Day 22: It's only a dream

(Giorgio A. Tsoukalos from "Ancient Aliens")

I tried to scream...I couldn't get a voice to come out of my mouth.  I tried to roll over, to twitch an arm, to twitch a finger.  I tried like crazy to open my eyes...but they just stayed closed with only a sliver of barely imperceptible light peering through.

I told myself "It's only a dream...any minute now you'll wake up.  Any second now a cat will meow in the hallway and my brain will zap me out of this semi-conscious frozen state that I'm in."

I had seen all the documentaries and looked it up on the Internet.  All those episodes of that wacky-haired guy, the "Ancient Alien Theorist" or whatever he and those dozen other whack-jobs on that "Ancient Alien" show on The History Channel call themselves. I've read all about it: All those people who were visited by aliens in the bedroom...all those people who had their anus probed?  All those people were just in a state of sleep paralysis and were probably just farting.  Sure, I made up that "farting thing" and I thought it was pretty good.  I even tried to make a smile...but my lips lay there just like two limp worms...the ones you see in the driveway when you go to get the mail...the ones that didn't make it all the way across because the sun started drying them out.  I was beginning to feel they were a bit parched, too...but there was no drool, luckily.  I hate waking up with my face in the wet spot.  I hate thinking it lies there "in the wet spot". My thoughts start wandering -- to why women are always fated to "lie in the wet spot"...why can't guys lie in it?  It's icky. Those thoughts.  I'll think other ones instead.

I'm wondering when the Ambien will wear off...it's probably due any minute now.  It's probably only been a couple hours since I've taken it.  It doesn't work well anymore since I've taken it for like eight years.  I take a lot of it, too.  I hate Ambien.  It makes me walk around the house calling people and typing weird shit online.  I'm probably typing weird shit right now and I just don't know it.  I probably think I'm still sleeping.  I bet that's what's going on.
  

Ambien. 

Why can't I clean the house after I take it?  I've weeded the yard before while I was on it.  I've moved huge Belgian blocks from one side of the yard to the other...right by the pool...lugged them over somehow.  Woke up and didn't even realize I had done it.  My son forbade me to ever go outside again after taking it...he says I'll probably fall in the pool and drown.  Maybe I'm in the pool right now.  How would I know if I was in the pool? 

"Oh, stop it, Mariann."  I tell myself.  "I'd be wet.  A helluva LOT wetter than waking up on the pillow full of drool...plus that 'other' thing.  Ick."  I try to shrug - I try to do that funny thing that one comedian lady did...about sex...making that "wuuuhuuuuhhgh" noise...but I can't.  I'm stifling back a laugh...but I'm not making a sound. 

But, wait...seriously...maybe I'm really in the pool.  Nah...as soon as I hit the icy water, I'd wake up.  It's cold outside and I'm only in my nitegown.  I know I'm in my nitegown because I rarely even change out of one nowadays since my daughter's gone off to college -- I don't have to shuffle her to school and back, and I don't have a job...and I don't have to go anywhere...it's kinda silly to change into clothes that only my son and cats would see.  Plus, my bra hurts.  I always can't wait to get out of it when I go somewhere...sometimes, I unhinge it in the car and just throw a coat over what I'm wearing...because it hurts a lot.  It hurts because I had a badoodle amount of lung collapses and two lung operations to glue my lung and the pleura together so it doesn't collapse again.  If I breathe deeply enough...it hurts.  

I'll take a deep breath...that's what I'll do...that'll wake me up.  The pain of breathing in a bunch of air will shock me back into reality. 

"Ready...set...go!" 

Nothing.

Oh, c'mon...this isn't funny now.  Seriously...not funny.

Oh, good...someone just turned on the light.  Whew.

I can just barely make something out through that sliver in my semi-opened eyes.  It's the glint of a knife!  It's a fucking knife!  It's a God-damned fucking knife!  Oh...my God...someone's walking towards me...wearing gloves...and carrying a knife. "Wake up, wake up, dammit!  Wake the fuck up!"

Oh...shit...oh shit...oh shit...it's not just a regular knife...I can see it now...it's...

...it's...

...it's a coroner's scalpel!

