Week 5 prompts

7. You’ve lost It! Where is It?


My husband's phone is always MIA. Which is weird because most of the time he is obsessing over it. It is like his little pet, always within arms reach. But, apparently, even something close enough to bite you, can be lost. Under the couch cushion, a book, or even a cake. Yes, he has lost his phone underneath a sheet cake. Don't ask me how he does it, it is as if he has suffered an injury eliminating his short-term  memory. I guess that is why if I am talking to him, and I ask him what I just said, he cannot answer.
His irresponsibility towards his phone also extends to it's maintenance. Currently, his phone has two types of industrial tape (duct and electrical) holding it together. It is also decorated with spray paint, grout, and some sort of undefined substance accumulated at work. Given all the physical issues with the phone, the most annoying part is that it is NEVER charged. Constantly, it calls out to me. 'Beep, beep' I'm sure is what it sounds like to everyone else but to my ears it is, 'Please, help me. Save me from this neglectful tyrant'.
The other day, surprise! He lost his phone. And again, surprise! It is dying. We can hear it beeping from the unknown, taunting us. Before he so much as lifts a finger he asks the question I hear approximately ten times a day, 'Babe, can you call my phone?'
Instead of surrendering to his laziness, I decide to fight. 'No, this one is on you.' I say.
He starts looking. First, he sweeps the area by sight before giving up. 'Seriously, can you call it?'
'Nope.'
His search extends to lifting up a blanket. He looks at me with angry eyes. I smile back with my phone clutched tight in my grasp. A look of shock tears across his face. 'I forgot to order my tux for the wedding! I have to do it in the next..' He looks at the clock and his eyes widen. 4:55. '5 minutes! Okay, give me your phone and I will call it.'
I give in. I guess he has a legitimate excuse this time. But next time, I will break him of his bad habit. I hit the green call button twice. His number is almost always the last one I have called, so I don't even look. We wait in silence for music. He has a ring tone of some rock song that I have heard a thousand times but still don't know the name of. It never rings. I check my phone to make sure I called the right number. It says 'Ron', like always. But this time I notice it has gone straight to voice-mail. It is dead. Really? Lost and dead, double whammy.
Where is it? Now I am freaking out too. We both begin to throw things in urgency. We must have looked in the same place as the other five times. I lift a pillow, he is right behind me lifting the same pillow. As if my eyes don't work as well as his. Every thirty seconds we look at the clock, then at each other with an 'oh shit' expression on our faces. 4:57, 58, 59. We are frantic now. My husband lifts up the couch off the floor. This reminds me of a story I heard about 6 year old lifting a fourwheeler off his dad in a crazy adrenaline rush. Only this adrenaline rush is a 25 year old's love of his cellphone.
Then it hits me. Why didn't I think of it before? He can just use my phone to call about his tux. I throw my head back partially relieved, but mostly in guilt for being so stupid. I exclaim, 'Use my phone!' He rolls his eyes, the stupidity again.
I hand him the phone and he makes a quick call to order the tux. He gives his measurements, thanks the woman on the other end, and hangs up. I put my hand out, a gesture asking for my phone back and that's when I see it. A small, rectangular shape in his breast pocket. His phone! 'Are you kidding me?' I thought, and apparantly said outloud without knowing it because Ron answered.
'I know, were so dumb. We could have used your phone the whole time.'
I didn't tell him about his phone. Just gave up the search and watched him look for about 20 more minutes until he made the same discovery. Only he pretended he found it behind the couch to save himself the embarrassment. And his ego was saved. Until he reads this post.

