Marshmallows & open doors

Before I get sidetracked by trays full of homemade peppermint bark or that half-eaten bag of marshmallows calling my name from the pantry, I wanted to let you know that my last post was not a true story. I'm pretty sure I forgot to mention that. I was taking the 2nd
 {w}rite of passage challenge, where I create a story around someone I have seen. So, yeah. I will be sure to mention when I'm writing for {w}rite of passage, by prefacing my post title with {W}. Deal?
So, moving right along...
We are pretty sure the house next door to us is haunted. Actually, funny story, but uh, the house is vacant and we put a bid on it when we first sold our house. And it was accepted. But we backed out because we were afraid that if my nomadic hubby wanted to move in 2 years (Is the f-ing sky blue? Do I like sweets?), we wouldn't be able to sell, as the houses on this street have been verrrryyyy slllllllllllowwwwwwww to sell. There are 8 houses on this block, and we have lived in two of them so far. If we were to buy the haunted house, that would make 3. So, anyway. (Bear with me here. I am stuffing marshmallows in my mouth, trying not to DIE from the stinkbombs this f-ing dog keeps throwing at me as he sleeps peacefully with his ass in my lap, and omg, did I mention I am in love with the show Californication??? I digress.....)
So, we are living in this house for now. It belongs to a good friend of hubby's. We would buy it if it wasn't so overpriced, I think? Hell, I don't know. Again, I digress. Back to the story, crazy marshmallow mouth lady.
The haunted house, AKA the giraffe house- since the stones all along the front give it a spotted-like-a-giraffe, is vacant because of an awful accident. Back in June 2008, the owner had his BFF over and they drank it up. And they played with guns (I have no idea). And he accidently shot & killed himself. Yeah.
So, when we lived in the 1st house on this block, back when our damn now-sold house flooded, I walked the doggies every night. And every night, Kooter would get all wonky and weird when we walked by the giraffe house: hair standing up along his spine, deep growling, and yanking on the leash to climb the steps. Daisy avoided the steps at all costs, even if that cost was wrapping her leash around the mailbox & ripping her owner's arms(read: MINE) out of their sockets. Just odd.
So we all joked that the house was haunted.
Then we walked the giraffe house and made an offer on it. It is big, beautiful, dark, and lonely. It needs children & laughs & open blinds & stinkbomb-throwing dogs & dog hair & a kitchen full of food. It is much bigger than I need. It doesn't creep me out to know that someone died in it. I didn't even know him, had never met him. I am actually a little surprised that the thought of living in that house doesn't bug me.
Then we moved into this house, right next door to the giraffe house. And odd little things started happening.
First, that house is always dark. The weekend we move in, the light in the bathroom is on, which happens to be right next to our bathroom & bedroom. Then, 3 days later, that light is out, and a light in the living room is one. And then a few days later, another light. Mind you, no one lives there, and mind you, I am fully aware that there are logical explanations, such as light timers. But I never claimed to be logical, now did I?
Second, things started happening in this house. We started to joke that our dead neighbor was coming by to visit, or that he was lost. We will be in the living room and the door going to the garage will open on it's own. We will be in the media room and the door alarm will beep-beep-beep like a door is opening (DUH), but there are no doors open in the house. We will be upstairs and the door leading to the side of the house and the driveway will open on it's own. I am not shitting you here. It's just...interesting.
I don't get any bad vibes from this house (or the giraffe house for that matter), so there's that.
Now, we have changed some plans about our next home. I don't think we are going to build just yet. Which is fine with me, because I hate to see my hubby's stress level go through the roof any more than it already does. So we are in the market for a house. And I think we are going to make an offer on the haunted giraffe house again. And if we get it, not only will I be living with a ghost, but it will be a wonderful investment/return on our investment when we sell. I'll just have to get used to knowing exactly what room the guy accidently killed himself in. If you plan on visiting me, I will spare you that little detail.

So, really, I don't know where I'm going with this. I think I'll have another fistful of marshmallows.


