my True Love.
Living here these 3 years has been an oasis in the journey that is my life, the adventure I get the chance to live!
Instead of being bitter that we couldn't "make it" here,
instead of feeling despair at leaving the full-body warmth that comes with familiarity so deep it's in my bones,
instead of resisting this change that is vital to our survival,
let me rejoice that I had this chance at all!
Let me praise the mysterious ways of the universe around us
for granting me this stay in paradise.
My paradise.
To you paradise might evoke images of white sandy beaches and azure waters, palm trees and cabana boys.
For me, paradise is the rocky coast of Maine--green trees so lush you have to fight them for some land to build a house, water so cold and blue dotted with green tufts of islands on the horizon, lighthouses and lobstermen...
Bearded, gruff men with accents--the backbone of our tiny, glorious coast,
seafood and amazing restaurants,
sailing and skiing...

Shiiiiiit, I'm homesick already.

But yes.
I will try to remember to be grateful for this chance...this chance I had to reassert my roots, to reconnect with those I love, and to wallow in the utter perfection of this landscape!!!

Iowa...get ready.
Cuz I expect to be bored, restless, and still madly in love with my husband!!

Life...

It really is quite lovely...

I have little bursts of inspiration lately.
But it seems like I am never near a computer.
So, those little bursts pop like bubbles,
and instead, I bury myself deeper in the piles of books inside my Kindle.
I read and read and read and read and read
and pretend that it is as good as writing.
I read and read and read and
pretend that it is more important than watching tv
or playing Angry B!irds.
Pretend that I am superior in my time-wasting choice.
But I'm not.
I'm lazy, too.
Because I should be writing.
i SHOULD be writing.
I picture myself--standing on a skyscraper, grey sky behind, wind whipping my far-longer-than-my-real-hair hair, and I am shouting those words with a wide-open mouth, a mouth far larger and able to open than my own. For, as my dentist says, "If anyone tells you that you have a big mouth, they're wrong." Ha. Funnier than he knows, because I am
such
a talker.
I'm a talk
talk
talktalktalktalktalktalk
er.
Just ask my husband.
He'll tell you...if his voicebox hasn't faded away from lack of use.
I'll tell you, if you ask.
But don't expect a short answer.
Instead,
what you should expect
is
a novel-length,
intricately-detailed
explanation.
I talk so much to make up for all the words I don't write.
Which just seems silly.
Perhaps I should take a vow of silence for a year...
or, like, an hour and a half...
and see how many wonderful and wondrous things I can write.
Probably I would spend all my time IMing with my husband and friends...
instead of delicately constructing the world's next devourable read.
Which I don't think I even know how to do.
But at least
if I keep writing
(every day, they suggest)
then maybe someday...
I'll reach the tipping point--
where my taste and my abilities are in sync.
Or 98 degrees, or whatevs.

Because a great lady recently told me that I am a writer she admires greatly,
and I figure if she's great and she admires me greatly...
well, that's just redundant or, rather, stating the obvious.
But what I meant was that she is amazing and she admires me a wicked lot,
so that reminded me that maybe I should gothefuckahead and make something of myself??
Cuz what the hell?
Why don't I want to HAVE what I want?

Eh. Bleh.

Maybe.........
I'm afraid.
But it's what my beloved Ira Glass said, about taste and talent being out of sync, and he said to just hang in there and keep writing and one day my abilities will catch up with my high expectations of authorship.
Not to imply that he said it to me, personally. It was a clip of an interview that they played on wimp.com.
Rawk.

P.S. Once upon a time I was a badass motherfucker. Just like Samuel L. Jackson. Except really, nothing like him. At all. Except maybe the inclination to use the fuck word, but otherwise, I only know his characters, not his character.

And right now........
I feel like that Lisa you all once knew.
Which makes me believe that some day I will write that book.
And that some day is closer than it sounds.

Inspiration vs. Perspiration

I have been getting little flashes of inspiration lately...
But, alas, the perspiration is winning!
It has been a weirdly hot summer, and
I have been weirdly unable to stand the heat.
I've never been one to revel in the sweaty, humid weather or to enjoy baking under the dry sun, but this summer, I feel like I've gone to a different place with my heat aversion altogether.
I loathe the heat.
It cripples me.
It wraps me in its soggy, heavy arms and sucks me down
down
down...
into the rabbit hole of foggy mind and droopy eyelids.
My brain refuses to think quickly or sharply,
and mostly just sends out messages to the rest of my body, "Sleep...sleep..."
And so.
It's been a fast, busy, slow, empty summer...
Weeeeeird.
Also, my newest pet peeve of the Text Age:
people who elongate words in order to show emphasis, but do it by adding extra consonants, or other letters that have little to do with how one might pronounce that word in an emphatic fashion.
For example, "Duuuuuuude!" works for me.
While, "DDDDDDDDDDDDude!" doesn't really say much.
Or, "I llllllllovvvvvvveeeeeee you!" just sorta looks...well...STOOOOPID.
But, "I looooooooooooooove you!" kinda says something.
Am I nuts?
Or too eccentric?