18. The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again


I was the luckiest 15 year old to ever grace my high school. Or at least that's what I thought when I got my restricted license. Nobody could touch me. I was the only freshman to be cool enough to drive, not only that, have my own car. It was a 1990 Chevrolet Beretta. A kind-of ugly shade of gray, but not a speck of rust. The interior was perfect except that the fabric on the back seat was torn and sagging down. So, I threw one of my many tapestries from Mexicali Blues on and called it good. I probably would have put one on there anyway.
In school, I was asked many times how I could have my license at 15. I would reply, 'I have connections', something else mysterious like that. I never explained that with a restriced license, you could only drive to school and work. You could not have anyone in the car with you, and you couldn't drive after 8. Minor details.
Despite the rules, of course I drove all my friends around. Places other than work or school. Or if I was going to either, I would always take the longest route possible. One day, driving to my sister's in Orono with my friend Miranda (neither work or school) I wanted to see just how fast the car could go. So, on the stretch of interstate between Orono and Old Town, let the Beretta loose. It went exactly 128 miles per hour. It felt like the car was going to collapse beneath us. The entire car shook, and to be honest, I was a little scared for my life. Though I would have never admitted it at the time.
Then, in front of us I spotted a black Chevy Impala. It was the new model, the one I had been obsessing about for the last month. Miranda didn't even know what an Impala was. I decided at that moment, it was my duty to introduce them. I sped up to about 90 and passed the beauty. I said, 'Now do you know what I am talking about?' She didn't even see it. So I slowed and let the car pass us. This time Miranda said, 'Oh yeah, that's cool.' She was unimpressed. I am not sure exactly who the next look was for, but I passed the car one last time.
Then I heard the siren. Not the kind that goes on and on until the point when you think to yourself, 'Enough already, I heard you a mile ago'. But two quick little chirps. They came from the beauty. At first I didn't believe it. Had I really been passing a cop and not even known? Where was the radar in the front window? Where was the weird extra side mirror they always have. It didn't even have government plate. It couldn't be.
The car, still on the right of us since I passed it for the third time, pulled up parallel to my car. In the front seats were two men, dressed in black suits. The man driving looked over through our window. I nearly peed myself. Excuses ran through my head, but I couldn't come up with an emergency that would warrant my speed, passenger and location all in one. I looked over at the man driving. He slowly raised his hand (or at least it seemed slow at the time, as if time had stopped) horizontally and moved it up and down. A motion saying, 'slow it down'. I looked at his face expecting a stern expression, but to my surprise I didn't find it. He was smirking, almost amused at my irresponsible actions. I let out a sigh of relief and continued on to the next exit.
Later, when we arrived at our destination, Miranda and I went over and over the details of the incident. We couldn't figure out why we weren't pulled over. Maybe they were off duty? On the way to a much bigger call, so they didn't have time to pull over a couple teenagers goofing off? In the end, we decided they must have thought we were too gorgeous to arrest, and that's what we told people.
The next day, on my way home from Orono. I had to leave early to get to work while everyone else went out to breakfast. I had made it all the way to my parking spot when, BAM, I hit the car next to me. Luckily, I was on my way to work, it wasn't after 8 p.m., and I did not have a passenger. However, I did ruin the entire driver's side of my Beretta, lost my restricted license, and my mother made me pay the difference in the insurance bill.
Over the next year, I was in three more accidents, all of them minor. Even if I combined them all, piled up all the emotion and fear I felt from each, they still wouldn't compare to the day I could have, potentially, might have, gone to jail. But they did send the Beretta to the car-morgue. Where ever that is. And after saving for an entire summer, my next car was a brand new, black, Chevrolet Impala.   Just kidding, it was a Civic. Which I also crashed.

