See you next week.
If you are missing your little dose of me, you can get a big dose of me in any of my books.
See you next week.
If you are missing your little dose of me, you can get a big dose of me in any of my books.
For a ten word photo prompt.
I’m not in the mood for much. State by state, women are losing our status as anything other than containers for fetuses.
Furious to the point of no words for that fury. Outraged at the prominent, casual men who don’t really seem to care one way or another.
So that’s where I am.
Probably no #AccountaClub/#MAYkingItWork tomorrow either. I don’t have a lot of fun in me at the moment.
As I contemplate our descent into Gilead. Several states have deemed women subhuman, and our energy belongs there.
Today was a struggle for a word. Not that there aren’t a number of words that start with N; so many of them are so empty. Nothing. No-one. Nowhere.
N has a serious case of the negatives.
But who doesn’t love a word that is both a thing and an action, but the two are entirely, entirely unrelated?
Why should the word for the fantastically delicious and versatile food staple also mean to think? And why would “noodle” come to mean head/brain/mind?
It’s a mystery.
Probably not a big mystery because it’s likely just a google search away, but whatever the background, it won’t match the delightful weirdness of the outcome.
Should I check?
I’m going to check.
Well, I was right, and they don’t really know either. The best guess is that it’s altered version of “noddle,” which was a stupid person. Noddle is a fun word to pick up, though in this tech world people will just assume you misspelled “noodle.”
Oh well. Tuesday on we go.
So just one thing before I get into just: still at battle with my head. I’m sorry I’m a bad visitor and comment responder right now, but at least I’m still posting…
OK, just. Just is just my my writing tick. Why? It just is.
No matter what I’m writing, “just” just sneaks right in. Even in my fiction, I always have to do a search for “just,” and when I see how many hits there are, I’m just flabbergasted.
We all have those ticks, those words that always show up no matter what our intention. “Just” isn’t even a very useful word, really.
The key is identifying them so that we can destroy them, destroy them with the might of a thousand word-processing programs.
Or just the one. Really, you only need the one.
What’s your tick?
Here we are, at the very end of 2018, with 2019 mere hours away. Thank you for being here this year, and I wish you all the best next year!
And, in what is becoming a tradition, here is a short story from my collection, Better Living Through Gravy and Other Oddities:
“It’s nothing personal,” she said as kindly as she could muster, “it’s just time.”
“But I’m not nearly as used up as they said I would be,” the other one said, “not nearly at all. I’m not wrinkly, or old – I’m kind of in prime time.” She gave herself an once-over, careful not to break her bond with the contraption behind her.
“Unfortunately, we really need the machine.” She sighed and tapped her pen on her clipboard. “We only have a few more hours.”
“We?” said the woman in the machine. “We only have a few more hours? You’re going to install that thing,” she gestured with her head toward the giggling baby making faces at the man in the white coat at the other end of the room, “and go on with your routine. You think don’t have it down by now? Daily dial turnings, just one click. Then you, with that pretend-serious look, yanking that lever. You think I didn’t notice you enjoy those lever pulls? Well I did. And you do.”
“Now come on, Wanda, there’s no need to be this way. You can go out with dignity.” She shot a look across the room to her coworker. He was too enthralled with the baby to get her message for a little help.
“What am I supposed to do now? I was huge, I was everything.”
“You’re sounding like a bad movie.”
“They don’t tell you what you’re supposed to do when it’s over.” She relaxed her grip on the copper handles inside her chamber, her visible gears going slightly slack down her arm toward her shoulder, the teeth just a bit looser. The worker took that as a good sign. She quickly tamped down her encouragement, in case Wanda saw.
“There are always retrospectives,” the woman said. “You know, ‘Best ofs.’ And there’s still plenty to do in the first few months, while people are getting adjusted. You know, rent checks, 18-month calendars, that kind of thing.”
“And then what?” said Wanda. “Then what happens? Where do I go? What do I do?”
“I’m so glad you asked,” the woman said, finally able to return to her script. “You see, we have this lovely facility, all of you go there, you know, when you’re finished. Here,” she slid a glossy folded paper from beneath the clip of her board and held it toward Wanda. “There’s even a brochure.”
The pictures were bright and multicolored, with others sitting and laughing, eating, strolling by the water, the patina of their clockwork innards glinting warmly in the setting sun. It didn’t look too bad. She nearly let go of the handle to take the brochure, to open it, to see what kind of crafts there were, as promised on the cover, when she remembered.
“No,” she said.
“Wanda,” said the woman, her tone sharpening, gaining hardness around the edges, “I’m afraid you haven’t got a choice. It’s time.”
She shook her head as much as the chamber allowed, which wasn’t much. “I’m not going.”
“But what are we supposed to do with him?” She pointed her pen at the baby, who turned, stared at them and burst into a full beam, his tiny gears engaging as he reached his arms toward Wanda. “It’s his turn now. Don’t you want to give him his turn?”
Wanda closed her eyes. It wasn’t fair, she thought. It went by so quickly, her lifetime of usefulness, her purpose, and now she was supposed to retire off with the rest of them, with some anonymous body of water and a dining hall and crafts. Though crafts are nice. But still, this was her machine, it was hers.
