Questions People Won't Ask Survey from Quizopolis.com

Inspired by Lisa's hilarious responses at  at Seeking Elevation. The girl is my hero.


Have you ever flirted with your best friend's bf/gf?
 At a party a year ago I decided to try to get drunk, which I've never done before (not much of a drinker, and don't hold it well). Five flutes of champagne later, I suggested to my friend's husband that we make out in the bathroom. He laughed and said, "Sure, JC, later." Clearly I am a failure as both a drunk AND a whore, because I told my friend about it. She also laughed. So I'm a failure at being a drunk, a whore, or a plausible threat to any relationship.

Do you think that you're all that and your probably really not? 
I think I'm somewhat that, but am always open to feedback.

Have you gotten beat up before. Tell the truth. 
In my 30s I got pushed off a platform at a club by some college girl, who thought she'd show off to her friends. (I'm small, so I look like an easy target). My friends and two of hers had to keep me from tearing her head off. I still don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed of that moment.  Probably proud. Yeah. Proud.

Are you smart or are you dumb?
Smart. Sometimes clueless, sometimes gullible, but I'm not dumb.

If you're a girl, do you scratch your boobs when nobody's looking? 
Who let the seventh-grader come up with this one?? 

Have you ever wanted to have sex with your own gender?
Not in real life. 

Are you liking this survey so far?
It's a bit frat boy, to tell you the truth.

Do you have a lot of friends or are you nobody at school?
I'm no longer in school, and I do have a fair number of friends. 

Are you annoying to most people? 
I don't think so, but when I am annoying to people, I am REALLY annoying to people.

Can you take the truth, no matter what it is?
Hell, no. I'd rather have the truth, of course, but it can be an awfully hard pill to swallow. I go through the stages of truth: shock, resentment, denial, defensiveness, realizing that yeah, I probably am that transparent. 

Would you go suicidal if someone in your family died?
No.

Is there somebody in your life you hate at this point?
 "hate" implies spending a lot of energy, so no. There is someone who, if they were hit by a car, my life would be a lot less stressful.

Are you dreading something right now? 
Discovering that despite spending $130 on good running shoes that my newfound love of running on the treadmill will still be impossible thanks to neck issues. That, and the possibility that I will never snuggle with a man in bed again.

While taking this, did you start thinking about your true self? 
Actually, no. I tend to think about myself in an objectively critical way quite a lot.

Would you date somebody on Valentine's Day just to get something for Valentine's?
Enough with fucking Valentine's Day, already.

Have you ever broke somebody's heart and didn't care? 
Yes. But except for one guy, they deserved it. And because they used poor grammar, like saying "have broke" instead of "have broken."

Did you go to Pre-K?
When I was growing up, there was no public school before first grade. I went to a private kindergarten ( Four Seasons -- I'll sing our school song for you if you want). My sister went to private Pre-K, which was known as nursery school then. I think my mother could not wait to get us out of the house.

Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com
http://www.quizopolis.com/survey/5844/Questions-People-Won't-Ask-Survey/

Trifecta Writing Challenge Week 12: Image

I'm too late to submit to this week's Trifecta writing challenge, but I wrote it anyway.
The word this week was:


 image

 noun \ˈi-mij\

a : exact likeness : semblance image — Genesis 1:27 (Revised Standard Version)b : a person strikingly like another person image of her mother>

 The couples at breakfast. Sunday morning, rumpled from the night before or from fuzzy morning sex, the couples sit, eating. Coffee in mugs. Pancakes, yogurt. You can tell the new couples because they are talking, talking, talking; smiling, happy to be here this morning after a night before; relieved at this breakfast, this miniature happily ever after, the rush that someone wanted this too, this toast, this coffee, these blueberry pancakes, with them.

The longer-term couples sit quietly, murmuring to each other from time to time, glancing at each other or past one another or each reading a newspaper or book or a message on a portable device. They have gone through the rites of coupledom: the demoting of friends, the drawing in; the fearful elimination of everything poisonously individual until there is nothing left but an image of the other.