24. We name the guilty man!

I stand up from the table as I finish my dinner. Grady has been done for a few minutes and I already brought him to the sink to wash and brush. The normal meal-time routine. I take care of my plate and fork and make my way over to the counter that holds my beloved desert. A cupcake. In fact, the last cupcake. I called dibs on it yesterday, so I know my husband wouldn't dare touch it. I go to lift the tinfoil that shelters my beloved and disappointment washes over me. It is gone.
My dissapointment takes a quick turn towards anger. I look at my husband and say, 'What the hell?' while holding up the tinfoil.
He looks surprisingly innocent. Almost like he had forgotten the crime he committed all together. 'What?'
'My cupcake! You ate it and I called dibs. Babe, I was so looking forward to that cupcake. Look, it's even on my agenda for the evening.' I take out a piece of paper, and point, 'Look, Dinner, cupcake, bath, bed.'
I even wrote it on my list, that is serious. I am always making lists, it's sort-of an ocd thing. One time, my husband came into the bedroom and there I was, laying in bed making a list for the next day, as usual. He looked at the notepad, it's the kind that says 'To Do' on the top and has a magnet for the refridgerator, and he realized I was actually making a list of lists I needed to make the next day. I was 'cut-off' as he put it from the notepad for a few days after that.
'I didn't eat your cupcake Felicia.'
I don't know if it is my brutal accusation or his guilt that makes him say 'Felicia'. He only calls me that when he means business. All other times it is babe, hun, those types of things.
'Well, it didn't just get up and walk away! This sucks, my whole night is ruined.'
'Really? Because of a cupcake? Wow, you need to have this baby soon.'
This statement sends me to a whole other level. He always blames things on the pregnancy. So, maybe I was a little hormonal, but then why the hell would he eat my cupcake? He must enjoy the rage it has sent me in. I go into the bathroom and start the bath. 'This will calm me down', I think to myself. 'But it is no cupcake.' I climb in the bathtub, belly not included. It looks like a giant island protruding from the bathwater. I start to think about my devil's food chocolate cupcake with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. The I hear the front door shut. I finish up in the bath, which takes about twice as long being 9 months pregnant, and get my P.J.'s on. When I am finally done, I come into the living room to find a huge bag of Dysart's cookies on the table. He does love me.
I stop Ron on his way to the nursery to put Grady to bed. 'I'm sorry. I guess I am a tiny bit emotional.'
'It's okay' he says, and kisses my forehead.
I sit on the couch with my bag of cookies when I hear. 'Babe, come hear quick!'
Panic comes over me. Grady is in there, is he okay? Did I leave any choking hazards lying around by mistake? Maybe he fell and hit his head on something, he has been really quiet tonight. I waddle as fast as I can to his room. My eyes catch him, and scan over his entire body for injury. 'What? Is he okay? What's the matter?'
Ron points under Grady's crib and I see it. My cupcake. Or at least what used to be my cupcake. It has been mangled almost beyond recognition, reduced to crumbs and white frosting smears. Both Ron and I start laughing uncontrollably. Grady looks where Ron is pointing, sticks his finger in a glob of frosting. 'Mmm' he says with his finger in his mouth.

Theme week 4

1. Write about it as close to black and white, just the facts as you possibly can.

I am wearing a black dress that does not hide my pregnant belly. Nerves overcome me and I can barely look at my soon to be husband. We don't even have rings. The woman from the town office forgets this fact and still asks us to exchange them. I don't correct her, just gently shake my head. She says the words I have been waiting for all my life, 'You may kiss your bride'. And a shiver shoots down my spine. We kissed and I hoped it would never end. I am a married woman with a son on the way.

2. Then write about it so that the basic facts are there, unchanged, but you throw in a little fancy stuff to improve the story--you make the girl a blonde instead of a brunette, you add a few horsepower to the engine, you buy a few more dollars worth of clothes than you actually could afford--all this done, not to lie, but to make the truth sharper and, if you will, even truer.

I stand at the alter, my pregnant skin radiant. My dress accentuates my every curve, and my fiance notices. We don't have our rings yet, but it makes no difference to us. The woman marrying us (I don't even know her name) works at our town hall. She agreed to meet us outside at 5:00 when she got out of work to conduct the ceremony. She said her fee was 5 dollars, we are going to give her 10. The woman asks me if I will take this man, I reply 'I will'. This makes my heart race. I don't hear anything else she says until, 'You may kiss your bride.' Finally, the moment I have waited for all my life. My husband takes me in his arms and we share a passionate kiss.