Okay, that's my story for "It's only a dream" - I kinda creeped myself out there so I am gonna stop.  I have to take my Ambien right now.

Or...maybe I'll wait a bit.

A long bit.

Now...go on over to "We Work for Cheese" and read what other stuff others have come up with for Day 22 of the "30 Days Minus Two of Writing" challenge.

Day 14: It has to be aliens

I apologize profusely ahead of time to all Russians, Serbians, Latvians, Asians, and Belgians.  I started out writing something totally different and then the second paragraph it changed...so I had to go with it.  That's how my little mind works...and the dialect might be way off, but in my head it worked. The prompt for today is "It has to be aliens" - which can be found at "We Work for Cheese".  We are halfway through the "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" exercise in all things futile and nerve bending...but I enjoy the hell out of it!

Here's a Valentine's Day story for everyone:

Alexei Petrokova was convalescing in a hospital in Lower Manhattan when his sweetheart of 25 years ago learned of his condition.

"I turned on the radio and there was the Sting's song, 'Englishman in New York' -- when I heard the words 'I'm an alien - I'm a legal alien.  I'm an Englishman in New York.' I thought of my beloved and wondered where on this Earth he might be." said Romaramaria Slokovenkstya on Tuesday.  And I felt the strong urge, is how you say it?  I went online and there he was...my Alexei."

"We were once inseparable...but the war came to our little village and cleaved us in two.  He went off to join his comrades to fight and I was left with but a remembrance.  I remember when we first met...this song, this hauntingly beautiful song...it came on the radio, and I did not understand the language except for the words "New York" and "alien".  We fell in love that same minute when it came on the radio in our little home town of Bisnyark.  I remember Alexei singing "I'm an Enkrishmank in Bishnyark" and we laughed and laughed over our very strong drink. For three days we were lovers...in spirit alone...and we vowed with our first kiss that it would not be our last."

"Alas, that was the last I saw of him...I moved far away with an arranged marriage to help my family soon after.  I never saw him again until I chanced happening on the...what do you call it...the Facebook?  My friend, she send me this photograph and I cried out, 'Constantine, come look...come look!'  I could not believe my eyes.  My eyes welled with the tears as my eyes met his in the photo.  It was like when we first met...I can not start to tell you of the joy it brings in my heart." Slokovenkstya continued.

"My Constantine...he, he was not so happy.  It is hard to be happy when the song on the radio when we first met was "My Bologna" by the Strange Yaknovic or something. But as he is probably a fellow Bisnyarkian, I know not for certain, but he or his singing group...it has to be aliens, too, no?"

"So, I plan to go to New York to be reunited with 'My Enkrishmank', my first love.  I just hope the eyes of his heart feel the same for mine."

Day 7: Hint Hint

Today's challenge over at "We Work for Cheese" is "Hint Hint"...and, this is going to be a very short blog...in a way.

 

Some of you might have the same problem I have...and that's trying to draw readers over to your blog.  I get happy when people say they've read it...and incredibly ecstatic when someone takes the time to comment...and I've always told everyone, "I live for comments...good, bad, or anonymous.  Hint hint."

 

So...ummmm...hint hint.

 

I initially started writing a blog for The Montgomery Advertiser back in March 2006 - hoping they would notice my "brilliance" as a writer (or at least my "above mediocre" ability) and hire me.  It didn't work. The previous executive editor even called me in to talk to her for a whopping two hours...but that's all I have to say about that in public.  All the same, feel free to write them/him (as they have a new editor) and who knows, perhaps with the right nudging they might call me back in and give me that shot after all (and, yes, I'm serious).
 
Anyway, here's a sprinkling of some of my previous blogs, a "Top Ten List" if you will. Some are silly, some are sad, and some are just the early morning ramblings of a woman who takes her Ambien way too late and fancies herself a writer.

I don't ask that you read all of them...that would be ridiculous -- just pick whichever title strikes a chord...or choose your favourite number from 1-10...and go with that one. Oh...and leave me a comment. 

