Living with Rob: part 2 (Three-word Thursday)

"WHAT?" Jenny shrieked into the phone.

Rob's voice on the other end had lost its normally cheery cast. "I'm afraid so, Jen. I tried to get her to stay at a hotel, gave her all the usual excuses, even told her about the mold under the sink, and she positively insisted on seeing us once while she's at the conference."

Jenny closed her eyes, trying not to scream with frustration. Every single time Rob's mother, Lorianna, came within 50 miles of their apartment, Jenny and Rob took her out to dinner, which inevitably was filled with pointed comments such as, "well, have you chosen a wedding date?" and "I know James and I didn't live together until after we were married, that's all I can say." Jenny usually excused herself mid-meal for the bathroom only to sit in there for another half-hour, avoiding the old bat.

"Jenny? Are you there?"
"Okay. I can handle it. Can you think of a way for this dinner to end well?"

There was silence from the other end; finally Rob said, in a strained voice, "We'll think of something. I have to go. Love you lots."

"Lo--" Rob hung up abruptly. "--ve you too," Jenny finished quietly.

Rob stared at his cell phone, wondering if he sounded too upset. He honestly didn't get along any better with his mother than Jenny did, but she was his mom, and that's all there was to it. He acquiesced to her demands because she could make his life a living hell if he didn't, but he didn't want to lose Jenny either. He realized intellectually that his mother was viliorating the relationship between himself and Jenny, but he had no idea how to stop it. Oh, hell. Maybe he should just crack and get one of those self-help books, or start reading the advice column.

On impulse, he picked up a Washington Post and started leafing through the Style section. The advice columnist seemed relatively well-informed, and he read through the column until he reached the second letter on child care, at which point he put down the paper hurriedly. He and Jen had problems, but at least they weren't of that kind. The columnist, though, had given him an idea for dealing with his mother. He smiled, and called her.

Jenny and Rob walked into the restaurant five minutes to seven. Jenny was perfectly composed, at least externally, and Rob, once again, had a grin on his face. While waiting for their guest to arrive, they examined the tadpoles and frogs in their wall-to-wall tank. Jenny eyed them enviously; they had no idea who their parents were and never had any squabbles with their family.

Lorianna walked in almost exactly as the clock struck seven and nodded genteelly to them both. "Good evening, Robert, Jennifer. Shall we proceed?"

Jenny raised an eyebrow at Rob, but he just stared straight ahead, the goofy grin still on his face. For a change, the dinner conversation seemed very light, possibly a bit forced, but generally pleasant. No questions besides those relating to various politics and the latest bestsellers were asked, and when the waiter finally showed up with the check, Jenny was actually enjoying her mother in law's company.

As Rob signed the credit card slip, Lorianna leaned forward to Jenny. She seemed somewhat embarrassed, and very contrite. "My dear, I have not been very kind to you in the past. I admit, I disliked you at first, but I've grown to liking you more and more. In addition," she said conspiratorially, "you can file tax returns without the IRS knocking at your door." Jenny's face turned a healthy shade of pink. Lorianna said a bit more, but it was the last phrase that really caught Jenny's attention: "I cannot think of a better wife for Robert to have."

After they dropped Lorianna off at her hotel, Jenny leaned over to Rob and whispered, "What did you DO?"

Rob's perpetual grin widened, but he didn't say a word.

Take this tune failure

If anoyone comes looking for my take this tune, I didn't write it. My brain is not thinking in linear terms today, so instead, I'll take this time off and do something artistic. Thanks, guys, and I'll publish the results later :)

Wordzzle 57

For the 10-word:

Community College Pitch

“Hey, my name’s Alan McIntyre, and ten years ago, I dropped out of college. However, I’m a believer in my generation being one to make a difference. I worked at a lot of different jobs like a flea market, staff on a hotline for keeping kids out of trouble, even cleaning elderly peoples’ houses and finding a bonnet or two in the attic. The one thing I learned in the hardest way possible is this: don’t let disinformation keep you out of a community college. I’ve done just about every job imaginable, but now I’m halfway through my film diploma at Falling Leaves Community College. I cannot award it with a higher superlative than that it allowed me to pursue my dream after every other school I applied to said it wasn’t possible. [laughs] Now I get to say, ‘Who was that masked man?’ in class all the time! What kind of job is cooler than that?”