3. Finally, start with the same material but let it off its leash. It originates in fact, but winds up as fiction. Now the details aren't changed to tell the truth in a new way--they're just pure fiction.

I look around to see the brilliant flowers placed perfectly around the gazebo.  Each rafter is entwined with twinkling white lights, illuminating our beautiful ceremony. I look down at my exquisite dress and think it is nothing compared to my fiance's attire. He looks amazing in his tuxedo and I can't stop looking at him. Mary, the woman marrying us, clears her throat to indicate the start of the ceremony. She eloquently goes through our vows and then says the words I have been anticipating. 'You may kiss the bride.' My heart skips a beat and my new husband takes me in his arms. I feel his hand at the small of my back as he dips me back. We share the most amazing kiss I have ever experienced and the fireworks go off.  

Week 4 prompts

13. I just googled the phrase 'if these could talk.' Wow, if these walls could talk, sure, but also if these hips could talk, if these cars could talk, if these pots could talk, if these dolls could talk, if these old keys could talk, if these stones could talk, if your boss could talk, if these trees could talk, if these quasars could talk--well, there are 7 or 8 million more entries to hunt through.... You've just spent a week writing about stuff in a journal, thinking about the walled-in room where you're working. What inanimate thing do you wish could talk?

I intensely wish my son's crib could talk. Since he started sleeping in his own room, I am not allowed to set foot in there when he wants to sleep. He absolutely needs to be alone, door shut, lights off to fall asleep. And I am banned to the living room. Every once in a while I will hear him talking to himself, laughing at some joke I'm sure is hilarious. I wish I knew what he was talking about, who he is talking to. What could be so funny in a dark room all alone? I guess in this hypothetical, his crib would also read minds. 

14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

Singing. In both I have my own voice, nobody else has one like me. Although I do steal some inspiration from others, those who have had success, my voice is still my own. Both allow for expression. I can sing or write LOUD, quiet, simple, fancy. I can use lots of extra notes, words, or tones, but in the end, they are all mine. Each come from somewhere deep inside and nobody could ever replicate them.


16. Somebody just offered me the chance to get paid for gassing on about one of my favorite topics: dogs. What would you like to be paid to talk about?

No doubt, I would talk about childcare and parenting techniques. Well actually the difference between the two, the middle ground. Many mothers look to the latest childcare techniques to raise their children by. I encourage this, don't get me wrong, but there are definitely hypothetical ways to deal with situations, and actual ways. For example, when you are feeding the baby and your toddler throws a tantrum, it is OKAY to turn cartoons on for 10 minutes to distract him while you take care of the baby. In a childcare setting, you have help, as a parent, you have to help yourself. I would still impress the importance of both, but explain the reality of parenting without sugar coating it. I would LOVE to get paid to talk about this. Any takers? Anyone?

Theme week 3

Sitting at the computer, I look around my living room. The electric fireplace is going even though it's 65 degrees outside. There is no heat, just a fake blue and orange flame that somehow makes me feel cozy. The baby is on the floor, trying with all his might to grab that illusive toy dangling over his head. Grady is keeping himself busy with the second shelf of the bookshelf. It is just his height, perfect for taking all the 'Harry Potter' books off.  He lines them up on the floor, and walks across them like a bridge. He runs over to me as if he is going to burst with anticipation.
'buhgret teme sew sew mama?' His eyebrows are furled, head cocked to one side, and his shoulders are up to his chin. It must be a very important question to require such body language and gibberish.
'Yeah Grady, of course.' I say, assuming he is not asking to run with scissors. He returns to his Potter bridge and says to himself,
'two, four, fiye, sits, seyin, eight, mama, twelve.' His ascew counting coorilates with his wobbly steps to the next book in line.
'Grady, are you counting?'
'Yesh'
I decide to try and help him get past that difficult 'mama', which I can never figure out if it is ten or eleven. I guess if I were to be a number, it would be nice to be a ten. I prompt, 'One...'
Before I can finish he yells, 'Two' at the top of his lungs.
'Three..'
'Four'
'Five...'
'Sits'
At this point his hips sway with every number. A sort of counting dance that he does when he's really in the groove. 'Seven..'
'Eight'
'Nine..'
'Mama'
A smile creeps across my face. So I am a ten. I continue to see just how far this groove will take him, 'Eleven.."
'Twelve'
'Thirteen...'
He cocks his head to the side with a defying look on his face, 'Twelve'
I guess he is done with this counting business. I end our little lesson with a 'YAY, great job Grady!' Per usual, but by this time he is already distracted by Harry.