{W}rite of Passage post #2-

I get to campus early, and sit in the courtyard between two buildings. The sun is out, pushing it's way through clouds that seem close enough to touch. I should be reading for class, but I'm not. The book sits in my lap, heavy with words I won't read today.
I see a familiar face across the courtyard. I think we had a class together last Spring. She is sitting on a bench, knees to her chest, and she's talking on her cell phone. What the hell is her name? Stephanie? Stacy? Sam? Yes, Sam.
She doesn't seem to be happy. I hear the lilt in her voice, rising up through the trees. She turns her face up towards the sun, closes her eyes, and effortlessly chunks her phone into the grass nearby. I giggle at this.
She rests her cheek on her knees, rocking back and forth. I continue to pretend to read my textbook. I've always been a people-watcher; it's one of my favorite things to do. If you ask me what I like to do when I'm alone, I'm willing to bet it will make my Top 5 list.
She stops rocking, quickly pulling up her head. Leaving her bag under the bench, she starts running towards one of the buildings, disappearing inside.
I call her name as I walk towards her abandoned bag. I pick it up and head inside after her.
The hallway is empty.
I push open the door to the first floor women's restroom. I hear primative sounds, strangled whimpers from one of the stalls. I am frozen in silence, not sure what to do.
No answer.
I glance under the last stall, and see a shoe without a foot, lying on it's side. My heart is beating in my throat, and I push on the stall door. It's locked.
"Sam. Are you okay?"
I slam my shoulder against the door when I hear another strangled cry. The door pops open suprisingly easy, slamming into the pink tiled wall behind it. The latch flies off and skips like a stone across the floor, landing by the sink.
Sam is curled around the toilet bowl on the floor.
I see blood.
I drop down on my knees, and place a hand on her bare foot. There is blood everywhere. Her arms, her hands, a smudge on her left cheek, her jeans are covered. I am confused, until I actually see that there is something cradled in her hands. I stifle my own cry.
Sam is in the process of miscarrying. She looks up at me as she plunges her hands into the water of the toilet.
With tears flowing over, she reaches up and flushes the toilet, saying only "Don't" as I grasp for her sleeve.
I stay on my knees, slouched over her legs, trying to figure out what to do next. She says again: "Don't."
She pulls her shirt off, and begins to wipe herself clean, dipping it in the now-empty toilet. I take off my hoodie and place it across her shoulders, averting my eyes.
She tells me to leave.
So I do.

Outside in the sunlight, I feel as though I am dreaming. I sit back down on the bench where I left my textbook, pages fluttering in the wind. I rub my hands on the thighs of my jeans, and search my mind for a thought, a complete, rational thought. None.
The semester flies by without a hitch. Early Spring turns to early Summer, everything is in full bloom, the sun is blazing. I don't see Sam on campus again. Neither does anyone else. I say nothing.
One week into the Summer semester, Sam walks into my class late. Her skin is glowing, healthy and tan. She does not see me as she slips into a seat in the back corner. I am distracted by her presence. I want to make eye contact. I want to talk with her.
After class, I step into the hallway, turning back towards the classroom door. She sees me when she leaves the room, and averts her eyes.
"Sam? How are you?"
Sam smiles kindly, grabs my wrist, and practically drags me down the hall towards the bathroom. She pulls me into a stall with her, locking us both inside.
With a quiver in her voice, Sam says, "I can't talk about it. I won't. Did you tell anyone?"
I shake my head, slowly at first, working up speed until she grabs my chin and yanks it up, forcing eye contact.
"You can not talk about this. It is my story to tell, and I am not telling it. "

I find my voice. "But you can tell me your story. I was there, for fuck's sake."

She is taken aback by the force behind my words. "You really think you want to know this? You really think you can handle this? You really want to know how long I wanted that baby?"

Now I am taken aback. I stutter, stammer meaningless shit, but she continues on, raging.

"Do you want to know how my stupid boyfriend beat me senseless? Or how many times I thought about leaving, but forgave him instead? Or how I cried when I pissed on that damn stick and it came back with that damn word 'pregnant'? Or how I had to throw the stick out in my neighbor's trashcan so he wouldn't find it?"

"I...no, I..."

"Or! OR! How about how I had the glorious idea that maybe, just maybe this baby would fix things? That by telling him I was pregnant with his child he might stop pulling my hair, punching my face, forcing me to the ground to pick up crumbs when I didn't clean good enough to suit his needs?"

"Sam...please. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"That's right! You didn't! I mean, seriously...what's your name? Oh fuck, it doesn't even matter. It doesn't matter because what did it get me? I told him and do you know what he did??"

I shake my head, pretty sure I do not want to know.

"He cried. And then he beat the fuck out of me. And then what did I do? I got up and finished washing his clothes. And I skipped class for a week to heal. And I didn't go see a doctor. And then the day I finally decide I am done with this bullshit, I lose the one thing I was fighting for."

With that, she opens the bathroom stall, stepping out. I stand there with my hand on my throat, mind racing, eyes full.


She turns to me as she's leaving the bathroom. 

"Look, don't say anything, okay? I'm sorry you saw. I'm sorry I just went off on you. I just can't....can't deal with anyone seeing me at my worst. Please don't ever talk to me again."