The worker had moved away, but she could hear her talking softly, her sentences interspersed with the cluck of her two-way handheld.
“No, no, I’m telling you it didn’t work.” Something unintelligible garbled through from the other side. “No. Clamped on, completely. Like a vice.” Again, soft electronic murmuring. “It’s like Oh-Three all over again.” More garble. “What? She can’t hear me. I’m away from the chamber.” Indistinct chatter. “Fine, fine, Trinity. Like Trinity all over again.” She waited for the response. “That would probably be best.” After a long interlude of murmur, the handheld fell silent.
“Umm, Wanda?” said the worker several minutes later, the ice in her voice retreating. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
“Not interested,” she said, her eyes still closed. She knew the truth, the worker had practically said so herself, with the conversation she thought Wanda couldn’t hear. She was only a number to those people. Oh-Three indeed. “What do you call me when you’re out of the lab?” she said, her eyes still completely shut. “When you’re talking to your buddy over there at lunch or wherever it is you go?”
“Wanda,” the woman said, her discomfort obvious even to Wanda and her closed eyes.
“What do you call me? One-One?”
“Wanda, really, there’s someone here you should meet-“
“Or Eleven? Do you call me Eleven? A number to you, that’s what I am after all this time.”
“I thought she couldn’t hear,” she said to someone, though Wanda wasn’t going to bother to open her eyes to see who it was. “I swear, I wouldn’t have used the technical–“
“Technical?” said another voice, a new voice, a male voice. “Technical? Really? Is that how you’re describing it?”
“Her name is Wanda, you know,” he said, his tone both relaxed and oddly engaging despite the rebuke. Wanda couldn’t help herself, she opened her eyes a crack.
“I’m Oden,” he said with a half-smile. “I’d shake your hand, but I understand your position. Obviously,” he said. His gears were slightly rainbowed with a healthy dose of age. Wanda thought they made him look distinguished.
“Oden,” she said. “So I?”
“Replaced me, yes.” He took a step toward the chamber, careful to keep a distance. “Flip of the switch and it was me in there. And you over there,” he said, and smiled at the baby, a real smile, not a put-on one.
“What did you do?”
“I went,” he said. “It was time. It’s how it works, you know.”
“I know,” she said, looking at her feet, so comfortable in the only spot they’d ever known. She glanced up and met his gaze. “I know,” she said again.
“The place really looks like the brochure,” he said, offering her his hand to help her to step out. She considered it, but didn’t lessen her grip on the handle.
“What about the crafts?”
He took the hand he’d been holding out and dug into his pocket, his gears gliding smoothly along. He pulled out a wallet. “I made this,” he said. “Stitched it myself.” She took in the uneven stitches and frowned. “I’m not a very good crafter,” he added quickly, “but they are fun to try.”
“Hmm,” said Wanda. She glanced at the worker who looked at the clock on the wall and back at Wanda, her face full of cautious hope. Oden set out his hand again.
“The sunsets are every bit as pretty,” he said, “and the best part is there are no more dials, no more levers. No more chamber.”
“But I like the chamber,” she said, scooting back to be further back within it.
“You like the chamber,” he said, “because all you know is the chamber. Take a leap.”
“No, no,” said the worker, “that’s him.” She pointed at the baby.
“You understand you’re not helping the situation?” Oden asked her.
“I do, yes, realize that now.”
“So what do you say, Wanda?”
She gave her chamber and the lab a final look over. She could probably make a better wallet. She could certainly make a better wallet. Maybe they’ll have pottery. Slowly, she released first her right hand and then her left, and placed it in Oden’s outstretched palm. The machine beeped behind her while the worker anxiously watched the clock, the man with the baby leaning, ready to place him.
She stepped out of the machine.
The woman grasped a crank on the side of the box and turned it furiously so that the chamber got smaller and smaller and the arms shorter and shorter. The man, watching the clock rather than her or the baby, placed the baby where she had been moments before but where she would never fit now. The baby giggled.
Without looking back, Wanda took Oden’s arm, and together, they headed toward the door. They reached it and disappeared into the flash of sudden white light.
The worker leaned against the machine, her hands shaking. “Happy New Year, everyone,” she said weakly.
So I borrowed my parents’ Roomba. In case you don’t know, a Roomba is a little mechanical miracle that vacuums for you. You tell it to go and off it goes, merrily vacuuming along. It gets into all kinds of tight spaces and the best thing is you don’t have to vacuum with your own hands.
Now this is the 21st century I expected.
I’ve had it for a few days, and I’ve got to be honest. I don’t want to give it back. I wonder what the prison sentence is for Grand Theft Roomba.
It’s a little like a toddler who likes to vacuum but is really good at it, as it can tangle in cords and get itself stuck. Then it emits a pleasant tone and a voice tells you what the problem is.
See? Totally the future.
It makes me envision the days when people will tell their grandchildren “we had to vacuum! Ourselves! Uphill both ways!” Those days can’t be far off.
Talk about a modern convenience.
Now that I have seen the light, it seems impossible to imagine life any other way. Even though it’s not as if I have to sweep the carpets by hand or anything.
Sometimes the world changes in an instant, but sometimes the change is incremental, so creeping it doesn’t even feel like change.
Just like the Roomba.
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