Pills for Valentine's Day

I haven't finished a comic again for this week. I know...slacker, right? Sorry. I know I've let my blogging duties slide down the priority list. I've had a lot going on. What? Thanks for asking.

I built a playhouse for my sister and her kids. See. Bask in its awesomeness that flows from it in rippling waves.

Designed myself, insulated, solid, and pure awesome.

I also created four mini lightboxes for my wife to give to several girls who are graduating from high school. My wife teaches them at church, so she wanted them to have something unique and personal. I did little landscapes of the St George temple with Dixie hill in the background. That way they remind them of home wherever they go.

They were my first attempt to go cordless. These have batteries and an led. The back is frosted plastic so they can tape a picture to it and have that glow too. I like them, kinda retro modern. I hope the girls like them too.

I also changed out a toilet all by myself. Seriously, do you know how disgusting that can be? I only gagged a couple time, but managed to hold it together and get the job done. Here is my new dual flush space toilet that I picked up for just under a hundred bucks at Restore. It qualifies for a seventy-five dollar rebate too. I rock.

So, yeah, I've been busy. This isn't even counting all the hard work on my novel. That project is nearing completion and gets harder and harder to do the closer I get, like running a marathon uphill during a hail storm on the hottest day in July. No wonder most people who start a novel never finish. I will finish though, conquer, stand proud atop of the hill of my manuscript...and then start the rewrite process. Painful.

I also got a stain out of my wife's pants that she was sure would never come out. I am that awesome.

In place of a comic this week, I leave you with another bit of short fiction. I wrote this around eight or nine years ago. I know it is rough and lacks a lot of the elegant prose you have all come to expect from me...right? But, it is one of my first real attempts to get into the head of my character. It gave me chills as I wrote it and, in my opinion, nailed the voice down.

I don't want you all to think these bits of writing are in any way a consolation prize. I work hard on them too, often much harder than I work on my funny comics. This one is in no way funny, just to warn you.

Enjoy.


Pills for Valentine's Day

I sit on the bathroom floor, head against the cupboards below the sink, feet against the door. The old, metal bends near the bottom, dented over the years by my pushing against it. I kick when I’m frustrated, but usually I just hold the world outside. This bathroom has always been my escape. I remember when I was little and had to lay down to be able to keep my feet against the door. Now I have to kick off my sandals or high heels to be almost comfortable.


I actually don’t know whether I’m holding something out or in sometimes. The first minute is always the worst, heart pounding as everything piles against the door. My legs shake and burn, but I have to keep them tight until the pressure against the door stops. Only then can I relax, feel sane, feel real again. Then I sit inside for hours, calmly breathing the cooled air as it slips over the cold ceramic sink.

Lately I’ve been holding my past in and the springtime air out. Spring disgusts me. Everyone triumphs the renewal of life, ignoring how dirty this renewal is. Mold, rain, pollen, dust, heaving liquid filth, frolicking. I don’t ever remember frolicking or wanting to for that matter. Rot and decay start in springtime, winter is clean, without smell.

That and everything yells during spring, birds, cats, dogs, people. Twitterpation season. And what is the beauty behind a baby flying around, shooting people with poisoned arrows? Doesn’t anyone else know that Cupid rhymes with stupid.

I hate Valentine’s Day. Some people call it “Single Awareness Day,” but I don’t hate it for that. I always seem to have a boyfriend, just never good ones.

I once ate a whole bag of candy hearts, not the ones with words on them, nasty things made out of eraser dust, but the little, hot, red ones. I locked myself in the bathroom to hide from Momma holding her out with my feet. When the shaking stopped I crawled into the tub and ate the hearts one at a time.

The tub was dirty. If you squinted hard it looked like black ivy climbing all over. I chewed each heart for the first half of the bag, but my mouth was burning too much to chew the second half. I swallowed what was left one by one. I didn’t like them, they hurt, but each one made me feel real again. So, I kept eating them even when the tears came, making the ivy sway and crawl along the walls of the tub. Each little heart was a pill, making the numb go away for a few seconds, making me a normal little girl.

