People Who Fart in Bookstores and Other Heinous Fiends

Jan22

Every weekend my husband and I head off to the bookstore . . . It’s a crucial aspect of my mental health regimen. Coffee and books. There are plenty of studies out there to confirm my position on the positive effects of coffee and bookstores, at least that’s what I told my husband. I know I’ve read it somewhere.

The bookstore for me is a sanctuary of solace. Coffee is the elixir of life. Barnes and Noble is my Shangri-la. Sometimes though, my experience is bittered, polluted in this case, by other people who obviously do not understand bookstore behavior.

My afternoon started off with promise, with a bit of bliss even. I roamed the aisles, scanning tables and shelves, making mental notes of what treasures lay scattered about as I made my way toward the Sci-Fi section. I’d barely began reading the synopsis of Summerlong by Peter S. Beagle when I sensed a disturbance settling uncomfortably around me.

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I looked up to see a man quickly rounding the corner at the end of the aisle when it hit me. The smell. The god-awful, putrescent stench of whatever fowl food was decaying within his inner workings filled the air about me. My eyes began to burn. I held my breath lest it enter my lungs and spread throughout my respiratory system, making me quickly and surely dead within a matter of moments.

I fled as quickly as I could, taking what I thought would be refuge in Romance, but when I dared begin to fill my lungs with air I realized it wasn’t over. Weakened by lack of oxygen I thought I was done for, but the sheer will to survive gave me strength enough to continue. Teen Fiction was the next aisle over, I was sure I’d be safe there, I was wrong.

I-Could-Still-Smell-It.

I am fairly certain that man was in need of medical attention.

I heard rumblings from Fiction and Literature and sure enough, there were other survivors, huddled together for comfort.

From there, I quickly made my way to the Starbucks Cafe at the opposite end of the store where my husband sat, flipping through a magazine while sipping a venti iced coffee with half and half and classic sweetener.

I must have looked dreadful after my harrowing experience, but he was kind enough not to mention it. I told him what happened through gasping breaths. He raised one eyebrow, told me to stop being melodramatic, and went back to the latest issue of Hot Rod magazine. If he’d been there, he wouldn’t have been so flippant about it.

Anyway, I composed myself and ventured back out into the stacks, keeping an eye out for that flatulent fiend, thankfully, I didn’t see him. He must have fled the scene of the crime. He dropped that bomb and ran. Monster.

I made my way to the restroom for a bit of freshening up. Maybe I was being silly washing my face and my arms and my hands as thoroughly as I did, but I’d just been exposed to a toxic cloud of gas. I didn’t want to take any chances. Of course, all that running water made me need to pee. I waited for a stall to open. When one did, a little boy skipped out, followed by his mother.

When I shouldered the door open I was horrified. Pee. Everywhere. How? Why? Was mom watching videos on her fricking phone while her little angel was painting the place with piss?

Now, I raised three boys, I know what can happen in the restroom, but seriously?

I backed out and waited for the next one to open. A well dressed woman exited, her smile lulled me into a false sense of security. You know what I saw? Pee! Drips and dribbles of pee on the seat. What the hell? It wasn’t just one or two either, it was on each side and the back. Again, how? Why? You might be wondering how I know it was pee, you might be thinking it could have been spray from the flush. No. She clearly needs to up her water intake. It was grown-ass woman pee.

I decided to hold it.

Determined to enjoy what time I had left before my bladder forced an end to my bookstore day, I again composed myself and decided to head over to Biographies, I never made it that far. See, the direction I was traveling took me past the children’s books, I wasn’t two steps in front of the entrance when I was body slammed by a runaway kid, who was followed by another runaway kid who was followed by an agitated mom who told me to watch where I was going.

Despite everything, I somehow managed to make it to the register with two books. My bladder held until a suitable restroom could be found. While it wasn’t the best bookstore day, it wasn’t the worst either. Actually, it was. It was the worst bookstore day ever and I think I’m deserving of a do-over.

A plea to my fellow humans . . .

If you can, please hold your farts until you’ve found a suitably airy and unoccupied space to release them. An empty aisle in a bookstore does not fit that criteria, the restroom will work, exiting the building will work. If possible, please refrain from eating gas inducing food items prior to entering a public space.

