A Bit About Me

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Along with my daily duties as founder and head writer of HumorMeOnline.com, in 2003, I took the Grand Prize in the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest (also known as the "It Was a Dark and Stormy Night" competition). I've also been a contributor to "The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson" and the web's "The Late Show with David Letterman". I also occupy my time writing three blogs, "Blogged Down at the Moment", "Brit Word of the Day" and "Production Numbers"...and my off-time is spent contemplating in an "on again/off again" fashion...my feable attempts at writing any one of a dozen books. I would love to write professionally one day...and by that I mean "actually get a paycheck".
Showing posts with label gas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gas. Show all posts

05 October 2013

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)

29 October 2007

Hospitalization - Part II

Sure, major surgery has its inconveniences which are to be expected (I pointed some out in Part 1 of my Hospitalization blogum located below) but what they are really good at is the little things. Little things mean a lot. Little things can be cute, as in kittens...little things can kill you, as in germs...and little things you can take for granted...well, they'll be the ones I'm referring to here. I can only speak on my personal cases of being in the hospital and for this story I'm sticking to things which occurred this time around.

- Bodily fluids and why are they fascinated with them in the hospital? Furthermore why do they have one bathroom for me and not another one for my visitors?? Do they know WHAT lurks IN my personal hospital bathroom? I feel like the consummate bad criminal in any killer movie when they reach to open the bathroom door...

"DON'T open THAT!!!!"
"Well, why? Whatcha hiding in there I can't look at?"
"Uh...nothing."
"Well, if it's nothing, tell me what it is."
"It's nothing I say."
"You aren't telling me the truth, are you?"
"You CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

Why does the dialogue ever have to progress that far? I'll be honest with everyone here and now why those bathrooms are for the patient and the patient alone. They give you little bowls and containers with demarcation/deliniation lines...and they give them adorable little names...oh, like "hat". "Time to empty your 'hat'" they say. Well, they don't sell these hats in any haberdashery shop I've ever been in, nor at 'Bed Bath and Beyond'...they are WAY beyond what they sell. I think they get them from a guy who knows a guy who comes around in the back of the hospital twice a week...or they probably order them online or eBay.

Word to the wise...hospitalization is a series of private processes, especially for women who don't routinely sit on the sofa snarfing down nachos and guzzling back beer with men playing "pull my finger" games. Now, nothing's wrong with being that type of woman...but I'm not...I am more on the "demure" side of the fence. I don't want anyone to enter places to see things that even the nurses and doctors shouldn't have to see. So, when you reach your hand out to turn my bathroom door knob...let's just say the only way you aren't getting vituperatively scolded a well deserved "NO!" would be if I were in a coma...but if I were in a coma I wouldn't really be using the bathroom so you could probably use it. I believe you get the point here by now...even if that point is moot.

- I am 46...I'd like to be younger but I'm not. I have, to my credit, built up some medical vocabulary where I feel confident enough to speak to doctors and medical staff using and have them use back with me without my having that "huh??" look on my face. This comes from my odd habit of reading the PDR, medical papers, and hanging out at WebMD.com and MayoClinic.com much more than anyone should. But when a doctor says uncommon words, 99 percent of the time I know what they are saying and they don't have to spell everything out for me in plain laymen's vernacular. I find this to be a bonus and I think they appreciate it as well. But one thing eludes me during my stay this time and I will try to explain best I can. Enter one nurse after I rang the bell...the dialogue goes somewhat like this: Her: "What can I do for you?" Me: "Well, I have to be unstrapped from the blood-clot leg cuffs before I can toddle off to the bathroom and this is where you get to come in." Her: "Well, do you have to go 'tee-tee' or something else?" Me: "Ummmm - I only have to urinate." Now, I am not five or 10 even for that matter and I certainly hoped I exuded a little more knowledge than one click above brain-dead...why she called it "tee-tee" is a mystery to me...but I wrote it off as perhaps she normally works on the pediatric ward. And then after a bit of contemplation I figured I would indeed use this whole dialogue bit in a blog...yes, that's the way my mind works.

- For the love of all things sacred...please feed me something that might get my gastric juices flowing. Even Pavlov's dog would have just sat in the corner and licked his...uh...bells wouldn't have sent any salivary glands salivating in any experiments if he had pawned this stuff off as food in those experiments. And speaking of experiments, I think the Nutrition Department were conducting some of their own. During my "soft bland diet" phase, at lunch and dinner "something" which can only be envisioned as that dough blob that pops at full force out of the Poppin' Fresh dough cylinder when you poke the seam with a knife blade. Honestly, THAT is what it looked like and they were determined to get me to eat it and they had days and days to prove that theory.

-- Day one I was tempted to taste it - but I stood my ground as it didn't look like a pudding and it wasn't exactly an ice-cream as it never melted...so I put it in that illustrious food group in which Fruitcake belongs and sent it back. Voila! I'll get something else later for dinner. Or so I thought. There, mysteriously - right top quadrant of the tray...it was back again. Surely it must be a whole different one you are thinking. Au contrare...it looked the same...but instead of being pristinely white this time...it had diminished to "eggshell". Again I held my ground and returned it - surely it can't return again tomorrow I thought. Ha! I won! Well, I shouldn't pat myself on the back so quickly...plus I had an abdominal incision...it kinda hurts to twist like that.

-- Day two I hear voices from Poltergeist II in the back of my mind..."They're ba-aaak" - and sure enough, it was. Again, had I access to those paint colour swatches I could've discerned this one wasn't even "eggshell" anymore, but now was more closely graduating to "ecru". By the time they came to collect it - I made a joke about how it returns but always a shade darker...I think they either didn't get it or they now knew I was wise to them. I was certain it wouldn't make it to my dinner menu.



-- Enter my children who haven't had me at the house for days dealing with my witty banter (oh go along with me - I had major surgery) on a continuing basis...so I had to relay to them the "scary ever-colour-changing blob which shows up at each meal except breakfast" tale. My daughter hatched a plan - "Stab it!" she says. "NOOOOOOOOO!!!" I say..."Didn't you learn ANYTHING from watching those Sci-Fi movies from the 50s? That 'thing' will slide off the plate, slip under the door, kill three people at the nurses' station and then double back and break my window to kill me when my back is turned to it whilst I'm reporting the whole incident to the police on the phone!" It happens EVERY time - best not tempt providence. And, true to form...the colour was indeed a little darker still...and had lost some sheen...it was now fast approaching "faded ivory piano keys" shade. My son was brave, even with my cautionary words of impending doom...he totally annihilated the poor unsuspecting "upper right food tray blob" and alas, it came back no more. I really don't want to think about why it didn't too long so I'll just gloss right over that whole episode. But at the time, it was pretty much my only form of entertainment...so much so we took photos.

Word must have gotten back to the "mother ship" that I was not going to cave in and consume that thing so I believe they decided they had no use for me anymore and when the doctor came in to see me the next day he stated if I ate some "real food" and "participated" in some honest to goodness "pull my finger" jocularity, I could vacate the premises and be on my merry way home. For years I've tried to class up my interactive comedy website by not catering to the lowest common denominator, "fart jokes"...and here it all came back to bite me on the proverbial...um...arse.

So, again, some of the littlest things you take for granted are your ticket out...and this was to be the one time I would proudly proclaim "I did it!.