Falling Leaves Community College: the place for you. Call us now and live your dreams for real.

For the mini:

Alan’s 1-minute film script

Lights up. Deep in the forest, a young man and woman sit on a log. They’re wearing hiking clothes, and are arguing over a map.

James: No, look! Right there! It says that the right was the way to go. Instead we went left, and look what a mess we ended up in.

Amy: Says you and the government.

James is offended, and says so.

James: My-my-(splutters) It’s your darn government too, Amy!

Amy smiles at him.

Amy: I just said that to get a rise out of you, silly.

James: I had the feeling so, but…(trails off) We’re so lost, Amy.

Amy: But it’s so charming! The way the light falls through the tree leaves is just beautiful. I feel like a little girl again at my grandmother’s house. She never let me touch the heirlooms, but I would look and imagine what they were like back when they were brand new. Mm, and her gingerbread recipe was probably one too. (sniffs) I think I smell gingerbread, as a matter of fact.

James is flabbergasted.

James: You’re actually thinking of food at a time like this?

Amy: Well, I’m hungry!

Lights dim.

For the maxi/mega:

I walked into theatre class with a knot in my stomach. Today was the day the cast list for “Bonnet in the Attic: a Western Mystery Musical” went up, and I was hoping to be Ellen, the main female lead. However, I had a feeling that tripping over my own feet during tryouts had counted against me. I hurried over to the posting and mock-clutched at my heart, flabbergasted. I had somehow ended up as the Indian chief’s wife Falling Leaves. My only line in the entire musical besides chorus scenes was “Who was that masked man, Running Deer?” I sighed stoically; at least I was in it, after all. Alas, my dreams of a Superlative award were gone.

The entire play was such a farce of the Wild West I was tempted to go to the school government after reading though the script, but I decided against it. After all, the play wasn’t supposed to be accurate. It was supposed to be a device for keeping kids out of trouble, and if that meant less time with the school staff, I was all for it. I’m a believer of the free press, an idea not shared at the all-girl’s Catholic school I attended. Disinformation had almost kept me from tryouts, and I was not about to muck up my only chance by causing a fuss.

After our first (terrible) rehearsal, I dawdled on the way home past the flea market and the charming little heirlooms shop. Normally, I’d stop inside to say hello to my sister, who worked there, but I was feeling so terrible and angry about the musical I just walked on. My house was not as “deep in the forest” as people claimed; it was about a ¼ mile walk. My mother always said it was my generation that thought a quarter of a mile was a long distance; I didn’t disagree. I only wished I could change my generation’s mind. Make them walk 26.2 miles every day, I thought to myself, and they’d breeze past a quarter of a mile almost instantly. I smiled a little as I sniffed the air; mom was making lentil soup. I picked up the pace, running home for the final 500 feet.

Thanks Raven!

Three Word Thursday Mishap

Unfortunately, I was in DC all of Thursday and got back past midnight, and was thus unable to participate...and I had a really funny story idea...oh well, that's for next week. Thanks :)

The 56 Files: Part 2 (Take this Tune)

After dropping off Ellie, I headed down the hallway toward my apartment, then stopped before I put my hand on the doorknob. It was ajar—only a bit, but enough to make me feel the sixth sense agents of a certain caliber develop. I loosed my Beretta from my shoulder holster and held it to my side, the dark of the gun blending with the dark weave. Softly, carefully, I pushed it open; a man with fair skin and red hair was looking through papers on my desk. I snapped the gun up, then yelled, “CIA! Put your hands on your head!”

The man jumped and fell to the floor, curling into a ball. “Ow, dude!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot me, man! Geez—gun control!”

I kept him marked. “What are you doing in my apartment? Looking for intelligence reports?”

The man looked up at me, surprised. “Dude, no! This is yours?” He looked at the Beretta uneasily. “Uh, will you shoot me if I get up?”

“No,” I sighed.

