Inspire Me!

Let’s talk about inspiring and accomplished mature women.

I’ll start with these prominent four: Meryl Streep, Betsy Johnson, Diane Keaton, and Alice Hoffman.

~~ Meryl Streep -- Meryl’s 60 years old and considered to be the greatest film actresses living today. An amazing fact about Meryl is this; despite her illustrious career she always managed to put her family first. Putting your children at the top of the list in Hollywoodworld, is so unheard of. Hat’s off to Meryl, she’s always been a class act, and the good example.

Meryl Streep quote: We are who we’re going to be when we’re very old, and when we’re very old we’re who we were when we were 8.

~~ Betsy Johnson – Betsey’s 67, can you believe that? This wild child of fashion is still as vibrant and out there as she was in the back in the seventies. I couldn’t find any quotes from Betsey, but I chose her because she’s still going strong creatively. Another fashion favorite of mine, (she was adept at changing with the times), is Coco Chanel!

~~ Diane Keaton -- Diane’s 63, and an advocate against plastic surgery. Back in 2006 she was chosen to be the face of L’Oreal. Bug off botox peddlers.

Diane Keaton quote: I’m stuck in this idea that I need to be authentic…My face needs to look the way I feel. (Wow, what a concept, your forehead wrinkles when you’re perplexed, and laugh lines form when you’re amused—how very freaky!)

~~ Alice Hoffman – Alice is 57. I just had to choose a writer for the list. Wouldn’t you know? I chose her because I’m a big fan, and not only is Ms. Hoffman prolific, every single one of her books has been optioned for film. Holy smokes! And she has written several screenplays as well. All this, and she’s a breast cancer survivor. After being treated at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge Mass, she established the Hoffman Breast Center.

Alice Hoffman quote – Mother’s always find ways to fit in the work—but then when you’re working, you feel that you should be spending time with your children and then when you’re with your children, you’re thinking about working.

I want to say that the world is missing a woman that I admired very much, a brilliant artist, and a wonderful mother and wife, Janice Lowry. She passed away recently and you can view her website here, janicelowry

I’m interesting in hearing about the women that you all admire, and why you admire them.







All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

TREASURES

The Husband has been traveling around the world for a good many years, doing some very important work. He’s a certifiable globetrotter. People always ask me—don’t you go on any of these trips? Well, to be quite frank, I have accompanied him a handful of times. But, up until last year, I still had kids at home to look out for. And he pops in and out of some of these countries so quickly there really would be no point for me to tag along. All I’d see would be airplanes and hotel rooms. His traveling came to a screeching halt this last year; the derailed economy has prevented corporations from spending the money.

He’s a photographer and has shot some amazing photos during his trips. And…the best part, he would always bring me presents. The Husband has an eye for items that can’t be found down at the mall. We have a vast collection of masks, textiles, and the list goes on and on. Finally, I had to tell him. No more. Don’t bring any more.

Since we’ve moved to a smaller house, the garage remains chock full of treasures. Plastic tubs sit unpacked. Masks are still wrapped in towels and blankets. For two reasons. Reason number one: I don’t have room for everything. Reason number two: I just don’t have the heart to unpack all that stuff because we’re probably not going to stay in this house all that long, a year—maybe two. This lack of motivation to alter my surroundings is unqualifiedly uncharacteristic. I don’t want to paint. I don’t want to decorate. I don’t have it in me. Why unpack all that stuff, if I’m just going to pack it up again? We won’t want to sell anything yet. Not until we decide where we are going to go to stay for a significant amount of time. Our lives have changed immeasurably in such a short period of time.

I gave birth to my first son at the rip old age of nineteen. I’m fifty-four. I told my husband last night: yesterday afternoon, the strangest feeling came over me. I felt as if I’d forgotten the kids somewhere, that I’d neglected my motherly duties somehow. They’re all adults, off in their own little worlds, but I suddenly felt as if I’d lost them. And, I have in a way. Those kids are gone, replaced with capable adults in charge of their own lives. Just what we intended to happen, right? All these long years, my life has been extremely complicated, jammed full with five kids, and me tearing around like a chicken with her fool head chopped off, tending to their needs and wants and schooling and socializing. Our house was a den of constant activity at all times. Plus, much of the time I was working. Add that into the mix.

Now, The Husband and I work at home. Life is simple. I’m not insinuating that I’m one of those empty nesters, the kind of woman that finds herself lost without her children to define just who she is. In fact, neither my children, nor my husband, have ever been my sole reason for being. I don’t mind admitting, I’m enjoying my newfound freedom, this easy breezy lifestyle. But…I recognize that there's an adjustment to be made, deep in the recesses of my being. I am Mom, I’ll always be Mom, but my role has diminished. I am liberated. But, I need time to know I am.

When I think about it, (and that’s what I’m doing here, thinking out loud), no bloody wonder I don’t want to unpack. We are in the process of undergoing a huge adjustment period. We are in a limbo of sorts. Change is the only constant, after all.

I’ve posted a photo of the garage, (this picture doesn’t convey how much stuff is crammed in there.) And, another of the living room, (See those white walls? How boring!) That’s me taking trying to capture a beautiful ceramic of a woman on an elephant. The Husband bought her in a little shop by a lake, in Beijing, China. Incredible, he wrapped her in a sweater and packed her in his suitcase and she arrived here in the U.S. in perfect condition.

Then, there’s the church. It’s handmade, constructed of clay. This piece is from Lima, Peru, and the shop owner packaged it up and promised The Husband it would arrive in “perfect condition”. It didn’t. It was literally smashed to smithereens. Our entire family marveled as The Husband sat at the kitchen table, hot glue gun in hand, for hours upon hours, miraculously reassembling all the pieces. Amazing! I tell everyone that the little church was damaged in an earthquake. I have a story about the little village. I decorate the church for Christmas, with strings of tiny lights, and an itty-bitty wreath. I even place tiny presents in the hands of the villagers, and at their feet. I love the church, ever more special because he patched it up so carefully.

The tapestry is from New Delhi, India. The Husband found it for sale in an outdoor market. It’s very old. We hung it in the dining room.

What treasures have you accumulated? Or, are you a minimalist?







