Take a Little Tour of Our New Home Town

                                                                   Vail Lake
Our own little airport, they serve breakfast!
        Lunch anyone?
        Lovely vineyards under the sun
     Hot Air Balloons over Skinner Lake

                   We have to try this!
      These guys sell  terrific garlic-stuffed olives


Thought I'd share a little information about our new home town today.

Temecula circa 1909! It sure doesn't look like this now! Don't you love historical pictures? The olive bar is in OLD TOWN, and well worth a visit. I've included a picture of Vail Lake, (which I have to admit I have not visited yet but I hear it's a great place to camp), and a vineyard or two, (just a couple miles away. I know, lucky us!), and those hot air balloons are flying over Lake Skinner which is just a hop skip and a jump away. French Valley Airport is a good place to take flying lessons, (my husband is signing up!), or to take a glider ride. So, if you visit Southern California, don't forget our wine country! Did I say, we love living here, well so far we do!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

In The Mood (True Story)

Several years ago my co-worker Glen suggested we go for Thai. I was more in the mood for Italian or maybe Mexican, but didn’t squabble because I hadn't had a thing to eat all day. We were stopping for a late lunch after driving a considerable distance that gloomy day to work on bids in downtown Los Angeles. Most places weren’t even serving lunch anymore, as they had closed to prepare for the dinner crowd. The Thai place had a glowing OPEN sign in the window, was practically empty and very dark, so we sat in the front under the sign where we figured we’d have a little more light. A frail old man took our order. I sat in the chair facing the window. My co-worker had a view of the room. I turned around and gave the place the once over, mostly to see where the snickering was coming from. I saw a mature woman carefully pouring tea for a fellow I presumed was her husband at a table not far from us. As my eyes adjusted I managed to focus in on the source of the boisterousness, two young girls dressed like punk rockers sitting at a booth all the way against the furthest wall in the darkest recesses at the back of the restaurant. It appeared that they were feeding one another. I turned back around.

Our beers arrived. Glen drank his straight from the bottle. I used the small frosty glass that the old man provided for that very purpose. We discussed business briefly. But predictably, Glen began to complain about his wife. Male coworkers, (and back then there were hardly any women in my line of work), made a practice of pointing out their wive’s or girlfriend’s various flaws to me. Glen’s wife had lost a baby boy years earlier and had never gotten over it. They had a young daughter but she resented the poor little thing. Or, so Glen claimed. I had my doubts. I’d seen his wife at the company picnic acting like any other loving mother, fussing over the little girl when she fell in the three-legged race, and seeing to it that she didn’t drink too many sodas. 

Whenever he tried to drag his wife through the mud, I’d take up for her and wash her off with my words. “Everyone deals with loss in different ways,” I reminded him. “Maybe you two should go to therapy.” 

Glen offered no response and took a long swallow of  beer. I wasn’t interested in encouraging any of the men I worked with. It was a good old boy network and I had to get along in that hostile envirorment if I wanted to get anywhere. I knew darn well that they were continually testing the water, and I wanted to make it very clear, the water was freezing cold. I wanted to make it crystal clear that I wasn’t interested in fooling around with any of them—no way.

The old man set our plates down and waddled off. I couldn’t help but notice that Glen wasn’t paying attention to his pad Thai, that he was indeed ignoring his fried pork belly and broccoli. Why, the man’s eyes were glazing over. I turned around to see what had captured his attention so steadfastly. Glen didn’t make a practice of ignoring food. I turned around just as the mature woman exclaimed, “Well, for crying out loud!”

The two girls were going at it. One girl was practically straddling her friend. The girl on the bottom, her blouse was open, exposing a breast, and she began to moan as the girl on top ground her hips wildly. I had never seen such a public display.

The woman stood up, “Sir,” she said, waving the ancient waiter over. Before he reached her table she rushed to him and whispered something in his ear. He glanced over at the two girls; they were lip-locked at that moment and oblivious to the scrutiny. The old man backed away, did an about turn, and disappeared behind a curtain and into the kitchen. The woman’s husband begged her to sit down and finish her food. I watched him pop a shrimp into his mouth in one deft move. Like me, he wasn’t facing the frisky lesbians, and like me he preferred to eat his food while it was still hot. I turned around and dug in.

Glen, on the other hand, was completely riveted. His jaw hung slack as he watched them make out. The man was in heaven. I took one of his spring rolls and he didn’t even notice. Glen wasn't big on sharing.

The mature woman jumped out of her chair and stormed into the kitchen when the old man didn’t return. I could hear her in there making quite a ruckus. Her husband just shook his head and continued eating with his back facing the amorous goings-ons. A young woman emerged, tread softly over to the girl’s table, and in a most hesitant and calm manner asked that they vacate the premises.

“What?” The more aggressive girl slid off the other and glared at the woman, “I can’t understand you.”

The Thai woman's accent hadn’t been that thick, I'd understood what she said. 

The mature woman joined the proprietor at the lesbian’s table. “Don’t play act! You heard her. Don't make us call the police,” she said, pointing to the sign over the cash register that said WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. “Just pay your bill and leave.”

The Thai woman moved behind the mature woman when the girl slammed her fist against the table and sent dishes and silverware to rattling and chattering. “I am not done eating!” She shouted.

The mature woman said, “We’ll pack it up for you.”

The other lesbian began to button her shirt. “Let’s go Jo,” she said. “I’m finished here, forget the food, it's crappy anyway.” She was full of it, the food was wonderful. 

Glen watched every move the girls made as they paid and went out the door.

“I ate one of your spring rolls,” I told him.

He looked down at his plate. “Man, that was something. I’m turned on.”

Disgusted, I grabbed another spring roll, leaving him only one. “You’re a pig,” I snapped. Getting something off my chest that I wanted to say for a long time.

Glen didn’t seem to hear me though. He downed the rest of his beer, grabbed his fork, and said, “If that lady didn’t break in I think the pretty one might have gotten naked. I really do.”

The mature woman finally returned to the table to join her husband just as he had finished cleaning his plate. “You missed the show,” she said. “Those two were really having themselves quite a time.”

I'm afraid curiosity got the best of me, I craned my neck to witness his reaction. The man studied his wife momentarily, then replied, “I guess I am getting old. I’m hungry all the time, not horny.”

“Oh Ralph,” the mature woman said, then she smiled and poured him some more tea.











All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Live It Up!

I'm a pretty patriotic person and I really have no problem saying so. I think America rocks and don't feel a need to be bashful about expressing this belief. The 4th of July is fun. This year I am having one of my famous bouts with bursitis and I am at home while my sweet husband is off at a parade with the kids and grandkids, (picture my downward turned mouth corners, picture me glum), and then he's dropping by a rally of sorts after that. I will be attending the bar-b-que at my son and daughter-in-laws house this afternoon though, (nothing could keep me from going there!) I'm making crab cakes, and desert, (haven't decided what yet even though it is getting kind of late), and smashed garlic potatoes. I wish all of my readers the best holiday ever. Even if you aren't particularly patriotic the 4th is a good excuse to eat and be merry. All that, and fireworks too! Yay!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Ugly Baby and The Grocery Goddess

I saw an ugly baby riding along precariously in a shopping cart at the grocery store today, couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. That poor thing wore only a plain used-to-be-white onesie over it’s disposable diaper, and nothing else. The hair was scraggly and dingy, giving no clues as to gender. Colorless lashless eyes, a mouth like a torn pocket, the sum total of the pitiful little upturned face virtually cried out for sympathy, pity even. The mother, on the other hand, was a goddess. If the mother of that ugly baby isn’t a stripper she should run out and apply, they’d certainly hire her right on the spot, and God knows she already sports the wardrobe pickin’s to qualify. I caught my husband checking her out, (no I didn’t blame him), as there I was giving her a once over myself! Cotton candy hair, long fake eyelashes, she stood at least 5”11, if not 6’ tall, and her breasts were enormous but not too enormous. Every inch of her skin, and there was plenty of it on display, was peaches and cream perfection. No pimples, no blemishes, no freckles, no stretch marks, no cellulite, I’m talking perfect! How she managed to traverse the huge warehouse-like market in those stilettos is unfathomable to me. But there she was gliding through the place, the ugly baby staring at its mama just like everybody else.

