I am so sick of writing about these assholes

I am so sick of writing about this family of assholes for my creative writing class but they are the characters who spring to mind. I cannot even imagine who they are based on; probably based on some soap opera that was on in the background while I was sleeping once. Oh well, the story is due soon and all I have is a bunch of scenes that are supposed t o show different stuff like characterization and setting. There isn't a real plot yet and if I can scrap the whole thing and start over with something else I would in a heartbeat. Here, meet the family:


#1 Show and don't tell exercise: We are supposed to write a scene where we are showing and not telling the reader what is going on. Then we need to rewrite it with an emotion picked off of a list (I picked anger). 

Part 1

Josie came in through the kitchen door and tossed her keys on the counter.

“Is that you?” called a voice from upstairs.

“That depends on who ‘you’ is” she called back. Humming under her breath, she kicked off her tennis shoes and padded over to the fridge. Opening the stainless steel door with one hand, she simultaneously brushed her hair back with the other and tossed her head, shaking the curls out of her eyes. . “UMMM, YOU NEED TO GO SHOPPING! THIS PLACE IS, LIKE EMPTY!”

“You don’t have to shout, I’m right here.” Silvia’s voice was like her appearance: sleek, pale, impeccable. She glided in the room and slid her eyes up and down Josie’s frame. Taking it all in: from her unruly hair to the hole in her sock. She inhaled sharply through her nose “can you please manage to be presentable for one afternoon?” as she spoke the word “presentable” she make a sweeping gesture with one manicured hand, indicating Josie’s hair and clothing.

Josie replied by pulling the tab on a diet soda she scavenged from the bottom of the refrigerator, “hiss-pop.” Sylvia disliked soda and Josie was always sneaking cans in and squirreling them away. After taking a deep pull from the can, she set it on the counter and said “I’m sorry that I don’t live up to your standards. In a couple of weeks I’ll be 18 and what you think about my ‘presentation’ won’t matter anymore.” With that, she picked up her can and walked out.

Sylvia watched her leave and slowly traced the ring of condensation left on the granite countertop with one finger. “Oh, Josephine” she sighed “I wish I mattered more to you.”

Part 2

Josie came in through the kitchen door, announcing her arrival by the slam and jangle of her keys hitting the counter.

“Is that you?” called a voice from upstairs.

“That depends on who ‘you’ is” she retorted, rolling her eyes, then under her breath “stupid…stupid, stupid.” She stalked over to the fridge and yanked open the stainless steel door with one hand while simultaneously raking a fringe of unruly curls out of her eyes with the other. “WHY IS THERE NEVER ANYTHING GOOD TO EAT OR DRINK IN THIS HOUSE?”

“You don’t have to shout, I’m right here.” Silvia’s voice was like her appearance: sleek, pale, impeccable. “Please Josephine, can you manage to be pleasant for one afternoon, one?” the last word came out like a sigh. 

Josie pulled out a diet soda and relished the pained look on Sylvia’s face as she pulled the tab on the can with a satisfying “hiss-pop.” Sylvia hated soda.  Smirking, she took a long pull from the can, slammed it down on the counter and replied “Whatever, I’m outta of here soon enough. 13 days and 7 hours until my eighteenth birthday and then I can be as pleasant or unpleasant as I want to WHOEVER I want and I won’t have to take your crap anymore.”

 She grabbed her soda can and flounced out of the kitchen. The pounding of footsteps could be heard as she went up stairs, then the sound of a slamming door which made Sylvia startle a bit, even though she knew it was coming. Sylvia took a slow deep breath and slowly traced the ring of condensation on the granite counter with her finger. “It is ‘whomever’ not ‘whoever’” her voice was low and steely “and good luck paying the rent on your fabulous new life once all your money has been cut off, you little shit.”

 #2 Characterization- We were supposed to describe a character's room for the first part then for the second part have dialogue between 2 of the characters that is really about something deeper than what they appear to be talking about. For the last part, the character has to make a mistake or do something wrong. 

1)       Sylvia’s bedroom is a lesson in orderliness. Mess is not tolerated here and it shows. The king sized bed she shares with her husband looks as though it has never been touched by human hands. The bedspread is as white and pristine as an uncharted Arctic tundra. There are three pillows arranged along the headboard which itself looks to be made of some fantastic, polished wood imported from some exotic faraway land, Narnia perhaps.

