Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

My Flight to LA

I didn’t usually fly first-class, but, since this was such a long flight, I couldn’t resist treating myself. Just this once, I thought. I studied the handsome-uptight-Polo-shirt guy, who was seated across the aisle from the fat-balding guy, who shared the row with the blue-headphones-gray-haired guy, and, one row ahead of me, the young-loud-cool-dude-on-his-cell-phone guy was ignoring all of us, before he finally yelled goodbye. Two rows behind me and on the right, an I’m-a-big-fan guy was shaking hands and introducing himself to the too-tall-too-tan-too-blond-and-not-getting-any-younger, ex-Laker guy. I was starting a crossword puzzle in the back of the in-flight magazine and enjoying the steady murmur of people talking and bags scraping, feet clumping, compartment doors slamming, the beautiful noise of the regular, the everyday sounds of people taking care of business and buckling down for the long flight ahead. The sun warmed my skin. Below the window, the baggage guys were tossing suitcases and golf bags onto a ramp. So much for the handling with care. Did the greasy-haired-smelling-like-stale-wine guy next to me, whom I was trying to ignore, really raise his head from his paperback and randomly shout, “Aaahh, the chatter of the common folk?” The line in the aisle stopped moving, heads turned my way and I raised my magazine in front of my face, scrunching down into my seat. I’m not with him, I’m not with him, I thought helplessly, amid the glares and head-shaking. Four and a half hours was going to take forever.

 

 

Schedules

I know they're supposed to give a healthy structure to the day, but I just assume slough them off, like a coat that’s too heavy. The sheer bulk of it makes it impossible for me to easily navigate a narrow store aisle, for I don’t know where I begin and end. Thus, I can take out an entire display simply by turning around. The purse hanging from my shoulder wreaks extra havoc, as I kneel down to clumsily retrieve unharmed objects from the floor to return them to their rightful places, and its straps slip from my shoulder and slide down my arm, like siblings sliding down a banister, yelling, “Whee!” and knocking everything back to the floor. Cleaning up after oneself is a tricky business. Daily schedules should be avoided at all costs.

 

 

After the Christmas

How would I watercolor that tree, I wondered, gazing at our Christmas tree in the corner of the room, its branches filled with bright C7 bulbs, multi-colored mini-lights with white minis mixed in, and ornaments, round, spherical, fragile glass, metals and plastic, some sleek and gleaming, some sparkling with coils of golden wire and textured snowflake glitter. I supposed I’d have to start with a pencil drawing, tricky since I have had very limited experience with drawing trees. I have only drawn one. Well, actually, it was a tree part. Okay, it was the last two inches of a branch that I used as a perch for a bird that was the actual point of the whole thing. A birthday bird, a house finch, with a birthday balloon tied by a string, held in its beak. I had already used "A little bird told me it was your birthday," so I went with "Happy Bird-Day to you!" It was not my best selling birthday card. Anyway, with the lights and the spaces between branches and the ornaments, I would have to use generous amounts of white space in order to keep it from looking muddied. I'm not good at white space. It's hard for me to leave it alone, like a pause in a conversation, but I knew it would provide an outline, or, since it was Christmas, a halo for the different shapes, giving them their own definition. I stifled a yawn. I hadn't been able to sleep after so robust and busy a Christmas Day, but now I was tired. Warm and drowsy on the couch with the fuzzy, green throw over my lap, sitting alone with my computer, studying the tree and enjoying the Christmas lights. Sleep would come easily now, so I got up, turned off the lights and went back to bed, realizing that my path was lit with moonlight that glowed through the window and stretched softly across the floor.

 

 

Do You Hear What I Hear?

I have come to think differently about the elderly folks around me who seem to do nothing but complain of their ills. At one time, they were healthy and strong, hard workers, farmers, gardeners, athletes, physical fitness buffs, runners, tennis players, avid golfers. I used to think they were feeling sorry for themselves. Now I think they’re bewildered. Bewildered by the unwelcome changes, bewildered by the aches and pains, bewildered by the stiffness, bewildered by the body parts that don’t work so well, bewildered by the simple things they can’t do, like walking carefully down a slippery sidewalk, climbing gracefully into a car, opening jars, bending down to pick something up off the floor, running up the stairs, lugging around a large load of laundry. Maybe vocal expression provides not only an interpersonal connection, but a mysterious healing of sorts, where the emotions attach themselves to the words, as if by a string. Up and out go the words. Do the emotions follow? I think they do. Let the listening begin.

 

 

Foot Dr.

