Curb Space

Don’t let the solid, rectangular piece of steel fool you. The entrance to my house is a revolving door. In the morning, I count the cars to know who is home. Even without visitors, it would appear to the average passerby that we were throwing a small shindig; a gathering, at the very least. Hopefully, my neighbors don’t mind that we take up more than the normal amount of curb space, sometimes spilling over to the other side.

Recently, we visited an Open House. Beautiful house for sale in the small town of Purcellville, but there was no driveway (just a modest-sized garage), and no curb parking. “We would have to run a shuttle service,” my partner and I remarked. We laughed at the vision of purchasing a golf cart to transfer kids and guests to and from some remote, gravel lot.

My partner and I included, we make up a family of seven. All but the seven- year-old drives their own car, and even he is dreaming of the day when he can hold his own set of keys. Our house, right now, is practically ideal: 5 bedrooms, 3 1/2 baths, a carport with a driveway AND curb parking, although, the driveway is on a steep slope.

Recently, a neighbor knocked at the door. “Um, your car is rolling down the driveway…” It was my partner’s jeep. Since then, we only park one in the carport; all other vehicles on the curb.

One morning, the inventory of cars did not add up. After questioning each of the physical bodies in the house (including the seven-year-old), we concluded that there was one unidentifiable car. There is a path that runs along the side of our house that connects to the adjoining neighborhood. Periodically, someone will park in front of our house and use the path as a cut through. This one car, however, began parking there every day, ALL day; always arriving and leaving, unnoticed.

“We need to do something about that car,” commented my seventeen year old, as he stared at the car with disdain. He is the youngest of the drivers in the house. “He is messing up our parking.”

He was right. He WAS messing up our parking.

On a normal day, there is one car parked in the carport, three on one side of the driveway (in front of the house), and one on the other. When the mystery car parks, only two can fit in front of the house, causing overflow to the other side of the street.

But, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

According to the county parking rules, unless he left his car sitting for ten or more days, we could not have it towed. This person returned to his car every day, and though it was strange that he was parking there(visiting Mrs. Robinson, perhaps?), it was not illegal, so there was not much we could do.

“Unless we put a note on his car,” I suggested.

Something like . . .

To Whom it May Concern:

We respectfully request that you park at your place of “business”.Parking here disrupts the amount of curb space needed for the residents who live here. If you continue to park here, we are not responsible for the disappearance of your car.

Cordially,

NCS (Neighbors for Curb Space)

Of course, we would omit that last line. Revolving door is okay; doors with bars, not so much.

"Violets are Blue, Rosacea is Red"

One of the lovely features of getting older, 
apparently combined with my Scottish and Irish heritage 
(thank you, Great, Great, Great, Great . . . somebody), 
is that my skin has been breaking out like a teenager's. 

There is a LOVELY name for it: ROSACEA. 

Why such a lovely sounding word, 
associated with such an annoying condition??? 

Rosacea sounds likes Roses, as in . . .

"Roses are Red, Violets are Blue..."

or, 

"Everything will come out smelling like roses"

or, 

"Take time to smell the roses."

So, what IS Ros(acea)?

"A condition that causes redness and often small, 

     red, pus-filled bumps on the face." 

"Violets are blue, Rosacea is red" 

LOVELY.

And, there is no cure.

One SHOULD, however, stay away from the following (deep breath): 

red wine (and most alcohol), 
chocolate, 
avocados, bananas, and most tropical fruits, 
the sun, 
the wind, 
humidity, 
extreme heat, 
extreme cold, 
caffeine, 
exercise, 
spicy food . . . 

STRESS! 


WHAT'S LEFT? 

I'M STRESSED OUT THINKING ABOUT IT!


Sigh . . .


I suppose I could look at the bright side.

There is a French proverb,  "No rose without a thorn." 

There is a Chinese proverb,  

"A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom." 

I suppose I could think of myself as a beautiful rose;  
     my rosacea, defending me. 

HA!!!

Certainly gives new meaning to the old joke, 

"Does your face hurt? Cuz it's KILLING ME!"

Buying Time

It's early morning, and the winter brown earth has been awakened by white. 

As I sit, looking through the window of my suburban home, all is still. 

The only movement, that of the softly falling snow. 

Quiet, peaceful; serene. 

I imagine this scene through the window of a small, rustic cabin - 

     no threat of a disturbance from cars, busses; snow plows.  

The only noise, the occasional snap of a broken tree limb.

Or, the crackle of flames, from a warming fire.  

The refrigerator hums, and I quickly come to. 

As I sit, looking through the window of my suburban home, all is still.

I could stare out at the snow for hours, or for however long time will allow.  

Anomaly

Moving.
Going through the motions; collecting.
Memories.
One by one.
Mechanical.
Emotionless.
Just, collecting.
Putting them in bags, in boxes, steel vaults.
Sealing them up with ties, with tape, with locks.
Shipwrecked debris, barely surviving; drifting along.
Staring up into nothing.
Thinking nothing.
Feeling. . .
   nothing.

Until, a strange sight comes into view.

There, in the corner, above the bedroom window,
   where the wall meets the ceiling,
sits . . .  a frog.  

  

Shit, Plop, and Crash - 3 Short Stories

SHIT

Toilets.

They clog.

And, when you aren't accustomed to using a particular toilet,
   there is no telling the load that it can hold.
I felt like I was in the movie "Along Came Polly", only I wasn't Polly.

                               I was Reuben.

There was no pet ferret to interfere, however, there was a pet rat.
Fortunately, she was caged, and not allowed to run about the house.

It was pretty early in the relationship,
and I was not prepared to expose myself in such a "girlfriends are human" kind of way.

FORTUNATELY, I found a plunger.