Alone with my book, I imagine sitting here with someone, a mate, knowing each other better than anyone else.  I lean forward and whisper:

“Surprise me.”

Riot in Cell Block 9

A friend of mine went to her car in the lot where she keeps it, and noticed that the car next to her was somewhat full of cats. Aside from the number ad the fact that they were in a  car, they seemed OK. She left her name and number on the windscreen and suggested she could help with the cats f they needed it.

The car-cat person contacted her. We have a mutual friend who volunteers at a cat shelter. Long story short, my friend took six kittens and gave the owner information about getting the parents neutered at low cost. Because she has a large two-bedroom unit and I have a small 1-bedroom, She has 4 and I have two. The kittens are about 5 months old and need socializing. They seem healthy, but are afraid of people.

The two sisters I took are gray tigers who are situated in my tile bathroom. I suspected fleas (correctly as it turned out), and wanted them separate form the rest of the house and in a place that would be easy to clean. Over the course of several days the activity in the bathroom has taken on the drama of a Women In Prison movie.  It goes something like this:

I walk in.

"HISS HISS HISS! DO NOT APPROACH ME! DO! NOT! APPROACH ME! "

I pick one up.

"AAAUGH! AAAUGH! A- Oh, that's nice, now."

I put her down and move toward the other, who is either hiding behind the toilet or on her hind legs, squeezed into the 5-inch space between the radiator and the wall.

"HISS! HISS! I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL CUT YOU, BITCH! JUST TRY ME! DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT PICKING ME U--Oh. Oh, well, If you're going to scratch my head..."

Using a bowl of soapy water as a trap, I've had some flea-combing sessions and have removed 50-75 fleas. And then had an hour of psychosomatic itching afterwards.

Kevin was by to watch a football game (the first time I've ever sat through a game), and we sat with the kittens before hand. He has a cat, but I think he could use another, and watching him snuggle the kittens, I think I sensed someone falling in love.

Nothing more adorable than a 6-foot 4 guy turning to me during the fame and asking, "Can we sit with the kittens during halftime?" Other than of course watching a 6-foot 4 guy snuggle a tiny kitten.

Trifecta Writing Challenge -Week 10: sway

The Trifecta Writing Challenge is a weekly exercise where you get a word and its definition and write a piece between 33 and 33 words long. It's fun, it's cool, and you should try it. At least check out the amazing contributions; you'll be glad you did.

This week's word for the Trifecta Writing Challenge is sway:
3  a : a controlling influence 
    b : sovereign power : dominion 
    c : the ability to exercise influence or authority : dominance
Thank God for deadlines and constraints.



Creativity

When he’d taken the apartment, he hadn’t even noticed the art gallery on the next block, focusing instead on the local bars and eateries. The gallery had been part of the background noise of the city, and had not registered.

When the painting appeared in the window, though, the gallery (the kind of small, understated place that couples with loft apartments and overextended credit patronized) became the only thing he noticed. The painting became the only thing he noticed.

When he first saw it he’d been stunned into immobility. He’d faced the enormous canvas with its bold, pulsing swirls of color like a mongoose assessing the cobra, each knowing one would be the other’s agent of doom. The last time he’d seen the painting it was drying on an easel in her studio and she was telling him that she wished him well, but she thought it best if they didn’t see each other any more.

Now it hung in a gallery window in his neighborhood, selling for a lot more than he could really afford. But after three weeks of trying to avoid it and failing, finding himself helpless over the painting’s sway, he cashed some bonds and emptied his savings and brought the painting home where he'd sat on the sofa looking at it, propped up against the wall, for hours, drinking cheap beer he’d kept in the fridge.

It was dawn when he went into the kitchen and returned with a bag. He hefted the oversized canvas down the stairs and along the street to a playground a block away. Leaning the canvas against the chain link, he pulled a can out of the bag. Unscrewing the lid, he doused the canvas and struck a match.

The sun was just clearing the neighborhood roofs as the bright flames rose into the grey sky.