I'm sitting in the doctor's office waiting room next to a man who smells like he's been shut up in a dark, airless room for three days, chain-smoking filterless Camels. Determined to be polite, I will not move to a different chair across the room, crinkle my nose, or roll my eyes to the ceiling. A lady taps her walker on the floor in time with the Christmas carol that's playing through speakers somewhere, and she moves slowly across the room to disappear through a door with the nurse who called her name and who is holding a brown clipboard. A young man, whose left foot is booted and curled behind him, resting on a scooter, zips by me on his way to the check-out counter, his wife trotting behind him. Beep! Beep! Before I can turn around to marvel at the scooter, another nurse, looking frazzled and holding yet another brown clipboard, calls my name.

 

 

Which 50?

“Don’t you think the last fifty pages will be the hardest to write?” TL asked. I had been working on my Masters in Creative Writing, plugging away to produce 150 pages of polished material, and was, at the moment of this particular conversation, working on the middle fifty pages.

The answer was simple. Years ago, when I lived in California, I did long distance swims at the Cove in La Jolla. Buoys marked a quarter mile and a half mile. I learned right away that the beginning and the end were snaps, when I was in sight of the shore or in sight of the buoy, because I could see where I started and where I was headed. But it was not a snap in the middle, where there was nothing but darkness reaching beneath me, filled with who-knows-what, with no buoy in sight yet and no shoreline visible behind me. This was the stretch where I struggled with uncertainty, even panicking a little at the thought I might not even be swimming in the right direction. Straying out of the channel with So Cal rip tides lurking was not an appealing thought, and being seen by others as flailing and clueless was even worse, since one must look cool at all times, no matter what, especially in Southern California.

So, returning to the question. Which 50 pages are the most difficult to write? Clearly, it's the middle ones, as they require a strong dose of steely determination and blind faith, in addition to the usual insanity.

 

 

Weasie and the Cats: A Revisit

“Louise–Weasie we had always called her–is a real character.  You’ll love her.”

“I thought you said she was a fruitcake,” her father interrupted.

“Well, she’s a bit eccentric.  That’s because she’s an arty type.  She’s an actress.”

“Thought she lived with a god-damned bunch of cats.”

“Yes, she did last time I checked.  But she lives in a nice old house in a good safe area.”

--written by Sandra Bunting, For A Song Published in Criterion

 

 

Sunday Afternoon

"I don't want to bother you when you have so much going on," Brenda said. "You have a lot on your plate right now."

"Nonsense, I don't have that much going on," I said. "I can handle it, no biggie."

That was the moment I noticed my shorts were on inside out.

 

 

L Stands for Friday

Limited:  At the Bear River Writer’s Conference, my first assignment was to write a page about "who I am, who I really am," as in what I wanted people to remember about me, and, instead of diving into it, like I should have done, I looked over Brenda’s shoulder, trying to read what she was writing because I wanted to make sure I was doing it right. This insecurity is exactly what I do not want people to know about me and, erroneously deciding this was to be a fun, warm-up exercise, I ignored Brenda's fine, conflict-filled example, and wrote a sunny piece describing the many wonderful ways in which I wanted to be remembered.

Light:  In small group, when my workshop piece crashed and burned and brought whatever confidence in my writing I had left to an abrupt halt, the main criticism was that my piece had no shadows. Served me right for trying to write a glowing obituary of myself, an exercise in silliness, if ever there was one.

Listening:  In all my years of schooling, I apparently haven't learned a thing, since I still detest, and I mean detest, critiquing other people's work. It offends me. It is theirs, not mine. My suggestions put my voice into a place where it doesn't belong. So I sit in workshops and listen. And every now and then, I say, Hmm, which seems to get me off the hook, at least for the moment. Maybe I don't want to comment because I really don't have all that much to say, and who listens to me anyway, which probably means I'm getting smaller and smaller, like The Incredible Shrinking Woman, played by Lily Tomlin, who was in danger of being swept down the kitchen sink drain, hoping no one would turn on the garbage disposal.

My advice today? Avoid workshops, stay away from drains and have a terrific weekend!

 

Quest

My cell phone buzzed until the very second I found my flash drive behind the headboard, wedged between my mattress and the wall, right next to the electric socket. Little things like that tend to happen to me, small warnings, my non-working home phone dialing 911, the fans in the dogs' area becoming unplugged, my car security alarm going off in the driveway while I'm on the phone, trying to make a decision, little things that happen all by themselves, little things my spiritual friends call "signs." How could I possibly refute or prove that one way or the other? Even so, I must stay on the lookout for more, for they may come in handy some sad, dreadful, horrible day.

 

 

The Beginning

Who are these valiant souls on paddle boards, rafts and jet skiis? The lake has barely begun to warm. Girls shriek, hold hands and count 1, 2, 3, under! I watch one couple wade in, water nipping at their waists, before they dive, with her going first, toes pointed. Body parts dip and reappear, smooth curves gleaming in the sun, the result of youth and long hours in the gym, weights, spin class, pilates. The parasailors fly over the water, skipping over waves with the wind, the sun flashing off their gleaming wet suits, the only sensible apparel for the first swim of the season here in Little Traverse Bay, Lake Michigan.