The man got up shakily. “Don’t hold guns on people, man. I could’ve gotten sick on your carpet. I’m allergic to weapons, particularly Berettas.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” I muttered, putting away my weapon, but keeping it loose in the holster. “Now what are you doing in here?”

The man sat down on my computer chair backward, and explained, “Dude, last night, I was coming back from, like, the Greenpeace meeting, and so yeah. And then I went up to, like, my room and my roommate dude was in there, and so I was like ‘hey’ and he was like ‘hey’ and then he hit me over the head with the desk chair. So, well, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt, and I was here, man. I was looking for a phonebook, that’s all, I promise, dude. Don’t shoot.”

I looked him over carefully; he certainly didn’t look like a national threat, but that’s the point—national threats rarely look like them until they happen. However, this, er, dude looked pretty harmless in his Birkenstocks and his Inspi(red) t-shirt. What’s the harm? Something was out of place, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I shrugged it off.

I held out a hand and the man took it gratefully, standing up cautiously. My cell phone rang the “Mission: Impossible” theme; it was 24. As I shifted my attention to answer, the man, moving much more quickly than I thought he was capable of, slid a slender needle into the vein in my elbow crook, pressing the plunger down rapidly. My head snapped to it in shock, but my legs buckled under me; as I fumbled for my Beretta, he reached out and took it from the holster, then stepped on and destroyed my phone, settling down comfortably next to me.

“You must have questions, 56,” he said conversationally. “My name is Taran. At the moment I’m working for an organization called Combatientes por la Libertad de Porivia, or the CLP for short. I’ve been given orders not to kill you, just delay you, but...” he hissed, bringing my face inches from mine, all traces of environmental activist hippie gone, “you will die if you come after me in Porivia. Be warned. What we did to the first man will be nothing compared to what we do to you.” I fought to keep my eyes open, to signal 24, to activate my car alarm, anything, but my muscles didn’t respond. As my eyes finally closed against my will, the red-haired man’s face was the last thing I saw.

Join me in Take this Tune fun :)

Wordzzle 1

10-word challenge:

It’s my second year of medical school, and I’m still reluctant to challenge the authority of any upperclassmen. I've seen them make mistakes in class that would kill a person in real life, but I'm afraid of a dirty deed happening to me or a friend. If I so much as open my mouth, the fourth-year sitting next to me will make a gesture that's ever so unfriendly. I guess it's not their fault for meing mean. I'm a certifiable genius, and while they're all over 24, I'm 15 and getting excellent grades in every class; they must view it like a sacrilege to medicinal practice. It must feel humiliating to see a young kid do so well in their territory when their grades are crumbling into sand. I've tried to get them to thaw with token gestures like letting them borrow a pencil or a textbook, but they still give me the cold shoulder. The only person I can talk with comfortably is the master of ceremonies; he's as smart as I am and isn't afraid to say so, either.

Official portrait, personal bank account, shoulder bone, unbearable, widow

5-word mini:

Lady Maria Flaversham shifted impatiently on her chair; her husband was late for the official portrait painting yet again. Probably an inconsistency within his personal bank account. The doorbell rang; when she opened the door, two policemen stood there, looking uncomfortable. "Lady Maria, it's our solemn duty to inform you that your husband...er...you're now a widow, madam. This may be an unbearable question to ask you at the moment, but...did he ever have his shoulder bone replaced? It's missing."

I'm not brave enough to try the maxi...

Thanks Raven!

Babysitting

I was babysitting two adorable little kids earlier today. At two and four, they're a bit precocious but they try so hard to be good. 'Emma' is the older, while 'Tim' doggedly tries to keep up with her in whatever she's doing.

Emma is learning to read with some very basic phonics books, but instead of reading the words, she makes up her own story to go with the pictures. In fact, she often will burst into narrating her own life. For example, if I tell her not to eat any more crackers, she'll narrate: "Emma looked away, wanting to SCREAM, but she wouldn't, because Mama told her to be good." It's hilarious to listen to.

