IDEAS ABOUT IDEAS

I frequently have good ideas, but don't know how to actualize them. My ideal job would be Idea Person. When I was a kid having ideas, my dad told me "Never tell anyone your ideas, someone might steal them."

This after I imagined a handheld hairdryer with brush & comb attachments. That dandy idea was a result of having my five year old brain broiled via a hairdryer that encased my head in a Helmet of Raging Inferno, for what seemed like hours. (The price one pays for beauty, according to my mom)

I KNEW it was a killer idea. Tis a shame my dad didn't listen & apply his Industrial Design skills. There was a fortune to be made, years later when blow-dryers hit the market. Yup, I invented the blow-dryer when I was five. Figured that an Invisible Industrial Spy had heard me tell my dad & stolen my idea. After that I kept my ideas to myself, and there were plenty of 'em, mostly conjured up to save myself from dying of boredom in school.

During my early hippie emergence I had a revelation. An untold idea is a waste of muse; if you can't manifest it, release it into the wild. I have freely practiced this ideology henceforth, experiencing a motherly pride when one of them is birthed somewhere, by someone.

Long ago the concept of Audio Porn came to me, not only for the blind, but for those who like to multitask while jogging or driving or cleaning house as well. I imagined CD's of erotic lovemaking sounds, all different sorts, marketed like magazines. Inexpensive to produce, high mark-up, compact display units, happy repeat customers of every imaginable genre. Overhearing sex is a part of most of our histories and has a forbidden aspect that has not yet been tapped by the industry. The imagination is our best sex organ.

Today I read that someone has launched a porn site for the blind. Good for them! Another of my stray ideas has found a home. From now on I am going to post my ideas on this blog, to hasten them along. Stay tuned, the next one is a real doozy.
smooch
Auntie Hattie

I DO IT TO MYSELF

We bought an 8-pack of Activia the other night. I've been trying to convince Cully to give it a try for the past year or so. More often than not he spends a good part of the evening sleeping in his recliner to compensate for the gurd that plagues him. One night/morn last week he showed up in bed ten minutes before the alarm was due to go off.

While excessive farting & burping have great entertainment value, heartburn does not. I hope the stuff works. Started me thinking tho... I've been wanting to try it myself, since it came out, having a high regard for probiotics. Now that we have it in the fridge, do you think I am indulging as well? Nope.

Many moons ago I was at the bottom of the food heirarchy. First hubby, then the kids, then the dog, then me. I've actually moved up a notch... now I get a shot at the pizza crusts before the dog does.

Cheesy Goodness

May 30, 2004

"The weather brewing this morning is stygian, the wind buffeting the trees about in a most dramatic fashion, and the atmosphere is oppressively foreboding. I am beginning to think that summer will never arrive. It is brisk within, I chanced opening my windows a few moments ago and the parachute ballooned like the mainsail on a schooner.. tis bone-chilling, and no relief in sight. I refuse to turn the heat on.

Teale took my bedding today to Anoush's to wash, it has been all too long, and my simple frocks as well. I have but a thin cotton sheet to contain my nakedness, my shivers a pathetic attempt to generate heat. Golly has preferred the company of Mollea this morn, they at least are warmly snuggled within her thick fuzzy blanket. I should have kept my comforter, but it begged to be washed and I could not disagree... twas much needed.

I had a huge mug of bitter hot chocolate for breakfast, favoring unsweetened beverages... sugar is not the way to begin my day. I loath syrup, preferring tomatoes with salt and lots of pepper on my pancakes and French toast, or grated (pungent) cheese. M'thinks I got this quirk from my mom, aka Ooma... she who uses cold slabs of butter, like cheese, on her toast."

Today; May 8, 2007

Speaking of pungent cheese, we picked some up a month or so ago at the Weyauwega Star Cheese Outlet in Weyauwega (WI). If you live within range, it's well worth an excursion to this eclectic store. Besides a vast array of cheeses at appealing prices, they stock Mexican groceries (great tortillas, chips, & tostada shells), flash frozen fruits, gaudy souvenirs, and gigantic creamy ice-cream cones that the local folks line up for.