 

 

Birthday Balloon

It was January 10, 2012, my Stepmom’s and my birthday luncheon.  Her birthday was the tenth, mine the eleventh, and we have been celebrating our mutual special days off and on for years.  This year was her momentous eighty fifth birthday and my boring-as-heck, sixty first birthday, and, with her kids coming from various corners of the U.S. to rally around her, she graciously agreed to celebrate with me.  I have known my step-siblings my whole life, since our parents were always the best of friends, and their mom and my father married after my mother passed away, keeping us reunited and close throughout our later adult years.  Holly and I were classmates from nursery school through the eighth grade.

During a lull in the birthday festivities, I blurted out, in a random-kind of way, not unusual for me at all, “Guess who my best friend in grade school was?”

Everyone looked at me blankly.

“Who?” my stepmother asked.

“This one right here,” I said, reaching over and putting my arm around Holly and pulling her to me in a hug.  Everyone laughed.

“Do you remember how close we were?” I asked, feeling all warm and fuzzy.

“Yes!” she said.  “You liked to eat dog food.”

This is so not the answer I was going for.  Something along the line of, “Yes, you were the BEST,” would have been just fine.

While everyone laughed, I remembered that I did indeed eat dog food.  Right out of the can, something that I outgrew over time.  At least I outgrew the dog food part.  There were times, during my early college years, when I became familiar, once again, with the fine art of eating things straight from the can.  Green beans, baked beans, chunky soups, corned beef hash.  I remember my first encounter with corned beef hash.

“It looks just like dog food,” I thought.  “Well, that totally explains it.”

Sort of, but not really.  I wish I had a better excuse for myself, but I don’t.  I was weird.  During visits to my cousin's house, I even dipped into her dog’s biscuits, which defies explanation.  What?  The dog biscuits reminded me of cookies?

There are some things about oneself that are simply never meant to be figured out, and I must say, my inclination towards doggy delectables is one of those. It is simply another mysterious, unsolved mystery to add to the huge number of mysteries already out there.

Cool.  I never thought of myself as being mysterious before.  I'll take it.

 

 

 

Back Muscles Must Yield

Dear Back Muscles,

I know you think you’re protecting my spine by getting all uptight and spazzy and everything. But really? I'm getting tired of your constant overreaction. I’ve got it from here. Everything’s under control. So please. And I mean: PLEASE. Take a break. Relax. Let me loose. Take a chill pill. Oh. I already did that, plus I got a shot that should get the message across to just. let. me. go. It should take effect shortly. A nice vacation! All expenses paid. Such a deal!

 

  Just do it,

  Louise

 

 

Other Beach Writing

I had trouble finding these, so once I did, I thought I would put the links here and here, making it easier for the next time.

 

 

A Word About Dads

I wish I had written this:

Your father is the poem inside you when you wake up in the morning, the poem like a spine, shaping how you stand and sit, the poem that's with you on the toilet, at the sink, in front of the coffeepot, the poem that leans back into the driver's seat and spins the steering wheel with one practiced hand.

―Marion Winik, The Glen Rock Book of the Dead

 

 

Southern Slobovia

I have been staying in my father’s Naples apartment for a mere twenty-four hours and, when I walked in from my trip to the grocers, I felt as if I was walking through a war zone. The coffee maker looked like it had exploded coffee stains and grounds onto the kitchen counter, clothes were tossed on the floor and thrown over chairs. Piles of towels and dirty dishes. On the bed, in the sink. Even my nail polish remover was open and sitting in the middle the bathroom floor, with the cap next to it.

What was my nail polish remover doing in the middle of the bathroom floor? Why have I made such a mess and why am I such a slob? Neither of my parents was like this. Pondering this enigma in great depth, I could think of only one answer, which is this: being a slob saves time. Plain and simple.  

When I drop whatever I'm doing/holding/wearing/using, and then quickly move on to the next thing, there are immediate time-saving benefits. Flowing from one task to another, without being interrupted by time-wasteful cleanup, I feel as if I'm getting hoards of projects completed with dazzling finesse. I know, I know. Someone's going to tell me that in the long-run, this is not so, that I am a short-term kind of gal, unable to visualize and plan for the future and incapable of seeing the big picture. Oh, well. Maybe that's true. That's okay for the time being, especially since it's late and I'm getting tired. My pj's are in a wad at the end of the bed, right where I can find them. The rest of it I can clean up tomorrow.

 

 

Hup Two Three Four

There's a reason it comes in like a lion.

The word 'March' comes from the Roman 'Martius'. This was originally the first month of the Roman calendar and was named after Mars, the god of war.