Okay, so maybe that baby's mama is a stripper, and maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s a housewife, (yeah right, wink, wink), or maybe she’s a kept woman. Whatever, she sure did get my writer’s mind churning.

Keep an eye out, the grocery goddess might turn up in one of my stories…


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Short Fiction

She Got Back Home

Shep took Lindy away from her home one hot summer night. They agreed to meet at two by the Reseda Boulevard onramp to the Ventura Freeway, making for a quick and easy getaway. She brought along her traveling bag, two hundred dollars, and her mother’s diamond ring. At the tender age of fifteen, Lindy had instantaneously transformed into a thief and a runaway. Her wild heart beat faster than the wheels turned round on Shep’s darling Dodge Fury as they sped north, and she didn’t dare look back as they left The San Fernando Valley behind.

During quiet days when Shep was away Lindy would often sit alone by the banks of the mighty river just yards away from their back door. Memories of the bridgeless city she left behind would cause her to lose track of time. Under the canopy of giant trees and impossibly green wild undergrowth she would loll idly on the dock, helplessly batting at persistent horseflies and mosquitoes, marveling at the scarcity of such creatures in her arid homeland. Her little brother’s face, the sound of the rushing traffic, the splashing screeching children in the apartment building’s swimming pool, the feel of the plastic straps of the lounge chair under her oily thighs, the scent of coconut, these memories haunted and troubled, and in some strange way, cheered her. Dink had been three years old when she left, he would be twelve now. Did he even remember her? Were they still living in The Valley? The old phone number had been disconnected. When Lindy told Shep that she wanted to find her mother his scowl gave way to a full-on giggle-fest, fueled by his nightly six-pack. Why would she want to speak to that whore she used to call a mother? He did not understand the way her mind worked, or if it even worked at all. She was retarded, of that he was sure.

Only yesterday, another child, lost. This time Lindy hadn’t even told Shep about having missed two periods. She didn’t tell him about the cramping and the blood. It was a blessing that he had three weeks work, logging in the bush, always leaving before it got light. The thirteenth miscarriage took place at sunrise, in bed. She had to wash the bedding in the river. Without a car she had no way of getting to the Laundromat. She hung the sheets and blankets out to dry from a clothesline that ran between two stands of thick jack pines.

Lindy called information for Reseda California, and hearing that no Renee Jacobs could be found listed, she decided to try Nina White. Nina had lived in apartment 28; her daughter Kelly had been Lindy’s best friend for several years during elementary school. Nina answered the phone. Her voice had not changed. Still as raspy and breathy as ever, she croaked, “Hi there,” using a familiar greeting.

“Nina,” Lindy squeaked, her mind racing, “it’s me, it’s Lindy. Do you remember?”

“Oh, my, God! Lindy Jacobs? Of course I remember. They’re still looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Where on earth are you girl? I can’t believe this, you’re alive!”

“I ran away Nina,” Lindy said.

“But why? You were a straight A student, and Dink, you were so devoted to Dink!”

Lindy didn’t want to give her reasons; she resorted to supplying facts. “A guy talked me into leaving with him. He was older. He is older. I’m in Canada, still with him.”

“Jesus, how much older is he?”

“Now? He’s thirty-six.”

“That kidnapper. Your poor mother. Do you know the effect your going missing had on her life? It’s 1978; it’s been such a long time. Why do you call now? After all this time?”

Lindy almost hung up, but instead asked what she needed to know, “I would like to talk to Mom,” she said. “Do you have her number?”

Nina sighed, “I do. She’s remarried, to a super nice guy, an engineer. They live in Santa Monica. Dink’s a big brother now; you have two half-sisters. Maybe I should call Renee for you. Soften the blow. Hearing from you will come as quite a shock, you realize that, don’t you?”

“I really, really need to talk to her,” Lindy said. “Now.”

“Are you alright?” Nina asked. “I could call the authorities for you.”

Lindy began to shake. Fear took hold and she slammed the receiver down. The only thing to do? Hide. But, Shep would see the call to California listed on the phone bill. There would be no hiding from him, or his heavy fists.

When the fever took hold Lindy had trouble getting out of the platform waterbed. Dreams carried her to swampy snake-ridden locales and she woke from the nightmare shivering madly. A trip to the hospital would be necessary. The reclusive next-door neighbor Ethel, the woman with the long gray hair and knowing eyes, had readily agreed to drive her. “Thank you,” Lindy said, after they arrived at the emergency exit, just as an attendant settled her into a wheelchair. Ethel’s wrinkled face zoomed in much closer to Lindy’s own face, and then she whispered, “Leave him. Leave him while you can.”

After the procedure the doctor asked Lindy, “Is your boyfriend a draft dodger?”

“I don’t really know,” Lindy said. “Maybe.”

“You’ll never have children now,” he said gravely.

“Shep wanted five,” she told him.

The doctor shook his head. “How many miscarriages, altogether?”

“Thirteen.”

“Good Lord,” he cried. His hands were everything Shep’s weren’t. Small and smooth, he used them in the most measured purposeful manner. “A beautiful girl like you,” he said, slicing through the air with a swift wave, “how did you end up with that brute?”

Now, Lindy had heard this before, that she was beautiful. And she supposed that she was, but the notion seemed abstract. Farrah Fawcett was beautiful, and so was Brook Shields. It seemed impossible that anyone would deem her as such. Bashful as ever, she looked down at the blanket while answering, “I’ve been with Shep for nine years, since I was fifteen. You see; I ran away from home with him.”

The flight from Vancouver to Los Angeles was uneventful. Lindy counted the number of backyard swimming pools she spotted as they prepared to land at LAX. When she caught sight of Renee as she reluctantly approached her, Lindy thought that her pretty mother looked much the same, save for a few crow’s feet. But Dink, he called himself Dirk. One letter change, he had pointed out. Her little brother’s long blonde hair and cool dude surfer look took Lindy’s breath away. She went to hug him, and he said, “Glad you’re back, butt hole.”

“Dirk,” Renee snapped, “What a thing to say.”

“He’s right,” Lindy said, squeezing Dink in a tight embrace. “I am a butt hole.”

The husband, his name was Art, he stood next to his two little daughters and merely grinned.

On the walk out to the parking structure one of her brand new sisters reached up and slid her tiny hand in Lindy's. Five sweet sticky sister fingers brought an immediate rush of tears to her grateful green eyes. Even the smoggy air smelled good on the day she got back home.




RIP Farrah Fawcett Feb 21, 1947 – June25, 2009












All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Gems, One Can Only Hope

A friend asked me, don't you feel obligated to entertain, now that you've started blogging? Isn't it a burden? 

Well, now that you mention it...

But...