Week 3 Prompts

9. Writers have to listen to themselves; writers ought to always be talking to themselves. Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.

"This is quite the dilemma."
"No, actually, it is not. It is simple. Do it and get it over with, lazy."
"I'm not lazy, just reserving energy. Let's go about this logically. Pros and cons."
"Okay, pros. You will feel an incredible amount of relief. You will be able to sleep, at least for a few hours of the night. You mind and body will be comforted knowing that you have done it and will not have to do it again for a while."
"Alright. Valid points, but not good enough. Cons. My immediate comfort and security will be forever torn from me. I do believe that is the only argument I need. Although, there is also the fact that I could be interrupting my child's well being."
"I'm not even sure why I am trying to persuade you. It's going to happen eventually. Maybe when you are least expecting it. How do you plan on explaining that one to your husband?"
"Okay, you win. Did you have to bring out the big guns?"
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now, get up and go pee. Then you can go back to sleep."

10. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog (he said--, she said--)

I sit at the restaurant with my husband and children. I am surrounded by tables that look like they are on their lunch break, or are having meetings. Especially this one table nearby. Their two rough voices are using words like 'agenda, schedule and inventory'. It wasn't until I listened closer that I realized that they were not talking business, at least not in the traditional sense.
The deeper of the two voices, "Well we definitely need some sort of penis shape."
"Yes, of course. But how can we achieve that? A mold? Or just cut it out?"
He quickly replies, "We can hire someone to do that for us. What about other novelty items? Penis necklaces, ice cubes?"
"Oh, speaking of penis ice cubes. A friend of mine has a mold for a penis ice sculpture."
"This is going to be a good night." He says excitedly

12. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.

I look around the restaurant. It is bustling. Unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. I wish restaurants were as busy when I was a waitress, but that's neither here nor there. Our waitress is short, wearing all black, which only makes her look shorter. Her hair is pulled back in a fury of curls and her face is as red as our menu. Her expression makes me want to tell her she can take a cigarette break, it wouldn't bother me to wait a few minutes. But she is good. Frazzled, yet on top of her game. The plates are like an extension of her hands as she weaves between chairs and tables. Gravity makes me believe one will fall, but it never does, it's like an optical illusion.
The tables she so eliquently manuevers around are filled with people in business attire. Each one with a more serious face than the last. I can just tell they are talking about their work day. If it were me, I would be enjoying my break rather than squandering it with talk of work.

Week 2 Prompts

6. The stuff I've collected over the years in my little box/bureau drawer/keepsake chest marks every step of my way.

Not too long ago I was cleaning out the back of my closet. This is the place my inner hoarder comes out. All of the things that I should have thrown away, but held on to live there. Anyway, I was 'cleaning' it out (taking items out, contemplating for a few seconds, then replacing them in a more organized fashion) when I came across a box with a tag saying 'Ex-Files' on it. I don't remember where I go the title, I think I saw it on a movie once or something and thought it was clever. It contains memories from old boyfriends, notes and dried flower pedals and such. Next to it was a box filled with things from my relationship with my husband (I couldn't think of a clever title for this one I guess).
I opened them to compare and was surprised to find the contents very similar. I imagined the new box would contain grown-up things. I don't really know what grown up things are, but the concept seemed fitting. It too was also filled with little notes, flower pedals, photos of our dating days, a bottle cap that says 'your kind of a big deal' on the inside, he gave it to me on our first date. It all seemed rather juvenile, and I thought, does this define our relationship? Are the similarities between these two boxes also true when comparing relationships?
Then I started reading some of the notes. Again, very similar. The difference being, when I read notes from my husband, my heart started to flutter. I found myself holding my breath until the very last word. That's when I realized, the mementos from each are similar in form, but the meaning, the feelings I get from them, is exponentially more significant when they came from the man I love.