And also, while I'm ranting about things that show my literary superiority, whilst writing goofily myself, let me just remark upon self-publishing of books.
I'm a huge supporter of this trend, by the way, but here's a suggestion:
If you're going to publish something and present it as a finished work?
Try some light editing, a smidge of proofreading, perhaps?
It really just makes reading so much more delightful.
Also, if the story could be SLIGHTLY interesting, that would help, too.

So.
Yeah.
I'm pretty stoked that summer is almost over.
I know...I'm probably the only one!!
But that means the leaves will change, and got-down-sat-on-a-bench, I loves me some fiiiine (see?) New England autumn weather!!
It's downright delicious.
We will go pick apples, and go for hikes.
We will continue to kayak and bike ride.
And then?
Before you know it!!!
It'll be time for Pie Night and Thanksgiving and my new skis will be ready for me, and the snow will fall and it will be time for skiiiiiiii-ing!!
And. Yeah.
I guess I'm kind of a fan of winter.
Not that I don't enjoy the hell out of summer, too, but...I hate the heat.
I love the rain and the snow and the cool and the cold.
I love boots and coats and snowshoeing!

Ok...I'll return from my happy winter wonderland fantasy and go lie on my bed with three fans blasting me and hope that I can sleep through the night.

Also, I think my whole point of writing this was to whine about the fact that I keep being struck by inspiration, only to end up at my computer with nothing to say. But of course, I never have "nothing" to say...I just happen to not be in the mood to write the fiction that has been rattling around in my brain cave. C'est la vie.

Oh, digital age, why have you let me down?

For three years, my Blackberry and I have been very happy together. We have laughed, played, worked, planned, and remembered together. My Blackberry has been part of the tapestry, weaving together my True Love and I, as we shared love notes with each other every day, and stayed in close contact even when apart. My Blackberry was able to call all of my dearest friends and family with the touch of ONE button, and I was able to type in texts, reminders, and grocery lists with the speed and agility of an Olympic athlete.

Why did I forsake this beautiful artist's tool? Why did I think the bells and whistles of a touch-screen android would be BETTER?? I even waited until the one I wanted offered a slide-out keyboard, so that I could avoid the touch-screen typing that had always looked so painfully slow to me. My brain is not wired for this. I am not able to think slowly enough to type as slowly as this new "phone" makes me. The typing needs to be second-nature, so that my thoughts can flow freely and quickly, but this new monstrosity is so laborious that I forget what I was going to say before I even get it half typed! And forget about proper punctuation...it is SOOOO hard to fix mistakes or add punctuation that any speed gained by Swype technology is utterly lost. I hate this "phone," this abomination of communication! This communication abomination. That's what I'll call it. I may have to have my Blackberry reactivated. I will give it a few more days...but I have never felt so utterly hobbled, so completely bound-and-gagged. I feel like I'm living in a foreign country where I don't know the language or anyone who speaks my own.

Fuck Droid.

Poems, or the muck rattling around in my brain cave

Because maybe
what I need
is to purge my inner thoughts and feelings and all that
jazz.

Because maybe
even though life is beautiful
sometimes there are things in it that aren’t.
like being a child of divorce,
suddenly
and rather unexpectedly
at the age of 36.
Wondering if I’m as selfish as my
selfish
selfish
selfish
father
because I already know I’m like him
in some less-than-flattering ways
and I don’t
want
to be.
And maybe it's more fair to say,
also,
that he is kind and good-hearted,
but right now,
it's the selfish that really
sorta
stands out.

And maybe sometimes
it makes me too sad even to cry
if I think about my mother
left
alone
at her age.
73.
She should have been widowed, not abandoned.
but
of course
I don’t mean to say
that I would prefer my father had died,
But.
It would have been sad in very different ways.
And he has still left her.
Left all of us.
Because he’s not planning to come back
from California.
Who could blame him?
(Well, besides my sister and I?)