It's like this, at my house, if you drop by you can bet that I'll fix you something yummy. I'll do my best to make you feel at home. When, and if you decide to blog, it's pretty much the same story. Now, I am totally amazed how most of the bloggers I read manage to keep up the daily grind with such finesse, truly I just can't imagine how they do it. Life gets in my way, and then there's my writing, which sucks up most of my energy. I'm afraid that leaves me with very few gems to sprinkle around here, hence the name Lizzy's Bits and Bytes. 

The stories I post here are but little nuggets. They are meant to be teasers for THE REAL THING. The book, which is coming soon, I promise. 

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

THE RIVER'S EDGE

On three separate occasions Paula fought back the urge to tell her mother-in-law that she was considering leaving her son. She fought back the urge to present her case, to make a concerted effort to persuade Marge to see things her way. How futile the effort would have proven to be. Phillip was Marge’s baby boy, and naturally Marge would have taken his side immediately. But Paula was so enamored and fond of her mother-in-law, it hurt to think that they might some day be alienated from one another.

Paula knew very well that most women considered Philip quite "a catch", an architect with a significant income, and so damn tall, loyal as a big goofy puppy. Paula seemed to be the only one that could see that Philip Poundstone was only masquerading around like an advertisement for some sort of poster-perfect husband. In reality he was far too remote. Distant. Uncaring, and the truth be known, boring as well. If she had to sit and listen to yet another lecture about “mindful spending” Paula swore she’d explode. She’d spontaneously combust. 

What on Earth was wrong with changing the bed linens to suit her mood? The Spring-inspired damask duvet cover, pillow shams and bed-skirt just didn’t suit Paula’s summer frame of mind, it was that simple. When she’d spotted the bright and sunny floral print with bursts of yellow at Macy’s the other day, she just had to make the change. And, since the old draperies hadn’t matched, she had no other choice but to replace them too. Philip had taken her American Express card away. That overtly hostile act just might have been the last straw. 

Paula called a realtor, and went to look at a small quaint cottage uptown that she's spotted in the paper. She had no trouble picturing life in the cottage, away from Phillip and Marcus, her son. Marcus had grown into a moody teenager with volcanic pimples and plenty of attitude. She would leave them to each other. Why not? It was time she became independent, maybe she'd go back to school and study something. Just what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe interior design. Maybe nursing.

Standing at her massive granite kitchen island chopping veggies for a quick stir-fry, she pictured the cottage. Sure, it was pint-sized. And the kitchen cabinets had been painted so many times over in seventy-plus years that the doors would not close shut anymore, and some of the lovely period tiles were cracked, and the sink had been stained, but still, the house had felt so cozy, so cute, so feminine. Paula could go shabby chic and never worry about having a man around to turn up his nose at her choice of cabbage-rose-covered-wallpaper, or white slipcovers. Now, that kind of freedom might just be the ticket! Her imagination ran away with her. Paula pictured herself sipping tea and entertaining all the new friends she would make at school. No more dealings with Phillip’s business partner’s wives. No more listening to them go on and on about how lucky she was. What a great guy Phillip was. What a lovely house he had designed for Paula. How much they envied her bucolic life at the river’s edge.

When Philip waltzed through the door and announced that he was taking her out to dinner Paula pointed to the pile of veggies sitting in the bowl before her. “Just put them in the fridge,” he said. “They’ll keep.” Reluctantly, she slipped on her sweater and followed her husband out to the Range Rover. He drove to The Cheesecake Factory, which struck Paula as odd, since their son was fond of the restaurant, and Philip had declared the eatery too noisy and crowded each and every time he’d given in to Marcus's will.

Phillip ordered a martini and Paula ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Then she watched him reach into the pocket of his sports jacket and pull something out. As Philip ceremoniously presented Paula with her American Express card, he said softly, “I’m sorry Dear, I shouldn’t have acted like such a jerk the other day. The bedroom looks great. Forgive me? For being such a brute?”

Paula picked up the card in one deft move. All that lovely buying power reinstated. “I guess I was a little extravagant,” she declared.

“I flew off the handle over nothing,” Phillip said. “I’ve been stressed out about the firm losing several commissions. But that big job I told you about just come through. So, I’m feeling better about our finances.”

Paula slid the card into her Coach bag. Why had he chosen The Cheesecake Factory then, when they could have gone to that little French place she liked so much? The restaurant with the white tablecloths that served the Kobe beef with béarnaise sauce. Oh well, Paula didn’t really mind all that much. Life was back on track.






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Reflection

As I wrap presents for my husband, (tomorrow is Father’s Day, after all), my thoughts turn to my own dad. I lost him last December. He had Alzheimer’s but usually still knew who I was. The end was painful to watch. I’m not sure that I’ve even digested or processed, or whatever the appropriate terminology might be, that he’s actually gone forever. I can’t believe it. He had already left in so many ways. But still. The little girl inside me wants her daddy back and I want him back as the man he used to be. This will be my first Father’s Day without him. I know it won’t be any easier for my brother or sister. Dealing with death and loss is such a peculiar process. It occurs to me, I may never get over losing him.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

So What

Remember that Billy Joel song, that isn’t so much a song, but a list of what was going on in the world? We Didn’t Start the Fire? The last chorus reads like this:

We didn’t start the fire
 But when we are gone
Will it still burn on, and on, and on, and on…

So, maybe Billy should re-write the song, because DANG, it seems to me we sure do have some new stuff to add to his list. This crappy economy for one thing; General Motors & Chrysler, the downfall of the American car manufacturer. And what about Iran and North Korea, and nuclear threat? Hawaii in peril? Global Warming? Not to mention the HOUSING CRISIS, and unemployment, nutty-gun-toting-murdering-anti-Semite-freaks, with kiddie porn on their computers. Successful movie stars putting themselves in jeopardy with dangerous sex games, hanging themselves in the process. Jet airplanes falling into the ocean for unknown reasons. I could go on and on, but I’ll leave that to the songwriters. Sigh.

I suppose one could argue that the world has always been in a constant state of turmoil, but now that we are so connected up, we here about IT ALL, we KNOW too much! This knowledge can be overwhelming. That’s for sure. I feel powerless in the face of so much mayhem. It’s apparent to me that many choose to bury their head in the sand. So what if people in Iran have no rights. So what if there are no more American cars. So what if grown men prey on little children. So what if people are walking away from their homes in alarming numbers. SO WHAT!!!

We need to care, we really do. We need to voice our opinions. We need to take action. Sure, we can’t change all these things, but we can affect change, in our own little way. Pick SOMETHING. Start small.

Enough ranting for today. I'm still unpacking and have a stack of unopened bills a mile high to attend to. More heavy sighing.







All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

TAKE MY STUFF, PLEASE!

I just popped in to say. I'm sure I'm getting boring, just talking about moving all the time. But yesterday I went to drop off some clothes, dishware, and various misc. items, and the guy rejected 2/3 of my stuff at Goodwill. What happened to the "good will" at Goodwill? They won't accept hardly any donations these days. Picky, picky, picky. Well, our local thrift store was happy to take what they wouldn't. So there. :-) Miss u guys. Now, back to packing. (Doing delicate glassware right now.)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

DO ME A FAVOR, WON'T YOU?

I am busy moving. So, why don't you go back in my archives while I'm away and read some of my short stories? I've got some good ones. Don't be afraid to leave comments, I love comments! I miss you all, and will blog and leave blog comments on your fine blogs, when I return.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Moving Right Along II

                                                      Picture representative of how I feel.