 

Again, hint hint.  :)

 

 

1. Viagra...vating

 

2. Esmerelda and the Area Known as 51

 

3. Driven to Tears

 

4.  Hollywood Lights

 

5.  Of Ripples of Butterfly Wings

 

6.  A Small Slimmer of Taupe

 

7.  Two Guys, a Girl and a Tube Tester

 

8.  Ancient Alien Conspiracy Regarding "The War of the Worlds"

 

9.  Potato Farmers - the New Vampires?

 

10.  Halloween is Different for Me This Year

 

 

(I apologize in advance for some of these not having the photo that I yanked off the Internet for insertion into my blog...apparently someone yanked them.  If I went in and redid my blog with a new photo, it would take me 40 minutes per blog to add all the HTML code to make the spacing correct as it always screws up the spacing and fonts when I edit...so I left them without images.  It even managed to mess up the link colours.  Why?  I don't know!  Blogger is indeed maddening. )

Ancient Alien Conspiracy Regarding "The War of the Worlds"

Orson Welles...the genius mastermind responsible for such epic creations as "Citizen Kane", "The Magnificent Ambersons", and "The Third Man" got his brilliant idea of "The War of the Worlds" radio show on the exact same day as the Roswell, New Mexico alien spaceship crash.  Yes, unbeknownst to Welles, his panic-laden historic "Martians landing in a farmer's field in Grover's Mills, New Jersey" idea came into his head on 4 July 1947. 

Yes, the broadcast was a full nine years earlier, but some ancient alien theorists discount the date and, in fact, insist that aliens did indeed land when the inception of the idea first popped into Welles' head. The infamous Halloween radio show was broadcast 30 October 1938...but due to a full nine years of unaccountable time, it actually occurred the exact same time.  "If Welles were alive, he'd emphatically collaborate our findings." ancient alien theorist, Giorgio A. Tsoukalos, was quoted as saying. Tsoukalos further posited, "The time difference is just further proof that aliens indeed landed on Earth and have been time-travelling, interweaving fact with fiction all along.  That's what aliens are best at doing.  They've been setting the clocks back further than we've ever done.  We've only just begun to scratch the surface of this and firmly believe Orson Welles was a cosmic conduit between space aliens and 'The War of the Worlds' author H.G. Wells. Their surnames are nearly identical, both states the aliens landed in have the word 'New' in them, and Welles wrote that radio show interpretation of that exact same book.  This does not happen coincidentally...the aliens were trying to tell us something...and this was probably it."

(This was a little Halloween homage parody I wrote.  But...if they use it in one of their upcoming episodes, you will know where they got the idea.  I hope I get the check.)

Esmerelda and the Area Known as 51 (Part 1)

(The following is a repost of a story I started writing a ways back.  Just wanted to bring it to the forefront to remind me.)

It was just about dusk as Esmerelda sat behind the counter filing her nails at the only gas station in Goldfield, Nevada.

She had sat behind that counter every day, or near about every day, since her daddy got taken ill with a raging fever that ended up taking his breath away. Momma prayed hard that day and asked Esmerelda, "Sing with your angel voice, child, sing so the angels can hear and come straight to your daddy to 'take him home'."

Esmerelda obliged.

She was just a girl of about seven...but her voice could make grown men weep - and when the town, once a boom town for gold, started to get deserted, grown men wept for other reasons. Esmerelda didn't really understand where "home" was. She just knew when people got bit real bad by snakes or had the consumption, they always went "home" and then no one ever saw them again. They parceled you up real good, too. Put you in a big wooden box to send you there. She figured a special postman with a big wagon and two horses came to take you back "home" and your family would walk as far as they could and then came back again...crying.

But no one came back once they went home. And for a very long time Esmerelda was afraid to ever go home, but as she never lived anywhere else, she figured she was already there. Then, as all things go, time passed and she understood about "home" and then was worried her momma would go there one day. Sometimes she'd find herself doing chores 'round the house and her sweet voice would pour out like liquid sunshine and kiss the ears of everyone within earshot. Then she'd clam up and run outside as far and as fast as she could. She didn't want those angels to find her momma.