I have not yet met a cheese too gross... Used to spend my allowance at Gerber's Cheese, Main st. Hartford, in the 60's. Hilda was a ballsy German lady with a great accent & the Koch Kaise she sold me on Saturday mornings was a ripe snotty nasty caraway ridden glop that I was absolutely addicted to, scooped out of the container with penny pretzel rods whilst window shopping... finger licken good stuff.

So we journeyed to Widmer's in Theresa and picked up a whole mess of overly aged Brick on clearance. Each piece was sturdily shrink wrapped, the gasses had ballooned each to a comical degree, and I bought all they had for a buck apiece. Lasted me for years, they remained inflated at the back of the fridge patiently stewing in their own juices. It's a wonder these cheesebombs did not detonate. I wonder what the record oldest edible cheese is? That stuff was pretty rank. hee hee

Another trip to Weyauwega Star Dairy coming up this weekend, time to restock... the perfect excuse for a mini road trip. We are the ultimate Cheeseheads... Cheese is indeed a religion here in Wisconsin.  Also favored, the outlet store in Gibbsville. They have some super duper bargains including their "Mystery Cheese" at $1.50 a pound, which are the transitory mixes that happen when they switch from one batch to the next. yup yup
Smooch
Auntie Hattie

ALL THAT GLITTERS

Jen stuck the key into the battered door of room 17 & felt the cheap doorknob wobble as she twisted it. Dang it all, a good kick would have done just as well! She didn't bother looking into the mirror as she swiped off most of her makeup. She really didn't want to face the person she knew she would find staring back at her. Her feet rejoiced as she kicked off her shoes. She let her clothes puddle on the floor as she stepped out of them, too tired to bend down & pick them up.

The double bed was inviting, but oh so empty. She turned on the TV to chase away the loneliness & lit a joint. As usual, it was way too late to call home & talk to her kid. Home. She felt like a kid herself, playing at being an adult. Sometimes it was so tempting to go back to her folks, and her old dog Queenie, and everything that had slipped away somehow. Sometimes she wished she could reclaim her innocence.

She slipped between the sheets, and her hand drifted between her legs as she pondered the evening. Tips had been pretty good, though at the moment she was too pooped to remember where she was. BumFart USA. The circuit was sort of like the merry-go-round she used to adore when she was younger, spinning til everything became a blurr.

She smiled as she remembered the one guy who stood out tonight. How could he not, he must have been six and a half feet tall, and hefty. His lush beard was a nice contrast to his shiny head. But it was his friendly smile that got her. And his eyes, his sparkly eyes looking into hers, like he saw the person within. You would think she had more than her fill of attention, with all of the lusty adulation & cheering! What she craved most was some simple loving.

She felt herself becoming aroused as she pondered the looks he had given her as he watched her dance. Golly, he was HUGE!!! A big sexy teddy bear, someone she could have gotten lost in. Jen sighed deeply as she moved her hand slowly & surely. Yes, she had power of sorts... the power to turn men on. Even women for that matter. Even herself.

She imagined kissing him, and him kissing her back deeply & passionately. mmmmmmmm... nice! Was she just another lost princess, looking for her prince? Jen had learned all too early in life that most princes turned out to be toads, and that the possibility of happily ever after was slim. She had learned to stand on her own two feet, or to dance on them as the case may be. She had learned to depend on herself.

As she moved towards her fulfillment, she imagined his vast body, his weight pressing down on her, pushing her into the mattress. Ooohhhhhh... yessssssss!!!! Her heart pulsing deeply, Jen slipped into sleep, to a kinder place where her feet didn't hurt, where her butt wasn't bruised from bawdy drunken pinches stolen when she let her guard down.

Slumber allowed her to forget how it felt when she had gotten up the nerve to approach him, her heart thudding, and asked him to spend the night with her. He had been kind... "Sorry sweetheart, I'm married." Tomorrow would be a new day!

VENGEANCE

He wasn't much to look at, but, ah... he fancied himself a playboy. His shiny red sports car didn't make him any more attractive, although it inflated his ego in a way that gave him definition. That he chose to spend weekends with our family spoke volumes about his social life. Dad had befriended him at work; brought home a stray.

Stretching meals to feed nine rather than eight was just another creative challenge to my mom. She was good at making more out of less. She was gracious if not warm. There were times when it seemed strangers got the best of her and we got the leftovers. This was one of those times.