All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Free Fiction That Doesn't Suck

LUSCIOUS

Life changing sentence number one sounded like this, “Get out of my house.” Life changing sentence number two followed a few short seconds later. Most Evil Stepfather Ever had brusquely pushed Most Spineless Mother Ever out of his way, so he could get right up in Lindsey’s face, to add, “And don’t take the car—that car’s in my name—in case you forgot!” At least he didn't hit her, a few months before he had hauled off and slapped her right across the face for mouthing back when he was reading Most Spineless Mother Ever the riot act about something as silly as lukewarm mashed potatoes.

“Big deal, so she smoked a cigarette in bed. You can’t do this!” Most Spineless Mother Ever cried out in protest, suddenly deciding to grow a spine, defending her daughter for once--way too late. But, Most Evil Stepfather Ever could, and he did. He booted Lindsey out of the house.

Good thing, Lena, Most Generous Acquaintance Ever, took mercy and invited Lindsey to move into her Hollywood apartment, so she wasn’t forced to camp out in a dumpster off Sunset Boulevard. Living with three sisters and two cats proved to be crazy challenging. Lindsey slept on the sofa, or, more realistically, didn’t get much sleep on the sofa. Not with the behemoth large screen TV blaring day and night, the comings and goings of the girls and their various friends and lovers, and the nonstop activity and ensuing racket taking place in the tiny kitchen. Purplish bruises appeared under her tired eyes, her clothes grew baggy, and she spent an incredible amount of time down at the library, attempting to do homework. Concentration seemed impossible. Too many worries overshadowed her ability to focus on studies.

When Most Irritating Boss Ever told her he wouldn’t extend her hours at the dry-cleaning plant, Lindsey decided to look for another job. Peri, Most Faithful Friend Ever, brought her to meet his aunt. The Aunt’s name was Judy Klein, and she had quit working as a television producer to open a little shop on Melrose called, The Luscious Cupcake. Lindsey felt miniscule and plain sitting across from glamorous Judy in her glamorous office. “We sell cupcakes, and nothing but cupcakes,” Judy said. “We stay focused.”

“Well,” Lindsey replied, trying to sound savvy, “your customers are lined up out the door and onto the sidewalk. You must be doing something right.”

Judy, (Lindsey automatically nick-named her Most Luscious Cupcake Ever), leaned forward, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Exactly. Cupcakes, cupcakes, cupcakes! Made with only the finest and freshest ingredients. Oversized and over-the-top. Scrumptious and stunning. Let me ask you this,” she lowered her voice to a near whisper, “do you love cupcakes?”

Lindsey preferred pie, coconut cream in particular, but had a brain in her head, so her answer was constructed to impress, “I do! I love cupcakes. Doesn’t everyone?”
Most Luscious Cupcake Ever sighed, “Unfortunately, some sweet-tooth’s prefer candy, it’s hard to believe, but true.”

“Candy can’t hold a candle to cupcakes,” Lindsey quipped.

Judy plucked a pen out of her sculpted pen vase, “Say that again,” she said.

Lindsey placed her finger on her dimpled chin and did her best to repeat what she’d just come up with, Johnny on the spot. “I think I said, candy can’t hold a candle to cupcakes.”

“I love it!” Judy declared. As she wrote Lindsey’s words down on a notepad, Peri winked at Lindsey. Peri’s eyes were the same shade of periwinkle as his Aunt Judy’s. That’s why he’d changed his name from Bill to Peri. As usual, her heart sank a bit when he smiled her way, because dear sweet Peri was gay, and would never love her. Well, he loved her, he told her all the time, but not in the way she wanted him to love her.

“I’ll start you out at the counter,” announced Judy. “You’ll work your way into the kitchen. You all do, sooner or later.”

Over sushi that evening, (Peri ate little else), Lindsey said, “Most Luscious Cupcake Ever didn’t even ask if I knew anything about cooking. Doesn’t she care if I possess such skills?”

“Not really,” Peri said, as he examined a generous piece of tuna. “There’s plenty to do in that kitchen besides baking, silly. I spent three days back there after I left school, popping cupcakes in pink boxes and tying them up in ribbon before they hired me down at Warner Brothers. So I should know.”

“How was it, working at The Luscious Cupcake?”

“Sweet, and busy. Busy, and sweet. I remember smelling like cotton candy at the end of the day.”

“Not so bad,” Lindsey said. “Better than working in that boring old hot dry cleaning plant. I can’t thank you enough for hooking me up with your aunt for this job, Peri. The hours are perfect. I’ll be able to finish all my classes. And hopefully, once I get a few paychecks under my belt I can find a less crowded place to live.”

Traveling on the bus suited Lindsey. Most Evil Stepfather Ever’s car had been a constant source of anxiety and responsibility, she didn't miss it. L.A. wasn’t the ideal city to try to make a go of it without a car, but she made it work. It wasn’t always easy to get to The Luscious Cupcake early enough so she could change into her costume/uniform, tease and sweep up her hair, and apply the required make-up. Judy insisted that they wear a French-maid-meets-I-Love-Lucy-outfit, complete with hot pink patent leather high-heeled shoes. Torture devices. Lindsey’s blisters had developed blisters.

“I think I speak for everyone when I tell you; these stilettos have to go,” Lindsey boldly addressed her new boss, after only a few days on the job.

Judy fell back into her chair/throne and gasped. “But the shoes complete the look.”

According to Most Luscious Cupcake Ever, if she’d learned anything being in showbiz all those years, it was that sex is what sells just about everything, and her cupcakes were primo sexy. Her staff must embody that sexiness, in a wholesome, appetizing manner. Lindsey tread carefully, suggesting, “We could complete the look with footwear that doesn’t hobble us, couldn’t we? We could be appetizing in flats.”

Appreciative co-workers showered Lindsey with compliments and gifts after Judy agreed to order far more suitable/but still super-cute shoes for them to work in. “You saved my life,” Most Amazing Amazon Woman Ever said. Her real name was Wendy, and she was really an actress. Wendy bought Lindsey a pack of Marlboro Lights and a Red Bull to show her gratitude. They sat at the bus stop together, inhaling and exhaling and sipping in unison. “All I do is soak my feet,” Wendy said. “And then I have to beg my self-centered boyfriend to rub them. I swear; I ought to break up with him and find a more giving dude, someone that would rub my feet just because he wanted to. Somebody I wouldn’t have to nag.

Nobody had ever rubbed her feet. Lindsey wasn’t so sure she’d like the feeling; it would surely tickle, and she was exceedingly ticklish. “Well, hopefully your feet won’t be so sore anymore, after we start wearing the new shoes,” Wendy said.