Thank you.

Moms, from one mom to another, for the love of all things not disgusting, please teach your young boys to aim. Toilets were designed with a great big hole filled with water, that is where the pee goes. If they do happen to miss, these things happen, please clean that nastiness up.

Thank you.

Ladies, I can’t believe I even have to ask, please stop dribbling piss on toilet seats. What are you even doing? Use the damn toilet seat protectors, hover if you must, but geez, don’t piss all over the seat and walk away. That’s just nasty.

Thank you.

Moms, I know kids can get rambunctious, especially in public, but if you can’t keep them from running and screaming and turning mischief into mayhem outside of your home, take them to the fricking park. Teach them to behave for goodness sake, I managed it, so can you.

Thank you.

They are always with me

Jan19

Throwback Thursday . . . Words

The Qwiet Muse

Words

They are always there.

Constant companions

following whither I roam,

lending themselves

to use as I please,

offering their worth,

asking nothing of me.

They assist me to rise,

they sing me to sleep,

they catch up my tears,

and dry them for me.

When my voice

has gone silent,

they offer me theirs,

and when it’s too loud

they soften the sound.

I’ve pushed them away

I’ve cursed them be damned

and still . . .

they remain –

without hurt or disdain,

and still . . .

they remain –

to unburden my heart

and vanquish my pain.

They make music

from thoughts,

transform what I think,

spilling my dreams out,

painting visions in ink.

My constant companions,

my most faithful of friends,

they live and they breathe

with each word that I pen.

Crystal R. Cook

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The Words

Jan10

The words, the words – they scream, begging for release, clamoring, vying for attention, pieces of poems and paragraphs of prose push and pile one upon the other until I hear nothing more than noise, until they become nothing more than sound without substance, until I’m forced to lock them away, somewhere so deep within I’m afraid they’ll be lost.

The words, the words – my constant companions, my friends, my sometime foes. Tonight, there are too many, so many I cannot pluck them out and pen them to a page so I doodle and scribble my angst. I write random words and scratch them out. My frustration fills the page.

Perhaps tomorrow they will settle, tomorrow they will whisper. Maybe then I will breathe again.

Happily gaa-gaa

Jan10

When you’re 16 years old and you meet a cute guy you can get a little gaa-gaa over him. Puppy love, isn’t that what they call it? It never lasts, right? Wrong. Sometimes it does.

30 years ago I was 16 and met a cute guy, got a little gaa-gaa and guess what? I never got over him. I tried a few times, but I could never do it. I never will.

Today is the anniversary of the day we wed, 22 years ago. We had ups and downs, a couple kids, marriage, a couple more kids . . . life. We made a life, stitched it together with love and respect and a little bit of crazy (that stuff really sticks).

I cherish every moment, every memory, every dream we share. I guess I’m still a little gaa-gaa over him ❤️

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Palette of words . . .

Jan8

I’d no intention to write today, poetic was certainly not the mood I was in, but I clicked on WordPalette instead of Solitaire this afternoon to wile away the time between loads of laundry and lost myself in wordplay.

Seriously, if you haven’t tried this app, you should. Every time I play around with it, I’m left happily surprised with the results.

Sometimes I only use words from the palette, sometimes the choices simply serve to inspire and spark a little creative fire. I’ve always liked playing with fire . . .

Click here to read a little more about this fun app –> My Favorite, Fun New App

Raging against ourselves,
abandoned from within.
Felled by foolish pride
and ignorance,
we search for meaning
amongst the ashes
of truths we long ago burned.
We buried the path
to a better future
beneath layers
of forgotten yesterdays,
of lessons we were meant to learn.
Miles made of years
stretch before us,
in the space between now
and someday,
there lay a vast
and barren desert
littered with remnants
of things we once valued.
Mammoth mountains
of prejudice and disdain
and things we should have
long since buried
impede those
who seek refuge beyond them.
Those willing to forge a new path
and embark upon a journey
toward a new future,
willing to face fears
and fight against what is,
will one day rise,
lifted by winds of change
until they soar high enough
to glimpse the dawn
of a new day.

It’s not personal . . .