Even the most self-absorbed cad had to realize eventually that he was wearing out his welcome. But hark! A golden opportunity for him to redeem himself. He coaxed them to leave the nest. Offered up a token of his indebtedness. A romantic dinner for two. Candlelit. No spilled milk. Away. It was their night, to dance.

He sent them off smoothly, into the cold blustery night. Reassurances that he would take care of us dripped from his tongue like honey. We were left with our mother's coral lips imprinted on our cheeks, and an empty feeling in our stomachs that hotdogs couldn't fill.

My five siblings were dispensed with immediately following supper. "You can stay up, you're older", he whispered in a silky voice, smoky breath wafting through my hair as he leaned too close. His oily scent snaked out at me, swallowing up nearly all of the room's air in one gulp.

I barely hear the words that sift through the thrumming in my ears "….pretty hair…" His flaccid fingers fumbling fawning "….such big brown eyes…" The better to see into his cool green reptilian soul. I tried to smother my panic, but it escaped in a hiccup of a giggle.

"…..ticklish….lish...ish???" Creeping, creeping, creep. In a flash, he was on me, trembling hands forced beneath my clothing, probing my armpits, my sides, my belly. "SSshhh……..shhhhhhhhsh…" hissed he, suffocating my shrieks with his cold clammy lips, sucking my panic, feeding on it.

"Oh look, you've peed your pants!" Hot urine covers me in shame. "Your mother will be angry, won't she.…." he slinks away, away, away… "Here, let me help……." He looms, sloshing hot soapy water in a bowl. "…….it will be our little secret….." laying me across my parents bed "………take it easy…….." pulling down my panties "…….she will never know……." pushing my legs open "…….never……."

His ministrations were oddly tranquilizing and conspiratorial. So fastidious as he washed & dried every nook & cranny. His eyes red & glassy, bulging as he concentrated on his task, trembling as he smoothed powder over me, bringing his face close, his steamy breath burning me, quaking..... "Aaaahhhhhhh........ ohhhhh.... ghhhhhhhhh....." he gasped convulsively. "That smells better now, doesn't it?" Helped me into my nightie. "NO ONE will ever know." His breathing as ragged as I. "It will be our little secret, won't it!?"

The blackness of the night was punctuated by blinding white snow the next morning. It mocked me, covering life's filth, pretending it wasn't there, hidden underneath. Ice crusted over my soul, stole even the memories of warmth.

I felt invisible. Battered by bubbling breakfast banter. I picked at my pancakes, cringing at his too loud laughter as everyone feasted. Shrank into myself as they vied for attention. No one noticed. No one noticed. NO ONE.

Plans for sledding percolated, erupted into a flurry of mittens, hats. Snowpants, boots, scarves. The men dawdled over coffee. Contemplating the merits of several nearby hills. My mother finally hustled them all out the door, and she and I basked in the sudden silence.

"Are you sure you don't want to go?" I shook my head. We worked together quietly. I plunged my hands into scalding dishwater. Perhaps she chatted. "CAN'T YOU SEE?" I was screaming inside. "Can't you see, I'm different, can't you see…..???"

They returned sooner than expected. "His sled hit a big rock, out in the pasture", Dad explained. He stood there, a quivering mass of agony, as I stared, victorious, into the filmy eyes that had been avoiding mine. TRIUMPH. He was quickly gone, and never returned. Zoomed off into the horizon in his sporty red car.... . .

Crushed like a nasty little bug.

THE LAST WORD

The late fall chill finally crept past the threshold of thrift. As reluctant as I was to acquiesce to winters’ seductive whisper, the alternative was less savory; the whine of icy toed rugrats. But what should have been a simple matter of flip a switch, push a button, light a match became a quandary.

The hoary behemoth that squatted in the basement, hogging more than its fair share of space, farted and belched but refused to cough up any heat. The whiff of gas that I detected was not quite the sort that finds itself trapped between the sheets. What had been an old but reliable friend now stared back at me with bellicose belligerence.

Many things are best savored when left ‘til the last moment. This was not one of them. Visions of impossibility mingled with prayer as I dialed the Power & Light people. I hoped for the best, but expected the worst, trying to gentle my query. They were not about to be fooled into complacency, however.