“My aunt’s throwing a dinner party tonight, and we’re invited,” Peri announced. “Do you have anything decent to wear? Celebrities, and movers and shakers will be in attendance.”

“I’m not so sure I belong in a room full celebrities," Lindsey admitted. "Let alone movers and shakers. What do they move and shake anyway?”

“Tinsel town, they move and shake tinsel town.” He studied his profile in the mirror, which hung opposite the entry door to his apartment. Peri had many mirrors of various shapes and sizes hanging in strategic locations. Most Faithful Friend Ever suffered from the delusion that his nose was gargantuan, and she could see him imagining it smaller. He was wrong. His honker did fit his face. For one thing Peri had a prominent brow and jaw, really high cheekbones, and an equally prominent nose, the nose served to perform a delicate balancing act. Lindsey had told him so about a hundred times, doing her level best to discourage him from going under the knife. Talking him out of having rhinoplasty. In her opinion, that hideous name alone, rhinoplasty, should have been deterrent enough.

“Can’t you bring Floyd?” She whined. Peri had misled her earlier in the day over the phone. He’d suggested they go see a lesbian play in an obscure little backstreet theater located in an industrial park in Santa Monica, the actresses were scheduled to perform several scenes in the nude, and they couldn’t help but find the prospect of artful nudity extremely intriguing.

“Floyd’s out of the picture. We don’t talk about him.”

“We?”

“I don’t and you don’t. That qualifies as the big We.”

“Please, let’s skip Judy’s and go see the play as agreed. I’m not even hungry.” It was Lindsey’s turn, time to study her reflection. She was still wearing the make-up she wore to work at The Luscious Cupcake. Her frosting was melting. She was unappetizing. “Look at me. I’m scary.”

“What a liar! You’re always hungry. You’re the hungriest person I know,” Peri declared. He would get his way. Peri always got his way. “I’ll do your make-up. You’ll be fabulously fabulous, in no time.”

Most Luscious Cupcake Ever, AKA Judy, was doing her best impression of Holly Golightly, although she didn’t go so far as to carry around one of those cigarette thingymajiggers. Her apartment was sparsely furnished and surprisingly Plain Jane, to say the least. She had poured all her time, energy and money into her business. That much was obvious. Round rental tables covered in cloths of Judy’s favored Pepto Bismol Pink dotted the room. Instead of floral arrangements colorful cupcake towers stood in the middle of each table.

A catering company had set up shop on her patio: one buffet for food, one for cocktails. Peri procured a Manhattan for himself and a lemon drop martini for Lindsey, shortly after they arrived—which had been tad on the early side. Normally, Peri loathed showing his pretty face before parties got into full swing, but he had promised his aunt to come by to offer advice, if advice were needed. The only change Peri made—he suggested Judy change her bracelet. “I don’t like bangles,” he told her. She ran into her bedroom to remove the offending jewelry.

“See,” he whispered, after handing over Lindsey’s drink, his full lips close to her ear, sending shivers down her spine, “that’s Shyrl Perkins. She broke up with the Channel 2 weekend weatherman. He wasn’t even prime time! Nobody could understand her giving him the time of day anyway.” Peri had missed his calling, he was an editor, but should have been a gossip hound.

Shyrl Perkins didn’t look the least bit heartbroken as she carried on a conversation with Judy. Judy was giggling, a behavior Lindsey had never witnessed her participate in.

“Don’t look now,” Peri added, “but Slinky Slinky just walked in.”

“He doesn’t appreciate being referred to as Slinky Slinky anymore,” Lindsey advised. How she'd retained such information puzzled her. She immediately came to the conclusion that she must be absorbing celebrity trivia from Most Faithful Friend Ever like a sponge absorbs dishwater.

“Ew, up close he’s got bad skin,” Peri said. “How disappointing.”

The night wore on. Lindsey was a fish out of water longing to jump ship. Peri, on the other hand was in his element.

Most Luscious Cupcake Ever found Lindsey out on the patio where she had struck up a relationship with Jim the bartender. He was keeping her in cold Corona’s and Marlboros, and by the time Judy found her, she was tipsy but not so drunk that she didn’t know she was on the verge of becoming plastered. After having switched to beer after abandoning the cloying lemon drop martini Lindsey had really been on a roll. Judy handed her a cupcake. Lindsey didn’t have the heart to tell her boss, cupcakes and beer weren’t exactly a going concern.

“Did you try the Chicken Marsala?” Judy asked.

Lindsey had no idea what she was talking about. Eying the chocolate cupcake, it called to her, she heard, “Bite me, bite me, come on, bite me!”

“Lindsey? Did you eat anything?” Judy wanted to know.

She chomped down on the chocolaty goodness, and answered with a full mouth, saying, in a garbled fashion, “Am now.”

The sugar from the cupcake and the alcohol from five beers combined, and Lindsey passed out at some point and ended up sleeping on a futon in Judy’s home office. When she woke in the morning, working up the courage to venture out, she discovered the tables and little white folding chairs were gone, and the apartment had been stripped of any indication of the previous night’s festivities. Most Luscious Cupcake Ever wore no make-up, and her workout clothes, and still looked luscious.

“How’s your head,” Judy asked.

It seemed so very strange to wake up at her boss’s apartment, embarrassing really. “I’m okay,” she lied. Honestly, Lindsey could have hurled on the spot. Excusing herself, she went to the bathroom. She hung out in there for quite some time, sitting on the floor with her cheek resting against the cool tiled wall, at least until Peri started banging on the door and calling her name.

“Lindsey, you still breathing?”

Lindsey then heard life changing sentence number three, when Judy told Peri, “That girl is wasting her beauty and youth. I ought to know, I did the same exact thing.”

“You're beauty's still intact, silly. Besides, don't you know? That’s what youth and beauty are for Aunt Judy,” Peri exclaimed. “Youth and beauty exist to be exploited!”

Her response? Most Luscious Cupcake Ever told her nephew, “You know, I find it extremely frightening, the idea that you might really believe that nonsense.”

Life changing sentence number four came directly from Lindsey’s mouth, when she reluctantly agreed to move in with Most Formally Spineless Mother Ever, after she dumped Most Evil Stepfather/Husband Ever. “Okay Mom, I'll move in with you,” she said. “But you’ve got to promise me that he’s out of your life forever.”