But now she was filing her nails and Curtis was in the garage of the gas station shouting obscenities each time he'd smash a finger. Curtis worked at the little grocery store and service station that was smack on the edge of town. Smack on the edge of town to nowhere really. Wasn't anything much before or after the town and certainly wasn't much there. The only thing within miles was Las Vegas and the only time people came through Goldfield anymore was because they heard it once had gold...but that was a considerable time ago, but that never stopped the passers-by who lost everything but gas money out of Vegas. Goldfield was a tank of gas away...and if they got lucky and found the stray nugget, it was a tank of gas back. And the only place to get that gas was at Esmerelda's daddy's store, "Old Bob Perkins' Place" it was called by the locals and that's what it will always be called if Esmerelda and her momma had anything to do with it.

It didn't cost much to run and Curtis got paid only when he fixed something, which wasn't very often, but then again, Curtis was never going to amount to much anyway...but that never stopped him from trying to hit on Esmerelda.

He had it all worked out in his simple head. He'd marry Esmerelda when the time was right and that time would be any day now seeing as she was starting to fill out her dresses too much and started wearing her momma's. Then he and Esmerelda would move in with his momma as she had the biggest house for miles around. Curtis never knew why she did, he only knew they didn't want for anything...but he never much wanted for anything anyway...anything but Esmerelda, that is. And that "wanting" wasn't exactly like wanting a new tire or wanting a new pair of shoes -- it was more like wanting some dinner...only sometimes this hunger seemed a lot deeper. Curtis, again, never really knew why.

But Esmerelda's hunger and desire didn't lie with Curtis...she wanted to go to Hollywood...or at least Vegas. She liked the distinct smell of ozone once when daddy took the family on a trip up there shortly before he died. Once in a while, on a warm still night, Esmerelda swore she could still catch a whiff of it if the breeze was blowing just right and if she turned her head just so.

Esmerelda knew she didn't have much time, either. The desert sun can blanch the bones of a dead thing white in a couple days...and the supple, taut skin of a young girl of 15 turns into something hard and leathery like the cowboys and Mexicans wore in those "shoot 'em up" movies she wanted to star in. Star in them right up there on the silver screen with Gary Cooper or John Wayne. Even though Esmerelda only went to a movie once, she knew that's what she wanted to do...she also knew, aside from "going home", that was her only ticket out of Goldfield.

And the best way to get there was on a tank of gas after someone found a big enough nugget.

So, each day she came to work dressed in her momma's best clothes, her hair styled as closely as she could get it to resemble the latest "starlet of the month" on the magazine cover and smelling of something called "L'amore de Parisienne". It cost a whole fifty cents...the finest her daddy's store carried. And there she would wait, filing her nails, anticipating that one day, and one day soon, a big Hollywood director would need a fill-up on his way scouting around for a new place to shoot a film...discover her in all her momma's Sunday finest...and sweep her away to the place where dreams can be made real...or at least as close to the reality she always dreamt about.

Each day, she'd walk home more disappointed than the last...and the days she spent waiting turned into weeks, then months, and finally years. Curtis had filled out enough to become interesting to her...and as he was the only boy close her age for miles, his dream was beginning to look like it would be her dream as well.

(End of Part 1)

Day 25: The Future

I was going to slap some sunglasses on, snap a few...and then talk about that "My future's so bright...I gotta wear shades" song. But that idea, while holding some merit in my head, was pretty stupid.  That being said, someone here probably used that idea and now I just stuck my foot in my mouth...and I'm not that nimble anymore, so you damn well better be impressed.

I also don't take photos of my kids and put them on the Internet, so the future as being my kids...was right out.

But first, let's get to Ziva's "30 Days of Photographs II" non-contest and all the other people who have been devoted or crazy enough to go thru this process every day. A sense of photographical (is that a word) accomplishment has been made by these fine, alibeit insane, people:

MikeWJ, Nicky and Mike, Mo, Meleah, John, aka nonamedufus, Bryan, aka Unfinished Person, Malisa, Nora, LaughingMom, Tanya, Elizabeth A., 00dozo, Cheryl, Kristen, Katherine, and, last -- but definitely not least, Ziva.


Day 25 --  The Future:

Now, the only other thing I thought about were those 1950s sci-fi films...and this flashlight-like thingy that I bought a couple years ago. Each time I look at it, it reminds me of "The War of the Words" (the original version -- don't even make go there...there is no remake...there's only the one). Specifically speaking, it reminds me of the all-seeing scary "eye on a stalk" alien drone which was in the movie. So, I did my best to set it up all nicely and took a few photos, hoping one would convey a nostalgic futuristic slant on things.