So, we moved just about all the kitchen stuff over to the new house yesterday, and my daughter helped me load up the cabinets. It is a remarkably well-designed kitchen, lots of roll-out shelving and plenty of cabinets. Looks like all my stuff, (minus the items I gave away), will fit nicely. 

I'm packing up the remainder of my kitchen now, and we will drive two more loads over today, filling my SUV, and my daughter's smaller SUV. The dogs hate it when we're gone, they just don't understand why we're leaving for so long everyday. 

I wanted to let everyone know, this week I will have very little time to writer or read blogs. :-(

Moving takes over a person's life, lock, stock and barrel. I will return and blog my heart out and comment until the cow's come home. You'll see.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

COFFEE HOUSE PEOPLE

I used to own and operate a coffee house. I designed and built a long marble bar that sat twelve, where the barista, (sometimes me), could stand behind the gleaming espresso machine and rustle up cappuccinos and lattes while our clientele looked on. I met many people, and many characters standing behind that bar.

We opened at six-thirty sharp. It’s not advisable to open a coffee house late; the need for caffeine is great at six thirty in the morning. People rely on you. They need their fix and they need it bad.

I was usually the first one there. One morning I discovered a debonair European man wearing a nice suit already waiting by the door. Although I questioned the safety factor of letting him in and locking the door once again, (it was very cold outside), I invited him in anyway. He took a seat at the bar, and read the newspaper while I donned my apron. He urged me to finish with all I had to do to ready for opening, but informed me that when I was ready he wanted a double cappuccino, served in a glass cup. No paper for him. His accent sounded Italian.

He sipped his cappuccino. I put on the music and a few regulars showed up for their “usual”. When the European man finished he brought the cup to the counter where the cash register was, and he said, “I have been in America for three months, I have been to New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and L.A. But you are the first to serve me a decent cappuccino.” I thanked him and took the cup. We exchanged pleasantries, he stuck a bill in the tip jar and left.

My niece worked for me, I always gave her all my tips. She showed up a few minutes later. Upon inspecting the tip jar she pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “Wow,” she said, waving the bill through the air. “What’s this?” I realized that the European man had tipped me fifty big ones!

One slow muggy summer afternoon, I happened to be alone scrubbing down the floor when a young man took a seat at the bar. I put the mop away and asked him what he wanted. His eyes searched my eyes for some kind of response to the many earrings, studs, tattoos, and various oddities that covered his bald skull. I did not flinch, (even at the sight of spikes and razor blades sticking out of his forehead.) He seemed amused at my lack of shock and distain, (I’d grown accustomed to freaky-looking types), and then he ordered a Chai tea. “Those spiky things,” I said, “How do you sleep?” He explained that they screwed on and off. “You had surgery, I presume?” I couldn’t help but inquire. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

I served him his tea, and he asked me if I thought he was a freak. “I don’t get it,” I admitted. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to alter your appearance to such a degree. I have no way of knowing whether or not you’re a freak, or not. We have a customer that comes in several times a week at least, and she tells me that she sleeps in a coffin. I’ve gotten to know her, and I don’t think she’s a freak. She’s just into freaky things. I hope that she’ll outgrow her attraction to darkness.”

“Many cultures modify their bodies,” he said. “Everybody doesn’t have to look the same way.”

A small group of local teens dropped in for smoothies, and the sight of him sent them into a fit of nervous giggles and much snickering. They placed their order and then went over to the other side of the room, choosing to sit at the furthest table away from where the tattooed guy sat at the bar, while they all waited for me to concoct their smoothies. After they collected their drinks and left, he looked up from his book and said, “See what I mean? They thought I was a freak.”

“Well, what the hell do you expect?” I asked. “You asked for it. Didn’t you?”

“I’m just a person like anyone else,” he said dejectedly.

“Yes, I suppose you are, but you’ve got to admit, you send a message with all that you’ve done to yourself. A very clear message. Your strange appearance pushes people away. You scream—fear me. Surely you can see that?”

“I look the way I want to look,” he said. “It’s my body, after all.”

“Yes, it is your body. I’m curious, what do your parents think?” I couldn’t help asking, I had two pre-teens, two teenagers, and a twenty something of my own.

He sneered. “My parents? Never knew good old Dad, and Mom’s a whore.”

“For real?” I asked, as I busied myself filling the cream pitcher, wiping down the counters, and brewing coffee. “Your mother’s a prostitute?”

Slipping off the stool, he frowned and said, “I don’t talk about her. Look, you’re a good person. I got to go, I’ve have an appointment to make.”

I watched him clomp out, his chunky black boots with many buckles sounded very much like spurs as he made a hasty exit.








All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

MY GRANDOGGY

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

DINING OUT

I put my foot down. Whenever my husband and I go out to eat each of us usually orders an entrée, and I inevitably am unable to devour the enormous amount of food served, (why do they pile the plate so high anymore?), and he ends up picking over my leftovers. We don’t need all those calories. I repeat; we really don’t need all those calories. So, I had a brain storm, and when that subsided, "whew", I decided that we would simply order off the appetizer—or starter menu—as some restaurants call it, from now on. 

This evening we ordered a flatbread appetizer pizza and Thai shrimp lettuce wraps. Just the right amount of food. The other day we ordered a Caesar salad and chicken skewers. Not only is this system easier on our waistlines, it’s much easier on our pocket books.

Okay, if we go somewhere really special, I might break down and cheat and go all out and order an entrée of my own, but I know I’ll be bringing food home, because I’m not going to let my husband overeat anymore. I have big plans for the two of us, we are going to live a long, long time. Together.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

MY MEMORIAL DAY

We picked up our youngest daughter yesterday and met our son and his wife and two kids at California Adventure, (a park adjacent to Disneyland.) It seemed that they'd been to Disneyland recently, so they thought we'd try the other park. OMG! I am not a lover of crowds, and just getting into the parking structure was an ordeal. I'm glad we weren't going to Disneyland because it was crowded enough where we were and everybody said that Disneyland was much worse! The only person in the whole wide world I would go to such a place on a major holiday is my little grandson Ben. At 2yrs and 2mos, the little guy was very excited. His brother Luke is only 3mos, and Luke was just happy to be picked up out of the stroller and bounced on our knees every once in a while, he actually seemed to enjoy the music and noise and passers by. 

So, I volunteered to watch the baby while the others went on the rides. Watching the people, I got to thinking about the first time I ever went to Disneyland. My mother and father divorced and dad took a job in Orange County. The summer I was to turn 11, my sister, (she was to turn 9), and I flew down from Portland Oregon to stay with Dad for a couple of months. He promised to take us to Disneyland.

Dad bought us special outfits to wear. (I'm giving away my age for the sake of the story, OH WELL!) I'm the same age as Disneyland, born in 1955. People dressed so spiffy back then. It's true! I sound like some old fuddy duddy, but sitting there people watching yesterday I was amazed at how slovenly some were. Good grief, some were down right gross, even wearing dirty clothes. 

And, another thing, people are so rude nowadays. Really rude. Even the employees. Shortly after we arrived I went to an espresso cart and ordered a hot coffee for my husband, and I asked if they could make an iced coffee. The dour clerk said, "I guess so." I watched her fill a cup with a small scoop of ice and then pour steaming hot coffee over it. She handed it to me with two lone-ranger-soon-to-be-melted pieces of ice floating on top. "Could I have a cup of ice?" I asked. The operative word here being ICE! She frowned and snapped, "We can't give out cups!" I'd been charged 4 bucks for a few ounces of coffee and a few ice cubes, I thought she could have spared an extra cup of ice, but didn't say so. "Oh," I said, doing my best to remain polite, "then could you put some more ice in here?" By then ALL the ice had melted. She grabbed the cup and filled it with ice, pushing the lid on so tightly atop the overly full cup that coffee poured out the little cross cut for where the straw would go. She slammed the cup down on the counter, covering me and the man standing next to me with sprinkles of coffee, then turned her back. I grabbed a boatload of napkins and sopped up the mess, thinking, "Walt Disney must be rolling over in his grave!"