Sounds: inside, outside, both sides

A friend sent a message around asking whether anyone with a sewing machine could help a friend of hers. Seems he has a hearing implant, the kind that attaches directly to the skull, and he wants some help modifying a winter hat so that he can wear the hat without cutting off hearing or pulling the attachment off.

My sewing experience consists of drapes, hems on second-hand corduroys and jeans, and some pot holders that look like items from a charity fundraiser for homeless Sudanese children who earn their living making whimsical crafts in hopes of raising enough money for the surgery required to restore their sight.

Sure, I said. Be happy to.

She put us in contact, and I stopped by his apartment tonight to pick up the hat. I was greeted by a forty-something tall, chubby man with arm and leg tattoos.  His hair was in a short buzz cut, so the implant was easily seen, a small oblong shape a little larger than a postage stamp, with the face of a monster painted on it. It sat a couple of inches down and behind his left ear.

He handed me a sharpie, put on the hat, and I traced around the implant. He told me he'd just gotten it this year.

"How does it work?" I asked. "Does it send sound waves directly into your brain?"

"It vibrates my skull."

"Really? That works?"

"Sure. In fact, if you were to put your head against mine, you could hear what I hear."

"No way!"

"Want to try?"

"Yeah."

He went to a desk and took off the aid. He took an iPod and connected it to the bottom of the aid via a plug attachment. He fired up some music and then put the attachment in.

"Ready?"

I nodded.

He leaned over, and I pressed my ear against his forehead. And I heard music. Music coming from his head. it was fantastic.

"That is mind-blowing!"

"You get only some of your sound through your ears," he explained. "A lot of the sound you 'hear' come through the vibrations on the front of your skull."

I stood, rapt. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I had to learn all this."

"The don't make it for Bluetooth, though," he said. "I wish they did."

"Or WiFi," I suggested. "Imagine walking down the street and hearing all the chatter. Although I imagine that could become unnerving."

"I hear enough voices in my head already," he replied, smiling to make sure I knew he was kidding.

So I have a hat, and I will modify it. I feel like I'm sewing a costume for a superhero. A man who can fill my head with music by just touching me.

Imagine.

Trifecta, Week 8 - Cutting

(this is a post wrtten for Trifecta's word challenge of the week, using the word cutting. thanks to Karen at http://karenismuttering.blogspot.com/ for kicking me in the ass. She is a wonderfully powerful and nuanced writer, so make sure to check out her contribution this week, too: http://karenismuttering.blogspot.com/2012/01/trifecta-week-8-cutting.html)

******

The night air was thick with the late-summer smell of corn. A faint glow could still be seen along the western horizon, which stretched from one corner of James’ vision to the other.  He’d been looking at corn and horizon for going on three days now.

“I’ve got to. Soon.”  The girl’s voice said on his right.  The tension, cutting tone, unmistakable.

“Jesus, Staci, I know.  What do you want me to do, make a lake magically appear in the middle of fucking Iowa?”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling, I’m just tired.”

The girl’s silence was deafening.

They rode for a few minutes not speaking, staring at the rows of corn zooming toward the car in the headlights.  The eyes of something small shone back at the car and then quickly disappeared.

“I’m going to change,” the girl said.  “Just in case.  That way I won’t have to wait.”

“Fine."

"Don't be angry. You knew about this."

"I know." He just hadn't thought it was that… inviolate.  He concentrated on driving.

After twenty minutes of so he realized the girl's breathing had changed.

"Stace? Staci? You OK back there?"

"I HAVE TO. SOON." She rasped.

"Ok; Ok.  You got your suit on?"

"Yes."

How many laps will you swim?

“A hundred —“ she broke off in a strangled gasp.

He was at 90 m.p.h. when he saw the sign ahead. MOTEL in red neon. Below it in yellow: POOL.  He screeched into the deserted parking lot; Staci was out before the car had come to a full stop. In the rearview mirror he saw her bathing-suited form run to the opposite end of the lot and scale the low chain link that surrounded an invisible pool.