―Author Unknown

 

 

Grey Matters

Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me. I mean, really, what kind of person loves Grey’s Anatomy re-runs so much that she feels she must hide that fact from her husband, who pretty much knows anyway?  I sneak into my bedroom, turn on my computer, attach the headphones, go into Amazon.com, click right to Instant Video and voila! There in my video library is Grey’s Anatomy, seasons 1-8.

At some point during real-tv season 7, I got sick of the preposterousness of the situations, and stopped watching; but last week, I pushed through my misplaced disdain and kept going. I worked through seasons 6 and 7, and am in the throes of season 8.

My diagnosis? The situations are still preposterous, but I simply cannot resist them. Examples, taken from the last couple of shows in season 7 and the first two of season 8, are as follows. 1. Chief of Surgery Dr. Weber figures out a way to arrest or even cure diabetes by replacing the old pancreas with a new one. 2. After a bar fight, one drunk, with a knife stuck in his skull, with the handle sticking out, is taken to our beloved Seattle Grace Mercy West by a second drunk. There, the knife is removed, so the drunks can return to the bar. 3. A man is so obese that he is driven to the ER in the back of a truck instead of an ambulance. 4. Doctors slip into the on-call room for intimate moments, and all sorts of naughtiness and uncomfortable conversations occur in the elevator, the slowest one in the world. 5. Every time someone is rushed into the ER, that patient gets a blood workup, CT scans, 5 ccs of epi, paddle shocks and the attention of at least five doctors. 6. Every time someone undergoes surgery, the surgeon calls for “a number 10 scalpel,” “More suction!” and “Clamp!” 7. If I had a dime for every time I heard one of the doctors yell, “Someone, get a crash cart in here!” I’d be a rich lady indeed. And yet still, I watch.

I can't help it. I’m a little in love with the characters. There’s “the nazi,” Miranda Bailey, a softy at heart, who loves to scare the residents, Dr. McDreamy, who is just that, Dr. McSteamy, who is also just that, and the twisted sisters, Meredith Grey and Christina Yang, best friends and surgical competitors. Meredith’s little sister, Lexi, of whom she knew nothing, shows up at the hospital one day, out of the blue, as a new resident. My favorite character is Dr. Karev, who looks like a thug taken off the streets because he basically is a thug taken off the streets, a testimony to what a little hard work and determination can do.

However, I must say, I think the real reason why I love Grey’s Anatomy is that out of all the folks at UPMC Presbyterian, with whom I talked, for the five days following my back surgery a year-and-a-half ago, 100% of them watched Grey’s Anatomy religiously and couldn’t wait to talk to me about it. This endorsement is enough for me.  I'm in.  Even if I think I have to hide.

 

The Problem With Art

The sight took my breath away. I jammed on the brakes before making sure there was no one behind me, which, fortunately, there wasn’t. Finding a nearby driveway, I turned into it, backed up and drove back to the pasture, trying to get a good vantage point from which to take a picture. I had seen these horses in this pasture many times before. But I had never seen them covered with such a spectacular array of color. Usually their blankets were brown or gray. Today they were fastened to the dark brown and red horses with black understraps, showing off a flashing bright teal, a hunter green edged in pumpkin orange and a dazzling, deep purple. All this amid white spots and blazes divided by dark halter straps and black manes blowing in the autumn wind. I drove around, trying to get the best iPhone picture position. If only I had my paints, I thought. But it wouldn’t have mattered. With my oil or my water colors or a camera, I would never be able to capture the image planted in my mind of the bright, gloomy and placid, of the horses munching on the grass beneath a turbulent sky. So, after a few lame attempts, I put my iPhone back in my purse, memorized the sight and headed home. I was late anyway.

 

 

Dawn

I shook myself awake, trying to leave the dream. My pillow stuck to my cheek, wet with tears. I had forgotten Sophie had died. And then, I remembered. But it was way too close, like it happened yesterday, so I had to get up and splash water on my face.

When Winston died, Sophie sniffed all over the yard, tail and ears drooping like Eeyore's, and walked over to the front fence, where she stood, searching the sidewalk, up and down. We sat in the middle of the lawn, staring at the front gate, waiting. The next night was the Fourth of July, so we sat on the front porch, top step, side by side, with my arm around her, fireworks in surround-sound, watching to see if he would trot around the corner. But Winston never came back, and neither will my sweet Sophie.

All loss feels a little like this, the loss of a friend, the loss of a pet, the loss of a book. There's that sinking that comes with something not being right, coupled with restless waiting. I think we are waiting to stop waiting, but some waitings feel like black holes that drag on forever.

 

 

The Auto Fix-It Store

My husband asked me if I would do him a favor and take the car to the auto fix-it place to get the oil changed. I was happy to help him out.

Once I told the man what I wanted, he asked, "Maam, would you like super-duper or regular?"

Isn't super-duper always better than regular?