They were renting month to month. Oakwood, the gigantic complex they chose, was chock full of stage mothers. Other Mom’s kept mistaking Lindsey’s mother for one of them. She had to tell them, “My daughter’s not an actress. She’s a student, studying to be a doctor.

Once the recession took hold like some creepy clawed horror movie monster, Judy couldn’t sell enough cupcakes to keep the doors open, and unfortunately The Luscious Cupcake closed down and Lindsey lost her job. It seemed, to her way of thinking, all those out of work people, the poor souls that lost their fortunes to Bernie Madoff, and the despondent homeowners facing foreclosure could have used an over-the-top cupcake, and the immediate kick in the pants that only a nice sugar boost could provide. But Judy claimed most customers had turned their attention, and their pocketbooks, to booze and cheap microwavable food. Sales were through the roof in liquor stores, and the frozen food isles at Trader Joe's were packed.

Most Luscious Cupcake Ever was lucky enough to get her old job back. As she put it, Hollywood keeps on keeping on through thick and thin. And wouldn’t you know it, she managed to get Lindsey hired on as a part-time receptionist. At least she didn’t have to get all dolled up to go to work anymore, jeans and a presentable shirt were acceptable attire.

Lindsey spent a lot of time thinking about whether or not she was indeed wasting her youth and beauty. She wasn’t sure about the beauty part. Come on, how do you go about wasting beauty? Beauty just is and then it’s gone. But the youth part, she did understand what Judy meant about that, because a person is only young for just so long. Lindsey was out to prove Peri wrong. We ought not exploit our youth and beauty, she decided. And, putting her money where her mouth was, she quit smoking. She gave up her preferred corn-syrup-laden energy drink—cold turkey, and began drinking boring old H2O instead. She began working out in the gym in the complex with Most Trying So Hard To Be Supportive Mom Ever. Hey, if she wanted to be a doctor, (a pediatrician), she'd better start walking the walk and talking the talk.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley. Steal this story and karma will bite you!

Inside Their World

I adore books. No big surprise there. The Husband and I have amassed quite a collection. And, coffee table books abound. One of my favorites is, Writer’s Houses, by Francesca Premoli-Droulers, prologue by Marguerite Duras and Photography by Erica Lennard, and put out by The Vendome Press. If you are as fascinated as I am by how authors live and write I highly recommend you get your mitts on this book. It’s wonderful.

Three years ago, my daughter was being oriented at her new school, The Fashion Design Center of Merchandising and Design, in Los Angeles. While she was taken by the arm by the director, I was told to go off and amuse myself. I went to the museum housed near the courtyard of the school, where costumes from Oscar winning films were on display, and marveled at the workmanship and differing aspects of the varied collections, then browsed through a gift shop, eventually making my way to the bookstore. What a bookstore! Not big, but as you can imagine, chock full of volume after volume of wonderful selections.

I found Writer's Houses and had to have it. There was only one copy, and the cover was messed up, but I didn’t care.

Can you imagine being lucky enough to be Ms. Premoli-Droulers, or the photographer, Ms. Lennard? What a great job! I would love to peek around in the marvelous settings depicted in this wonderful book.

Karen Blixen, (Isak Dinesen) Author Out of Africa. (1885-1962)

--All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.

--I don't believe in evil, I believe only in horror. In nature there is no evil, only an abundance of horror: the plagues and the plights and the ants and the maggots.

Ernest Hemingway Author The Old Man and the Sea. (1899-1961)

--All my life I've looked at words as if I were seeing them for the first time.

--It is none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.

Virginia Woolf Author To the Lighthouse. (1882-1941)

--A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

--Arrange whatever pieces come you way.

Currently, I have been doing most of my writing in the kitchen. Although I have "a room of my own". When the kids were still living at home I had to try and write amongst the noise and activities of our growing family, now that I am free (supposedly) to go to my lovely office to work, I don't. Why? Because I've got FOUR dogs to care for. And we don't let them have the run of the house, or it would be absolute mayhem. I'm afraid being strapped with a chihuahua from one daughter, (temporarily) and a rambunctious puppy from another daughter, (indeterminately), has complicated our lives enormously. Poor Duncan and Bonnie, (My two older dogs.) They want to come upstairs to be with me, (like they used to do), but I can't bring the others. If I leave the other dogs behind they whine and cry like infants. The chihuahua's cries unhinge me! Little Lita can make BIG sounds, unnerving sounds. So, here I am pecking away at the kitchen table. Such is life.

I took three pictures, (from the book), of three author's rooms. I've named three authors and have supplied two quotes from each one. Then you tell me if you can match the room, #1, #2, or #3 to the correct author. Where do you write? And what writer’s do you admire and why?

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Sittin' Outside

It’s not as hot today, don’t get me wrong, it’s warm, but we’re in the double digits as opposed to triple.

The light is changing. When you live in Southern California the signs of Autumn’s arrival are much more subtle than in most climes. Mostly, I’m looking forward to spending more time outdoors, once the weather cools down a bit. We moved from a property with acreage to a small yard back in June. We’ve set up several seating areas outside. Now that the heat is on its way out we may even have a chance to use the fire pit again, we haven’t used it since we first moved in before it got so hot. Our front porch is shady in the afternoons, and a great place to watch the neighborhood kids fly by on their skateboards or bikes. Our backyard is small, but has a view of the Santa Rosa Plateau, and the sunsets.

Tonight we’re grilling steaks and I’m making potatoes and salad. Just kicking back. The one photo shows my two cairn terriers, (think Toto), lying in the sun after their bath this morning. Ah, what a life.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Indian Summer

We don't have any big plans this weekend. But, we are in the middle of a heatwave, so I know we will be visiting the pool. It's pretty nice, there's a small kiddie pool, for when the grandkids are visiting and a big pool for me. (Did I mention I love to swim?)

Top picture: My grandson Ben. He loves that he can stand up in and walk across the kiddie pool. But prefers being in the big pool, because, well, because he's a boy and it's more dangerous.

Middle picture: Shot of clubhouse and big pool, with Ben's head up front. You can't tell from this picture but those lounge chairs are padded and super-comfy and if you can find a spot in the shade it's a great place to read a book or doze off.

Bottom picture: My son holding Ben. Aren't they sweet?

I hope you all have a lovely September weekend.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Watch This Short Film

http://www.akorn.tv/primer/primer_janicelowry.html

I want you guys to go watch this movie about Janice. This was made before she knew she was even sick. In April of this year she was diagnosed with an agressive liver cancer and she passed away two days ago. But she will live forever. As you will see when you watch this short film.