She leaves the bathroom. I am left standing in the stall, absent-mindedly rubbing a sore spot on my neck. I leave the bathroom, and watch her through a window, striding across the parking lot. The sun is shining.


Yoga Ninja Mama tells it like it is

wow, miss left of lost, you are one brave broad. i can't believe i get to spew my word vomit all over your precious blog. i might pee my pants from all this excitement!

anyway, there's something pressing i need to address. it's something that haunts my dreams and wakes me up in a cold sweat.

now, let me preface this confession by saying: i'm not gonna lie, i love a good bumper sticker or window decal. i may or may not showcase a select few on my bitchin' toyota corolla (whose name is weetzie bat). if you happened to be driving behind me, you may or may not know instantly that "i drive like a cullen" and that i'm a radiohead nerd, while i'm 100% behind the bumper sticker movement, i do harbor a rather passionate disdain for one particular sticker. it's big, it's yellow, it's everywhere, and it's the stuff of nightmares.

it's your "baby on board" bumper sticker. (Not Left of Lost's, but the collective, generic "your")

::::starts sweating profusely and has to lay down:::: yes, that's right, i really hate your "baby on board" bumper sticker. it is the bane of my existence. it makes me want to scratch my eyeballs out. i have to physically restrain myself from yanking you out of your car and lighting a firecracker in your ass. why? because if you have a "baby on board" sticker, i have an announcement for you: you need some excitement in your life! you know what's more exciting than your "baby on board" sticker? well, shit. i started to make a list, but i quickly realized that the easy way to sum up the answer to that question is this: EVERYTHING. FUH THE LOVE OF GAWD, everything is more exciting than your "baby on board" sticker!

the worst part about this monstrosity of a bumper sticker is that i'm not sure what the point is. should i congratulate you? should i drive by, honking and waving? is this a celebratory sticker? or is it an ugly, yellow cry for help? are you feeling chained to the diaper bag? should i offer to babysit? are you tired of wearing poop and peanut butter on your clothes day in and day out? i don't get it. help me out here. there is, of course, one way to redeem yourself from this embarrassing display of "my personality died in parenting hell and i've got this ugly piece of crap to prove it". how, you ask? by replacing your original "baby on board" sticker with this one:

just think about it. please. for the sake of humanity?

- yoga ninja mama



By Aidan Donnelley Rowley
Ivy League Insecurities


I remember that long wooden box in the locker room. Never quite closed. Contents always spilling out. A sleeve. A sock. Smells escaping. Bits and pieces of stories.

The Lost & Found.

Every now and then, I would rifle through it before basketball practice if I forgot a t-shirt or a pair of shorts. I’d pry open that lid and look through all those things lost and left behind. I wondered if these things would ever be found. Or whether they would just sit there waiting.

Now I am an adult. In the locker room that is life. And I realize that the Lost & Found isn’t just a box. It is everywhere. Each of us is lost. Looking. Left behind. Each of us is a remnant from another time, a simpler time. Left here now. Waiting, always waiting, to be found.

Emerson, wise Emerson once said, “How much of human life is lost in waiting.” And how right he was. In being who we are, in being lost, in the mere act and art of waiting, we are losing time, we are losing life, we are losing ourselves.

But we wait. We have no choice. We wait, strewn, crumpled, smelly. For someone to find us. To scoop us up and save us. To take us away. To a warm place. To a safe place.

We wait to be found. But as we wait, lost and losing, we wonder what it means to be found. Whether it is possible. Whether being lost is life and being found is fiction.


Cuddle Bug

Today's guest post is brought to you by the sexy, snazzy, snarky lady that I love to stalk. Please go check out her blog, Musings of a Moxie Mama. I love this lady to pieces.


Further proof that I am Satan.......or need to up my dosage of anti-anxiety pharmies.

I've lost my will to cuddle. Just bang me and let's get on with the TV watching.

Lately, Hubs is all about lovin' up on me. Cuddling in bed, hugging me all the time, saying I love you. Either a.)he is having an affair and feeling guilty....he works twelve hours a day...surrounded by family...so that's a no go.

Oh yeah...and he wouldn't do that anyhow.

So it must be b.)I made him feel bad that I referred to him as a roommate for falling asleep on the couch every night and not coming into bed to sleep with me.

God damn you, acid tongue.

When will I learn to keep my whore mouth shut?

Is it wrong that I don't want to cuddle? It's not that I don't enjoy it (on rare occasion) but when one is puked on, shit on, snotted on, crawled on and fallen asleep on several times a day one deems more personal space a dire necessity.

Cuddling is making me claustrophobic. I feel cornered like Pepe Le Pew's unwilling lover.

Horrible Bitch.


Love. Fest.