What hasn't changed? Families. Dad's and Mom's and kids and grandparents delighting in one another's company. We stayed for 10 hours. And I got to know Luke better, and Ben cried when he had to leave us, because he wanted his grandma and grandpa to go home with him. (I learned that he fell asleep five minutes after his head hit the car-seat, and I felt better.) It was a terrific day.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

holiday

Since I missed Disneyland for Mother's Day, (due to a nasty virus), we are going tomorrow! I'm off to the O.C. (Orange County). Have a great holiday weekend.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Crazy, Baby!

If you visited my blog in the recent past you know that I write about some of the experiences I had working as a designer. During the Gulf War business went in the toilet. I had just opened a showroom, and there were days when I could have shot a cannon ball through that place and I wouldn’t have hit a living soul. But I persevered, sitting at my antique rococo desk amongst the many samples and swatches, praying for a client to walk through the door so I might pay the rent, which would come due the beginning of the month. One dreary rainy day after I’d just hung up the phone, (I often called my dad for advice and moral support), in walked Shar Zimmerman.

She sat across from me and introduced herself, saying, “My name’s Shar Zimmerman, it used to be Shar Jacks, and before that I was Shar Costello. My birth name was Sharon Bailey. As you can see I’m working my way through the alphabet. My third husband is Doctor Frederick Zimmerman, you’ve probably heard of him. He’s a prominent psychiatrist at &%#@ Medical Center.” I’m choosing to leave the name of the prestigious hospital out of the story, and I’ve changed the names of the people mentioned to protect myself from any sort of legal issues.

Shar crossed her long legs and fiddled with her wedding ring. That rock had to be five carats, or better. Shar wasn’t a beauty but she was built like a Barbie doll. Her hair was what my daughter refers to as blorange, overly processed and BIG. Her nails were incredibly long and shellacked in coral wonder. Her high-heeled boots appeared to be snakeskin. “So, the deal is, I’m loaded now. I come from nothing, like Dorothy, you know—Kansas? Anyway, I came out here to California and basically ended up in therapy after a couple of failed marriages and suicide attempts, and that’s how I met my husband. He calls me Zelda. I’m a home wrecker, you see.”

At this point in her story she looked me in the eye and said, “So, you think you can come out to the house? My husband’s ex-wife lives in BelAir, in a six thousand square foot masterpiece. But the house he bought me is in Brentwood, and it’s much more modest. Let’s be honest, it’s uglier than hell. I need an estimate on crown molding, new windows and doors, four bathroom remodels, and a kitchen. I don’t cook, but I’m told that I should remodel the kitchen anyway. The place is hideous; I’d like to get started right away. Today would be good for me, what about you?”

I have a sixth sense about people. And I knew that Shar Whatever-the-heck-her-last-name-was-at-that-moment, would turn out to be a nightmare client, but I needed the money to keep the doors open. I followed her home. My mini-van trying to keep up as her Mercedes sped through the winding streets, weaving in and out of traffic.

The deposit I received that day was hefty enough to enable me to bring in a girl I’d been anxious to work with. Irene had just graduated from some big-time design school out in Boston and had come in looking for a job. We went to work right away.

Shar was one of those women that felt free to share the most intimate details of her life. The guy that I hired to replace her old windows with custom top-of-the-line European-style wood versions told Irene that Shar showed him where she kept the handcuffs and sex toys that her and her sixty-some-year-old husband kept in a bathroom drawer.

I was told (she’d been gone for five days to attend a conference back east with the good doctor) about how Doctor Zimmerman bought her an apple farm in Vermont on a whim, complete with a hundred year old house. Seemed that Shar had always dreamt of living in New England. It would be their vacation home. How much money did that man have? I wondered.

Shar had twin sons from one of her previous marriages. The guys that installed the crown moldings left early one day because she had laid into the little boys so viciously about tracking mud into the foyer, so viciously the carpenters just couldn’t take it.

I was sitting at the table, putting the finishing touches on my drawings for the kitchen remodel one morning when Shar parked next to me, as she was scrutinizing my work she said, “I’m in a really foul mood. I just found out that my husband’s daughter is coming to stay with us. Just what I need. My maid quit and now my annoying big mouth step-daughter is coming to stay!”

I had problems of my own. I didn’t feel sorry for Shar, not one little bit. I did not like the woman.

Three days later, Clare the step-daughter, marched up to me and said, “That Shar. She literally stole my father. My mother’s a cardiologist! She’s lovely and smart and classy. Nobody can believe that he left my mother for that piece of trash.” Clare had to be one of the most beautiful people I’d ever laid eyes on. If her mother looked anything like her, well…like I said Shar was no beauty. It was obvious that the doctor saw something in that woman that the rest of us didn’t. The painters quit after working just a few hours. Shar pissed them off with her constant nitpicking.

I asked Shar to exercise a little patience, to try to take a wait and see approach with the various crews I had working throughout the house. “Don’t hover,” I told her. “Wait until they're finished before complaining.”

Shar bit her lip, and then responded with, “It’s so hard though. I’m a control freak.” Ya think?

I witnessed her method of dealing with her sons a short time later. Suffice it to say, those poor kids. It was all I could do not to interfere when she grabbed the Poptarts out of their hungry little hands, sending the crumbling mess all over the kitchen floor,  and then in a fit of anger threw their backpacks into the swimming pool just because they’d left them by the back door when they got home from school that day. It was all I could do not to cry when I saw how they cried.

Business began to pick up bit by bit and I became so busy I had to send shy innocent Irene out to deal with The Witch, as Shar came to be called.

Clare left the house after staying just a few days.

Irene refused to go back after being berated for some stupid reason.

Another maid quit.

The window guy threatened to sue because Shar refused to pay his final balance, all these years later I can’t remember for the life of me just what she was upset about. I dropped what I was doing and drove over there to see what all the fuss was about.

Shar was all in a flap because she had to throw a party for her husband’s co-workers and friends. “You don’t understand!” She screamed at me. I have an IQ of one hundred and sixty! When things aren’t perfect I come unglued! And this house is a disaster! And another maid walked out on me this morning.”

I did my level best to calm her down.

Her response was, “You know, I always thought that if I could just get my hands on some money, on some real money, then I’d finally be happy. That seemed to be what stood between me and a good life. But I have money now. And damn it, I am not happy!”

In the end, Shar Zimmerman’s job, and the money she forked over, (always reluctantly), pulled me out of a financial pickle. But, for four months my life was infected with her neurosis. Doctor Zimmerman should have had his head examined for marrying that lunatic.





All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Bits & Bytes: Stuff I’ve learned Through The Years

~~You really can’t take it with you. All the old adages apply, we come into this world alone with no possessions, and we leave this world alone with no possessions. I witnessed this truth first hand. As my father’s Alzheimer’s progressed, his belongings were whittled down as his circumstances were reduced to match his disability, bit by bit, until he entered hospice, where he was allowed a picture frame on a night table, his toothbrush. Things that had been so important to my father held little or not interest to members of the family, (I could only keep so much), consequently I reluctantly ended up donating many of his treasures to charity. I grew to view the accumulation of stuff differently. 