"I'll take the super-duper please. "

Five minutes later, "Maam, would you like a new filter?"

He held my filter up for me to see. Icky poo. Caked with gradu on the entire left side. For comparison, he raised a sparkling clean filter and positioned them side by side. I studied them carefully. Of course we needed a nice, bright, new one. He got to work right away.

"Ma'am," he said, interrupting my attempt to send a text message to my husband, to tell him I was doing a good job, taking care of the car. I looked up in annoyance.

"When was the last time you changed your coolant?"

What is coolant?

"I don't know, " I said.

What he held up for me to examine was quite pretty.

"Did that come out of my car?" I asked.

"Yep."

It was a sparkling, clean, plastic container filled with what looked like distilled pink lemonade mixed with water, with rainbow-colored disks, or markers of some sort, lining the left side. I wanted to hang it in my window at home.

"No, thank you," I said.

Too new, too pink. I would not be fooled.

I texted K.C. before heading home.

"Oil changed! I bought everything they recommended, except the coolant. If we need new coolant, you'll have to do it yourself later."

"Oh, no!" he texted back. "Next time I'll take it myself."

 

 

Sunday Drivers

Whenever KC and I drive around the lake, which is often, since we live two miles up the road from it, we marvel at its colors. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes teal, turquoise, gray, sometimes glassy, sometimes full of chop and whitecaps. Every time we look, it’s different.

Sunday, on our way to church, the lake was a light celery color, dramatically marbled with steel grays and murky browns. The water was quite smooth, but not glassy, and it was pocked with tiny splotches of shadow, which was odd because the sun shone directly on it.

“That’s weird,” I said. “The water should be sparkly. The sun is shining all over it, but instead of making sparkles, it’s making dark spots that look like itty speckles of sand.”

“That is weird,” KC agreed. “I wonder why it’s making shadows?”

“I don't know. It's making anti-sparkles,” I said. “The opposite of sparkles.”

“Interesting. Now all we need is a word for them. You can’t just call them ‘anti-sparkles.’”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” he replied.

“Oh,” I said.

"So what would be the opposite of sparkles?” he asked.

I spent a moment in deep, relevant thought.

"I know!” I cried. “We’ll call them ‘Narkles!’”

"Good job, Wease,” he said.

'Why thank you,” I replied. “Being clever is one of my many talents."

"Give me narkles or give me death!” I said. “To err is human; to narkle divine!”

KC rolled his eyes and we finally arrived at church.

"Get thee to a narkery!”

KC ignored me.

“Get behind me, Narkles?”

We got out of the car and the conversation ended.

I guess that’s the way the narkles crumble. You narkle some, you lose some.

 

 

Serious Writing, Schmerious Schmriting

Good intentions paved the way to, well, to somewhere that is fortunately outside my area of expertise. Regardless, it appears I’m back.

“Why?” you may ask.

Because two men passed me on the sidewalk the other day. I had just left a favorite bookstore and emerged into a clear Indian summer day, with a cloudless, deep blue sky spread out above and around me. One of the men was tall with a light blue shirt and a cane, the other was rather hefty and wore a gray sweatshirt, and both had shocking white hair that positively gleamed in the sunshine. They wore sunglasses. Quite the studs, for two old guys.

“Here comes trouble,” the tall one said.

Was he talking to me?

They stopped and stared at me.

“Did you hear me? I was talking to you. I said, ‘Here comes trouble!’”

Wow.

“I am trouble,” I said and stepped onto the grass to maneuver around them. We all laughed.

I kept walking without looking back and I can honestly say that this silly snapshot of one of life's weird, little vignettes totally made my day, and possibly my entire week. I simply had to blog about it.

And that. Is. Why. I’m. Back!

From Louise

 

 

New Year's in Naples

Sitting at the window, watching the cold turn to warm in the noonday sun, I am doing what I think everyone else is doing at the end of December, which is, pondering the new year ahead.

In about a week, I will click into the Manuscript Phase of my MFA program.  No more residencies, lectures or classes, and no more deadlines every four weeks.  Instead, I will pursue the independent writing/study phase of the program with the mentor of my own choosing, who graciously agreed to hang in there with me to the bitter end, which may be one year from now, or even two.

To finish my MFA, I need at least one hundred fifty pages of publishable material.  To date, I have one hundred pages of non-publishable, rough material, first and second drafts galore.  There is much to do, so obviously, it's time for me to write, write, write in all earnestness.  No messing around, every day, no excuses.  And I don't mean write on my blog.  I mean, write my manuscript.  It's time to shut down “Sneak Peeks.”

I want to thank friends and family, who have read my blog over their morning coffee, or who have read my blog during their lunch break, or who have read my blog just to tell me they did, and to encourage me.  I've had a blast learning not only more about writing, but also about computers, html and web pages.  And the more I've learned, the more I've known how much more I need to learn.  But that's always the way it is, isn't it?