Momma’s current two-week to three-month boyfriend had been babysitting for a while. His name was Jake and he decided to “share something special” with me for Valentine’s Day. I ate a spicy heart and could focus on the heat gliding down my throat instead of the things he’d had me do. My tongue burned and my nose dripped into the filthy tub, keeping me alive inside until the bag was empty. Then I was forced to think again.

I puked fire onto the bathroom floor. The candy clawed its way out like each heart had hundreds of Momma’s fake fingernails. Twisted, sharp debris swam with whole hearts in a bloody lake on the curling, yellow linoleum. I covered it up with toilet paper and hid in a closet the rest of the day, until Momma found me. She beat me with a fly swatter, not the rubbery, swat end, but she turned it around to use the wire handle. I welcomed the pain that made me real once more. I thought I deserved it for what I had taken from her. She made me clean up the bathroom floor, but I cleaned the whole bathroom instead, tearing down the ivy walls. I scrubbed for hours, drowning myself in the chemical air.

Launa was smarter than me then, though she’s probably dead now. She ran away. I think she was fourteen or fifteen. She thought that by leaving she wouldn’t end up like Momma. Maybe it worked, I haven’t heard from Launa in three years.

Momma got herself beat to death about two years after Launa left by some new boyfriend. They found her in the trash behind a bar after she was missing two days. My sister came home from somewhere that spring to take care of me. I don’t know how she knew about any of it.

She disappeared four years later. I was completely alone before I even graduated from high school. Momma and Launa at least left me the suffocating house and, with it, my bathroom. So, sometimes, when things get numb again and I need to feel real, to feel sane, I sit on the clean bathroom floor, feet against the door, and trace a pink stain over and over again in the linoleum with my left hand.

Why Skunks Love Me - Part Two

I decided to do this series after my first post about camping where a friend freaks out over a few skunks. I didn't think they were a big deal. Then I thought I should explain why I don't think skunks are a big deal.

This is part two of my explanation. If you have not read part one, you should do that first.

This part of my skunk history happened many years later. Once again, no idea how old I was...let's just say I was thirteen for the sake of the story and for fun.

My dad decided to take me and my two younger siblings camping. My sister and I packed some basic survival stuff into a backpack. You know...like granola bars, water, a pocket knife, a few flashlights, and not much else. My dad threw food and sleeping gear into the back of his car and we took off for the mountains and adventure.

We picked out a campsite and then the three kids wandered off to hike and explore. We came across this gully, steep sides made of clay and sand on both sides higher than our heads.

Not the safest route to take in a place known for flash floods, but we didn't see much else. Even this gully turned out to be rather dull, but we hiked on.

After several minutes, my little brother turns to me.

Brother: I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: Okay. Go around the corner and just go.

Brother: No.

Me: Okay. Climb up there and go behind some sagebrush.

Brother: No...I have to go number two.

Me: Let's head back then and you can go in the camp bathrooms.

Brother: I'm not going to make it.

Me: Great...

I scramble up the bank of the gully to see if there is any good place for him to go. What I find is a perfect stone toilet at the crest of the gully wall...like it was meant to be, like it was waiting for him.

This spot looks down on a stretch of the wash below, but we hadn't seen another soul the entire hike, so I figured it would be fine. I did a quick check for scorpions and snakes before I let him sit down though.

Then I gave him some tissues from our trusty backpack and climbed back down. My sister and I started walking back the way we had come...had to give my little brother some privacy.

We followed the curving gully down maybe ten yards, well out of eye and ear shot, when we heard voices ahead. People were coming up the gully. My sister and I looked at each other and started giggling. It sounded like the people were several minutes away, so we turned around and started heading back up to warn my little brother.

Turns out, those people weren't hiking. They were mountain biking. They flew past my sister and I as we hurried to help my poor brother from the embarrassment. My sister and I gasped in surprise. There was nothing we could do. My little brother would be traumatized for life.

