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Monday, January 25, 2010

Smiling Meditation

It started with a smiling meditation. Breathe in, breathe out and make a slight smile, breathe in, breathe out and make a broader smile. A few minutes of this and Veronica was a changed woman. It was like magic. She was coming back to life; she could see possibilities. She felt strong, calm, and loving and she decided to try again. She felt it might work this time. She was so lonely, so alone, and she missed Brian. She missed him so much and she wanted him back.

She patted her slightly bulging stomach and loving cooed, “He’ll come back baby. He’ll come back. You’ll see, we won’t be alone I won’t let you be alone.”

Veronica sat down at the computer and started to type. She typed and deleted, typed and backspaced, typed and laughed and cried and typed, her eyes focused, almost boring into the screen, her teeth alternately biting her lip and slamming together to chatter quickly making a hollow chattering sound as if she were cold. Her tongue moved its way from lower to upper until her lips, wet, folded in on each other rubbing up and down. Occasionally all facial movement stopped as her ideas intensified and her fingers flew across the keyboard.

She read herself the letter out loud with great emotion. At the end tears were flowing down her pale cheeks, and she decided, as she allowed the tears to remain on her face and dry into her skin that the letter was perfect. She was so excited about that thought of Brian reading the letter that she seriously considered e-mailing it, but she thought better of it assuming that Brian might just delete it; but a snail mail letter – maybe put inside of a nice card would be perfect. He’d open it at least before he threw it away. “He won’t just be able to see my name and delete it.” She said to herself smugly. “And rewriting this into a card with beautiful handwriting. He’ll love this. I know he’ll love this. He’ll need to see me after he reads this.” She said to herself. She prayed that he would read it, maybe he would understand that she meant what she said. Maybe he’d be willing to come back home.

She finished neatly writing the letter into a card with dancing cats on the front; she was laughing and feeling better than she had in weeks. She pulled out an old file of stickers and plastered hearts and stars on the outside of the envelope; she filled the envelope with multi-colored confetti. Some said Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and some said love, peace, and hello. She thought he’d find this cute, and funny, and she thought it would make him remember the good times and decide to come back. She loved him so much. She was miserable without him. Veronica had been devastated when Brian left, but even more so when the police delivered the notice. The thought almost made her change her mind, “But he could” she thought “choose to come back if he wanted to.”

She decided that she would walk to the post office and make up her mind when she got there. She loved being outside in the beautiful California sunshine. She walked, or rather skipped to the post office. She waved at people in cars and smiled at kids on bicycles. She even called out little niceties like, “You really should wear a helmet! You don’t want to ruin that beautiful face!” and “Cute dog!”

She stared down at the mailbox and decided that her good feelings were a good omen. She held the card to her chest, wanting some of the love in her heart to seep into the envelope; she kissed it, and tossed it into the mail box. This time, for sure, she felt. This time he would come back.

Monday, January 18, 2010

This Will Not End Well

by Susan Cameron

I must have been feeling a little cranky about the dating scene years ago...

THIS WILL NOT END WELL

It's after work on Friday and I hurry down the highway
to meet my brand-new boyfriend in this upscale bar.
I've ordered Chivas neat, and I take a ringside seat,
and I watch the suit-and-tie boys show me who they are.

They hang around in packs, laughing loud, slapping backs,
and swearing like they're tough guys from the streets;
but their diction is precise and their fingernails are nice,
and they only fight ennui and balance sheets.

I listen to them chatter about stuff that doesn't matter,
comparing all the things they own, or want to --
their stereos and cars, their whiskeys and cigars,
the women that they want to do or will do.

They yap and yip and bark and my mood grows bleak and dark.
They're drowning out the chanteuse as she sings.
Their talk is loud and crude, and though the lighting is subdued,
I see the gleam of lots of wedding rings.

I think about their wives. Did they suspect their lives
would be spent home alone night after night?
Do Mercedes and Chanel make it less a living hell?
Does money make philandering all right?

Or am I completely wrong? Does wifey go along,
knowing but not caring that he cheats?
Is he a paycheck with a prick, just a wallet with a dick,
is she glad he comes on someone else's sheets?