Hi there- it's not Danielle.  Hee.  Not that you all wouldn't have figured that out immediately.  Our fearless leader is away on a trip and was nice enough to let me guest post for her.

So!  What do I do with all of this freedom?  I can write about anything and she can't do one thing about it.....  but, I want to talk about Danielle.

I have not (yet) had the pleasure of meeting our sweetheart of a host in person.  But she is on the other end of my IM all day and night.  It is my incredible luck to have her always there for me, talking me down off the ledge when I am stressing about being late (about 30 times a day), tolerating my constant stream of photos of the Seattle traffic and listening to my general bitchy comments about people and things.

How did I luck into such a friendship?  I have no idea but I am so very very grateful.  She is such genuinely nice person who offers unconditional support and love.  Danielle is truly a shiny gem in my life.


{W}rite of Passage-Beta version

Mrs. Flinger has created this kick-ass site, {W}rite of Passage, where writers can write, be critiqued in a safe environment, and read some wonderful stuff from other wonderful writers. (Could I use the letter w anymore in one sentence??) I was so excited to receive the invite, and I tell ya, once I am not up to my damn ears in final projects and final exams and getting AT&T to realize that I fucking hate them for all of the stupid shit they have put me through the last 2 weeks (Seriously?? How f-ing hard is it to GIVE ME A TELEPHONE NUMBER THAT WORKS!?!), I will be spending a few hours (read: several dozen) reading everyone's Beta posts and squeeeeing at all the wonderful writers I am surrounded by! In the meantime, here's my Beta post, about my most embarrassing moment:

Really, haven't I posted several embarrassing things about myself? I mean, do we need to re-has the time I pissed all over myself in the office bathroom because I had a sneeze attack while trying to hover over the toilet? Or how about the time I had the.worst period EVAH in my new office (different job than the hover/piss job) and I actually bled through a tampon, a huge diaper pad, and my damn pants within an hour of arriving at the office? By the way, I had to actually run to the stupid Walmart by my office and buy not only a pair of undies, but a damn sweater to wrap around my waist to cover the uhhh, spot puddle on my pants? TMI?

Okay, so I was about 8 months pregnant, and I had a court hearing for work downtown. Parking sucks downtown. I always ended up parking like 9 blocks away, stuffing the meter w/ all my dimes and nickles, and running to the courthouse. Except, I was 8 months pregnant, so I pretty much waddled. I also wore flip flops to walk those 9 blocks, since my feet looked like mini boats.
So, I waddle to the courthouse, and get there like 2 minutes before the hearing is set to begin. I pull my snazzy professional shoes out of my purse, shove my flip flops in there, and head up to the 3rd floor. I get there, the judge looks at my feet and gives me this look. What?? Dude. Anyway, all goes well, but as I'm leaving the courtroom, something runs down my leg. What the fresh hell is going on???
I walk outside, and it continues. Lucky for me, I'm wearing flowy skirt that goes mid-calf. But I'm panicking. I call my good friend Kristy, who says she will go to the emergency room with me. I call my office to let them know I won't be back just yet.
Kristy and I go to the emergency room. I waddle my ass up to the maternity ward, get undressed, etc. etc. Apparently they have these thin little things that look like those little oil absorbant sheets you use to wipe the gross oil off your face? But it goes down there, and it tells you whether your water broke. So...yeah.
And guess what??
Yeah, uhhhh, my water didn't break.
Apparently? All those blocks I walked? With a baby pushing on my bladder? Yeah, uh...?
Yeah, I peed myself.
In the courtroom.
I go back to the office, and everyone wants to know what the hell it was if my water didn't break. Seriously?? Sigh.
So, if it's not bad enough that my whole office knows I pissed myself, I go to court later that week, and the DA is all "So....I guess your water didn't break? So...did you piss yourself?"
PS. I am fully aware that this post is like a full 2 weeks late. I am so behind people. Soooo behind.


Music Lover Monday-Taking you back to my meloncholy side

This song brings out the meloncholy in it's finest form in me. My heart aches and I find myself searching frantically for why this song makes me ache. I can close my eyes now, listening to his voice, the lyrics, and I can just feel myself lying on my full-sized bed in the dark, with the blinds open to the stars and streetlight outside, staring out at nothing but the water puddle at the end of my parents' driveway, waiting.....but on what? For what? Why?
I tell you, pure meloncholy.

She looks like the real thing

She tastes like the real thing

My fake plastic love.

But I can't help the feeling

I could blow through the ceiling

If I just turn and run.

And it wears me out, it wears me out.

It wears me out, it wears me out.

And if I could be who you wanted

If I could be who you wanted
All the time, all the time.