We started running, trying to keep up with the bicyclists. They sped around the corner. We didn't hear the shouts and screams we expected.

"Hello!"

"Hey. Hi."

"Hello there."

"How's it going?"

"Good."

"Good."

We come around the bend and find my brother sitting on the edge of the gully, greeting the mountain bikers, waving, smiling, with his pants on.

Me: Oh. Thank goodness. You finished then?

Brother: Nope. Still going.

Me: What?

Sister: Eeeeeeewwww!

My little brother had heard voices, pulled his pants as far up as he could, leaned forward, and acted like he was just resting, waiting on his slow brother and sister to catch up.

I know. You are all wondering why I shared this. You think I'm disgusting. You think my little brother will never forgive me. You also wonder when the skunks will come in.

I shared this because it happened. I am a little disgusting at times. My little brother will forgive me because this is one of the moments that made me love and respect him. His resourcefulness, quick thinking, and calm under pressure impressed me deeply. I love my little brother for these things and more. Seriously, he rocks. The skunks come in soon.

We made our way back to camp, started a fire, and ate dinner. My dad's dutch oven beef stew is one of the best things on this planet. He dumped the leftovers into the fire pit and got out our sleeping gear. My dad was a boy scout, in the army, and eventually in the CIA. So, you would expect him to be prepared. Turns out he packed a tarp and some bedsheets for us to sleep in. I don't know what he was thinking.

We laid down the tarp and pulled the sheets over us, shivering and clutching the linens to keep siblings from pulling them off.

I shivered myself to sleep, but then something brushed against my face. I pushed it away. A few minutes later something brushed my face again, something soft and fluffy. I thought my little sister was playing games, opened my eyes, and looked toward her. Her eyes were open too, but with terror, not the evil-torment-my-brother-for-fun look I expected.

The creatures crawled over us several times, continuing to brush tails across my face. They were drawn to the leftovers in the fire pit, digging and scratching to get every bit. For some reason they seemed to think crawling over the sleeping humans was the best route. Once none were on us, my sister and I scrambled away and threw bits of gum to keep the skunks away from us and our slumbering brother and father.

Skunks like gum. Bet you didn't know that. They raced each other to check out each little glob we tossed into the forest. We kept this up most of the night and made four or five new friends. Just one more reason skunks love me...I give them gum. Still jealous? I know you are. Quit trying to deny it.



Why Skunks Love Me - Part One

This is going to be a three part series. Look forward to more to come.

Nearly thirty years ago I had my first experience with a skunk, but not my last by any means.

We were at a ranch near Duck Creek, Utah. For those who have never been to the area, you are missing out. Green pine forests with outcroppings of aspen, pink bluffs rising out of nowhere, ice cold streams full of fish, grass bending in the breeze as dragonflies flit around the reeds.

I love my family reunions. We used to do them annually, but as the families have gotten larger and more spread out, we now do them every other year. Makes me sad, but I understand the reasons.

This is one of the earliest family reunions I remember. I don't know exactly my age. I have no concept of time. Really. Ask my wife. I remember events without a framework of dates, years, and other such nonsense. My memories are vivid. I can pull up smells and sensations from when I was two or so, but dates and my brain are like oil and water. They just don't mix. I can sometimes place an event in a rough timeframe due to location. We moved around a lot, so I know Hurricane events were between ages 0-6, while Lousiana events were 6ish-10ish/14ish. I am going to guess I was between 3 and 5.

I have always been an odd kid. I know, big surprise, right? I have learned to interact with people publicly without them seeing the crazy bubbling and seething just below the surface. This was not always the case as a child. I made up stories in my head and talked to myself. I would wander off, captivated by a bit of fluff floating on the breeze. I would sit for hours making up worlds where I was the size of an ant and had to cross huge deserts of tile or forests of shag carpet. Poor weird little Charlie, but I had fun.

Anyway...way off track now. Back to the ranch and my family reunion. I spent a big part of the day climbing rocks and playing with sticks or watching the water strider bugs glide so easily across one of the pond's clear surface.