The lanky serviceman found his way to my stoop with amazing speed, considering his leisurely gait as he slid down my stairs in a molasses-like manner. He finally reappeared in my kitchen to announce the discovery of a loose fitting, and his trip to the truck to get a wrench reminded me that these guys charge by the hour. No surprises so far.

But wait! His eventual reappearance brought unexpected news: The chimney was full of dead birds, which were keeping the flue from opening, and I would have to clean them out. He tried to be subtle as he snuck that last bit in, a fruitless attempt to cloak his distaste. The offer was made to shut off the gas and return when I had accomplished the task.

Ah, but female wiles prevail and he reluctantly admitted that he was authorized to remove them. At an additional cost, of course, and only after phoning his supervisor from the truck for official permission. I was to be responsible for their disposal. Of course.

The task, once settled upon, took on the aspects of a ceremony. Gloves were gathered, and exactly the proper box was sought out. One that was sturdy, and big enough to hold them all, although he couldn’t guess at the number. It needed to have a cover to contain the anticipated stench. I was surprised he didn’t ask for a puke-bag as well, but the time for procrastinating was over. He slunk off in a cloud of trepidation, leaving me to speculate on how a flock of unintelligent birds had found it’s way down my chimney.

I was ready to hunker in for the duration, but he came galloping up the stairs almost immediately, carried by a blast of relief, box in hand. “You’ll never guess what it was!” he crowed as he pulled back the flap. I was first hit by the lack of malodorous fumes, and second by the sight of a lone mummified mallard, sequestered at the bottom of the vast box.

We both speculated on this once majestic bird’s unseemly fate, and it was with humor and cheer that my handy-dandy service guy departed. I tried to picture this beautiful bird flying through the air, perhaps suffering a fatal heart attack and falling into our chimney. Or perhaps in the throes of old age, stopping up there to rest and just keeling over, leaving friends and family to wonder at his whereabouts. It was obvious from its condition that it had been there for a very, very long time.

Are you thinking this is the conclusion? Well think again. I was, and suddenly the scenario hit me like a kilo of marshmallows. A quick inspection confirmed that the bird had indeed been shot, and a knowing rose swiftly and surely from the depths of my being.

I thought back, to a past, foolish fling: Rich with titillating energy, safe in its lack of expectations, a time of naïve pleasure. It was a bit of a memory that could have had a happy ending; one of life’s lessons that is served to you unexpectedly on a silver platter. A reminder that there is usually a price tag attached to the whole shebang.

He was a handsome, lusty fellow, and a bit of a drunkard. He perceived himself a great sportsman, and though his ability to kill could not be argued with, his ethics could. The lustiness had run its course. The drunkenness had not, alas. Alas. And handsome is, as handsome does, in the eye of the beholder.

Hiring a roofer should probably not be based on friendship, nor how his buttocks will appeal as he kneels above, framed by sky and treetops. A charming French smile, kissed with beer, seduced my sensibilities. “Don’t worry darlin’…” was his smooth reply to my queries and concerns. What a ninny I was.

Have you ever seen a roof full of men clutching cans of beer, swaying with the breeze? Scary. Have you ever seen a roof done by men, clutched by beer? Not a pretty sight. The job staggered to a halt, bitter words shattering any vestige of friendship. I gritted my teeth as he was paid for a job poorly done. Gritted my soul as I tried to absolve my rambling roof.

Fast forward through the year, a year in which I kept my eyes on the ground. I had reached a balance of forgiveness and detachment. Bygones were bygones, after all. Now i dredge from my reluctant memory the sound of their braggartly laughter, souped up on testosterone & Miller High Life as they headed for the pond. The muffled echoes of their shotguns reverberate still in my mind's ear, harmonizing with the distant sound of the noon whistle.

Standing in my kitchen, staring at that bedraggled mass of bones and feathers, I wasn’t nearly as floored by his act as I was by the fact that he had gotten the last word, so to speak. I bundled the innocent corpse into a smaller box. There was a childlike pleasure in winding gobs of tape around it. The typewriter keys clacked delightfully as I addressed the label. Indeed, the taste of the stamps was as sweet as the satisfaction I felt as I paid the neighbor boy a few bucks to ride his bike to the post box.