Posting

Abby and I just realized you can't add to a posting, but if you want to continue a story already written, just make a new post with the same name of the story and put part 2 or 3 or whatever after it and we'll figure it out.

ew.

Friday December 22, 2006

ew.

It's a sad day when you wake up to go to work, go to put on your favorite new coat, and realize that you sat in something extremely gross in the cab ride home the night before. Even sadder, to think that anyone will care enough to read about it. I'm bored. Humor me. I will spare the details, but the dry cleaner was appalled and instructed me to go home immediately to try to scrub it out with cold, ONLY cold water, no soap, no soap. She looked at me with sympathy in her eyes, telling me to bring it back immediately after the coat seemed to "brighten up." I almost feel like I should be at home looking after it, like she suggested, waiting for its mood to elevate, making sure that it's not getting too much sun in the kitchen (*no heat, no heat,* she said). Instead, I am at work on my 5th to last day, waiting for a client to call, who won't because it's the weekend before Christmas. I will be working on some personal things very soon, as soon as I'm done writing about my favorite, yet smelly, green coat. Stop reading. This is boring. Here is a photo of my favorite green coat before she or I knew what was to come. From here on, I will call her Lulu.

laundry: thinking about my coats

monday january 22, 2007

laundry: thinking about my coats.

The first real snow as far as I'm concerned! I'm at the laundromat, sitting near the door, stealing wireless, freezing, but can't bear to wear my coat. I hate my winter coat(s) this year, although I'm not sure that I ever enjoy wearing a winter coat. They always seem so bulky. I've been ranting and raving (or just ranting?) lately about this. Oh, Lulu , I didn't say *hate.* I'm just a bit displeased right now. Why aren't you smaller? Was I that much larger when I bought you or did I just not care? I am always so impulsive. When Queenie told me she would not change the style of Lulu (which would have made her fit me better AND be more stylish AND keep me warmer), why did I not insist? Queenie was so cute, peering over her glasses at me, but at the same time looking up from her 5 foot stance. Oh Queenie, why did you deny me? People were complimenting this coat left and right. But the truth is, she is way too big. Peter told me so, and he is so right. Colin told me he agreed that I do dress too frumpy. Oh dear. And then there is my big puffy blue coat. To quote someone who hugged me the other night - *Wow! Very Puffy!* It was a hand me down from Megan and I loved it at the time. I look like one giant ball of puff. Though, it is totally the kind of coat you want to roll around in the snow in. Did I mention it's snowing??? One of the many good things about this delayed winter we had, was all the extra time I got to wear my Kim Kelly vest! Yes, I love you Kim Kelly vest, though I'm not as big a fan of Kim Kelly herself. Sorry, Lou, I'm just not. (And no, still not Angela.)

I just noticed there is a payphone in here next to the change machine. I forgot all about payphones. This poor guy just locked himself out. Man, I'm cold. Puffy coat, will you be good to me? I'm thinking that while I am typing, the answer is no.

Oh dear, *locked out guy* just left in a huff. He is swearing. Poor *locked out guy.*

This guy just walked in and said hi as he approached the change machine. I just caught him looking over as he poured his Tide into the washer. I wonder if he thinks I'm a super-smart grad student working on a super-smart paper or maybe that I'm writing a very heartfelt email to some friend who lives overseas. No, no I'm not. I'm just blogging about my ill-fitting winter apparel, whom I've named fondly (and crazily.) Move along, Tide guy. Don't be impressed.

So, Todd mentioned Joanna Newsom the other night at the Choose to Find duo show. He named a song for her and I gasped from my seat. The strange thing is that I put her away and sort of forgot about her for a while. Josh (W not K) burned me her latest and I haven't listened to it in months. I was addicted to her first disc over the summer. Addicted. I will never be able to listen to that disc and not remember the summer of 2006, the summer I actually left my job and embarked on numeorus adventures (We will call them journeys, Carson.) Oh Joanna, I have such a short attention span sometimes. October, 2003, my 27th birthday, I was obsessed with knitting. I kept talking about knitting. I loved knitting. I received two *Stitch and Bitch* books from two different friends, and a knitting kit from another. I realized last January that I had forgotten all about knitting, and decided to pick it up on Superbowl Sunday (By the way, sorry Pats fans). And not one more stitch, one year later. December, 2004, Carrie got me Barack Obama's book "Dreams From My Father", and I only made it through about a third. I was obsessed with him, yet somehow the book made it into the "I'm reading these someday but not this second" pile. I'm thinkin' now's the time to pick that one back up!

Man, I'm cold! I wish I was in the dryer with the clothes tumbling around right now. But, if I was that small, small enough to fit in the dryer, Lulu would definitely be WAY too big.

Box of Lions

"Where did you get that scar?" asked the man.

"From catching fireflys in the pale sunlight in the frozen wastes of Florida" replied the llama.  "What about yourself?  What did you do to mangle your tailbone so badly?"