So, there you have it...my retro-futuristic flashlight. I think even HG Wells himself might like it -- especially if it were dark.

Esmerelda and the Area Known as 51 (Part 1)

It was just about dusk as Esmerelda sat behind the counter filing her nails at the only gas station in Goldfield, Nevada.

She had sat behind that counter every day, or near about every day, since her daddy got taken ill with a raging fever that ended up taking his breath away. Momma prayed hard that day and asked Esmerelda, "Sing with your angel voice, child, sing so the angels can hear and come straight to your daddy to 'take him home'."

Esmerelda obliged.

She was just a girl of about seven...but her voice could make grown men weep - and when the town, once a boom town for gold, started to get deserted, grown men wept for other reasons. Esmerelda didn't really understand where "home" was. She just knew when people got bit real bad by snakes or had the consumption, they always went "home" and then no one ever saw them again. They parceled you up real good, too. Put you in a big wooden box to send you there. She figured a special postman with a big wagon and two horses came to take you back "home" and your family would walk as far as they could and then came back again...crying.

But no one came back once they went home. And for a very long time Esmerelda was afraid to ever go home, but as she never lived anywhere else, she figured she was already there. Then, as all things go, time passed and she understood about "home" and then was worried her momma would go there one day. Sometimes she'd find herself doing chores 'round the house and her sweet voice would pour out like liquid sunshine and kiss the ears of everyone within earshot. Then she'd clam up and run outside as far and as fast as she could. She didn't want those angels to find her momma.

But now she was filing her nails and Curtis was in the garage of the gas station shouting obscenities each time he'd smash a finger. Curtis worked at the little grocery store and service station that was smack on the edge of town. Smack on the edge of town to nowhere really. Wasn't anything much before or after the town and certainly wasn't much there. The only thing within miles was Las Vegas and the only time people came through Goldfield anymore was because they heard it once had gold...but that was a considerable time ago, but that never stopped the passers-by who lost everything but gas money out of Vegas. Goldfield was a tank of gas away...and if they got lucky and found the stray nugget, it was a tank of gas back. And the only place to get that gas was at Esmerelda's daddy's store, "Old Bob Perkins' Place" it was called by the locals and that's what it will always be called if Esmerelda and her momma had anything to do with it.

It didn't cost much to run and Curtis got paid only when he fixed something, which wasn't very often, but then again, Curtis was never going to amount to much anyway...but that never stopped him from trying to hit on Esmerelda.

He had it all worked out in his simple head. He'd marry Esmerelda when the time was right and that time would be any day now seeing as she was starting to fill out her dresses too much and started wearing her momma's. Then he and Esmerelda would move in with his momma as she had the biggest house for miles around. Curtis never knew why she did, he only knew they didn't want for anything...but he never much wanted for anything anyway...anything but Esmerelda, that is. And that "wanting" wasn't exactly like wanting a new tire or wanting a new pair of shoes -- it was more like wanting some dinner...only sometimes this hunger seemed a lot deeper. Curtis, again, never really knew why.

But Esmerelda's hunger and desire didn't lie with Curtis...she wanted to go to Hollywood...or at least Vegas. She liked the distinct smell of ozone once when daddy took the family on a trip up there shortly before he died. Once in a while, on a warm still night, Esmerelda swore she could still catch a whiff of it if the breeze was blowing just right and if she turned her head just so.

Esmerelda knew she didn't have much time, either. The desert sun can blanch the bones of a dead thing white in a couple days...and the supple, taut skin of a young girl of 15 turns into something hard and leathery like the cowboys and Mexicans wore in those "shoot 'em up" movies she wanted to star in. Star in them right up there on the silver screen with Gary Cooper or John Wayne. Even though Esmerelda only went to a movie once, she knew that's what she wanted to do...she also knew, aside from "going home", that was her only ticket out of Goldfield.

And the best way to get there was on a tank of gas after someone found a big enough nugget.