~~ Corny as it sounds, (we've become so jaded in this day and age), just about everyone's motivated by love, excluding true sociopaths. Without love, dreadful deficits eat away a person’s force. Without love, a person may be reduced to focusing inward and into a self-centered exile that can lead to narrow-mindedness. Connecting is crucial. We need other people. Unless you’re a monk, studied in methods of meditation that hook you up to the universal source of all love, you need interaction. You know you do. When Dad was in memory care I observed the residents that rarely had visitors. Their eyes told the whole story. I saw much more than loneliness in those eyes, I saw terror. It must be terrible to end up that alone.

~~ My great-grandmother Catherine lived to her late nineties. I was thirteen when my dad dropped me off at her house one afternoon. We were visiting from out west. She lived in a tiny house. Over her easy chair hung a giant painting of The Last Supper. She told me the story of what happened after her mother died when she was a small child. Her sister Elizabeth fared well, she was lucky enough to be taken by the rich relatives, but the poor relatives had taken not-so-lucky Catherine. She lived way out in the country and was expected to perform many chores at a very young age. When the only frock she owned was being washed she had to wear a burlap potato sack, which was tied around her stomach with a piece of rope. Great-grandmother remembered working out in the hot sun, and she remembered how itchy that burlap was, the rashes and the misery. She grew very serious, looked me straight in the eye, and told me how grateful she was for every piece of clothing she’d accumulated since. She smoothed her pretty skirt and said, “I don’t let myself forget how it used to be. I thank God for each and every meal, for each and every garment, for the roof over my head.” I never forgot her words; a little gratitude does go a long way.

That’s enough bits & bytes for today, thanks for dropping by.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Dirty Rotten Goody Two Shoes (Fiction)

The apartment Isabelle and her mom shared stood adjacent to the wash. The riverbanks were cement, and the collected water didn’t flow much of the time, sitting stagnant between rains. We’re talking filthy water littered with Styrofoam take-out containers, beer bottles, pop cans, discarded cardboard boxes, and used diapers. When she looked out her bedroom window, she saw the dismal wash, and beyond that row after row of ugly stucco apartment buildings that resembled the very building she stood in.

Isabelle had something to look forward to. Boys had moved into Apt #25, four doors down. Susan from Apt #17 told Isabelle there were three brothers in the Kelly family. One of them was named Patrick, and he’d invited Susan to drop by around noon. Susan said she’d bring Isabelle.

It seemed necessary to pretend that she didn’t want to tag along. Said Isabelle, casually, after hearing the news, “Why should we go over there?”

“They’re cute—that’s why! Plus, they have some pot.”

“Pot?” Isabelle was only thirteen. Susan was three years older.

“You know, marijuana, Stupid!”

“How old is Patrick?” At this point in the conversation Isabelle began to scribble on her notebook cover. Susan’s scrutiny made it impossible to act cool.

“Pat’s fourteen. He’s got a little brother named Mickey, and a big brother named Ian. I have a crush on Ian. Wait till you see him, he looks just like Elvis.”

“Elvis?”

“Yeah, Elvis. You know I’m crazy about Elvis.”

Isabelle liked to listen to The Beatles, or Joni Mitchell. Her mom listened to Elvis. Elvis wasn't in style.


Patrick greeted them, pushing the little brother out the door just as he led the girls inside. Isabelle saw that Patrick had blue eyes and jet-black hair. A lethal combination, she’d read that in Seventeen Magazine. Another boy sat on the edge of the ratty sofa, his skinny legs were busy bouncing up and down fiercely.

Susan said, “Patrick, this is Isabelle.”

Patrick smiled at Isabelle, she didn't want to seem easy but couldn't help but smile back. “That’s Joe,” Patrick said, pointing to his friend.

Joe nodded and his frizzy gold mop bobbed in response. His cheeks were covered in sore-looking pimples.

Another boy came barreling down the stairs. It was obvious that he was related to Patrick and Mickey. The older brother walked to the middle of the room and considered Susan and Isabelle momentarily before asking, “What’re you clowns up too?”

“Gonna watch a little TV, I guess,” Patrick said.

Susan said, “Hi Ian. I’m Susan, and this is Isabelle.”

Ian turned his back on Susan, and he didn’t even consider Isabelle. “Listen Pat,” he called over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen, “Dad’ll be back at two you know. At two.”

“He told you that?” Patrick followed his brother into the kitchen.

They were in the kitchen arguing, and Isabelle had one of her “sick” feelings. “I got to go,” she told Susan.

Susan grabbed her by the arm, “What the fuck?”

“I got to,” Isabelle said.

“Fine,” Susan let go of her but stood her ground. “Be that way. See if I care.”

Isabelle scrambled past Susan and right out of that apartment. At home, she locked all the doors, ran upstairs, and plopped on her bed. Surrounded by ruffles and lace she thought about those boys, the strange smelling apartment, Joe’s zits, Patrick’s dark eyelashes, the way Ian ignored her, and she didn’t regret leaving one little bit. What had she been thinking? There was no way she was ready to smoke pot. No way she was ready to be alone in some smelly apartment with stoned boys. No way. 

Susan could behave recklessly if she wanted. Isabelle’s mom often said that Susan was trouble. But Isabelle’s mom didn’t have any idea just how bad Susan could be. Her mom didn’t know that Susan hitch-hiked all over town, smoked Camel cigarettes, stole a wristwatch from one of the ladies she babysat for, sniffed glue twice, almost went all the way under the bleachers at a football game, beat up a girl in P.E. class for calling her a whore, tried to kill herself once by dropping ten aspirins in a bottle of Coke one night when her mother was out on the town, becoming super sick after drinking it all down she barfed all over her brand new bedspread. Susan wouldn’t be satisfied until she tried everything and Isabelle feared how far trying everything would take her friend.

By the end of the week Isabelle and Susan were hanging out together, listening to records in Patrick's bedroom most weekday mornings before school, after Isabelle’s mother left for work. One morning Mr. Kelly was nowhere to be seen. Susan still had a crush on Ian, but he always ignored her. Patrick shared a bedroom with Mickey. Mickey liked to bug them but he was cute, seems he was turning into a juvenile delinquent. Patrick said he’d become a terror, ever since their mother had run off to Florida with another man. “He’s only nine,” Patrick said. “She broke his heart.”

“Did your mother break your heart too,” Isabelle asked.

Patrick stuck his Marlboro butt into his Pepsi can. “That bitch can't hurt me.”

It was so obvious that Susan wasn’t listening to a word they were saying, she asked, “Isn’t Ian going to school today?”

“Who knows,” Patrick said. “Probably not.”

“Won’t your dad get mad?”

“Naw, he don’t give a shit if we skip school or not.”

Things were heating up in the Kelly household. Patrick told Isabelle that his father had a new girlfriend, and he was thinking of moving into her house out in Victorville, she had a built-in swimming pool. Ian said he wouldn’t go if they moved. Patrick wasn’t happy about his father’s announcement either, pool or no pool. He didn’t want to live in the fucking desert. And Mickey had gotten into big trouble after dropping a tab of acid that he'd stolen from Ian and wreaking havoc at the playground at the elementary school. Isabelle feared that they would move. It seemed that every family in the building was fractured. Someday her Mom was going to buy a house, she was saving up. Isabelle was pretty sure that Patrick was working up the nerve to kiss her, but if he moved she’d never see him again. “Has he felt you up yet,” Susan asked. Susan could be so stinking nosey.