Thank you and have a Happy New Year!

 

 

From Louise

 

 

The Difference Between KC and Me

Yesterday, KC and I drove two different vehicles in two different directions for different reasons.  KC delivered our belongings, loaded into a U-Haul truck, to Michigan, and I delivered my mastiffs to friend Carrie's place in upstate PA, where they will stay until my back is strong enough to weather the jostles they inadvertently give.  Before we hit the road, we sat down to breakfast and said Grace.

“Heavenly Father, thank You for the meal sitting before us,” KC prayed, eyes closed, head bowed.  “Thank You for nourishing our bodies and keeping us well.  Please watch over me as I drive the truck back to Michigan and protect Weasie and the mastiffs as....”

I didn’t hear the rest.  I was too busy praying my own prayer.

“Dear God, if anything happens to KC, You and I will have issues.  Big, serious issues.  So don’t even think about it.”

When you consider my demeanor toward the Almighty, it is a wonder He didn't strike me dead years ago.  Why does He have anything to do with me?  Why does anyone, for that matter?

As I head into the final stretch of preparedness before surgery, my world is getting smaller.  The to-do list with all its unchecked items is irrelevant; people outside my immediate sphere are becoming less distinct, like shadows on the periphery.  The worries I had about moving?  I’m not sure what they were.  I expect the move to kind of take care of itself.

What is clear and solid are those things directly in front of me that must get done as part of my preparation process, part of keeping things afloat while I am indisposed, and making sure I’m indisposed as comfortably as possible.  I don’t know how long my recovery is going to be.  I’m told it will depend on me, on my body, on my reaction to the surgery, on my reaction to all sorts of things.

At this stage of the game, my expectations have basically flown out the window.  I didn’t realize how heavy they were until I noticed they were gone.  I'd like to feel their absence on an ongoing basis.  I’ll have to work on that.

Maybe I could also work on being a little nicer to God, having a more humble attitude, instead of throwing my weight around, threatening Him and carrying on.  I doubt it affects Him one way or the other how much I shake my fist and stomp my foot.  The only person being affected by it is me.  What kind of person do I really want to be?  How do I want to treat others?  Maybe I could be a little more pleasant and cooperative, asking for help and then accepting and working within reality.  A favorite quote from the movie, 28 Days, starring Sandra Bullock, reminds me, “I can control the little things, and then I have to let go and it's up to somebody else.”

That said, my issues and I will be back as soon as we can after surgery.  Thank you for reading my silly rambling.

From Louise

This Week's Bests and Worsts

Best Surprise

Three mastiffs being easily demoted from the couch to three cushy beds on the floor, who quickly learned the meaning of, "Go to your place."  KC will thank me later.

Worst Surprise

The impact of going off meds as part of pre-op.  Ouch, already!  I had no idea I was in all this pain.  It's been very distracting and I'm all preoccupied, as you can clearly see by the next item on this list.

Worst Consequence of Worst Surprise

An encounter with a curb.  In my Subaru wagon that I've been driving for seven years, seven, I cut a corner, hit the curb and blew out my back tire.  I knew I blew the tire the second after it happened.  Hit that curb like I had no idea where the car began or ended.  Hit it hard.  Bang.  Tilt and thump.  That telling drag on the steering wheel.  Limped to a neighborhood gas station, left the car at one of the pumps, slipped a note with my phone number on it under the station door and walked home.  They know my car.  They'll probably think it's funny.  Maybe someday I will too.  Thank goodness it was just a curb.

Best News

Positive feedback from Irish mentor Brian Leyden on my last writing packet, which, I might add, was on time, despite every, little, turbulent thing going on in my life right now.  On time, plus he was much happier with my writing.  My last packet was due two weeks after I got married and he did not permit me any time extention.  I get it.  This is grad school, after all.  "Flimsy," I think he called my book review, which I spent maybe five minutes writing.  Ah, well.  He was much happier with packet 2, the world is in its place and he and I are friends again.

Worst News

Auto accident involving friend and singer, Eddie Garcia, who suffered a concussion and sprained wrist.  Bandmate Bryan's injuries were even more severe and I'm not sure if he's been released from the hospital as of this posting.  I've got them both on my prayer list.

Strongest Wish for Next Week

That my hospital experience will look just like Grey's Anatomy, except for the Season 6 there's-a-shooter-on-the-loose-in-the-hospital finale.  That was a mean way to dispose of characters whose contracts were not renewed for Season 7.  Anyway, I choose Christina and Meredith to assist Dr. Kanter with my surgery, and I intend to surprise the entire surgical team, as well as those watching from the balcony, by not v-fibbing in the middle of the procedure, like everybody else on the show.

Have yourself a strong, rewarding weekend!