So, each day she came to work dressed in her momma's best clothes, her hair styled as closely as she could get it to resemble the latest "starlet of the month" on the magazine cover and smelling of something called "L'amore de Parisienne". It cost a whole fifty cents...the finest her daddy's store carried. And there she would wait, filing her nails, anticipating that one day, and one day soon, a big Hollywood director would need a fill-up on his way scouting around for a new place to shoot a film...discover her in all her momma's Sunday finest...and sweep her away to the place where dreams can be made real...or at least as close to the reality she always dreamt about.

Each day, she'd walk home more disappointed than the last...and the days she spent waiting turned into weeks, then months, and finally years. Curtis had filled out enough to become interesting to her...and as he was the only boy close her age for miles, his dream was beginning to look like it would be her dream as well.

(End of Part 1)

A Play, With Words, In Three Parts

For your 'entertainment' I present...a "blogumn" in three parts (all basically read in the present tense):

Past:

Here I go to sit in yet another doctor's office - frantically showering, dressing and guzzling a glass of water before I proceed in my attempt to break the sound barrier in order to make it from my house to my destination in less time than is humanly possible without the intervention, or invention, of a time machine...unless I hit absolutely no lights, which I am sure the likes of Stephen Hawking NEVER add into their equations when formulating new theories.

Calculations aside, only being assisted by a wormhole, alien abducted or...perhaps...could it just be that nothing says "drive and determination" like driving WITH determination?

Past Present:

Suffice it to say - I made it there on time...and even managed to jump out of the elevator before my riding occupant, i.e., another lady, did. Yes, I am, in such cases, psychic...I just knew she'd go into the same office as me...and she did.

So, I filled out my form, same form as always - info never changes. Why they make you fill it out each time is anyone's guess; they just must like having something to shred at the end of the day. The shear bulk of my pre-shredded slips of paper over the years alone would undoubtedly have amounted to one "less than full-sun-given" scrub pine by now.

Enter my former elevator companion. "I'm sorry, but we ARE running late today...so it may be a while" the receptionist, outwardly begrudgingly...yet inwardly relishing, alerts her. Now those are fourteen words no patient wants to hear. Why...oh why can't they CALL you to let you know that you can indeed use the brake pedal en-route to your appointment? You know, they can put a man on the moon (or at least fake it well) but they can't call you on your cell phone to tell you they know full well it's going to be a LONG wait??? It's not like we are still in the days of Gilligan's Island...no Professor and a coconut phone. Wake up and smell the Venti Latte Decaf Two-Percent Sans Sugar...technology HAS progressed a bit, correct? Would a call kill these people? They could even write it down and shred it at the end of the day just to add to the pile of stuff from my life which gets tossed without so much as a sideways glance. Aren't I worth it? I mean, they still do take my checks and not just the number...so my paper heap must be worth at least a [parking] token...which, by the way, they don't dole out anymore so I have to park in Lower Slobovia when I park, thank you, Baptist South - Morrow Tower people.

Now, with notebook (I am presently writing in) in hand, I sauntered back up to the receptionist station..."Can I 'borrow' a pen?" I ask (all innocently). She looks up ever so slightly from her "look who is going to be inconvenienced today by sitting unnecessarily long at the doctor's office" appointment book, and proceeds to tell me that I can use either the purple or blue one. I go for the purple. (My daughter likes purple.) Ordinarily this would be a massive clue for the more astute "Agatha-Christie-types"...only someone with prior intent to abscond with a nifty "drug company freebie pen" would give a flying fig about the exterior colour it was...but no red flags were raised and I am now writing with my "newfound" pen. The tiny things in life keep me going...and this was by far one of the tiniest. Lo and behold, I am called in to see my doctor...MY doctor was on time...THIS time. Time to put away my notebook which is supposed to scream "Johnny Depp playing J.M. Barrie in 'Finding Neverland'"...yes, take note everyone sitting in this waiting room, for *I* have a notebook...I fancy myself on the writer's playing field of the guy who penned "Peter Pan". Sigh...I am such a dreamer. Wait...isn't that what that film was about??? Hmmm...ironic?

Present:

I gave my daughter a pen today. It was purple. I wouldn't say it was the cheapest present I've ever given her as it cost me $165.66 with back payments duly tendered. And, speaking of irony...I even had the audacity to write my check out with their...uh...strike that...MY daughter's pen!