My Husband’s New Home [FICTION]

“But I hate moving.” I frown as my dear husband presents his idea.

“But this new place is so much larger than this one.” He looks around our cozy two bedroom apartment with distaste.

“You called it spacious when you sold me on moving in here.” I cross my arms and plant my feet on the floor.

He grins at me, “But this is more spacious. Imagine what you could do with all that space?”

“Fill it with things to clean?”

“You’re getting it.” He smirks.

“No. No. I am not.” I roll my eyes at him.

“You have to see it, at least. Come on.”

“Fine.” I relent. “I will look at it…”

“And give it a chance?”

“If you say so…”

“Let’s go?” He stands up and reaches for his keys.

I sigh and follow him out the door. He keeps up a constant litany of the advantages of this new apartment on the way there. I begin to think he is trying to distract me as we turn down a street full of questionable buildings. The disturbing accommodations culminate in a train yard with an immense empty warehouse next to it.

“No.” The word leaps from the my lips without thought.

“You said you would give it a chance.”

“You said it was an apartment.”

“I never said it was an apartment. I said it was larger.”

“We can’t live here.”

“Come inside. You’ll change your mind.”

“No.” The more I say it, the more I mean it.

He laughs and pulls into a spot. I shudder as one tire sinks into a pothole. He comes around to open my door, as if he has brought me to a fancy restaurant. He throws it open with a flourish. I step inside.

I instantly close my eyes. It is worse than I anticipated. The ceiling goes on forever to bare metal rafters. The entirety of the space is one huge room.

“Is there even a bathroom?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Not yet, but that is the beauty of it. We can build what we want.”

“Oh yeah? How would the owner feel about that?”

He grins at me.

I frown at him and wait for him to speak. His failure to respond and the ever widening grin finally get through my thick skull.

“We’re the owners…” My breath catches on the words. “Which means we have no money left, doesn’t it?”

Once more, he doesn’t answer.

~~Remember when your husband annoys you that it could always be worse or better depending on how you feel about huge surprises. This was supposed to be last week’s post, so it looks like I owe you one. Won’t it be a surprise if I remember to post it???”~~

Don’t Be Like My Mom [FICTION]

Why did I sign up for Career Day? No one wants to work in a restaurant. They think they do because the food is so delicious, but after watching it get made a million times, the savor fades away. I would be a skinny chef if I was still a chef. I still get to go to Career Day and talk about my job, but I don’t have that job anymore. It seems too late to back out now. After all, Principal Gull is counting on me. She told me so in her reminder text this morning.

I clasp my hands tightly together as I wait my turn. I feel the sweat pooling in my palms, but I don’t let go. Speaking in public makes me nervous under normal circumstances and these are particularly stressful times, so I need something to hold onto. The principal calls my name. She offers me a thumbs up and a wide grin.

I step to the podium and place an hand on either side of it, clutching it like a life vest in turbulent seas. “Hello, everyone.” I look out at the sea of youthful faces and my mouth dries up instantly.

I swallow hard and begin my prepared speech. I have given it a couple of times over the years, usually to prospective students at the culinary academy that is my alma mater. I have repeated the words so often that they flow naturally from my mouth with no trace of my own burgeoning distaste for my chosen profession. I see a few young faces perk up at the thought of plating beautiful and delicious meals for appreciative gourmands and relax a little before finishing up and resuming my seat to mostly polite applause.

After all of the parents finish speaking, the principal leads us down into the gymnasium for a meet and greet with the students. None of the students shows much interest in the culinary joys offered to a professional chef. A chemical engineer and a phlebotomist join me around the punch bowl to lament the lack of initiative of our children’s friends.

“You’d think my own son would come over to talk to me,” the chemical engineer sighs over his punch.

“No, you bloody-well wouldn’t.” The phlebotomist rejoins, laughing.

I smile and keep my punch glass pressed to my lips, so I don’t have to offer my own opinion. As the phlebotomist gears up to make another pun about blood, I make an excuse to begin casually walking among the students. I am certain that none of them wants to chat with me, but I also know the principal expects me to mingle at least a half hour longer. I am almost ready to make my apologetic goodbyes when I overhear the heartbreaking gem of the day.

My daughter surrounded by her friends has no idea I could hear her when she declares, “You can be a chef, but don’t be like my mom. She loves the people she cooks for more than me.”