Just click on the link above.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

RIP Janice Lowry ~~ A wonderful artist and a better person. My heart is heavy with the news of her passing yesterday. Words fail me.

Let Me Explain, Better

My last post wasn't detailed enough. I wrote the darn thing in ten minutes. (I've got to stop doing that), and I didn't explain what I meant by sentimental books. Here's an excerpt from an article about a book I enjoyed reading last year, a runaway bestseller, worldwide.

Giving sentiment a good name
BY DAVID FRAUENFELDER - CORRESPONDENT
Published: Sun, Aug. 31, 2008 12:00AMModified Sun, Aug. 31, 2008 04:40AM


'The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" is a sentimental book.
I don't mean sentimental in its sickly sweet connotation, but the one I learned from my friend Sue, who lives down the street. Her definition comes from the way she lives her life: to be brave enough to care.

Sentiment is an underdog in this day and age, enough that those tasked with marketing "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" decided to go with a vaguely postmodern hook for the dust jacket, billing the book as a "celebration of the written word in all its guises." END OF EXCERPT.

~~~Mr. David Frauenfelder explains things so much better than I did in my previous post. I'm afraid I made it sound as if I write and read differing kinds of material than I do. In fact, I don't often read books, nor do I write books, that would be considered overtly sentimental. I just want to reserve the right to veer in that direction from time to time.

Don't you love that line? To be brave enough to care? It's come down to this? We have to be brave to care? How very sad.

Here's a short list of books I adore, books that don't mind displaying a tender sentiment here and there:

Terms of Endearment ~~ Larry MacMurtry

Where The Heart Is ~~ Billie Letts

Turtle Moon ~~Alice Hoffman

Range of Motion ~~ Elizabeth Berg

Back When We Were Grown-ups ~~ Anne Tyler

South of Broad ~~ Pat Conroy

I think it says something of us as a society when we are afraid of human emotion.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

You're Welcome

Are you afraid of being too corny when you write? It seems to me that critics loathe sentimentality, in any shape or form these days. Some of my favorite stories have sappy themes or endings, or both. I know such subject matter can be taken too far, but when handled properly may go a long way in representing the beauty of the human experience. How bad can THAT be?

Society on a whole is getting nastier. We don't revere decorum. Manners have flown out the window with chivalry. I hear they live on a farm somewhere in the country, with all the out-to-pasture niceties, such as: thank-you and you're welcome, handshakes, please and how-do-you-do's? Chivalry and Manner's farm must be a nice place to visit, (I found a photo that fits in with what I imagine such a farm would look like. See above.) Expect to meet some mellow types, to hear good morning, good day, or goodnight, to find yourself surrounded by those that don't interrupt or ask rude questions. In other words, a whole different world than ours.

Our world is a place where you can grab the microphone out of someone's hand at an award show and be forgiven the very next day because you're a big-bad-rich-famous-star, even if you have a history of being a pompous ass. Our world is a place where we don't fault someone for poor sportsmanship, where the weak are stampeded and usually the strong and obnoxious cross the finish line. Our world is a place where we never agree to disagree, we only agree to out shout one another. Our world is going down the tubes, or as my mother used to say, to hell in a hand basket.

I'm going to write the way I want to about the subject matter that I care about. I'm still going to say you're welcome, instead of the new preferred version, (no problem). God, I hate that phrase! I'm not going to let the sentimentality police influence the way I write. No I will not.

What's your favorite, sappy, corny, happy ending book? I know you have one, come on tell us...

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Ew!

I've said that I thought we moved to a nice place. But...and isn't there always a but? There's so many flies out here! I hate flies! We used to live in a rural area but we weren't around livestock, so we didn't have a fly problem. There are cows around here, down the road, and believe me, they don't call them s%#t factories for nothing. We had to go to Home Depot and buy these bags that you hang out in the yard to attract the flies or they would surely end up in the house. The bags smell like poop, probably cow poop, which seems to be really attractive to flies. I pick up the dog poop out in the yard, (a crappy theme runs through this post, sorry guys), on a regular basis, but the damn things end up inside anyway. My new hobby is running around the house, fly swatter in hand, speaking in tongues. These are the craftiest, speediest flies I've ever come across, it's nearly impossible to kill them because when they land they only sit a short spell. They see me coming with the swatter. They are noisy, and they like to dive bomb your head.

Now, for the super gross part of the story. The other day I spotted something crawling across the floor. Wait, you have to be kidding me, I thought. More than one? Are those maggots! I had maggots crawling across the kitchen? No bloody way. Yikes.

The Husband came running when he heard me screaming like a mad woman. I scared him half to death. He took the trash can outside and hosed it down and I got down to the business of ridding my floor of such disgusting vermin. Maggots are fast, really fast, I did not know this. They were crawling, (or whatever they do), for cover! I was so grossed out I had to lie down with a cold cloth over my head once I'd bleached and wiped and bleached and wiped. I totally freaked out.

Needless to say, we've always been super careful about what we throw away inside, nothing perishable. We have a garbage disposal in the sink and everything. Our trash-can has one of those lids that automatically slams shut when you take your foot off the pedal, and we use trash bags, I couldn't figure out how it happened. How I came to have a maggot farm in my house. Shudder, shudder.

I've been yelling at the dogs, they like to amble in and out, meanwhile the flies get in. So I've been teaching them to move faster, don't dawdle I tell them.

So, this afternoon, I'm in the kitchen, pouring a nice glass of my favorite fizzy water, and what do I see? You guessed. THEY'RE BACK! I took the trash can outside. I had changed the bag twice yesterday! And all that was in there was recyclable stuff, so where did they come from? I looked over the trash can, no maggots, no smell. I examined the bottom, every surface, no sign of the creepy buggers. So I went back inside. I investigated. They were under the dog food dish and little plastic stand that I keep the dishes on! Oh no! But, they weren't IN THE DOG FOOD, so what's going on? I don't know. I cleaned them up. I bleached. I tried to calm down, then I went on the Internet, (what did we do before the Internet?), so I might read up on the life cycle of a maggot. And the fly.

I'm afraid for my dogs. I'm not going to leave food out any longer. I will only feed them at designated times from here on in. Did you know that maggots can get under the skin of a dog? I had no idea! I am so disgusted. I am severely traumatized. I'm sure some of you will think I'm a big baby. And maybe I am, but I'm grossed out beyond words. Ew, and double, Ew!

