Untitled story about royal deadbeats and murder most foul, Part 1.

I found another of my fiction masterpieces from my childhood. Since nothing interesting is currently going on, I want to share. Current commentary in parentheses.

It was a dark, stormy night. (Because of course it was).Dark clouds rumbled, and streaks of white lightning (sp) lit the sky. It was almost as bad inside the castle as it was outside. Let me stop a moment and explain. (I was really into this conceit of speaking to the reader directly for some reason). The year is 1992. The castle is a true castle where princesses and queens live and kings and princes. You see, royalty still lives there. (In case that wasn't clear when I listed all the types of royal people who live there).But this royal family is about as happy as Charles and Di were. (I...have no idea). Somebody is always jealous of somebody else. Tonight though, while the only light comes from faintly glowing candles, is the perfect time for revenge.

"Ohhh!" moaned Princess Kathryn. "Ohhh! I ache all over. Why did this stupid storm have to come just when I needed to go out?" (She aches all over, but she needs to go out at night? Where do you suppose she needs to go? I'm asking because I doubt I ever get around to explaining that. Bo.Ring.Also, the number of Hs in those Ohhhs is exact).

"Oh, Kathryn," snapped her mother. "You know the only time you ever go out is to see the doctor. And even then we have to force you to go. Unless of course it's impossible to go anywhere. THEN you want to go out. Now go back up to your room or go somewhere. Just leave me alone." (Mother of the year, right here).
"Yes, Mother," said the princess unhappily. Thunder rumbled loudly. (I clearly just discovered adverbs. You could start a drinking game with this sentence).

"Ahhh!" Came a scream. Then a form hurtled down the stairs caliding (sp) with Kathryn and knocking both to the floor. "Julietta Pauline! You get off me this instant!" snapped Kathryn.

"Sorry Kathryn but you know how I hate storms."

"Girls, you both get yourselves upstairs! I am trying to think!"

"Trying to think of what Mother?" asked Julietta anxiously.

"Never mind of what! Go upstairs!"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.

"Whatever shall I do with those girls?" Venetia Winthrop asked herself. You see, she wasn't really cut out to be a mother. It wasn't even what she had wanted. (You don't say).

But here she was, married to a worthless deadbeat with 2 daughters and 2 sons. How had this happened? (I was probably seriously asking, but now all I can think is...sex. Sex is how this happened. Moron. Also...he is somehow a royal deadbeat, who is still married to her...I'm not sure how this works?)

All of a sudden she felt a thud and the world went black.

"Mother!" called a male voice from upstairs, "Could you get me a bagel?" (Royalty. Just like you and me).

Hearing no sharp reply, Prince Royal (Prince. Royal. Prince Royal. Good grief.)called again, "Mother?" Coming down the stairs he called, "Mother!" He passed her chair and walked into the foyer, (I'm still not sure what a foyer is), the kitchen, the great dining room. He turned and ran back to the living room. He checked her chair and there she was slumped over and very, very dead (Didn't he just walk by this chair? Do you suppose I intended these people to be functionally impaired? Also, please note the level of deadness. She is not just dead. She is very very dead. She is very most definitely dead). He screamed and everyone came running. "Father, she's de-de-dead!"

"Make some sense, Royal! Who's dead?" their father asked. (Their royal worthless deadbeat father. Who is still living there and helping care for his children).

"Mother!"

"Venetia?" he said incredulously. (No, their other mother. Maybe I was implying something about royalty and inbreeding? Yeah, I doubt it.)

"Father, look at the gash on the back of her head!" cried Julietta. "I'm going to call the police!"

TO BE CONTINUED...

My thoughts, I will tell you them

1. The spirit of Martha Stewart has invaded my body. I am baking bread. Like right this minute. After a day of yardwork and housecleaning. I am a little frightened of myself right now.

2. Why are people who run consignment stores always so fucking snotty? Man, you peddle used clothing. You are not better than the people who shop here. I have a friend whose theory is that people don't think they are getting a good deal if you aren't totally shitty to them. My personal thoughts on this are that if I am going to give you some of my moneys you should probably be relatively nice to me. And the more moneys I am planning to give you, the nicer you should be. Because I'm pretty sure I can find someone to take my money who will totally kiss my ass, like the whole time. Not that ass kissing is required, just, you know, better than you treating me like I walked in off the street and shit on the carpet or something (I'm assuming here - I've never actually done that. But its how I imagine I would react to someone doing that...I have never done that. Just wanted to be clear.)

3. People at 4-way stops who wave you through when its their turn to go are not actually nice. They are assholes who are messing up the whole flow of the stop. Also, they always seem to be doing it impatiently, like they are doing you a big favor and you should hurry or like they think its your turn even though they have been at the stop since before you pulled up or are clearly to the right of you or whatever. I really wish people would stop doing this. It makes me irrationally angry for extended periods of time (note to self: look into therapy). Also irritating? People who get so far up my ass while driving that I feel like I should ask them to wear a condom. Especially when I look down and see that I'm going 10 miles over the speed limit. I mean really people chill. I highly doubt you are on your way to save kittens from cancer or something.

To sum up: please call an exorcist because this domestic crap is frightening me and also drivers of the world stop being assholes. That is all.

This is what pure happiness looks like

My goal is to be as happy about anything as my dogs are to be awake, alive, and outside in the grass.

Also, if you could, ignore the weird outdoor carpeting. That's been ripped out since these were taken. I really don't think I can live in a world where strangers think that I think that that carpeting is okay. That is not okay.

Like Steven Spielberg's version of the 70s, which never actually happened.