I am angry at him
and I am angry
and I am ANGRY!!!!!!!
The font doesn’t grow large or red enough for me to express the depth and breadth and inexplicable fieriness of my anger.
He
could have stayed
should have left sooner
would not have made her happy if he had stayed, anyway...
But she was happy.
She is content and sure and grace-filled.
She didn’t need him, ever
and maybe that’s why...
He wasn’t able to stay.

***********************

Twin Fever

I am obsessed with
immersed in
riveted by—
the videos of my boys as toddlers.
I lose myself for long chunks of minutes
inside these scenes from my past.
I listen to myself narrate the video,
giggling at their antics,
(myself in stereo:
laughing then, laughing now),
the love I felt for them palpable,
visible in their shining dark eyes.
The love is still here, of course,
but it’s easier to gush over toddlers than tweeners.
They fight it far less.
Watching their first steps,
their first words,
their first, toddling wrestling match...
I want to live inside those moments,
indeed, it feels like time travel.
I want to bury my face in the soft skin between chubby cheeks and tender necks.
I want to lift them onto my hips,
two at a time, like I did then.
Ten years have passed in the blink of an eye;
those just-walking babies will be 11 next week.
Those 4-pound preemies are now each 5’ 1” tall.
They are smart and funny and are
just
about
to
turn into People.
It astounds me.
They astound me.
Those soft little cheeks and giggles and rounded words.
They are everything.

****************************

A seagull stole my mango yesterday
From the deck of my sailboat
as we rocked in the salty air.

I leapt to the dock
and chased him down.

I got my mango back.
--for Captain Chrissy

I think I'm ashamed of being a blogger drop-out...

Kind of like how I dropped out of college--
just sort of got caught up in new currents,
ya know?
Wandered away...
And the guilt! Oh, the guilt!
I miss blogging all the time,
but I know that so many of my dear bloggy companions
are as long gone as I am.
Which makes a return far less enticing.
Besides the fact that I am not
connected-like-Keaneau-in-the-Matrix to it anymore.
It was certainly an addiction for a while there.
Woven into the fabric of my daily life,
like oxygen and cat hair.
Oh wait, that's NOW.
Well, the cat hair infiltrating every aspect of my life, at least...
But I digress.

Maybe when I get a little more distance,
I'll be able to write a book about the two lives I lived.
The first marriage, and the second--
survival and thrival, respictively.
(and yes, thrival is a word...ahem...)
The way I rebelled against Utah and felt trapped in my uncomfortably-fitting marriage vs. the way I settle-with-deep-contentment into Maine and glory in every moment I get to spend with my True Love....ahem...yes, well, now you remember why I haven't been blogging, right? Hehe...
Yes, I've settled into Real Life, but he's still, like...dreeeamy...it's like he's oxygen and cat hair to me! Wait...what?
Seriously...I live and breathe this guy.
Three years we've been together, and he still gives me butterflies,
I still CAN'T WAIT for him to get home from work every day,
and send him love notes all day...
So, anywho.
Where was I?
Cuz now I'm just sitting here smiling into the blue...

Have a lovely weekend, kids.

Friction Fiction

And, no...I don't mean that in the dirtiest of ways,
like in the old days.
I just like the sound of it.
And I feel like writing a story...
And if you see yourself between the lines, don't be too flattered--
there are pieces of everyone I meet, scattered through my writing like chunks of flesh mixed with rich, dark earth...human compost!! Haha!!

Julia didn't so much step into a room as rush into a room--not because she was in a hurry, but in the manner of a river rushing through a suddenly opened dam. The wildness of her once-natural-now-bleached blonde mane was the outward projection of the inner friction between her serious, inquisitive nature and her rampant desire to constantly be pushing her physical limits. She wrangled horses, castrated pigs, shot and cleaned deer, elk, moose; she shoed horses and ran dogsleds. She was a woman in a man's world and the fire in her pale green eyes was half laughter half stubborn determination. But none of that even entered the awareness of the patrons of that dingy, small town bar as her presence gushed through the creaking wooden door. Whether smiling or scowling, she lit up a room and all eyes naturally found their way to her.

"Hey, Willy. Gimme an herbal tea, wouldja? Fucking fence." She tossed a pair of well worn leather gloves onto the bar and took off her heavy sheepskin jacket, dropping it over the chair back on the bar stool. She yanked the clip from her hair and tousseled it, then tucked part of it back again.