From Louise

The Wedding's Over

My back surgery is less than a week away.  “You must be so stressed out,” everyone keeps saying.  Truth is, I'm much more bothered about being away from my husband than I am about this surgery.

We have been married for sixty-one whole days and have lived together for, maybe, half of that time, if we're lucky―five days here, a week there.  For the most part, I wake up alone, except for a mastiff or two sprawled on the floor, in the same single-mom bed that I’ve enjoyed for the last thirteen years.  This makes it rather challenging to feel like a newlywed.

Why are we separated?  For now, I need to be in Pittsburgh because my property is for sale and even though I have three huge, drooly English mastiffs, everything must stay neat and tidy for showings.  Then, after my surgery, I have to stay put, being quiet and super careful, until my back “sets.”  Once it sets, I am free to join my husband in Michigan.  Meanwhile, except for during, and immediately after, surgery, KC needs to be Up North because that is where his new job is.  It's all so confusing.

Sometimes I think I made the whole marriage thing up.  My life's the same, nothing's changed, ho hum.  That's the time I need to twirl my engagement and wedding rings around my finger, or take them off to study the shiny, white bands they leave on my skin that I didn't think was tan.  Plus, I have wedding and mini-moon pictures, a marriage certificate, a new drivers license, credit card, social security card, and, coming soon, a new voters' card.  They all say McAlpin.  Louise Yeiser McAlpin.  Plus, I have a husband who calls, emails and texts me sporadically throughout the day, plus a phone call at dinner and one at bedtime.

So, okay.  We've been married sixty-one days and don't quite live together yet.  No biggy.  We've got other stuff to do at the moment.  This too shall pass.

Model Monday

It was all Brenda's fault.  She got me hooked on America's Next Top Model, with Tyra Banks and a host of mannequin-like models, who desperately needed to eat a few cheeseburgers with fries, cole slaw and a couple of shakes.  Saturday morning, I went to her house because someone was coming to look at mine (remember, it's for sale?) and I wanted to avoid overhearing people's comments.  Yes, I know there's some mastiff slobber on the walls and not enough upstairs closet-space.  Okay?

Anyway, I fled to Brenda's house, thinking we could sit quietly together and, like, write!  We've had writing dates before, the most memorable one being the day we decided to walk the mastiffs around the block, which we figured would clear our heads and make us brilliant.  She took Charlie (217 lbs.) and I had Webster (170 lbs.).  We left the house in warm, sunshiny weather and walked down the street only to get caught in a torrential downpour that came out of nowhere, complete with lightning, thunder and a small tree to hide under, which was no help whatsoever.  My neighbor drove by and offered his dry porch to us, but I was laughing so hard, I was unable to respond, so I waved the car on.  When we got back to the house, we had to wrap ourselves in bathrobes and wait for our clothes to come out of the dryer.  I guess you could say Brenda's and my writing dates haven't always been that successful.

This was no exception.  I parked my car across the street from her house and texted her, asking if I could come up.

“I have so much writing to do,” Brenda said, once we had settled in her living room, across from the tv, which was on.  Her laptop sat open on the table in front of her and mine was on my lap.

“Me too.  Let's turn off the tv and get to it.”

But no.  Brenda had to watch one last rerun of America’s Next Top Model before she would off the tv, which I thought was fine.  After all, it was just one.  What harm could it do?

Once the show ended, Brenda tried to press the power button on her computer.  I'll give her that.  She really tried.  But these re-runs were running back-to-back all afternoon and I thought it would be fun to watch the next one, just one more, before we settled down to business.  That one more ended up being another one more and another, and another, and so on, until we had watched every single show, down to the bitter end.  Within hours, the six competing models of the first show I watched were reduced to three, then two.  The grand winner: CariDee.

Brenda said she needed to watch America's Next Top Model for deep-seated, psychological reasons.  My excuse?  I was putting off till tomorrow what I should have been doing that day.  I gave in.  I chose to be weak and bad.  Sometimes it's fun to be weak and bad.

Today is Monday and I'm still thinking about America's Next Top Model.  What happened to Melrose, Eugena and Anchal, three of the losers?  Or the twins?  Are they strolling down catwalks or posing in front of cameras somewhere, or are they wasting away (even more) while they sit in front of their tvs, wondering what went wrong?  I've lost two nights' sleep over this, so I have to ask: is there a 12-step program for people addicted to dumb reality shows?  If so, I have to find a meeting right away.  And if I have to go, I'm dragging Brenda along with me.  Because, as everyone knows, it was all Brenda's fault.

Better Rusty Than Never

Today's Friday List of four was brought to you by Unconscious Mutterings, Week no. 397.  Thank you, Nina!