     Like the pyramids of Giza, the temperature of the room is a constant 68 degrees Fahrenheit. There are no adornments anywhere in the room save one; an original painting by the abstract expressionist painter Mark Rothko which hangs in a prominent position on the wall opposing the bed.  It is the only blood in an otherwise cold and bloodless room. It is very beautiful and very expensive. It is Sylvia’s pride and joy.

2.)      “Kyle,” Sylvia’s heels clicked faintly on the tile as she approached her husband’s study, “we need to make reservations for our dinner with Josephine and Mark on Friday.”

     “I believe his name is Mike,” he replied without looking up from his papers, “and I believe you know that. Anywhere you want to go is fine with me.”

   “Mark…Mike…, who cares what his name is, I expect he is going to turn out to be horrible just like the rest of her friends. Now decide where you want this little charade to play out, Morton’s or Giovanni’s?” She click clacked across the floor and stood in front of his desk waiting for an answer.

     Kyle looked up briefly at his wife, “Giovanni’s is fine with me. I’m always up for a meal there, plus its Josie’s favorite.”

       “Yes but I think that Morton’s might be more appropriate for this occasion, given that they are located closer to downtown,” she raised her chin with a triumphant gleam in her eyes, “I think that I’ll call there now and reserve our table for 7:00.’

 3.)     The August evening enveloped her like a giant octopus; all tentacles and inky stickiness. It was hot. Sylvia had no idea why she decided to come here. Really, what was the purpose? She had no more ties to the woman who lived in the building across the parking lot anymore. The past was dead and gone. As far as Kyle and Josephine knew, her mother was dead and gone too. They thought that because she told them that. Much better to have them believe that than to subject them to the alcoholic mess who raised her.

    It was easier to write a check, drawn from her personal account of course, every month and be done with it; be done with HER. Life was simple and cleaner that way, at least it was until the call came.

     The nurse who stayed with Connie (always Connie and NEVER Mother) called this morning. She wouldn’t last much longer, possibly not even through the night. It had been 15 years since they last met face to face and it had taken Sylvia all day to “screw her courage to the sticking place” and come here.

    The nurse said that Connie had been sober for the last 10 of those years. She said that Connie missed her and spoke of her often, especially over the last few days.  It would be a shame to deny her dying request. What if Josephine could actually meet her grandmother? What if Connie died knowing that her legacy went on in the shape of a beautiful, amazing granddaughter? Josephine favored her in looks and intelligence. Her daughter might never forgive her for the lie she had been told her whole life but maybe it would be worth it. Maybe this experience would ground her a little bit and give her some direction. Lord knows, Josephine was starting to show a wild side; one that needed to be tamed.

     Sylvia took a small step across the parking lot and imagined trying to explain to her husband, to her daughter, that she was a liar for all these years; that her mother lived. She remembered all those lonely nights as a child, waiting for her mother to come home from God knows where, with God knows who. She remembered the hunger and the cold and the thousands of taunts from other children for her shabby clothing. It was too much. It was too damn hot. She found herself back in the comfort of her sedan with the cool air blowing from the vent on her face. It is better this way, she thought to herself, cleaner. She put the car in gear and pulled out onto the road.

     

Oh my hair!

Below is a recent writing assignment for a writing class I am taking. We had to "free write" and then base a first page of a potential story on the free writing. Since we are supposed to write what we know, I picked the subject "bad haircut." Recently I took Ian to get his hair done by my friend Maya and she did a fantastic job. Which I knew she would. I've decided to make the drive to Baltimore from now on and see if she can "fix" the damage of a dozen bad haircuts. I think she will and am actually a lot more optimistic about the future of my hair than this writing lets on. 

Bad Haircut free writing 

I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. It is a vibrant red that has always defined me. I read somewhere that only one percent of the population has natural red hair. Knowing that I am a member of such an exclusive club is something that makes the other stuff that goes along with being a red head tolerable. You know, stuff like the freckles and the nicknames (carrot-top comes to mind…ugh!). 