Sitting quietly at the bar, at ease with the world and with himself, was Eric. He was the son of a Senator and had grown up in DC. He had never really had to make his own way in life, caught in the steady flow of money and priveleg, but with college a couple graduation a few years past his rearview mirror, he was starting to feel the need to push beyond the trust funds and private school life and become a part of the raw, often painful "real world." He chatted amiably with the bartender, and alternated between watching the football games on the various TVs and reading chunks of text from a book on the history of economics in America.

She hadn't yet noticed him, and of all the people in the bar, he had probably taken the least notice of her. And then...

"Football? Aw, fuck football, Willy. Can we change one of these to something a little less...ya know, caveman-esque?" She sort of rolled her eyes, and laughed--just a hint of the room-filling laugh she was famous for.

"I'm watching that." A quiet, steady voice; not arguing, just stating a fact.

She almost didn't hear him, then turned, with a serious look on her face to investigate the source of the voice. What she saw was a man of wiry build, not too tall, with blue eyes nearly as big as the Montana sky she had just stepped away from. He had lashes like a girl, and a mop of almost-curls, joined by a fresh-looking beard.

"You're watching all 4 games?" She was suddenly aggressive, and took a step nearer to him.

He was startled, but not intimidated. "I am. And reading this book."

"Impressive." She flopped down in the stool that stood between them and put her feet in his lap. "Whatcha readin?"

Her heavy, mud-clad work boots left a smudge across his leg and dropped suspiciously manure-like chunks of mud all over his lap and the floor.

He smiled at her--not just any smile, a warm, genuine smile--and said, "Get the fuck off me." He paused a beat, then added, "Please."

She laughed, this time the full, hearty laugh of hers that everyone who's ever met her could pick out of a crowd, even after many years: a whooping, guffawing laugh that makes even mourners chuckle. She drew back her feet, brushed off his lap and stood, planting her hands on his shoulders and bringing her face so close they were almost touching. His heart skipped a beat…and a half. She smelled like rain and wind and fire—not smoke, fire. He felt himself being sucked into her and he leaned into it.

Their noses bumped and she laughed again. "Pardonez moi.” With a smooth, sleight of hand type motion, she slid the book from the bar behind her up against her back and stepped away from him. She tossed him a taunting smile before she plunked down beside him again, this time with her feet on the stool on the other side of her, so her back was facing him.

Eric sat stunned for a moment. Who was this girl? This woman? She was a ball of energy—fully controlled, but sizzling under the surface like a raw electric current.

His heart was racing now, and he knew he was engaged in some sort of game, but he didn't know the rules or the strategy or even, really who the players were. Because, obviously, he didn't know her, and in this context he suddenly felt unfamiliar with even himself.

*******

Dammit, Ok, I know I've done this before: This feels like the start of something, but now I'm distracted, done for the moment. I always promise to come back, to write more, but it usually doesn't happen. And when it does...somehow the story never really feels the same, or goes anywhere. Fuckin fuck.

National Novel Writing Wha--??

So, I'm kinda firing up the writing kiln again, and it feels
grrrrrrrrrrrrr
ate!

I can't remember if I posted the story I wrote for my creative writing class on here, but I submitted it in revised form and I feel like it's starting to shape up.
I would love to turn it into a book.
Shrug.

Also, some friends and I came up with a friggin sweet idea for a children's book--photographs by my lovely lanky husband v2.0, story by moi, moi-meme et je!

Plus, I picked up a fun little pre-Christmas gig at my friend's artisan jewelry store/gallery, which will usher me into ski season!! For which I'm duly stoked. Skiing! Woot! Also, Zumba-ing my friggin' heart out lately and exercise always makes me feel invincible---powerful, strong, happy!
So, yeah.
Life.
Rocks.

Now if only I could grow the stones to email or worse, call, my ex and ask him to negotiate on some financial/travel matters for the kiddos....
Guh.
Thanks, but, I'd rather have a speculum shoved up my inflamed urethra!
(believe me, not as fun as it sounds!)
(and did I actually spell "speculum" wrong, or does blogger just not have it on file?)

Ok, in honor of the impending ski season, here is a poem I jotted out today in 10 minutes in class. It is done in the Pantoum format, which basically means that lines 2 and 4 from the first stanza become lines 1 and 3 of the following stanza, and so on...also, they are 4-line stanzas.

Hit it.

Ski Season

The chairlift sways
Up I go
The wind cuts through me
Up and up

Up I go
So I can come down
Up and up
So slow, so cold.

I will come down
so fast and then--
slow and cold
I'll go back up.

So fast I swish
from left to right
Slow and cold
From bottom to top.

From left to right
I zig and zag
From bottom to top
I slowly ride up.