Tim, on the other hand, barely gets a chance to talk these days. Emma is always interrupting, and he also is just starting to speak clearly enough for me to understand. He gets extremely frustrated when he can't get past the "w" sound. He'll start to say, W-w-w-" and then ends up with "w-w-I CAN'T TALK!" Usually it's "When's Mama coming home?" but sometimes it's "Where's my juice?" so I have to listen carefully and not misinterpret, a difficult task when Emma is hanging from your neck.

I love watching these kids grow--I've babysat for their family since the summer before 9th grade, and it's scary to see how fast they're grasping things like clarity of speech and even toilet training in Tim's case. They only melt down when Mom comes home, they rarely cry, and if I tell them something's a bad idea, they usually won't do it. They're a real joy to sit for.

Living with Rob (Three Word Thursday)

Jenny sighed as she heard the screech of surprise and pain, but she put away the groceries before she did anything about it. Walking into the living room, she saw she was correct in her guess: Rob had tried to play his DS with a broken wrist and two broken fingers. Rob looked up piteously, which might have worked if he hadn't tried that earlier.

"Jenny, could you--" Rob began, but was cut off.

"'Jenny, is my hand going to be okay? Jenny, can I cook tonight with my broken hand? Jenny, can I sue the manufacturer of cardboard boxes for breaking my hand and fingers?' Rob, I've had it up to HERE with your rogitations!" Jenny growled. "For some reason I cannot fathom, you seem to assume that that hand and those phalanges lets you develop an egocentric attitude to to the point of solipsism!"

Robert ducked his head in apology as Jenny picked up the DS and put it away.

"I'm sorry, Jen. I guess I just...I'm not used to this. I'm used to handling everything by myself. I'm really sorry." Rob looked up at Jenny with no trace of self-pity. "Forgive me?"

Jenny looked at him, a smile playing about her lips. "Yeah, I guess."

Rob bounded to his feet, knocking a picture frame askew. "Cool! I'm next to nequient in my one hand, but I can still help put groceries away!"

Jenny shook her head as she followed him into the kitchen.

The 56 Files: Part 1 (Take this Tune)

Sorry about the inconsistent messages in regards to Mr. Linky...I was utterly confused. Here it is in full detail.

My name...well, I won't tell you my name. My number in the Organization is 56. I work for an organization you've probably never heard of-- it's a subset of the CIA. I usually walk in with only half a page of information and manage to wrangle my way along. I haven't been killed yet--I guess it works. However, that James Bond has all the breaks. I've never once met a Russian girl who fell in love with me at first sight. Fell on me, yes, but that was an accident. Anyway.

I was contacted while at a carnival for my most recent mission. I had taken my niece, Ellie, to see the park's opening. Honestly, I wanted to try the Daredevil Dive, a roller coaster reputed to make six of ten reviewers sick to their stomach, but Ellie was more interested in the Ferris wheel and being allowed to sit in the dunk tank. In the distance, a Baptist choir was singing some old Gospel tunes. I heard 24, rather than saw her, come up behind me. "56," she breathed. "What are you doing here? I was about to call you anyway."

"Hello, 24," I whispered back, smiling. 24 was the girl who had recruited me to the Organization in the first place. "What's this about calling me?"

I turned, and we were face to face. "One of our more visible men in the Porivian government was found shot in the head yesterday. They're calling it suicide, but there's more to it than that. I know that, and you know that. I want you to find out why he died, and what he had discovered. Clear?"
I held up a hand, alarmed. "Whoa. I know very little about Porivia. Why me?"
She smiled, a glint of white in the dark. "I can give you more information at the office, but you're the first agent I call in. You're the best I have, 56 ." I smiled at that, and was about to ask a second question, but 24 had disappeared.

As I gathered Ellie and we made our way out the entrance to the park, the choir had switched to classic show tunes. "It's a grand night for singing, the stars are bright above," I hummed to myself.

"What's that you're humming?" Ellie asked.
"It's called 'It's a Grand Night for Singing.' Want to learn it?"
"Sure!" She was still young enough to enjoy old songs, but old enough to carry a tune. Perfect year for taking care of kids.
As we walked to the Jeep, Ellie still singing, I thought again of the lyrics to the song: "...maybe the reason I'm feeling this way has something to do with you," and thought of 24, then blushed. Hopefully Ellie couldn't see it in the dark.