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.