Isabelle and her mom went away for the weekend. Her aunt had gotten a bonus from work so she rented a couple of motel rooms at the beach. They splurged on new bikinis. They roasted hot dogs and marshmallows in the fire at night while the wind blew sand that stuck to their food, flew up their nostrils, and clung to their scalps.

After returning home Sunday night, Isabelle took a long hot shower, washed her hair three times to get all the sand out, and turned in early. After school on Monday she knocked on Susan’s door. No answer. Isabelle figured that Susan might be hanging out at Patrick’s. She strolled over, rang the doorbell, and wouldn’t you know it, crabby old Ian answered. “What the hell do you want?” he snapped.

“Is Susan here?” Isabelle asked, feeling insecure. Why was he giving her such a dirty look? God, he was such an angry sort. If looks could kill, she’d have keeled right over.

“No, your fat ass friend isn’t here.”

Isabelle frowned. “Is Pat here?”

“Nobody’s here, you dirty rotten goody two shoes!”

“Oh, all right then,” she said, taking a step backwards. Isabelle turned away. Before she even left the stoop—it happened. Ian’s motorcycle boot hit her tailbone—hard. She flew forward, pitched straight over the sidewalk and onto a small patch of brown grass, breaking her fall with her knees and hands instinctively. The door slammed and she managed to get to her feet. Looking around, she saw nobody. Why, he'd kicked her in the butt, out in plain sight, and not a witness! She spotted Ian peeking through the curtain at the plate glass window. He held up his middle finger for her to see. What had she ever done to him, anyway? Why did he hate her so?

Safe at home, she began to cry. She cried and she cried and she cried. Something pretty and good inside her had been snuffed out instantly. Ian had brandished power over Isabelle for no good reason. And she vowed not tell a soul about what he’d done. How could she?

The Kelly’s moved out the next day. Off to Victorville. Ian had taken Isabelle’s innocence away in one swift move with a pointless cruel act that had changed Isabelle forever. She was glad to see those Kelly’s go.








All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

MONDAY BLUES

Here's my Daily Virgo horoscope for today:

Have you felt somewhat lost for the past few days? Today, the fog may lift, enabling you to situate yourself at last. You are probably eager to settle a question that has been nagging at you and interfering with your judgment. However, especially if it has to do with emotional matters, you should be patient. Try to understand, but don't take action immediately. You'll be more objective beginning tomorrow...

Now, it's Monday, and I didn't have the greatest weekend. All our wonderful plans were shot to hell when I got sick. Yes, I got sick. I feel somewhat better today. So, on my homepage, I find this stupid horrorscope, (hubby's name for horoscopes.) I read this dribble. What am I supposed to do with this information? Try to understand? I don't understand. I've got a ton of bills to pay, (boring). I should be writing but I've been fooling around, drinking way, way too much coffee, and putting off hauling my ass up to my office to write out checks. I haven't put my laundry away. The bed isn't made. Sigh. I think I'll have another cup of coffee. 

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Waffles and Mom

I am leaving for the weekend. Off to Orange County, Disneyland, and to see the kids. Happy Mother's Day everyone.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Okay, So I'm Camera Shy

Air Kiss

I’ve always hated having my picture taken. My husband tends to get upset with me over my lack of enthusiasm about being photographed. It’s odd that I’m married to a multi-media professional and not anxious to participate in his zest for capturing the moment. I don’t understand why I should have to be subjected to something that disturbs me so much. When I was young and cute I still vehemently resisted being photographed. Now that I’m older—it’s even worse. I’ve been known to run from a camera. I’ve been known to hide behind whatever shield is at hand upon realizing that someone's about to shoot me. Click Click feels like Bang Bang. Consequently, and to my dear husband’s chagrin, we have way too many shots of me hiding behind newspapers and whatever else might be handy at the time.

You may think that I’m full of self-loathing. I am not. (I won’t go into my theory about just why I’m so damn camera shy, but it has to do with my mother, and I don’t believe this blogspot is the proper place to engage in self-therapy, so I’ll spare you readers by not going there.)

Imagine my resistance to attaching my image to my up-coming book, Boomer Tales, Please Stand By. "Why do I have to?" I asked, sounding like a whining fool. "Who gives a crap what I look like?" I said. I was forced to give in though. Seems people do care, or so I am told.

My daughter snapped this shot of me not long ago. Waiting for her in her car, I opened the door for a little air, leaned back, closed my eyes, and dozed off. I don’t know what possessed her to take my picture upon returning, but I heard the car door open, and then her voice calling, “Cheese.” So, as you can see, I sent her an air kiss.

I don’t hate this picture all that much. It wouldn’t suck if this were the only shot my daughter had to remember me by. At least there’s no newspaper between us.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Thoughts On Writing

Methods Employed to Recall Terrific or Not-So-Terrific Story Ideas

Inspiration for stories may hit morning, noon, night or day. What bothers me most is when I don’t jot these lightening bolt ideas down right away, and what could have been stellar subject matter flies right out of my forgetful mind. Drat and double drat! I have a file on my desktop here on my Mac aptly named Titles & Ideas. I keep a notepad and pen on my night stand, just in case I wake up in the middle of the night or early in the morning, in hopes that I will shake off the sleepiness and then hurriedly record my inspiration. But, I don’t usually manage to produce anything understandable coming out of a deep slumber.

When I go back and read the sketchy details saved, I often find myself wondering just why I thought the idea was worthy of being recording in the first place. For instance, I found a note in my purse, a little something that I scrawled on the back of a grocery receipt one day: the title, Zing. Zing? What was I thinking when I took the time to scribble those four letters frantically, and then nothing more? I just couldn’t recall what had inspired me to stop and write that word, so I crumpled the miserable remnant up and tossed it in the trash.

Another dud: Small Minded, an exploration into the lopsided relationship between a wallflower and her married-super-shallow-excessively-demanding-good-looking boss. Huh? Neither the lackluster title, nor the description motivated me to begin typing. Not one little bitty bit, so I hit erase.

And what about this one? Riding Along, the story of a woman compelled to travel from city to city, so she might continually go on “ride alongs” with cops. What? Too farfetched, so I almost hit erase, but paused and thought better of it. Wasn’t Fight Club farfetched? I didn’t erase Riding Along after all. I gave the idea a stay of execution; just in case I felt differently when next I returned.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

My Experiences As a Designer #1

Ash and Rain

Looking back, I sure do wish that I'd taken the time to keep better records of how many houses I’ve been invited into over the years working as a designer. I wish I’d kept notes about my experiences and the various characters I ran into along the way. Of course, there were many that I will never forget. Like the German college professors, a couple residing in a rambling ranch located in Alta Dena, near the border of Pasadena. The woman, (she was a mathematician), kept two African Grays in the kitchen. The huge birds had done their best to eat the cabinet doors and countertop edges. Her beloved pets had trashed the entire kitchen and dinette area. Shredded wallpaper littered the floors. Husband and Wife were forced to move the coffee maker into the family room, and were no longer able to prepare meals. Those creatures literally ruled the roost. The kitchen had become one giant birdcage with huge glass windows providing a magnificent view of the San Gabriel Mountains as backdrop. My job was to design and build a room addition to house the birds, as well as bring the kitchen back to its former glory so it could fit in with the rest of the well-kept-mid-century-magazine-worthy dwelling.

The Wife introduced me to Ash and Rain. I had never been in such close proximity to such birds of high intelligence and impressive stature. They climbed all over my client, exclaiming their love in ardent fashion. “Oh, Dear,” the birds crooned, “give us a kiss. Give us a kiss Dear!” And it amused me to no end how they spoke with a heavy German accent, just like their owner.