Jan5

Killing for them or tearing one of their worlds to pieces is the easy part. It’s not personal, for me at least. I’m not personally or emotionally invested in them. I know, what’s wrong with me, right? I’m not like a lot of other people, and I’m not just talking about the killing and dissembling of someone else’s world stuff.

Really, I think the killings are probably the most normal thing about me. People just have very different ideas of what constitutes normality. I’m only trying to help.

So, like I was saying, the killing part I do for them is easy for me. Okay, it’s sometimes a little tough. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to, but it’s kind of a job requirement.

The thing I have a harder time with is dealing with the ones who came to me and asked me to do the job to begin with. I mean, c’mon, they know what I’m going do, it’s on the business card for crying out loud. Well, if I had business cards it would be. The point is, they know.

Sometimes I just want to scream. I’m listening to these grieving creatures and thinking, umm . . . you came to me, remember? You read the terms and conditions, you signed here, initialed there, so really, dry it up and move on. That sounds cold hearted, I know. Especially since I am so much like them and would likely feel the same way.

Besides, it’s not like they can’t fricking bring them back to life. It voids my services of course, I stand behind my work and my refund policy clearly states in no uncertain terms that there aren’t any refunds. Heck, a majority of the time I do it for free anyway. I probably shouldn’t but, and reserve judgement here, I enjoy it. I often derive a great sense of satisfaction and sometimes even inspiration from it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of satisfied clients, most of them as a matter of fact, but some seem to have a harder time letting go once the deed is done. They wonder if they made the right decision, I suppose that’s normal. It’s a process. They know they did what had to be done, or they wouldn’t have sought out my help, but still, they grieve. They don’t always agree with my methods, even though they came to me based on my previous work.

That’s the thing, they trusted me to get the job done, then they second guess the way I did it. After some time has passed and they’ve worked through their emotions they almost always come to thank me, I get a lot of repeat customers actually.

It’s a rollercoaster, what I do, I like to think I’m pretty darn good at it too. Sure, I make judgment calls maybe someone else in my position may have made a little differently, aside from the basic mechanics, we all have our own little bit of flair we add to our work.

You know, I don’t always do the actual deed myself, I offer advice to folks who want to see it through themselves. Every now and then I just tweak their ideas a bit, give an overall opinion of the direction they want to go and they get it done.

I have a job right now actually, so I gotta get to it. This one is for me, it’s a little harder when you make the work personal. Words to cut, characters to kill, paragraphs to shorten, others to lengthen . . .

I’m not a monster. Editing and critiquing the words penned to a page can be brutal work, especially when you’re doing it for someone else, or yourself. Just brutal.

I didn’t bother to check for grammar, typos, or any other of pesky things that plagues writers in the above rambling, it’s just rambling. Something to keep my mind from going mad with the muddied mood I happen to be in. It was either plot murder or write about what to some constitutes a demise of sorts – editing.

I once tried to give them life

Jan4

Upon these wrinkled pages
there are traces of me
left scribbled in ink.
My soul marks the margins
and the middles,
from left to right and sideways.
Pieces of paper painted
with half formed thoughts
I’d hoped would breathe
once they were penned
lay lifeless,
scattered corpses
of inspirations abandoned.
Wasted words, lost,
tossed in a box,
never discarded,
left to the worse fate
of being ignored
by the one who promised
to make them dance
for the world to see.
If I smoothed these pages
enough to set them free,
would they turn their backs
on me or be thankful,
grateful for my company?
I’m afraid to look upon them,
I don’t know what I’ll see
looking back at me.

~ CRC ~

Crap that scares me, my greatest fear, & suiting up.

Jan2

Back to the blasted blogging challenge. I’m now on day six (and I started like, 300 days ago). From this point on, I’m replacing ‘day’ with ‘number’ because I am quite obviously incapable of maintaining a daily challenge. Well, that’s not true, I’m capable of it, I’m just too lazy to commit myself to the task. That’s not entirely true either, I’m not lazy, per se, just otherwise occupied. Sometimes it’s housework, different writing projects, or other similarly adult type responsibilities, and sometimes it’s reading or word search puzzles, Netflix or nothing in particular.

My prerogative and all that.