Seriously, have you seen these things? They stand on water and flit around in all directions in seconds, like humming birds, leaving little ripples in their wake. I could watch them forever, my mind rolling around the grace of their impossible movements. I imagine that there are similar creatures gliding along the thin membranes between realities, unseen, but for their ripples of energy that seeps into our cosmos. Yeah. I'm a nerd and a scifi writer. Deal with it!

I came back to the main hang out area in front of the largest cabin after such adventures and found no one there. I wondered where everyone would go in the middle of a perfect day.

Apparently a skunk had wandered into the middle of the ranch. My family skattered, cousins screaming, adults herding them to safety, a great panicked mess. They gathered in the kitchen and dining room indoors to weather the storm and wait out the little creature.

I wandered into the cabin after the initial panic. Someone had noticed that I wasn't amidst the refugees, so, as soon as I entered, someone asked where I had been and if I had seen the skunk. No doubt they hoped I would tell them that the skunk was gone.

Me: I was outside, petting the kitty.

Them: What kitty?

Me: The black and white kitty that lives under the cabin.

Them: *shocked silence*

Me: It was nice. Why is everyone inside?

Them: Do you mean you pet the skunk? *everyone backing away from me like I'm diseased*

Me: No. It was a kitty (I don't think I knew what a skunk was).

Them: Charlie pet the skunk! Did you get sprayed? *further backing away*

Me: No! It was a kitty! A nice little kitty!

Them: Sure it was...

 *some brave soul stepped forward to sniff me and make sure I didn't get sprayed*

Brave Soul: Sniff. He's good.

Them: *everyone sighs in relief and then begins to torment me for petting a skunk for the rest of my life*

I'm very good with animals...and babies. For some reason they love me. I have heard "she never likes strangers, he never warms up to people that fast, she never holds still for anyone, he usually only does that trick for me, I've never seen her smile like that with anyone she didn't know" and similar stuff a million times. I don't know exactly what it is, but babies and animals just seem to connect with me. I once talked a kitten off a telephone pole by meowing to it. I've calmed crazy dogs down and gotten them to sleep on my lap when their owners said they wouldn't even let me pick them up. I do this one handed clapping thing that is like hypnotism for babies. They can't get enough of it.

The point is I've denied that I pet the skunk for years. I used to get so angry as everyone teased me about it. I would yell and scream that it didn't happen.

I deny it no longer. I am proud of my connection to animals and small humans. I did it! I pet that skunk!

I'll scream it to the world via my little blog. That's right. I'm a freaking rock star in the animal kingdom!

When Tom Riddle turned to Dumbledore and said, "I can speak to snakes, too. They find me... whisper things..." Yeah. I'm like that, but with skunks...and without all the evil intentions to take over the world and murder some gangly scar-faced boy.

 I pet a wild skunk and didn't get sprayed! Can you say you've done that? I doubt it. Jealous much? I think so.

My wife is weird and I am Hat Eye!

I love my wife. She is quirky and odd. Can you imagine me with anyone who isn't? The funny thing is most people don't see that side of her. They see her with her nose in a book or with a stack of papers to grade. I am going to take advantage of my blog stardom and expose the real Jazzy to the world.

Here is a conversation we had on IM. I was at work. She was home. I teased her about something. I can't remember exactly what, but I probably called her stinky or made fun of her inability to cook. I scribbled down everything that came after, thinking I would remember what instigated the conversation. I should have known my memory doesn't work that way. Here is what came right after the teasing:

Jazzy: i hat eyou/

Me: I hat eye you too dear

Jazzy: and i can't type

Me: Hat Eye, the Avenger!

Jazzy: Are you coming home to help me make dinner?

Me: Nope. You make dinner. I am avenging the wrongs with my haberdashery super powers of sight!

Jazzy: I have no idea what that means.

Me: Haberdashery? Google it.

Me: *waiting like three seconds for her to google it*

Me: Besides clothing, they made hats.

Jazzy: Why do you know these things?