~~I may need to remind myself more often to spend time with my kids. Maybe they make so many messes because they are under the mistaken impression that I love to clean the house and will play with them more if they give me more opportunities to clean it.~~

Girls’ Night [FICTION]

A wooden train. A half-eaten apple pie. Three shoes without mates. A ballpoint pen advertising the local mini golf course. A collection of unfamiliar bras in three different sizes, only one of them mine. I survey the random collection of items again, trying to figure out where they came from and how they came to be in my living room. For that matter, I don’t remember how I came to be in my living room. Shouldn’t I be sleeping in my bed?

As I push myself up from the couch, my head suddenly feels detached from my body. I brace myself on the coffee table and sink to the floor. I rest my head on the table, enjoying the cool pressure of the wood on my forehead. I rest like that until the doorbell rings.

I raise my head. “Who is it?” I barely manage to make my voice audible over the rush of blood flowing back to my head.

Whoever knocked must have heard me, but I can’t make out the muffled response. I also can’t rise from the floor, so I call out louder. “Just come back later.”

I instantly regret my decision as fireworks explode through my brain. Tears stream down my cheeks, blurring the room as the light changes.

“What is going on?” I ask myself.

A blurry figure steps into my line of vision. “Oh, Bess, I’m so sorry.”

“Huh?” I wipe away the tears and peer at my friend Harriet.

She smiles weakly at me. “The girls and I just wanted you to enjoy yourself for a change.”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I really have no idea what is going on. I mean look at this place.”

She glances around the room, but doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, she grabs the silver bra from my strange collection.

“Thank goodness. I had no idea where this went.” She chuckles and tucks it into her purse.

“Well, that is one mystery solved,” I mumble as a feeling overcomes me. “I suppose you can solve the rest of my mysteries.”

“You have been so depressed lately that the girls and I took a vote and decided to assure you the best night ever…” She pauses, takes a deep breath and sinks to her knees in front of. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

“For what? Aside from leaving your shiny bra in my living room?” I glance at the rest of my clues. “I suppose the other two belong to Daff and Jen?”

She nods. “But they had nothing to do with the roofie I put in your drink.”

“You what?” 

“I…” She pauses and then pleads. “Please forgive me.”

“What did you give me exactly?” Finding out I was drugged by my friend gives me a sudden clarity that draws me out of my pain-induced stupor.

“I don’t know. The guy said…” 

I interrupt. “The guy? He doesn’t have a name.”

She shrugs.

“Oh my…” My mouth remains open but I have no words.

“At least you didn’t feel that?” She points to my shoulder.

“Huh?” I look down, but I don’t have a good angle on whatever she is pointing on, so I reach out to touch it.

“Why does my shoulder feel like it’s on fire? What happened to me?”

“Here. Let me show you.” Harriet scrolls through her phone and then points the screen toward me.

My mouth drops in horror as I behold an image of myself seated in a chair at a tattoo parlor. In the photo, my mouth forms a wide-open smile with every tooth visible as a the tattoo artist leans in to press the needle to my skin. Daff and Jen stand on either side of me, showing off their own shoulders, already decorated with dragons. Scales of gold and orange cover Jen’s new arm decor. Daff has chosen teal and midnight blue. Harriet smiles and turns her shoulder toward me to show a black and grey dragon breathing fire toward her face.

“Yours is purple and pink.” I must make a face because she laughs and reassures me. “It is gorgeous, don’t worry.”

“You let me get a tattoo?”

She holds up her hand. “You insisted.”

“You drugged me.” I circle back around to that.

“I’m sorry.”

“But you… drugged… me.”

“I also made sure you had pie after you kicked our butts at mini golf. You turn into a Masters contender when you relax. And we got you the train you wanted.” She gestures toward those items.

I shake my head. “I am going to need to think about this Harriet.” I gesture toward the door. “Can you go?”

She turns her head away from me, but I see tears already forming. I touch my shoulder, letting the pain fuel my resolve as I slowly stand to lock the door behind her. I shuffle across the floor, barely keeping pace with her. Neither of us speaks as she steps outside and I shut the door, locking it behind her.

~Obviously, it is very important to pick your friends carefully, but don’t we all just want to relax a little as summer approaches? Try to relax with good friends, good music, and no lapses in judgement though…~