7. Looking in that photo album, I see--

My son, Grady. I'm witnessing all of his milestones through images. When he first rolled over, his first steps, the big first birthday, etc. Then, the cycle starts again, with my youngest son, Jack. If a someone were to view these pictures in black and white, they may think they are the same child. The only difference being that Jack has red hair. It baffles me that the one person in three generations to have red hair is him. It's so weird because it completely fits him. I think he would be a completely different person with brown hair. Or at least, I would perceive him differently. It's strange how our attributes help to define us as people. Who would I be with red hair?

8. It was the first, but not the best--or was it?

My first apartment with my husband was basically a hallway. I bet if I checked into it, it would be illegal for a person to live in that minuscule amount of living space. We squished as much furniture as possible in the oddly chopped up rooms. And there we were. Just us and an 80 lb dog named Rikkah. We had absolutely no way to escape each other. We could be sitting at either end of the apartment and still hear each other breathing. But we didn't have to escape each other. So fantastically smitten, we could spend infinite amounts of time together.
Ever since that apartments, our living spaces have been larger with each move and eventually we purchased our own home. This milestone gave us freedom from landlords. Which I thought would be a relief, but quickly realized the opposite. We have nobody to call to fix the sink, or worse, when we have septic troubles. Being your own landlord is a lot of responsibility. It makes me miss our tiny, hallway apartment.

Theme Week 2

1620, Provincetown, Massachusetts. Aboard the Mayflower, the first child was born into the new world. His name was Peregrine White. Who know that after centuries, one branch of the 'White' name would end with me. Of course the genes are still the same. I will still be passing my, and Peregrine's characteristics on, but they will now be labeled Douglass.
It makes me wonder how long it will take for the 'White' name to dissipate completely.
Thinking about my ancestors historical significance, I try to recall important happenings during my existence. Where I was when they occurred? I suppose some great things have happened during my 23 years of existence, but none of them compare to Peregrine's.
When Bill Clinton was elected, my kindergarten class did a mock election. I don't remember who I voted for. Then he was impeached. I didn't know what that meant.
The ice storm of '98 stole electricity from an unprecedented number of homes, including mine. My siblings were devastated that they could not watch TV or play on our new 'cutting edge' personal computer. I pretended I was living in the colonial days and wrote in my journal by candlelight.
Then came the turn of the century. My family and I hiked to the top of a near-by mountain. Our intentions were to witness the moment that Y2K wiped out power to surrounding towns. It never happened.
September 11th, 2001 I was sitting in my 7th grade social studies class when our school's Athletic Director came in and said, 'The twin towers have been hit by a plane.' I remember thinking, 'Okay, thanks for sharing'. I didn't even know what the twin towers were. It wasn't until I got home from school and turned on the TV to get my daily MTV fix that I realized the gravity of what had happened.
Many epic moments have happened during my life, but overall, I am just a speck in the long line of Peregrine White descendants. Similar to being just another passing car on the highway, or just another customer at the grocery store.
But I am no speck to the child I helped to learn their colors. I am no speck to the grandmother who commissioned me to sketch her grandson. No, everytime she looks at that sketch, she will think of the artist.  Maybe she will even pass it on to the subject and them to their children and so on. Or maybe they will love it so much, they will in turn get sketches of their own children. Perhaps one day a descendant of mine will be bragging about how their related to the great Felicia Douglass. Or maybe they will just discover their relation to Peregrine like I did.