Today is 12 weeks without a cigarette or any nicotine of any kind. It gets easier all the time, but a weird thing I am noticing is how gold-tinged and happy my memories of smoking are. Like, me and a 6-foot tall cigarette holding hands and skipping barefoot through a field of daisies, heads thrown back in laughter, while cartoon birds flit about, and a Randy Newman song plays in the background. And maybe ponies or something. I know it wasn't actually like that, but that's how I remember it. I have no idea why that is.

Actually, I had a pony as a kid. That dude was a total bastard. Ponies kind of suck. Which I know is disillusioning for the non-pony people among us. So maybe there weren't ponies, is what I mean. There might have been unicorns though.

In other news, I actually have no news. I'm just trying to get back in the habit of writing more again, and I haven't actually left the house since Friday. Except maybe to go for a couple of runs. And nothing of note really happens on my runs. Well, there was the one time a truck with like 18 people crammed into the cab followed me for about half a mile and there was another time that there were black adolescents in my vicinity and a middle aged white woman felt compelled to pull over, inform me of their presence, and caution me to be careful, even though I had run by these kids like 5 minutes previously and they were perfectly polite. I think those two things only count as stories if I end up on CNN or find $100 or something.

I...went through our file cabinets today and threw out/shredded/filed a bunch of crap? Also, continued the never ending civil war against the spiders. I knock down webs, they build more webs. I never see an actual fucking spider. But I know that every day I go to open the microwave and put my hand through a fucking web. I don't know why this is happening to me, but it seems like a good reason to blog more frequently. If you don't hear from me you can assume the spiders won the war and I'm all wrapped up in one of those weird white balls they make.

I learned today that garter snakes can spray a musk at predators. I learned this because one of the dogs found a garter snake in the yard and the snake did not appreciate being found. The dog was completely unbothered by the spraying, but we already knew she was mentally challenged, so that's not really surprising.

So...now you know, or some other cliche that makes this post somewhat relevant to anything, anywhere.

Fat AND dumb, but not dead

I don't know what happened. I kept meaning to get on here and tell you guys the story about how the cashier at Wendy's mugged me. Or about the guy dragging a cross down the middle of the road (it had wheels; I'm pretty sure that's cheating). But then two out of three scales agreed that I was fucking fat (yes, they actually said that...like the wheel flipped past all the numbers to a little text box that was all appalled at my fatness. Or something)and I started scarfing down chocolate and Garden Salsa Sun Chips until I slipped into a food coma and blacked out several weeks worth of eating my feelings. Or something. And then I was busy acting out mini-plays about my dogs' back stories (they have back stories) which sounds like a psychotic break to you guys, but just sounds like Tuesday to my husband. And what with all that going on, I haven't blogged in over a month.

So, uh, here is a trying to get back to blogging and getting over my block story: One day I went to Wendy's for lunch (no, I don't know why my weight suddenly sky rocketed. Why do you ask?) and I paid in cash with a $10 bill. The cashier gave me back the right change. I know because I double checked. But then she said, "Give me back one of those ones." And in my head I'm thinking, "That doesn't make sense; this is the correct change." (With a semicolon and everything. Because everyone thinks in punctuation, right?) But as I opened my mouth to say no, I realized that my hand had automatically reached out and given her back one of the one dollar bills. I have no explanation. She just...she had authority, y'all. I don't know. And I was so shocked at my damn self that I just drove away.

So I'm fat and dumb. At least I got that going for me.

Nicotine Withdrawal Will Turn You Into a Monster. A Sobbing, Screaming, Snotty, Raging Monster. Like the Krakken, But More Than That.

Today marks 4 weeks since I decided to stop being nicotine's bitch, and since my family is completely unaware that I've smoked for the last decade I can't really brag about this accomplishment to them. Yes, I'm 29 years old and I still hide shit from my mother. Don't pretend you don't do it, too, and if you don't, well aren't you just a paragon of maturity and also shut up.

I quit cold turkey, which seems to be the way to go, but that third day was...special. Very, very special. The best way to describe to you how special is to say that at some point I realized I was sobbing my guts out over pancake batter, and I still don't know exactly how I got there. My husband came into the kitchen to be supportive and I immediately went from suicidal, sobbing, blackout depression to a red rage that made me want to stab everything that ever was, ever.

I decided it was a good time to get out of the kitchen. Because that's where I keep the knives.


You will be happy to hear that I am still married and I did not actually stab anything. I may have THROWN something and I may or may not have had several conniption fits that would put even the worst behaved toddler to shame, but no one's dead. I'm calling it a win.

Wanna hear about different methods of drying your lumber? Because I know some.

Today I stood on top of a lumber mill (its really hot up there), inspected a rendering plant (reinforces vegetarianism), and inspected a wood chipping plant. This has become my regular routine. Get up at an un-godly hour (seriously, why has science not done something about mornings yet?), drive around in a big truck, put on hard hat and manly boots, stomp around somewhere kind of gross, drive big truck back to office, go home. I'm feeling a little...manly. Powerful? Strong? Interesting? Yes. Feminine? No. Maybe I'll start wearing expensive lingerie under my fire retardant coverall.

Anyhow. Last week my husband came home from work and told me that one of the women in his office was really excited to meet me. When I asked why, he said he didn't know,she just said she was really excited to meet his "little wife".

She's clearly expecting to meet Donna Reed. I'm a little more...who was a wife who had a more masculine job than her husband and didn't clean the house wearing high heels? I'm drawing a blank. Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, except married and without the dancing thing, maybe.