That last shot is what maggots look like up close. Tell me that's not scary!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

This Life

Times are hard. I don't know a living soul that hasn't been impacted in one way or another by this economic mess, (I'm not about to refer to it as a downturn, or a recession, because it's a mess, plain and simple.) I decided to focus on what I do have, to turn my attention to the little things: an economical spaghetti dinner that I prepare and share with my sweet husband, viewing a spectacular sunset from my backyard free of charge, and enjoying a favorite spot in the living room where I relax, read, or contemplate this life.

I imagine life as a room. I am a designer and this exercise works for me. I realize, after examining my experiences, that I have been the youngest in the room and I have been the oldest. I have been the poorest and I have been the richest. I have been the quietest and I have been the loudest. I have been the ugliest and I have been the prettiest. I have been the healthiest and I have been the sickest. I have been the dumbest and I have been the smartest. I have been the narrowest and I have been the deepest.

This is one of the benefits of aging--perspective. And that perspective comes in handy, if you intend to write. I will do my best to use the insight I have gained after experiencing one polar opposite position to another. One such example would be going from being a childless daughter to being a child mother. It occurs to me, as we age the polarization increases in size and scope. Surely that is where wisdom comes from. And every single time some wonderful someone (you) visits this blog to read my words, I am blessed. For that, and sunsets, and spaghetti dinners with my wonderful husband, and quiet time for introspection, I am thankful.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Our Little House Guest

Meet Lita, she's my oldest daughter's dog, but she's staying with us right now. I don't know how much she weighs but it can't be more than four pounds. She's just brought this rock into the house, and she won't let my dogs (I have three) touch it. This is her rock now, to go with the twigs, bark, and leaves that she keeps dragging in from outside.

A couple of years ago, my son and I were driving and I spotted a small critter running down the middle of the road, upon closer inspection I saw that it was a tiny (and I mean tiny) puppy. He got out to save the puppy from certain death, as it was headed towards the main highway, when it saw him it made a quick detour, tumbling into the gutter and trying in vain to scale the curb. He caught her. She fit in the palm of his hand. "Knock on that door, see if she belongs to them." My son knocked on the door of the closest house. Nobody answered. We drove back home.

My oldest daughter already had a chihuahua, Salsa, and she had been making noise about getting another. When we got a good look at the little puppy we could see that it was very young, probably too young to be taken away from her mama, and it was a girl. She was filthy and splattered with orange paint, and literally starving, you could make out her tiny vertebrae and ribs distictly. I called my daughter and asked her if she wanted the puppy, if she didn't I would have to take it to the animal shelter. We were living in the country at the time and our huge yard would have been a hazardous environment for such a tiny creature. My daughter said yes, she wanted the puppy.

We immediately took her into the vet. He said that she was not yet six weeks old. He cleaned her up, and gave us special food to feed her and instructions on how to feed her, as she was starving. My daughter drove out to pick her up and her husband named the puppy Lolita, Lita for short. Salsa and Lita are quite a team. Salsa is black, (see picture above), she's what they call a deer-head, and as you can see, Lita is brown and white and has an apple-head.

I won't go into why Lita is with us in this post, I'll tell you later. I intend to post the story about Oliver and Lita later. That, as they say, is another story.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Book

Ha! An author thinks the darn thing's done, but it ain't done!

I'm busy going over the proof of my book, Boomer Tales, Please Stand By. Yes, I edited my brains out previously. Impartial editors went at it, but still...there's something about seeing the words lined up on the page in book form. Mistakes and typos rear their ugly little heads. You realize how to make things better, much tighter, more succinct. I was up last night working. There's my favorite teapot, full of Sleepytime, (in hopes that once I go to bed I'll fall asleep and not lie there with words running through my wired mind.) I shot the pic with my trusty cell phone.

Okay, back to work.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Hollywood Gets it Wrong, Again

So, I mentioned that we moved here to Temecula a couple of months ago. There’s a movie out, claiming that it was filmed here in Temecula. Read this short article and my comments will follow:

By JEFF HORSEMAN
The Press-Enterprise

Sal Rosales is a car salesman in Temecula. But that's about all he has in common with Don Ready, the fictional protagonist of "The Goods: Live Hard, Sell Hard."

At The Movie Experience in Temecula, Rosales and Scott Messier took in the crude comedy, which opened Friday. Afterward, the two said they enjoyed the film, which more than earned it’s R-rating with enough profanity, sex jokes and just plain sex to fill an auto mall.

"The movie (took) any type of stereotype of a car salesman and ... put it in a movie," said Rosales, who works at Toyota of Temecula Valley with Messier, a sales manager.


While Temecula was the setting for a plot about traveling car sellers hired to save a sinking dealership, the city took a back seat to characters played by a group of familiar actors, led by Jeremy Piven of "Entourage" fame.
The movie actually was filmed in Alhambra, not that "The Goods" aimed for accuracy. There are references to "downtown Temecula" -- whatever that means -- and a scene at a strip club. Temecula doesn't have any.
At one point, an "angel" says Temecula is "not even (expletive) Fresno." No one from the movie or its distributor, Paramount Vantage, was available for comment.
Dan Taylor, deputy director of the Inland Empire Film Commission, said Alhambra was likely the filming location because it's within 30 miles of Hollywood. Unionized crewmembers get daily per diems and lodging for films outside the 30-mile zone, he said.
In the real Temecula, most auto dealerships line a stretch of Ynez Road. Auto sales comprise 16 to 18 percent of Temecula's sales tax base, and dealers donated nearly $700,000 in 2007 to local charities and school sports teams, according to city figures.
When asked about "The Goods," Temecula Mayor Maryann Edwards started rattling off Temecula's goods -- selected as one of the top 100 places to live in America by a national real estate Web site; low crime rate; top-notch schools and Wine Country and attractions aplenty.
"If (the movie) doesn't fit with those guidelines, I'd say it's not a fair representation of Temecula," said Edwards, adding she avoids R-rated movies and catches a flick "maybe once a year."
Reach Jeff Horseman at 951-375-3727 or jhorseman@PE.com



MY TAKE:
Okay. My husband works in Hollywood off and on, my oldest son and youngest daughter work in Hollywood, so you could say that I know a little about the town and the attitude of some of the people, (I’ll just say this, most of the people that work there), believe that L.A. is the center of the damn universe. And, (this is coming from somebody that does not think there’s a there there), I’m tired of hearing the Hollywood machine make fun of anyone and anything that does not fit into their narrow view of the world.

Given the choice, and we did have the choice…when we made our move, we considered several options in and around L.A., and we chose Temecula. Why? It’s still somewhat rural out here, but there’s a lot to do. Lots of restaurants, wine country, the weather is pleasant, and the real estate is super-affordable. For what it costs to live in a nice house here in the Temecula Valley, you would have to settle for a hovel in L.A. The sense of community is very strong out here. It’s a family oriented area. My husband has noted, many, many times over the years, people in the Hollywood community tend to think that residing in The Inland Empire, and Orange County is akin to choosing to live on Mars. “You live where?” They like to ask, with a frown on their face. (Even when we lived in L.A. County, not thirty miles away, they would act as if he’d chosen to live in Nome, Alaska.)

In the article above, a line from the movie is quoted saying that Temecula isn’t even f#*&ing Fresno. Fresno is a farming town located in Central California. Hollywood LOVES ragging on poor Fresno. I’m sure the citizens of Fresno are sick and tired of being picked on. They’re accustomed to being picked on. But Temecula?

What’s so great about L.A./Hollywood, anyway? Maybe it’s the freeway gridlock? The Botox/martini parties? The smog? The high ratio of plastic surgeons to the general population? The gangs? The homeless that flock downtown and piss on the streets and in doorways? The flash-in-the-pan starlets that like to climb in and out of cars in front of flash-in-the-pan nightclubs, flashing the paparazzi with their private parts? The over-crowded beaches with sewage pollution?

Chalk it up to ignorance; Hollywood gets it wrong, again.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Ablaze With Thrills!

How cool, in my dream last night I found myself in possession of a colorful flying carpet, which I kept secret and hidden and only brought out when I was all alone. When I was a kid I saw many Aladdin-inspired Saturday matinees, and fell in love with the concept of magic lamps and flying carpets, but worried about whether or not I would be able to keep hold when the possessed rug took off like a bat outta hell. But, I did imagine that it would be great fun to ride one. Well, last night I discovered that I didn’t have to worry about falling off. Turns out that the flying carpet, (the one that exists in my subconscious anyway), came equipped with a nifty invisible sticky substance that enabled me to stay put as I zoomed across the heavens, or merely cruised above town and country.

I went in search of a suitable picture of a magic carpet this afternoon, just imagine how excited I was when I came across this movie poster instead. Lucille Ball was a favorite from my youth, and here she is, pictured in a belly dancer’s outfit! Ablaze with thrills! Aglow with delight! In CineSineColor too! Turns out the movie, The Magic Carpet, was made in 1951, and from what I gather, the film sucked pretty bad. Still, how can you resist a movie that features Lucille Ball as an opportunistic Iraqi princess—such perfect (NOT) casting—right up there with John Wayne playing Genghis Khan in The Conqueror in 1956, or Mickey Rooney playing Holly Golightly’s Japanese neighbor, the ridiculously buck-toothed Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany's back in 1961? Good grief, makes you realize that we’ve come a long way. Well, perhaps in some respects. Surely, no filmmaker would ever cast a white guy to play an Asian, especially with fake bucked teeth, not in this day and age. How unthinkable.

I got to thinking, what a great idea for a coffee table book—Notable Actors in Bad Roles. What’s up with Sean Connery in Zardoz back in 1974? Okay, granted; HUBBA HUBBA, (he’s a fine example of man flesh), but please, those boots, that diaper, the hair? What in the world was that man thinking? How does he feel about this picture? Not his proudest moment. That’s for sure.

Here’s a quote about the movie, The Magic Carpet, which sparked this post in the first place: Hoping to force Lucille Ball into breaking her contract, Columbia Pictures chieftain Harry Cohn assigned her to the low-budget Arabian Nights escapade The Magic Carpet. Much to Cohn's amazement, the plucky Ball agreed to appear in the film, forcing Columbia to pay her salary until her option ran out. Contrary to popular belief, Ball is not the heroine of the film; in fact, she's the villainess, an opportunistic Iraqi princess named Narah. She aligns herself with the usurping Caliph of Baghdad (Gregory Gay) and his chief henchman Boreg (Raymond Burr), while the true caliph Ramoth (John Agar), unaware of his birthright, performs acts of derring-do as "The Scarlet Falcon." Patricia Medina co-stars as Ramoth's impulsive love interest, who proves to be quite a nuisance for everyone involved and is obliged to spend a good portion of the film in chains and ropes. While Lucille Ball is quite attractive in her harem duds, the viewer cannot help but notice that her bare midriff is often obscured by props and furniture; that's because she was pregnant with her daughter Lucie Arnaz during the filming of The Magic Carpet. ~ Hal Erickson, All Movie Guide




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Sushi Roll To Die For

My daughter and I found a really cool sushi restaurant yesterday. They offer deals between 3 and 5, like 16 oz. of Sapporo beer for 99cents, and appetizers and sushi at reduced prices. I love salmon skin hand rolls. I ordered one, while waiting I sipped my incredible iced tea and munched on edamame. The decor was lively, the staff was attentive, and they played good music too. As if that wasn't wonderful enough, the sushi chef handed me a ten pound hand roll, (okay it wasn't quite THAT BIG), but it was BIG. And, absolutely delicious. So here's a pic I took with my phone, so you can admire his creation with your own eyes.

Hope you're all having a wonderful weekend!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Heatwave

Man oh man, is it stinking hot! We were having a mild summer, but as usual, right around Labor Day things heat up. It was 107 here in Temecula yesterday; it’s 104 right now. I have the air set at 80 and it’s running nonstop. We have four wildfires burning in Southern California; people may lose their homes. It’s a tinderbox. The picture above is of a house burning in Lake Arrowhead a couple of years back, and the picture of the map speaks for itself. I’m taking my youngest daughter out for a pedicure, and then lunch. My oldest daughter and the baby went to the pool with a friend. I would have gone but I had too much to do. Now that I’ve finished, it’s time to relax in one of those spa chairs for a spell. Have a great end of summer weekend all!

OH! I almost forgot to tell you guys, I got the PROOF of my book, Boomer Tales, Please Stand By, and I’ve been working like a demon going over every line with a sharp number 2 pencil. So it won’t be long now before we have a real book on our hands. Yay! Finally.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

DARTS