I zig and zag
down the slope
I slowly ride up
til the light fades out.

Ok, so I departed from the exact format a bit here and there, but I LOVED writing with such circular, repetitious flow!
I will do revisions on this one, definitely.
The theme fits the format very well, don't you think?
The textbook describes this format as something that makes you revisit an idea and skiing is just that--round and round, suffering through the slow crawl to the top, so you can race down the snow!
I will spice up my language choices to give better visuals and tighten up some of the places where a line seems too long.
Mostly, it was fun.
It was maybe the first time I felt the thrill of the Math that is the invisible structure of poetry...

Ok, if you have any time left, here is my revision of that story, which I have now confirmed I did NOT yet post here:

They stood with throngs of people moving around them in at least two directions, his hands slipping on the handles of the heavy duffel bag in one hand, wilting tickets in another. He stood before her, agitated but tongue-tied.

“Grand Central Station.” He paused, eyes flickering over their surroundings. “We’re a walking cliché.” He attempted a smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

“Nothing about this is cliché,” she said. He nodded, mouth forming a straight line.

“So what do we do next?”

“We already talked about that. Nothing.”

“Yeah.” He paused, opened his mouth, then closed it again, handing her the duffel.

“Don’t forget to write?”

She sighed, snatched the tickets from his dangling arm. “Enough with the clichés.” Her tired eyes had hardened, willing him to stay out—far outside of her. She was not only in a hurry to get onto her train, she was in a hurry to not be seen with him; it wouldn’t do anything for her reputation to be seen with a civilian, especially one so young.

She glanced at the clock, the ticket. Her body shifted almost imperceptibly away from him, the precursor to a step.

“Don’t go.”

“Jim.” A sigh, laced with impatience.

“Stay.”

“Jim. We decided.”

“I want to un¬-decide, then! I want to—I want to…” He swallowed hard, and started to back away. He was angry, ready to fight for her, ready to beg, but the look on her face stopped him cold. Time passed like a fun-house mirror, each second a lifetime.

He said her name softly, then.

“Rachael.” Like a prayer, or a wish made on a falling star.

She turned away from him, willing herself to melt into the swarm of uniformed bodies making their way with purpose around them. She pressed forward, every step feeling like the future engulfing her, when an arm reached through the shield of bodies and stopped her progress. Again she found herself face to face with the boy she had pretended to love.

“Ok, Jimmy. Ok. Say your piece, but then, really. I have to go or I’ll miss my train.”
He looked defeated then, maybe realizing for the first time that it truly was ending. She would leave, and he would go back to being a lonely boy in a city full of people who didn’t understand him.

She hadn’t understood him, either, but he had interpreted her silence as a warm blanket of soft security enveloping him, instead of the brick wall hiding her true feelings that it really was. Rachael had needed a few weeks to recharge her batteries before heading back into the battlefield and it was just pure luck that they stumbled across each other. He had a private dorm room, and she had been looking for a place to hide from the world, from its ugliness and its heavy demands on her. She was only five years older than Jimmy, but she had thoroughly used up those five years—military training and rapid advancement in this time of unprecedented war. It was as though the whole planet was caving in on itself, each country viciously trying to consume each other country in its path toward the sky.

“Take me with you!” He nearly shouted the words, his eyes widening in disbelief at his own impulsiveness.

Rachael stepped back, sharply glancing around. This isn’t happening, she thought. “Jimmy…you know it doesn’t work like that. You know that can’t happen.”

“But I—I—” She knew which nefarious ‘L-word’ was on the tip of his tongue and she had to act fast.

She braced herself, so she wouldn’t roll her eyes or employ a sarcastic tone. “Jimmy, I will never forget you.” She was so convincingly sincere that she almost believed herself. I should be an actress instead of a soldier, she thought. She kissed him once, lightly, on the neck and ran her fingers across his childishly stubble-covered cheek and turned away again, this time forcing herself to move as though with regret.

Some romantic notion in the boy was satisfied. The tension left his body and his shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Even though he was forlorn, his perception of the world remained intact and he was free to move forward through his own life. She had changed him forever, but would forget him as easily as stepping through a door onto a train.

“Captain Moralez.” The nearest soldier saluted her and a hush fell as she stood before the sea of anxious faces.

“At ease, soldiers. We have a long ride ahead. Let’s all just get some rest and I’ll have orders for you at oh-six-hundred.”

Rachael took her seat and pulled out a notebook and a stack of maps. She already knew how unlikely it would be that any of them would make it through the next attack, but until she had different orders, they would proceed with the original plan.