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Dollar Shave Club, your Video Friday:
ABIDE WITH ME BY IAN AYRIS
1 hour ago
OneWord, Belief
Something I just penned for OneWord, where you get 60 seconds to create. I hope you like it.
Belief
His beliefs were built on dreams. Long-ago thoughts of love and happiness, dripping with friendships and interesting, fulfilling work.
Never did he see real life come creeping. He was overtaken, shaken. His beliefs just thought balloons in a nightmarish cartoon.
He wants to wake up.
Believe again.
Lost in America
I went to bed somewhat hopeful, having had a conversation with a friend and co-worker who was distraught and agitated.
It was late, but I invited him over for a beer. We talked a bit. I listened.
And told him I was committed. I was here for him – for everyone – until September.
The decision has been made – I felt good about it – and I repeated it: I’d give Wyoming a year. That’s fair. Anyone can do anything for a year.
A night of tossing and turning, bad dreams, fears revisited and I woke up lost. And alone.
There are no crossroads, it seems. As I write this (and that is a big disclaimer), I feel no forward momentum.
Just lost.
Confused.
It’s not supposed to be like this. This isn’t the life I envisioned for myself.
And before I spiral into more darkness and self-doubt and loathing, I needed to say this. All of this. Get it out.
Feels whiny.
And looking around, yeah, I have it pretty good. Better than most.
The view from the darkness is painful.
OneWord, 'Orbit'
The word over at OneWord is "orbit." Sixty seconds. Here you go:
Orbit
His orbit was in a steady decay and there was no bailing
out. He’d have to ride it out, ride right through her atmosphere, praying that
his shielding remained intact. It was going to be a bumpy ride. Sweat beaded on
his brow. He took a bandana out of his back pocket to mop, she intercepted his
hand, squeezed and swiped the red swath of cloth.
“The contractions are like 10 minutes apart,” she said “Focus.”
Wanderlust, the Story of A Life
Moving to the frontier has been…interesting.
There are days when the wind whips snow until it stings and
it’s so cold that you can’t feel your fingers or toes. There are nights when
the sun goes down and I’m truly alone with just my thoughts.
And then there are days of perfect beauty, laughter in the
newsroom and nights filled with the wonderment of a star-drenched sky, right
off my porch.
Unsettled.
I feel unsettled.
I am filled with wanderlust.
Knowing that I crossed 1,900 miles of the U.S. at pretty
much the most inopportune time – the start of fall on the frontier – I vowed to
give Wyoming a standard year. Anyone can do anything for a year.
But shortly after arriving, I started to seriously question
this latest upheaval, the third in so many years.
All I can say is that there is a crisis in management styles
and it taints everything I do.
And I knew going in that it would be a problem.
The lure of the mountains, the wide-open spaces, the chance
to mentor a young staff was just enough to put everything in a truck and motor
west.
Lately, I’ve been missing NYC. There’s a lingering doubt
that I wasn’t finished there, not nearly so.
In the darkness of my bedroom – real Wyoming darkness – I
think of what might be – and what could be. The itch to wander grows. Then
there’s this joyous happening at work or in the community and I think, “Give it
a chance.”
But the clashes arise, and I want to walk out right then and
there. Give the finger. Go.
Certainly, my fate is a First World Problem. I am employed,
I live in a kick-ass area and I have a growing circle of friends. I do not lack
for anything. I don’t want anything. I am paid well.
Recently, people have approached, asking that I apply for a
board position with the animal shelter. The Relay for Life people want me to
help organize this year’s event.
The owner wants this for me. He wants me to be engaged, part
of the community.
(His wife, also an owner, continues to serve as a de-facto
wingal, working toward finding me a date; very nice of her.)
It’s all an attempt to keep me happy – and keep me here.
I got a note from one of my staff members, a thank you card.
“I know this might not be the ideal job for you…”
But in all reality, it is. Or it’s as close as I’ve come to
in years. I get to do everything I’ve been trained to do – everything I love to
do in the craft of journalism. I try and lead by example. I don’t micro-manage
and I certainly keep things loose. Work should be fun, a mantra I’ve carried
with me since I first started sweeping the floor at a woman’s clothing shop
when I was 13.
If it weren’t for one stumbling block, I think I would be
extremely happy. Or, at the very least, sleeping through the night.
There are opportunities that have been put in front of me,
dangled. Journalism work.
And I think, “Would it be any different at a new place?”
Probably not. Years of downsizing has allowed some real
dumbasses to be promoted in this business.
The problem is that after my folks died, I decided not to
put myself into situations that sucked. And yet, here I am.
A friend just texted and said she wanted to work on a farm
or a ranch and bring sustainable products to people. I wrote back that I wanted
to live on a ranch and make artisanal cheese, or raise heritage pork.
And that’s not too far from the truth.
I want to do something that makes sense.
And makes me happy.
Alas.
3WW CCLV "A Night In with a Canadian"
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are downhill, freak and sliver. A nod to Boots, who really jump-started this piece through a text and phone conversation. She kicked my ass, and kicked away the writer’s block.