"Same thing as you, soupcan.  Only a little different."

Then, the bakery lights finally warmed up to the point where the maps of the factories could be left alone.  Both old friends left the storefront complete strangers, as they always were.

pigtails.

Sunday, June 17, 2007, 3:19 am

pigtails.

Remember that time we walked back to my house from Brookline. I promised to drive you home to J.P. once we got there. Hand in hand, just 2 minutes into our walk,, you yelled at this cab driver "Don't move that car!" as he watched us pass by. I could not stop laughing as he had not even stepped into the vehicle, but you explained how paranoid you were that he would gun it in drive, when he might think he was in reverse, running us poor girls over. I stood by my previous statement that he was not even in the car yet. You just couldn't help yourself.

You were so happy that we are both fast walkers and we wonder why everyone isn't. You are president of the "Could you walk any fucking slower?" club, and I am its only member.

This tricky intersection was coming up at Comm. Ave, and we discussed our strategy. It was around this time that everything you were saying made me think of Stevi and how I felt like I've known her almost as long as I've known you. You kept telling me that you loved *us*. And I love us too. I loved it when earlier tonight you played with my pigtails and told me it was because you wanted to play with your own but that would look weird. You picked mine up instead. *You can play with mine if you want* and I took your not so subtle hint. For 5 seconds, we stood across from each other twirling each others' pigtails, before finally bursting into laughter. I liked my hair better and wondered if that was mean.

So, we approached the scary intersection by Comm. Ave and you were terrified of the median. I am so glad one of us was not inebriated since you were freaking out. You're ok. You're ok. The crosswalk is right there. Ten minutes in, and we are on the BU bridge, taking a little break to enjoy the view. I loved it when you gave me too much information, even though the sober you never wants to hear such things from me.

Standing there, looking out at the Boston Skyline, lights bouncing off the Charles, I thought how this could potentially be a romantic moment, but instead it was just me and my best friend. And that tonight, that was so much better. Talking about boys and life and love, I took your hand once again, ready to walk. You said you loved how I knew that we needed to switch and I agreed that I was definitely on the wrong side.

Down Putnam Ave, you tripped on the sidewalk. You said you are so lucky that you were holding my hand or you would have been face first into that person's yard. It was the first time in a while that I've heard *I love you Abby* so much in one evening and I will cherish it for a bit. You were amazed at how organized my closet is compared to the rest of my room, and I explained that it's bit of a process.

Twenty-six years we've been friends and as we got into my car, you asked me if we were fucked up. I asked what you meant and you told me to just answer the question. I don't envy you right now. I don't. Two summers ago, you were barging in on me and Tom, telling me that I was going to get married before you. And now, I'm out of the race. I feel kind of free.

I promised to teach you some tennis, and you told me more times how I'm the cutest person you know. I wondered about what my summer would hold and you reminded me that I am a playa. I watched you trip again, this time walking onto your front stoop, and then I turned up Coldplay for the ride home.

Starter story

"So where are you from?" he asked, lighting her cigarette for her with a fancy Zippo. (click.) "Boston," she said while looking around the bar.

The feeling of hard top

A bright red ball rolled across the asphalt covering of the playground. I watched as it weaved through a couple of crevices carved into the ground. My hands rested on the grainy surface sprinkled with a dusting of dirt and sand leftover from the afternoon recess. The yelling, the singing, the sounds of sneakers slapping against the pavement in the rhythmic parade of tag once all encompassing and yet almost unnoticeable, was now gone. One-thirty now - the kids were back in class ever since their teacher, round and sharp in her blue courderoy dress, called out their names one last time to get in line and march through the great aluminum doors. I watched the last two holding hands (best friends forever) walk through the doors. I watched the door swing close behind them. And then I walked onto the black ground and took a seat right in the middle of the four square court. The ball was still there. I stretched my toe out a little to the right and tapped it away from me.

I really miss the days of four square. The feeling of winning and having your friends back you up just so you can stay in the top spot. I miss the days of recess. Running as fast as I ever have chansing the boys in a game of flirtatious fourth grade tag. Left with memories and vivid recollections of the feeling of hard top. Not that bad a thing, afterall. Some people will never feel it. And some people will never remember.

Serg

Bubbles floated around the entire field. I checked. On every plane there were at least three bubbles. That means triangles on every level. Triangles that somehow could be seen as a sort of force that could lift me off this ground and carry me across the crowds of people. And as I fly, I could see the very top of people's heads. Each and every one with their own little bald spot. Some would call it a part but from flying abve them, I would know the truth.

But, of course the bubbles, no matter how triangular they were, could never pick up a 250 pound man like me. I jump up and down to try to help them. But I never seem to catch. So I forget about the bubbles and the life they could have projected onto me and I move my way through the people to the hot dog stand.