So, number 6 on this challenge asks, what are you afraid of? Whew, loaded question. I compiled a list of random fears, in random order –

Clowns
People dressed as clowns
Clowns dressed as people
People (not every people, but people)
Most spiders
Hippopotami
Getting lost
Car accidents
Driving on the highway
Drowning
Heights
Fire (unless I’m playing with it)
Losing the ones I love too soon
Quiet clowns
Electric shock (been there, done that – terrified of it)
Forgetting
Bad hair cuts
Killers
Mean dogs
Bears
Moose (I grew up in Alaska, trust me, they are scary)
Going blind
Killer clowns
Major health issues
Falling
Random acts of violence
Kangaroos (especially those big muscled ones)
Most bugs
Laughing clowns
Spontaneous Human Combustion (when I was ten, I seriously thought this was how I’d go)
Flesh eating bacteria
Large, loud crowds
Being hit by a car
Elevators
Large bodies of water
Running out of coffee (legit fear)
Porcelain dolls
Crying clowns
Children in scary movies
Crap like that bitch that climbs out of the well in The Ring. (I didn’t watch it, but the commercials gave me nightmares)
Uncanny Valley (look it up if you don’t know what I’m talking about)
Intruders (especially if they’re dressed like clowns)

Alright, enough of that. Being afraid sucks and I try not to let myself become lost in it. Fear can control us if we let it. For the most part, I don’t allow it to, but sometimes I guess I do.

The big one I can’t seem to overcome is my fear of driving. Highway driving specifically. I don’t do it. The last time was probably fifteen years ago. Takes away a lot of freedom. I just can’t do it, maybe I don’t really want to because it’s scary and requires pharmaceutical intervention if I attempt it.

Then there is the issue with clowns. It’s funny, but it’s not. A lot of folks are scared of those bastards so I’m not alone in this mostly irrational (is it really irrational though?) fear. Ridiculousness.

Fear is often a liar. It’s a bully and a brute. It makes itself bigger than it deserves to be, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing, and it’s a convincing disguise. It too often keeps us prisoners within ourselves. We wear it like armor to protect us, when all the while, fear is the actual enemy at our door.

In the late 1500’s Michel de Montaigne basically invented the personal essay. In book one of his works, he writes, “C’est de quoi j’ai le plus de peur que la peur.” The thing I fear most is fear.

I suppose I’m with him, perhaps my greatest fear is fear. I’m not sure if it should come before or after clowns on the list, but I do indeed fear it. I fear the powerlessness I feel in it’s shadow. I fear what it can take from me as well as what it leaves behind. I fear the hold it has on others. Decisions based on fear, rational or otherwise, are often made in haste and leave lasting reprocussions in their wake.

I fear the world is cloaked beneath a blanket of fear and because of it, our collective fears are being realized. It makes my list trivial in comparison. Yep, Montaigne got it right, the thing I fear most is fear. Knowing this gives me an advantage though, I can’t fight what I don’t acknowledge. Fear is an idea. A concept. A feeling, right? It’s not like a charging bear or some roided out looking kanga-frickin-roo.

Fear is meant to be fought. We are told and we tell others to face their fears, overcome them, rise above them . . . No one says hide from them, give in to them, or cower before them. But my, what a battle it can be. Suit up, warrior. Toss that white flag aside and practice your battle cry.

I’m going to start small. Maybe I’ll wade out a few steps into the ocean or watch a scary movie. I know not every fear can be conquered and I know fear can actually be a good thing, but not when it doesn’t serve to protect us. Not when it controls us.

But still . . . effing clowns.

So, New year.

Jan1

Alright, 2017. One more year has passed, it’s never been a big deal to me, but for some it is. Nothing around here has really changed except the calendar and now I have to get used to writing 2017 when I just got used to writing 2016. Mostly.

All day long I’ve been telling myself I should write something about the new year, or the old one . . . I did word searches all day instead though.

I don’t know what to say about last year, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, I stole that from Dickens of course. It works. Just like last year and the year before that, there were ups and downs and in-betweens and I survived them all. I expect this new year will be the same because that’s life. We have to take the good with the bad and do what we can with it.