So, I love the color but truly detest the texture. It is coarse and frizzy and ever since I was a little girl, I would dream of having silky, smooth hair like many of my friends. As I got older and discovered Google, I learned that the frizz and fuzz was not something that I had to live with. All I needed to do was use “natural” hair cleansers (shampoo is WAY too harsh) and conditioners without any s sulfates or silicones. If I did this, my hair would supposedly revert back to its natural state of soft, frizz-free curls. Oh, and I had to find a stylist who knew how to cut curly hair.

To do this, I had to break up with my current stylist. Clearly she had no idea how to deal with naturally curly hair. She had been using silicones and sulfates on my hairs for years! The problem is that virtually every stylist I talked to claimed that they knew “exactly” what the previous stylist had done wrong and that it could easily be fixed “without sacrificing any of the length.” This pronouncement is almost always accompanied by a slow sad shake of the head as my hair is lifted and held out at various angles and studied.

The end result is hair that went from mid-way down my back to just below my ears in length and “long layers” that resemble Billy Ray Cyrus’s mullet circa 1995. I think that instead of spending any more time trying to “fix” my hair, I am going to  just let it be. 

First page:

    It always starts the same way. First the newest stylist circles me, eyeing me as I go through the spiel.

“I am really tired of the frizzy hair, you know?” She nods her head and lifts a lock of my hair and narrows her eyes. I continue “I read this book about how to be a ‘curly girl.’ That is the name of it, Curly Girl, anyway all I need to do is avoid sulfates and silicones; basically stop over washing my hair with detergents and then coating it and keeping the dryness locked inside…”

This is where I always lose them. Stylists are big believers in PRODUCT. I can tell by the expression on her face that she has no idea what I am talking  about and is gearing up to try to sell me some sort of curling cream that will coat my hair in silicone. She lifts another piece of hair by my ear and looks at it like it is a puppy who has poo’ed on the carpet.

“I can see exactly what the last stylist did wrong here and I know exactly how to fix it.” These are words that I have heard before. “All you need are some long layers to frame your face, really bring the curl out, and I’ll finish it with some glistening curl enhancing spray.” I sit there in the chair and close my eyes. When am I just going to let my hair grow?

Really?

I went into work tonight and filled in at the bar for about half and hour because the bartender was running late. During this time three guys came in. They were from out of town. I know this because they told me they were from out of town, Georgia specifically.
 I get them beer and talk with them for a minute or two. Guy #1 asks me to explain how to play Keno because apparently there is not Keno in Georgia (at least that was how he said it "I don't know how to play this, I'm from Georgia"). I spend a few minutes explaining the game to this guy and show him how to fill in the paper so that he can play. He loses his first game and wants to play again. He asks question after question about the payouts for each amount of numbers that can be played. I resist the urge to tell him that he is looking at the same paper as me with the payouts listed and patiently answer each question. I am pretty damn nice about it too.  Now he wants to play for a few consecutive games. He fills out the paper wrong and I fix it for him by filling out a new one.
At this time the bartender comes in. Because they are clearly going to be there for a little while (due to the consecutive upcoming Keno games and the fact that they said they wanted to start a tab) I just hand the tab over to Natalie and go out into the restaurant. 
Imagine my surprise later when I learn that that guy won something like $2500 on the ticket that I fixed and filled out for him. Did I find out because he was so grateful that he came over and gave me a big tip? Nope, although that certainly would have been appropriate and nice. Did I find out because he walked over to thank me for helping him and to share his great news? Nope! Although that too would have been way appropriate and also very nice. No, I ended up hearing later from the bartender that he won and then packed up and left.
It is not a big deal. I certainly don't think that he was under any obligation to come over and tip me (although that would have been awesome AND something that I would have done if it were me in his place) but I think that a thanks would have been nice. At the very least.
Anyway, congrats dude from Georgia. Keep it classy.

Sh*t Ian says...

I am tripped out by the things my three year old comes up with. For the sake of not overwhelming and annoying the crap out of all of my Facebook friends every time he says something I want to share, I figured I would just post it here, you know, on my blog.  I'll add stuff here and there. Only two for today.
1. "Mommy, I need to tell you that I'm Canadian"
2. (as he was eating nachos) "Gorgeous, I love cheese. These are gorgeous!"
3. (Upon seeing a butterfly) "His name is Narm!" Me: "Narm?" Ian "No, NORM mommy, his name is NORM" and then he shakes his head like I am an idiot.