Prompt no. 1: Surprisingly

It's an adverb.  I like adverbs, although, when I was an undergrad in English Writing at Pitt, my classmates, who had just finished Journalism 101 to join me in Creative Nonfiction I, considered an adverb to be something akin to an unpardonable sin, punishable by death.  In small group work, as soon as an adverb appeared, the offending writer, usually me, became the most wretched of all condemned souls.  However, I think a well-chosen adverb modifying an emotion-packed adjective can do wonders for a sentence.  Dresses it up in finery it didn’t know it had.  Hauntingly heartbreaking or luridly luscious.  Can't you just hear those petticoats swishing under those gorgeous, full skirts?

Prompt no. 2: Penciled

My eyebrows are surprisingly strange.  Thick and dark on the upswing, they disappear into sun-bleached blondness on the downswing.  They have to be plucked near the bridge of my nose and painted on in other places.  This may not make any sense, nor be a terribly brilliant subject to write about, but this is the way it is, just the same.

Prompt no. 3: Ignore

“Just ignore it,” my husband tells me.  Why should I ignore something, when stewing over it can set me spinning into a nice, steamy resentment, fueled by self-righteous anger, which I can stir from time to time and cook to utter perfection?

Prompt no. 4: Let’s go!

The Pittsburgh Penguins.  Man, do I love ice hockey.  Anyway, I am selling my house right now, which is a big surprise to those who know how much time and money I have put into it, but this is the sort of thing that happens when a home-owning female falls in love with, and marries, the apartment-dwelling love of her life.  The couple can either move into her house, or the woman can sell it, so they can live in a totally new place.

I am selling my house.  Our new place is in Harbor Springs, Michigan, which means that some time in November, after back surgery and a 6-week recovery period, I’m moving Up North to live with my new husband.  One small problem.  Harbor Springs is overflowing with Detroit Redwings fans.  I mean, they're everywhere!  The encroachment of these guys into my Pittsburgh Penguins lifestyle is pretty nauseating, but I promise to do my best to keep it under check.  After all, throwing up, especially in public, is not at all polite.  Nor would it give me any brownie points with my new neighbors.

 

Have a safe, healthy weekend!

From Louise

One.... Two....Two and a Half....

Date Night.  Tina Fey and Steve Carell.  The white, expensive sports car stolen by our heroic couple has hooked front bumpers with the yellow, every-day taxi driven by our totally freaked-out cab driver and they are trying to figure out how to unlock the cars.  Plan 1 is to floor both cars in reverse.  No luck.  I can't remember what Plan 2 is, but they are prepping for it.

"On the count of three!" Steve Carell hollers.  "One!"

The camera pans from face to determined face in each car.  Not really.  The cab driver is still scared half to death. 

Two!  The tension mounts.  The cars are revving.  Camera shows two feet on two pedals, ready now.  Steady now....

Three!

My lights go off!  Really.  They do.  The lights, the air conditioner, the clocks on the microwave and oven, the overhead fan upstairs.  The lights and everything else.  All out.  The hum of appliances and electricity and who-knows-what-else winds down and disappears, and I am enveloped in silence and darkness.

Someone has cut the lines and must be in the house!  No house can lose its power accidentally on the count of 3.  Not possible, I think.

Quickly.  Decision time.  What should I get first, the mastiffs or my flashlight?  I opt for the mastiffs and feel along the wall to their crates in the back of the house.  They make no noise, which is freaky.  My heart is in my throat.

They're dead!  The same person who cut the power lines has killed my mastiffs, I think, struggling with the lock on Winston II's crate.  Finally, his tail starts banging across the back of his crate.

You're alive! I whisper.  I have to be very quiet so the burglar can't hear me.  I don't want him to know my whereabouts.

Both Charlie and Primo start to stir, alerting me to their aliveness, as well as causing me to wonder if I am being a little silly.  That's all it takes.  One thought.

I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders.  I let the dogs outside, feel my way through the house and upstairs to the hall closet to fetch my flashlight.  On the way back down, I look out the window to see several neighbors congregating across the street in front of dark houses. 

I AM being silly, I think.  It was just a creepy coincidence.  Very creepy.

No need to drag this story out.  Of course I join the neighbors outside and learn that a tree limb has knocked down a transformer in our neighborhood, which should be fixed in a few hours, which is exactly what happens.  Right around my bedtime, electricity is restored.  I set my coffee maker for the next morning, climb the stairs, forcing the mastiffs to come up with me, lock us all into my room, in case the non-existent burglar comes back, turn off my lights and settle into bed.  Although I like to listen to Art Garfunkel's Breakaway CD to lull me to sleep, tonight I want to be able to hear all the night noises and be at the ready, flashlight close at hand.  I may be silly, but it's never a bad idea to be cautious, right?

My last thought before drifting off to sleep is, Weasie, you totally watch too much tv.

This may or may not be true, but even so, allow me to be the first to admit that possessing this knowledge hasn't, and won't, change a single, solitary thing.