A Night In with a Canadian
It’s not like I wasn’t already freaking out or anything, what with some of the best barbecue I’ve had in Austin cooked just for me on this ginormous backyard smoker, but then he sits on the couch and puts in this monster dip in and goes on for 20 minutes – spitting all the while in a Mason jar – about bleaching his teeth and the proper way to floss.
I’m sitting next to him, not so very close, listening intently, well, listening the best I can, because all I can focus on are the little bits of chew on his teeth and lips and it occurs to me that it looks exactly like tiny slivers of shit and my stomach turns a little.
“And manicures and pedicures, I mean, grooming is important,” Josh says, shooting a fresh slimy brown glob into the jar. “Your feet are awful, and I mean that sincerely. You need to let me take you to my Vietnamese ladies because your feet are naaasty. I can totally hook you up.”
I curl my feet, one under the other, and scoot them as far back under the couch as they’ll fit. I wanted to tell him – sincerely – that I put a fresh coat of polish and lacquer on each toe for this fucking date, but I stay silent.
And fairly chug-a-lug a huge mouthful of red wine.
And then things really start going downhill.
He lifts a cheek and lets off a tremendously wet fart. And sighs.
Spits.
And stands.
“Hey, what do you think of my nipples?” he says, lifting up his T-shirt to show me his right nipple.
“Uh, what about your nipples?”
“I had surgery on them. On my nipples. They were too puffy. How fucking cool is that?”
I stare intently into my wine glass, which is unfortunately empty.
He picks up my hand, and clucks his tongue.
“You really need to come with me to see the Vietnamese ladies,” he says.
And suddenly, I’m furious, red-faced, teeth-grinding furious.
He grazes his fingers across my cheek and lips, which feels kind of nice.
And scratches his ass.
“Hey, I gotta make a call. Get me another beer, would you – and get a refill for yourself.”
I look at the door. It’s right there. He’s on the phone, talking to a friend in Seattle, some other Canuck he graduated with.
Oh, yeah, he’s Canadian.
I have past troubles with Canadians.
I stand – and should really get my coat and slip silently out the door – but go to the kitchen and reminisce about the conversation I had with my BFF Toby before the sonofabitch moved to New York, the ungrateful turd.
We were having coffee, me with my legs tucked under me in a gaudy purple velvet chair that looks like something out of, well out of Friends. I fucking loved that show.
“I don’t think he likes me, anyway.”
“Why is that?”
“I think maybe it’s because he’s Canadian.”
“What?”
“Canadians, I think, tend not to like me.”
“That’s a pretty big country to piss off, don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe not all Canadians. Just male Canadians. I think maybe I’m too loud for them.”
“So, there you go.”
“Yeah.”
“Why is that?”
“I think maybe it’s because he’s Canadian.”
“What?”
“Canadians, I think, tend not to like me.”
“That’s a pretty big country to piss off, don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe not all Canadians. Just male Canadians. I think maybe I’m too loud for them.”
“So, there you go.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, beer me, will you?” Josh says as he passes by the kitchen and I’m snapped harshly back into the present. “I’ve gotta drain the main vein.”
Uhg.
I get a Shiner, twist off the cap, toss it onto the counter. I fill the wine glass to the brim and a little sloshes onto the kitchen tiles. I rub the wine into the grout in with my big, fat, ugly toes.
“Whoa, I just pissed like a Russian race horse. You know how good that feels?”
This is probably a good time to confess. I slept with him. Thursday night. After trivia night at the Screaming Goat. In the fucking parking lot. (I’ve got to stop doing that.)
He’s going on about my boobs, which are fantastic, I must admit, as we walk back into the living room. Arcade Fire is playing on Austin City Limits. I want to watch. He’s starting to get grabby.
“You staying over?”
I stare at him. He swigs his beer, I watch the tick-tock of his Adam’s apple as the beer flows down his throat. I swallow, hard.
He belches. Picks up the Mason jar and flicks a brown stream into it.
Just go, I think. It’s late. Austin City Limits is nearly over. I DVR'd it, anyway.
“Hey, have you ever seen Playboy?”
“The magazine?”
“Yeah. Because those girls, if they aren’t totally shaved, they’ve got their cooch all trimmed and shit.”
“So?”
“Well, you’re such a pretty girl, you should really take care of that stuff.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I have a thatch or anything. I’m a road cyclist.
“Shaving or waxing down there causes problems when I ride, it’s really uncomfortable,” I say. “Besides, it’s my armor.”
“Yeah, armor is right – protecting you from ever getting laid again.”
I stand, woozy, and realize I’m crying. He’s not getting up or anything. I turn to scream at him, but he’s back on his cell.
I grab my coat, walk out the door, down the steps and get into my car. I’m halfway down the block before I’m fully sobbing. I pull over, take out my cell and text Toby. It’s late in New York, but I take a chance.
“Canadian was a disaster…need to tell you about it.”
I wipe my eyes and stare at the screen.
“Were you too loud?” Toby writes.
“Epic disaster. But sort of so epic, it makes for a great story. I left his house speechless, and in tears.”
“There’s a first.”
I laugh.
“Missing my chicka right about now,” he writes. “Calling.”
The phone rings and I find that I’m smiling. Toby’s therapy sessions are always free.
And he never judges, since as far as I know, he’s got nothing against Canadians.