These are a few of my favorite things

For some reason I have an urge to make a list. Certainly not a list of "things to do" because that would be useful and require effort! Instead, I am going to make a list of some of my favorite things. Here it is (note things are not listed in any particular order)
1. red shoes

2.cinnamon- both the way it tastes and the way it smells. Yum!

3. snow- I love the OTHERNESS of snow. It is like going through the wardrobe and discovering that Narnia is actually your front yard.

4. rainy and cloudy weather AND chilly weather= cozy

5. green pants- especially army or olive green. I have no idea why but I just like them. actually, I like pretty much any clothing this color. Maybe because I'm a redhead and green just looks good on me?

6. reading- both kindle and books the old fashioned way

7. good photographs of myself-  um can you say..."narcissist"

8. sleep- duh, who doesn't love sleep

9. coffee- I like tea too but not that much. It is more like I WANT to like tea but tea is really coffee's poor second cousin or like the 5th season of 21 Jump street which sucked because neither Peter DeLuise or Johnny Depp were in it. Meaning it is still a caffeinated hot drink but without Tom Hanson in it.

Wait, what was I talking about?

 . 

Yeah, so that is my list for now. I actually like a lot of other things but it is late and I want to read (#6) for while before going to bed (#8) goodnight

Words, words, words.....(the books are like candy edition)

One of my favorite things about being on break is that I get to read real non-nursing related books. Reading for fun...sigh. I love it and always have. This winter, thanks to the kindle lending library, I have really gone overboard. I spent hours going through the e-books available from the library and reserved a LOT of them. while I was waiting for the reserves to become available I started re-reading the Sookie Stackhouse series.
Oh yeah, nothing like trashy vampire books to make me realize that I am ON BREAK and have little to zero mental responsibilities. Love, love, love... Speaking of trashy vampire novels, I have also been introduced to Anita Blake as well.  I'm not addicted to that series but am happy to have found it.
I read the second to latest Dexter book too. It was OK but reading Jeff Lindsay is kind of kind having a conversation with someone with both obsessive tendencies AND extreme short term memory loss. His running gag is the dangerous traffic in Miami. It gets old. I feel like he doesn't read his own work because if he did, he would realize that he talks about Miami's asshole drivers every four paragraphs and maybe would just give it a rest for a couple of pages. My other problem is that in the Dexter book's universe bad childhood automatically seems to equal having a dark passenger. That's a bit too much suspension of belief. I guess I read the books because I love the show and Michael C. Hall is the hotness. And yes, I am being a raging hypocrite because as soon as the Double Dexter becomes available I am going to devour that sh*t like it was book candy.

My Asshole Opinion of the Day (Hang the DJ Edition)

Facebook. I love it for many reasons. It is a great way to share pictures and information with friends and family. It is also a great way to keep in contact with people that I want to stay in contact with but don't necessarily feel like putting forth the effort to actually SEE them or have an actual conversation on the telephone with them. I am pretty sure you know what I mean. 

Facebook also has its drawbacks. Namely a few annoying stereotypes that make up everyone's friend list.  Hey, I shouldn't judge or bitch because I know I am totally guilty of wandering into annoying Facebook stereotype country from time to time. However, since this is my blog and I feel like sharing, today's Asshole Opinion of the Day is brought to you by The Facebook Friends Who Truly Believe it is Their Duty to Post Music for Your Enjoyment (otherwise known as the DJ). 

Come on! Most of us have posted music from time to time. Who knows why, maybe to show off how cool we are or share the mood we were in at that moment. That is fine. It becomes annoying when my wall is clogged up with post after post of crap that I don't feel like listening to. If I wanted to hear it, I would break out the ipod. Period.

When I see that one of my DJ friends has punched into work for the night and the music starts flowing, I often wonder if there are really any people out there on Facebook sitting in anticipation of that next song. I won't defriend a DJ but I will put them in a timeout and hide their feed. It is a vicious cycle because every now and then I go through and unhide all the feeds, forgetting why those people annoyed me in the first place. Then, on nights much like tonight, I am reminded. sigh....