I’ve heard so many people saying this was the worst year ever, politically, socially, etc.. I don’t know about that. Historically there have been some pretty bad years. If we really want to compare, I think we came out fairly well. But that’s just me. I’ve been upset about elections before, saddened by world events, celebrity passings, and gotten my panties in a bunch over something or another my fellow humans have said or done. In the end, it is what it is and I either said or did something about it or I didn’t. None of it ruined my year.

If I were to sit down and make two lists, one for the good stuff that happened this year, and one for the bad, I think the good would likely outweigh the bad, unless I wanted to nit-pick, like, I stubbed my toes approximately 12 gazillion times, I spilled my coffee (one spill is too many when it comes to coffee), I had to interact with people more than I anticipated, and so on. But if I did that, I would have to include things on my good stuff list like the too many to count smiles I received from strangers, the serendipitous moments in life that always catch me by surprise, and all the coffee I didn’t spill.

I know it’s easier to focus on the negative sometimes, not sure why, human nature crap, the bad stuff just seems bigger if we don’t remember to hold on to the good stuff just as tightly. I almost hate to say it, actually, I don’t, I embrace my Disney Nerd, we need to learn to let it go, at least loosen our grip a little.

Too many people hold on to annoyances and anger and sorrow like treasures, while the real treasures, the ones that matter are scattered and forgotten. So maybe this year, let some of it go. Don’t even pick that shit up and add it to your collection. Look at things, examine them, maybe borrow them for a short while to see if they’re really worth keeping and if whatever it is, good or bad, doesn’t bring something positive into your life in some way, let it the frack go.

I’ve said something like this before and got blasted for it, some people don’t like being told to look at the good and walk away from the bad, those people get pissy and say mean things, those people are not adding enough things to their happy list.

I know there are some things we have to hold on to that aren’t wonderful. I know it. I fricking know it. I also know, we don’t have to carry those things with us everywhere we go, we don’t have to keep them on permanent display. That good stuff needs some room, it needs to shine.

So anyway, Happy New Year. God bless. Good luck. May the force be with you. Nanoo nanoo. Live long and prosper.

My proudest moment? I got a good one . . .

Dec17

Day five, (or 296), of this blog challenge thing has me asking myself about my proudest moment. Still too lazy and moody to tackle day three.

How does one choose their proudest moment? I’m not typically one to toot my own horn, but I guess if I think about it, I’ve had my share of moments in life I’ve felt quite proud of myself. Some of those moments were big, monumental even, others were itty-bitty, perhaps even inconsequential in the grand scheme of all things pride worthy, but damn if I wasn’t proud of myself for accomplishing them, but choosing one to highlight?

Gimme a sec.

I’m too often too hard on myself. I downplay my successes, finding some reason or external force to give credit for them. I don’t know why I do this, I really should celebrate in them, give myself some kudos and well deserved pats on the back, but it feels weird.

Still thinking . . .

There is this one thing, I’ve managed to rock this particular thing a few times and damn if even I don’t mind saying I did it well. I’m not the only one who’s ever done it of course, doesn’t make it any less awesome and magical and fricking awe inspiring, so I’m going to call this thing the thing I’m most proud of. Best thing I’ve ever done, like not just gold star worthy, but world fair blue ribbon, best in show, top of the class (every class) kind of worthy.

I made a human. Not just one, mind you, humans. I made humans. Remember that movie Castaway? When I watched that movie and the fire scene came on, I remember thinking, yeah, that’s kind of how I felt when I looked at my first little human creation.

It wasn’t easy, blood, sweat, and tears went into it. Poured my heart into it. To this day, people compliment me on my work, “Your kids are amazing!” and I pretend to be all humble about it, “Aww, thank you. I made them myself.”

My pride in this accomplishment extends beyond the act of making them, that was just the beginning really. Phase one in the creative process. It takes a long time to complete a human, a lifetime actually. Once that little rough draft breathes the breath of life you have to start molding it, and keep on molding it until it reaches a point in the life you gave it to take over and continue molding itself into what it will eventually become.

Yes. I called my greatest achievements it. I’m tired, you know, from the 27 years of molding and shaping I’ve done so far. Besides, it’s a thing I do, sometimes I call babies it. Sometimes I call them little bugs, smooshies, or squidgies too.

So yeah, my proudest moment has lasted far longer than a moment, I feel it every day. I made humans. Good ones.

Kudos to me.

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