The room had to be built before we could turn our attention to the kitchen. A week into the project The Wife left to attend a symposium in Europe. The Husband instantly changed from a debonair, self-assured brainiac, into an insecure bundle of nerves. The birds, it seemed, had no use for the poor guy. The birds, in fact, loathed him. “Don’t be a baby, Darling.” The Wife told her husband in front of me. “Be strong. They react to weakness.”

“Be strong,” he grumbled. “They like to bite my face. And it’s two against one.” He decided to plead with his stubborn wife, almost whispering, “Can’t you hire someone to look after them? You know they hate me!”

“I cannot trust a stranger with my babies,” she scolded. “You’ll be fine.”

The Husband entered the kitchen to feed the birds following The Wife’s departure, and one of them did attack him. He had three bite marks, one on his ear and two on his arm, which he displayed when I arrived that morning to check in on my crew. “The bastards can starve from here on in!” He cried. “They called me every name in the book, just like my wife likes to do when she’s mad. They berated me, and then the big one came after me.”

What could I do? I nodded in sympathy.

Most of the workmen got a kick out of the African Gray drama. But one guy, he shook his head and said to me, in obvious disgust; “I’d roast those two like I do a turkey. I tell you, that would be the day when I’d let two flea-bitten birds get away with murder under my roof,” he said. “To hell with that.”

I shushed him. “Keep your opinions to yourself,” I warned. “This isn’t your house.”

The Husband wouldn't even go into the kitchen at all the next day. “Goddamn it,” he said. “I’ll show them.”

I’m afraid of birds, really afraid. Thank you Alfred Hitchcock. But I made a vow to myself that if The Husband didn’t feed them soon I would have to give it a try.

The following morning Ash and Rain called through the shut door. “Darling, oh Darling! A little orange juice! Did you read The Times? Oh, Darling. Dear…come on…you know I didn’t mean it. I get angry. Please! Darling!”

The Husband sat on a bench just outside the door with a frown on his face. He cried, “You goddamned birds. Goddamn you.”

Their voices sounded exactly like The Wife. I’m not kidding. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn that she had returned and was calling out from that defiled kitchen. “Are you going to feed them?” I asked. “Because if you aren’t, I’ll do it. I can’t bear to see them go hungry.”

We slid the door open and ventured in together. They were sitting atop the avocado green side-by-side refrigerator. “Hello Darling,” the big one said. “You wonderful man,” the little one said. I watched The Husband prepare and set out their food and water, and they behaved themselves.

The room addition turned out great. Ash and Rain had their very own 15 by 30 foot room outfitted with plenty of safe, inedible perches and poles to walk and hang from. The windows faced the garden.

The room turned out lovely. Even though the kitchen wasn't finished, The Husband was able to roast a chicken and present it to The Wife for dinner on the night of her return. She insisted I stay on to have a glass of wine, and we walked out to admire the bird’s room. After two weeks of eating out of The Husband’s hands and treating him wonderfully, Ash and Rain reverted back to their old ways and began to scorn him as soon as The Wife arrived. “I will get even,” The Husband said, turning to face The Wife, “Didn’t you say you’re going to Hawaii in September?”

"Oh Darling," she responded. "Don't be that way."








All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The New Uncle (short fiction)

My name’s Kim Jenkins and I have no brother or sister or father. My mother Jill had me when she was only sixteen, and I’m sixteen now, so duh, that makes her thirty-two. When Jill shows up at my school, (way younger than the other mothers—for that matter she’s younger than most of the teachers too), it’s no big surprise when everyone stares. People always stare at Jill, not just because she’s pretty, but because she lets it all hang out. You know the type? Hot? I do wish she wouldn’t show up at my school so often, but she insists. Her mother, (the grandmother I’ve never met who lives clear across the country in Coco Beach Florida), never paid much attention to Jill, so my mother's convinced she better pay attention to me. Since she didn’t do very well in school and dropped out so early she’s super proud because I’m a good student and on the chess team. 

We live in a two-bedroom stucco house near a noisy freeway that only has one tiny bathroom. My mother’s a bathroom hog. Every morning I have to pee so bad I end up sitting on the toilet next to her while she messes around with various electric devices she uses to make her hair and face as perfect as can be. I’d list her collection here, (which she keeps hanging from hooks above the toilet), but that would be boring.

Jill works for the L.A. police department. I guess it’s fitting, how obsessed she is with murder and mayhem. When she isn’t at work listening to 911 calls, or busy dating one of my many uncles, she’s watching reality crime shows. Serial dramas just aren’t real enough for her taste. The uncles are boyfriends. When I was little I went along with her and called the boyfriends Uncle So-And-So because I knew it made her happy. Now I roll my eyes when she introduces each new boyfriend to me. I’m intentionally rude and snooty. These guys come and they go so why should I get attached? Her latest boyfriend’s kind of different though. She usually dates cops and guys she meets in bars, but this new guy’s a teacher at my school. They met when she was wandering around trying to find Mrs. Rollins classroom. Mrs. Rollins is my advanced math teacher, and she’s also the cheerleading coach, and Jill volunteered to help her with some stupid fund drive. I always call Jill’s new boyfriend Mr. Morales. No matter how many times he asks me to call him Ramon, I refuse.

Tonight they went to some lame poetry reading. Mr. Morales is older than Jill. He’s forty-something. And bald. He’s her first bald boyfriend. And he’s sort of out of shape. And he’s into books and art and fine wine. Jill never showed any interest in books, or art, and her favorite drink is rum and Coke. I figure maybe she’s tired of dating cops with ex-wives from nasty divorces, cops that seem to always cheat on her. That’s the conclusion I’ve jumped to anyway. Mr. Morales is a widow with two kids. I met his sons last weekend. And now the oldest one, Victor, well he's been e-mailing me U-Tube links and texting me about this and that. Victor’s awfully cute; he has these impossibly long dark eyelashes. But how freaky would it be to be the girlfriend of one of my mother’s boyfriends? I don’t think it’s a very good idea. But, come on, Victor hasn’t even said anything to give me the idea that he would want to be my boyfriend, so why am I even going there?

I told Victor that I located my grandmother’s phone number on the Internet and that I was thinking about calling her behind my mother’s back. And he said that I should do it. He’s close to his grandmother and he said it would be nice if I had one to spoil me. But I haven’t dialed the number as of yet. I’m scared. If my grandmother did such a bad job raising my mother why do I want to contact her? It’s hard to say. Maybe it’s because I don’t have anybody accept my mother, and sometimes I feel that she's kind of lost. I wish I had a family. I stare at the phone number all the time. I look at maps of Florida and go to www.cocoabeach.com where dorky music plays and a virtual bamboo picture frame shows a picture of a beach with a discarded I Dream of Jeannie genie bottle lying open on the sand. I check out the weather stats and read about the nearby Kennedy Space Center. I wonder why our beaches in Southern California, (Jill’s a big beach nut so I’ve been to most in the area), don’t have sea grass growing up through the sand the way they do on the east coast. I imagine how happy my grandmother might be to hear my voice. But I have never worked up the courage to call. I would call tonight but I decide to wash my hair and go to bed instead. When I'm falling asleep I'm thinking that maybe the new uncle will turn out to be a good guy. Maybe he'll marry Jill. Maybe Victor and his little brother will be my brothers someday. Maybe we’ll all move into a big house where there will be enough bathrooms for everyone.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.