I glance down at my watch and take another sip of Scotch.
The man I'm waiting for? He shows up late.
He's so sorry, and he misses me, he hugs me, and he kisses me,
and looks around and smiles and says, "Isn't this place
great?"

Susan Cameron, copyright 1999



Monday, January 11, 2010

The Cassie Chronicles

In today’s episode of The Cassie Chronicles, our heroine is going toe-to-toe with divine powers as she faces one challenge after another. Who will prevail?

The Plagues of Bella Vista

Lately, God’s been testing me with a progression of plagues. First, it was The Plague of a Thousand Flies swarming inside a near-finished home when I unlocked it for the buyer. Last week a mama rat crawled into a model home cabinet to have her babies, and they all died there – The Plague of Rotten Vermin. Yesterday a rattlesnake slithered across the walkway in front of me and I ran face first into a giant spider web trying to avoid the snake – The Plague of Creepy Crawlies. And all week long blobs of yellow stuff and little bee bodies have been dropping out of the vent above my desk – The Plague of Many Falling Bees.

Then God sent me the Springers. At first I thought they were my reward for enduring all these recent trials. Darrell and Jessica Springer, a likable couple in their late thirties with four children, had prayed about it and were ready to buy their dream home. (Thank you, Jesus!) The only hitch was that Jessica had credit problems, but from the information they’d provided, we determined Darrell could qualify alone. We were all thrilled.

I was surprised when Darrell showed up for the contract appointment with his parents, Marge and Lenny. Each carried a fat file folder. I showed them all into my office.

“Darrell,” I said, “are your folks here for moral support?”

“Nope,” he said. “They’re buying the place with me.”

“Oh?” I said, getting nervous. “Why?”

“We thought this would work better – with the loan and all.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s see your paperwork.”

“Here’s my loan application,” Darrell said, pushing a crumpled form across my desk. “And bank statements, tax returns and pay stubs.” He paused a moment before handing me a manila folder. “And here’s my bankruptcy.”

“Bankruptcy?” I said, feeling sick. No one had mentioned this.

“That’s why I thought it would be good to have my parents in on this, too,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. I asked for their financial information.

“Here’s mine,” Lenny said, handing me his file folder. “My bankruptcy papers are there, too.”

Dear God, could this get any worse?

“Marge?” I said, “What about you?”

“Yes, sirree,” Marge said proudly, opening her file folder. “I have my bankruptcy papers, too.”

Oh, Lord, were they joking? But I could tell by the naïve expectant looks on all three faces, they were serious. I took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. You can’t qualify for a loan with all these bankruptcies,” I said.

“So we can’t buy the house?” Darrell asked.

“Not unless you’re paying cash,” I said.

“But I know God wants us to have this house,” he pleaded.

“But you’d be in over your head,” I said.

“God will provide,” Darrell said, smiling peacefully.

“Amen,” Marge and Lenny said, their eyes turned toward heaven.

As I told them I couldn’t sell them the house, no matter what God wanted, a blob of bee poop and two dead bees dropped down from the vent onto all the bankruptcies. Clearly, God was displeased. I added the Plague of Three Springers to my list of trials.

Copyright 2010 by Liz Zuercher

Monday, January 4, 2010

Growing Pains

Spring was sullen this year,
Pouting like a spoiled child.
She ruined the weekends with crying spells
And the weekdays with windy tantrums.

I planted geraniums along the walk,
Only to watch her stamp her foot
And crush them in the mud.
She tore through the daffodils,
Strewing them along the porch like broken dolls,
Then cried as only a child can
Over the loss of a favorite toy.
She trounced the roses on the back fence,
Spitefully scattering blossoms
Like soapbubbles in the wind.

I saw her sneak a sly, sidewise glance,
Full of mischief and caprice,
As she headed for the tulips
Huddled on the hill beyond the back fence.
She was almost out the gate,
When summer flew around the corner,
Picked her up by her petticoat,
Smacked her bottom with a broken branch
And sent her squalling to her room.

Copyright 1998 Susan Matthewson