UNfortunately, while plunging the toilet, the bowl overfloweth(ed).

                        SHIT.

"Um, Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any towels that could be used to clean up a, um, mess?"

"What KIND of a mess?"

"Um, like a, um . . . "overflowed toilet" mess?"

"Do you need help?"

"NO. No. NOoooo.  DEFINITELY not. UNDER control. 
  Soooooo . . .
     where are the towels???"

PLOP

Cheesecake.
A very delicate matter.
Especially, when dropped upon the floor.

We picked one up at the local grocery store.

Looking through the glass case of mouth-watering(ly) enticing confections,
   we chose IT over the others - all chocolate crusted, and drizzled in all of its sweet chocolate(ness).
It made it from the store to the car.  Just.  Fine.
It made it from the car to my friend's house.

Just.

Fine.

"OOooooo, that looks GOOD," people said.

"Let me take it out of the box," said I.

Remember that scene in the episode of FRIENDS,
   where Rachael and Chandler are fighting over the cheesecake?
Rachael carries the cheesecake out into the hallway of their apartment building, when she trips, and . . .

PLOP.

"OOoohhhhhhhhh," the people sighed.

Cheesecake DOWN.

I suppose, like the FRIENDS episode,
   we could have gotten down on our hands and knees with our forks.
We had brownies for dessert, instead.

CRASH

Two things about red wine:

1) It stains.

2) The bottle is made of glass.

My boyfriend and I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things:
Gatorade, bananas, orange juice, yogurt, salt, and two of my favorite bottles of wine.

They were on sale.

We went to the checkout line (15 items or less),
where my boyfriend and I debated whether or not an 8-pack of Gatorade
counted as 1, or 8 items.

Anyways . . .

After the checkout person rang up the items and bagged our groceries,
   we placed them in the cart, and rolled them out to the curb.
Carefully picking up each bag, and balancing the weight between both arms, we . . .

CRASH.

One of the wine bottles dropped STRAIGHT THOUGH THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG.

REALLY???

Red wine ALL OVER THE SIDEWALK.

Red wine ALL OVER my WHITE shoes.

"OOoooohhhhhhh," the people sighed.

Wine bottle DOWN.

The very nice, non-English speaking cart collector
picked up the neck of the bottle from the ground (the only piece of the bottle that was left),
   and motioned for me to go inside to get a new one.
I could understand him well enough to make out the words "should have" and "double bag".

Yes.

They should have double-bagged the wine bottles.
Thank you, sweet man, for not making me feel like an idiot.
Of course, he was not aware of the previous toilet and cheesecake incidents.

It started with a manila file folder . . .

It started with a manila file folder.

I needed one to store some of my papers.
It was the Saturday morning before Christmas - no sign of garlands strewn about the house,
but several preschool papers, crafts, and gifts from parents, in addition to unread mail
strewn across the kitchen table and countertops.
Most teachers will understand.  

"Okay.  I need to do something about this," I said to myself.

So, I went in search of a folder.

I had an idea where they were - underneath some papers, piled up on top of my desk.

In order to get to the folders,
I had to TOUCH the papers,
which caused me to NOTICE the papers,
which caused me to READ the papers,
which THEN caused me to SORT THROUGH the papers . . .

ONE-BY-ONE.

I, THEN, decided I needed to sort through all of the OTHER piles of papers,
spread around
   all about,
and throughout
my office.

And, somewhere (during this process), 
I noticed the artwork on the walls.

"I should move THIS picture here, and THAT picture there," I thought.  

So, I did.

But, I decided I liked it better the OTHER way,
   so I moved them back.

"I should HANG this picture (that had been sitting on my desk, collecting dust for an eternity),"
   I thought, too.

But, I need a nail.

And, a hammer.

So, I opened the drawer to get a nail, and discovered the pile of manila file folders.

A HA!  Just where I left them.

So, I pulled out the files, took them into the kitchen,
   and began to sort through my school paperwork.

Later on that day . . . 

"Why is this hammer lying on the counter?"

Cottage Number 4

It is my place.
My place where I feel inspired, where I feel at peace, where I feel grounded.
And, like holding a favorite coffee-filled mug in my hands, there is sweet comfort in its familiarity.

It had been too long since my last visit, and with the kids away for Thanksgiving,
   it seemed the perfect time.  I packed up the car, and Charlie and I hit the road,
joining all of the holiday traffic.

As I suspected, 95 South was a mess, but once we hit the 295 split, the road opened up.
The sudden opportunity for space was too enticing to ignore,
   and I challenged my car to speeds we had not reached before.

Maybe I'd better slow down, I thought.

Maybe . . . not.

It rained steadily throughout the drive, and by the time I reached the bridge,
   I was feeling the lateness (or the earliness) of the hour.
When I reached the other side, I pulled into a 7-Eleven for a bottle of water
and something to eat, then continued on to search the dark and empty beach road
for cottage number 4.

As I pulled into the driveway, the rain was falling heavily, blowing sideways from the wind.
With no rain jacket on, I stepped onto the tiny little front porch, in search of the lockbox.
Too dark to see, I used the light from my cell phone to read the tiny little numbers
   on the combination lock.

It was 3:00 in the morning.  

As I attempted to open the box, Charlie yapped from the inside of the car,
   and I suddenly realized I really had to pee.
It took me six tries before I finally opened the lockbox, and out popped the key -
   the key to my cottage, my humble abode, my love nest, my writing lair,
my quiet little space for the next several days.

I unlocked the door, and after making several trips to unload the car (and use the bathroom),
   I stood very, very still.

Breathe in, breathe out, and just . . .  NOTICE.

Charming, quaint, cozy, eclectic - perfect.

Cottage number 4.