James sat looking at the sign, the dark, listening to Staci's soft splashing.  He thought about the road ahead.

The corn glowed red in his receding taillights.  At the back of the lot, watery echoes slapped into the night sky.

Oh, Home Depot, you and your siren call...

In one of my favorite movies, "Truly, Madly, Deeply." the character of Nina, played by Juliet Stevenson,  is talking with a friend about the flat she lives in and owns. It seems there is something new wrong with it every day.

"I know it's a ridiculous flat," she says, "but I think it could be -- will be -- beautiful."

That's how I feel about my place. For the most part, it's not a ridiculous flat. Built in the 1920s, it has that era's sensible design: economy of space combined with simple style and beautiful workmanship. Good closet space, large main room, good-sized bathroom with clever built-in cabinets, and a bedroom that, while small, perfectly -- if snugly -- holds my double bed, two dressers, a bureau, a china cabinet, and a steamer trunk. (It also currently holds a small bookshelf, blearily pushed into the room in the middle of a night after I was awakened by the sound of Sparrow making a midnight snack of it. Not a lot of walking-around room, but easy enough to navigate.

The "dining room" and kitchen are another matter. They are the ridiculous part; at least, the kitchen is.

It was not always so. These rooms, which lie in a shotgun layout from the main room, were originally models of economic design. A whopping six feet across, the dining room bridges the living room and the kitchen (which is also six feet wide). The original French doors that divided it from the living room are, sadly,  long gone, as is the folding Murphy table that used to sit inside a cabinet-like apparatus in the wall. My downstairs neighbor still has his; by opening oak doors, you pull down the table, and from it out fold two benches, one on either side. When you are done, you fold it back up. Beautiful.

The original kitchens had plenty of floor-to ceiling cabinet space, making the small kitchen seem uncramped. In contrast, what I have now is a joke among friends who visit. You literally cannot have two people in the kitchen at  the same time. The previous owner installed standard-sized cabinets, including one base cabinet that results in a full nineteen inches of clearance.

Cooking is a marvel of ballet, T'ai Chi, and yoga as I pivot, matador-like,  to allow drawers to open, and stack mixing bowls anywhere I can on rare surface areas. On the bright side, I can reach everything with little movement; on the other, making a meal is less an act of cooking than of contortion.

I decided to remove the base cabinet and replace it with something cheap, since I have no money for remodeling. So it was that I alley-picked a nice old wooden dresser being thrown out by an older resident up the street. It would fit perfectly, and this holiday weekend I decided to get things rolling.

I removed the contents of the cabinet and surveyed the interior. I started by trying to remove the quarter-round molding at the floor level. And that's when I realized that when they put the new floor in, they did not sit the cabinet on top of the new floor; they cut a hole so that it sat on the old floor. I would need plywood to build it up and hide the yuckiness.

My neighbor C--and I drove to Home Depot, as she'd been wanting to make a trip. Neither of us found most of what we wanted, but I did pick out a nice cheap piece of plywood and brought it to a Dude in Orange to cut it to size for me. While we waited, an older gentleman walked up with a thick, trimmed tree branch about as tall as I.

"Every year, we put up a tree. This year, I decide I'm going to make a cross to celebrate our Lord Jesus," he said, in an accent I couldn't pin down. "I need to cut this; it's the part that goes across and it's too big and heavy."

We discussed his plans and his design, and he wondered how he would stabilize the cross piece. C-- and I were intrigued, and we began brainstorming.

"You could bolt it to the upright, then drive a spike in the back, and tie rope in an X around the branches, using the spike to hold it in place." I suggested. 

"My wife suggested that same thing," he said.

"Clearly, your wife is a very intelligent woman," I said.

I also picked up some high-gloss tangerine paint, and when I got back home spent about five hours priming and painting the dresser. It looks fantastic. The plywood is waiting in the kitchen. I'm determined to have it done by Christmas. Then, priming and painting the entire kitchen. 

I know it's a ridiculous flat, but I think it could be -- will be -- beautiful.