Every step is matched with an equal and opposite touch of a person I don't know. A complete stranger. And each step introduces a new stranger's skin cells to my skin. The cells touch for long enough to play a quick game of red rover and then the stranger is gone. All that remains is a weak cell that got trapped in my cells' lineup. Tough cookies, these cells.

I smile at each stranger acknowledging the fact that we would be exchanging cells. They stare back at me with what appears to be a look of surprise - or maybe it's really disgust. I'll take surprise over disgust any day. Unless of course it's a bad surprise like the day my mom told me she was married to another man. Imagine. Cheating on me this entire time! I would have yelled at her if she had left a phone number or address on her letter. But I never saw her again. A three sentence letter and she was gone. I threw the letter on the floor, grabbed my Twinkies and went to the beach.

The hot dog stand looked like a bank running out of money. Hordes of people shouting at the poor teenage boy plagued with large patches of purple acne and forced to wear a matching purple bow tie. People with their hands up in the air shaking their five dollar bills violently. I could barely smell the hot dogs over-powered by the super scented butter popcorn stand to the left of me, but I knew those suckers were there sweating under their hot secondary sun, rolling over the way my mom used to all night in bed. Rolling and rolling and rolling to the point where I was sure she couldn't roll anymore and yet she did. And somehow she never fell off the bed. I knew. I sat watching and waiting every night.

As I neared the front of the stand bumping the unfortunate small people out of my way, I noticed how the sweat on the hot dogs matched the sweat on the teenager's face. I watched as one drop trickled its way down from his left eyebrow. Slowly it went over the giant purple mountain majesty on his cheek, seeking out the valleys it could use to speed up its way down to the neck where it could drip its way into annonymity deep in the confines of the bow tie - where it could sit and watch and not be seen.

"Yes sir, yes sir, can I help you sir?" The boy's braces reflecting the sun almost blinds me. I'm forced to take a step back to avoid the burn and accidently step on a little girl who immediately protests in screams and punches to my rear. I try to move out of her reach but realize I'm stuck in limbo between little punching pumpkin and brightly braced Bobby. I begin to cry.

Old Lady on Bus

“I’m doing alright now, I suppose. I’m much better than twenty years ago. Heh, heh you wouldn’t guess that, but it’s true. You see me now, dirty and old, but if you knew me then- dirty and young. It’s worse when your young. I would lie at night shivering and schemeing. Shiveer and scheme, shiver and scheme. That’s what my life was. Plan plan plan. Sometimes they really workeeed. But mostly I was down. Now I’m up at least for me. Up up away. You know? Yeah, well, my sister always was a problem back then, but now she’s much better. Yep, married, has 6 kids at last count. There’s Karen, Kelly, Keith, Ken, Kathleen, Kate, oh, yeah original, huh? Have you ever met them? Cute little buggers. Eat too much chocolate, much too much chocolate but that’s Daddy’s fault. He comes home from work aaat eleven at night and gives them each a Hershey’s bar to make up for never talking to them. They kids eat it as if they were eating up his love. Chocolate daddy. Instead of making them stronger it just makes them rounder. Sis says nothing. She’s too busy buying the roast, unwrapping the roast, pounding the roast, spicing the roast, tying the roast, cooking the roast, cutting the roast, serving the roast, and cleanning up after the roast. She loves the roast so much that she never realizes, or cares, that she’s making up seven servings instead of eight. The kids don’t bug her much as they know how Sis doesn’t like to be interupted in her affair with the roast. A belt or two has helped them learn their lesson quickly. People think I’m scary, they used to call me an addict, but at least it never affected anyone else. Sis was addicted to babies, but when that phase was over, she was out of there. I don’t mean physically, but out of the mother mode. Once they stopped being cute and started eating the same roast she ate, they stopped being hers and started being their own in her mind. “

She smiled with her nicotine colored teeth her yellowish stained hair hung limp like an old ragged scarf around her face. A few red marks on her face stood out as either frostbite or severe acne scars. I could not figure out exactly which they were. All I knew was that I was only four stops away from freedom from this lady. Nod and smile. I uncrossed my legs and accidentally bumped my leg into hers.

“Ooh, my leg. Oh, you know I had surgery on it years ago. They said they’d have to cut it off, but I wouldn’t let them. Just keeping it there for all the good memories it gave me. There were the birthday parties up until I turned ten. Me and my sister would make races up and the winner would win an extra piece of cake. Of course, we would always end up sharing it anyway. Well, how could you eat that cake when you knew that Sis wanted it just as much as you. I always had to split it, but I’d take the bigger piece.

Introduction

As a sometimes writer who often gets a good start and then gets distracted with other parts of life, I thought it would be fun to write stories with other people - just for kicks. The way I'm seeing this is that you can post a story - or part of a story - or add to someone else's story. And then we can see where it goes. I'm not sure exactly how this will work since I haven't done a blog before but I figure I'd try. If you have anyone you'd like me to invite to write in the blog, let me know and I'll invite them - I want this to be open to anyone
That's all. Have fun.