Me: Because I am Hat Eye! Pay attention.

Jazzy: I do. You are just weird.

Okay. I know what you are thinking. This makes Jazzy look normal and me like a weirdo. But, would a normal person put up with me? I think not.

I've got a better example. I sat in the bath, playing with the bubbles and patting the water like usual. My wife wanders in as she does sometimes. Don't worry. This is not in any way dirty.

Jazzy: *wanders in singing* Lalalalla la...you're a firework.

Me: I'm a firework?

Jazzy: It's a song...

Me: *ignores that it's a song* What kind of firework am I?

Jazzy: Like...pfft pffft...*she puts her feet shoulder length apart, raises her hands, and shakes her fingers like sparks*

Me: So...I'm a lame firework?

Jazzy: *laughs and walks out of the bathroom*

Me: *bubbles are suddenly less fun*

See that. She is funny and goofy. You still don't believe me? Yes, you need more proof. One more funny story about my wife:

Me: *sleeping soundly and happily in on a day off*

Jazzy: *jumps on bed and tackles me* (I know you can't tackle someone who is laying down, but she still tried.)

Me: ummmffftt *half asleep*

Jazzy: Wake up, it's 8:30!

Me: *stretches and bumps her in the forehead with my elbow*

Jazzy: Ow. You smoke me in my pants! (I heard 'smote', but she claims she said 'smoke') *falls over laughing*

Me: Did you say 'I smote me in my pants'?

Jazzy: *rolls around the bed next to me laughing*

Me: *laughing* What is wrong with your brain?

Jazzy: *gasping for air while laughing* I don't know.

Odd, definitely odd to have those words come out of her mouth when she meant to say "Ow, you poked me in the face." I give you unavoidable proof that my wife's brain does not function. I was the one half asleep. She had been up for at least an hour. Jazzy, I love you. Stay weird. I need it to keep me sane.

What's that grinding sound? Is that my soul?

I've complained a lot about my job lately. I know its getting old. You are all sick of my whining. Sorry. I need one more little rant and then I think I am good to move on to other matters. I read something the other day that made me think about why I hate my job. Why does it feel like my soul is being crushed? Why do I itch to move on?

I've had jobs that were more demeaning, paid less, and required more labor. I've had bosses I couldn't stand. My current boss is actually quite pleasant. I work fifty or more hours a week, but I held a full time job while taking a full load at school, so it isn't just about the time either. I thought about it quite a bit yesterday and this morning and I have come to a decision.

The real reason I am unhappy with my job is because it does not align with any of my personal ideals. I love to do multiple things. You should have noticed by now that I jump around when it comes to hobbies. I carve, draw, write, paint, refinish furniture, am building a teardrop trailer, and delve into science. I love to learn and create. I love to make abstract things in my head into real tangible objects. I love progress, new cutting edge technologies. I love to see something old and broken become beautiful and useful once more. These things feed my soul and engender joy in the deepest part of who I am.

My career in Hotel Management does not. It ultimately serves little purpose, creates nothing, and does not push any envelope of progression. I have read many blogs lately about great epiphanies where people have successfully quit their jobs to start something new and exciting. They became entrepreneurs, started their own businesses, explored their artistic sides, or just moved on to a better career. I didn't buy it. They fell flat on my internal ears. I'm a creative pragmatist. I haven't had a great life altering epiphany nor am I looking for one. I do not need to reinvent myself. I don't think quitting a job will suddenly bring me all the happiness I could ever want. In truth, I am happy with who I am. I just wish I could be myself more often.

So, I was wrong about the soul crushing. I understand that now. My soul is not being pulped under the weight of my work or ground down by the mind numbing monotony of the piled on hours. I thought a lack of recognition, raises, or promotions added extra pounds to the soul squishing. These descriptions are inaccurate. My soul is not being crushed. Starved is closer to the truth. My job crowds out the things that I love, the things that make me happy at the deepest level. I'm going to try not to complain about my job as much. I will find ways to feed my malnourished soul until I find a job that makes doing so easier.