Old memories are surfacing, I’m not sure just why. Maybe it has something to do with turning 54 yesterday. That sounds so bloody old to me. Next year I’ll be able to order off the senior menu, oh goody.

When I was sixteen my mother decided to move, and she took my little sister and me from Portland Oregon all the way up to Northern British Columbia, because she was tired of being a lonely divorcee. Since she was Canadian, all her family members were up there. My dad and big brother lived down in Southern California, and I didn’t want to move so far away from them. As it was I didn’t see my daddy enough to suit me. I had just finished my sophomore year of high school, and the idea of leaving all my friends behind felt like the end of the world. The end of the world as I knew it anyway.

Going from a city to a one-horse-town was culture shock enough. But add to that the difference in cultures and you’re talking a huge change. I felt as if I were on Mars. Sure they spoke English, sort of, but add their habit of rapid delivery and all those “ayes”, it just wasn’t that easy to understand what people were saying at times. On the first day of school a guy walked up to me and said, “You’re trying to get into my locker.” It seemed the lady that had handed me my locker number and combination had forgotten to let me in on the fact that there was a boy’s bank of lockers off one hallway, and a girl’s bank of lockers off another, and they were numbered the same. I was at number nine, in the bank of boy’s lockers. I just stood there, staring at the guy like some mute idiot. “Are you one of the French exchange students?” He asked. “Are you from Quebec?”

“No,” I said, “I’m from Oregon.”

“Oregon?” He considered me as if I’d just claimed to be from the moon.

“You know, south of here, in The States?”

His name was Will and he asked me if I wanted to go to his house after school. I accepted the offer, I really wanted to fit in and he was the only person at that rinky dink school that had even spoken to me. (I know, looking back from the perspective of being a mother, I'm mad at my teenage self for going off with a boy I didn't know.) He drove a busted up Volkswagen bug and made his way up into the hills. His mother was making something called perogies, and he was all excited for me to try them. They were Ukrainian, and perogies were Ukrainian dumplings, he explained. In the cozy kitchen he wolfed down at least a half a dozen of the hot, mashed potato and cheese filled concoctions, that his mother served on a platter. Toppings included fried greasy onions, sour cream, and applesauce. I wasn’t all that thrilled but I had been trained to be polite and eat what was on my plate and to compliment the cook. One was enough for me. I’m afraid I wasn’t a very adventurous eater back then.

His mother just kept working over the stove, and surprisingly didn’t blink an eye when he invited me down to the basement to see his room. My mother would pitch a fit if she knew I was about to descend those steps; that I was about to go in a boy’s bedroom. I did my best to put Mom out of my mind.

At the bottom of the stairs was a rec area, complete with a rather primitive bar, a game table, and a dartboard on the wall. Will’s room was located on the other side—a typical teenager’s room, with a single bed, a small desk, a record player balanced on some cinder blocks. He was proud of his Grand Funk Railroad album, which he played full blast. We sat around for a while and then I told him that I’d better go. I had to meet my sister at the local hangout, (I can’t remember what the name of the joint is anymore), so he drove me over there and dropped me off.

The second week of school Will suggested that we skip a day. He wanted to show me something. I was beginning to find out that most kids were leery of me, especially the girls; they called me “Yank”. So I was desperate for company, although Will wasn’t exactly my type, and I wasn’t anxious to get myself in trouble, against my better judgment I agreed to go with him.

He took the main highway and drove way outside of town. We rode a ferry across the mighty Skeena River, to a small outpost on the other side, called Usk. There was an old abandoned schoolhouse. Will told me that he went there quite often, to think. He said he wanted to write songs. I told him that I was a writer. I told him that I’d been chosen for a special class of artists, that my teacher read a poem of mine, and had given me a test. After I passed he offered me a slot in the nationally run program. I would sometimes miss boring classes, which I hated, like science and math. Will seemed impressed.
Then we rode the ferry back across the river. After an inedible lunch at a greasy spoon full of truckers he took me to an old abandoned cabin and we shared an apple that he picked from a tree. “The last person that lived here was an American draft dodger named Larry Lee Larkin,” he told me. “He used to party out here. This is his table, not much of his stuff is still here.”
“Did you know this hippie?” I asked. I’d made assumptions; there was a tie-dye curtain in the kitchen, after all.
“Larry wasn’t a hippie,” he snapped. “He was a Southern Baptist. He didn’t believe in the war. He had a still in the woods out there. He sold moonshine. He could sing and play the harmonica real good.”
“Where is he now,” I asked.
“Back in The States, in Leavenworth.”
“Oh no, that’s awful.”
“He turned himself in. Said he missed Oscar Meyer wieners.”
The hot dogs in Canada were funky tasting and different, that was for sure.

The next time I went somewhere with Will, he brought me back to his house. Nobody was home. We went down in the basement and he put the Grand Funk Railroad album on again, and then kissed me for the first time. I wasn’t warm for his form. He just didn’t do it for me. I think I must have relayed my inner feelings with my lackluster demeanor. Luckily, his mother came home, called out his name from the top of the stairs, and we went to see what she wanted. We were standing in the rec area and she told Will that she needed him to carry the groceries inside. “I’ll be right back,” he called. I saw six darts sitting on the bar and decided to amuse myself. I’d grown up playing darts. Isn’t it always the way it goes? I threw two bulls eyes and with nobody there to witness the fact! Just as I’d finished, Will came running down the stairs. I was just getting ready to pull the darts out when he looked at the board. “You cheater,” he said, “you pushed those into the bulls eye. No way you made those shots.”

I had a big brother, I came from a competitive family, I was stinking good at throwing darts. “I did so,” I said, my feelings hurt.

“You did, huh? Well then, let’s play.” He took on an aggressive stance, practically growling through the entire game.

I beat him. He didn’t like losing to a puny girl, not one little bit. He drove me home and didn’t say a word the entire trip. Sore loser.

The next day Will took me aside and told me he was seeing one of the French exchange students. He said he had only spoken with me to begin with because he’d thought I was one of them and he’d always wanted to be with a French girl. I was so mad. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, but holy crap, what a jerk. I knew he was mad because I’d kicked his ass at darts. I had lent him my Paul McCartney cassette tape, I told him I wanted it back, but he never returned it.

He ran around telling everybody in school that I was frigid and didn’t know how to kiss. The following year he impregnated one of my sister’s friends. What a schmuck!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.