"Phone Call to My Mother"

The following was a writing exercise that Roger gave to the fiction workshop. The guidelines: all dialog, no stage direction or exposition of any kind, less than 400 words. I had fun writing it, but I'm not sure if I can use it for any of my stories--it doesn't really fit with anything I have. Writing something around this conversation seems destined to fail, and it doesn't stand on its own in terms of weight/significance. So I figured I'd post it here. Why not.

"Jacqueline, I’m kind of busy. Can I call you back?"

"Where are you, Mom?

"I’m at Kohl’s Super Saturday Sale. These people are vultures."

"I was in an accident."

"Great, what happened?"

"Don’t sound too concerned."

"Well, it’s very hectic here. If I don’t stay focused I’ll miss out on the best deals."

"I can tell you need to go."

"Don’t be ridiculous. Give me the story."

"I went to White Hen to pick up milk—"

"Which one did you go to?"

"What?"

"Which White Hen did you go to?"

"The one on Ogden, near my apartment. Why does it matter?"

"Oh, that one’s no good. You should go to the one on Roosevelt."

"But that’s way out of my way."

"Yeah, well the milk is cheaper there."

"Can I finish?"

"I’m just saying."

"Anyway, I was making a left onto Ogden when I got sideswiped by a Honda."

"You should have gone through the lot and went to the light. You could have avoided the whole mess, Jacqueline."

"I’ll try to remember that next time."

"Did you remember to get the milk out of your car?"

"You know, I am okay. Just in case you might be worried."

"Of course you’re okay. Otherwise you wouldn’t be taking such a tone with me. Now, did you or didn’t you remember to get the milk out after your accident?"

"No, Mother. I have not done that yet."

"Make sure you do. And soon, too. It’ll sour the car, and you’ll never be able to get that smell out."

"You’re unbelievable, you know that?"

"Why, thank you, dear. Do you want me to stop by later on?"

"Don’t bother."

"Hello? Jackie? Hel-lo."

Washing one's hands afterward does not necessarily entail that either party has reneged on his or her commitment to the other person

Here's my definition of what true love is:

A straight-faced, remark-free willingness to pop each other's unreachable zits.

Semi-Live Nude Books

I've been hardcore neglecting the book blog. Not on purpose, though. I'm feeling overwhelmed by all of my obligations: thesis, fiction workshop, teaching, Blue Earth Review, freelancing, job search. None of these items are getting the attention they deserve. Hopefully, I'm not spread too thin, resulting in poorly produced work. That very well could be the outcome on any or all of my obligations. But right now, the first victim seems to be the book blog.

I haven't updated it in a month and a half. The latest book review should have been written back in late August, since that's when I finished reading the book. But that hasn't been the case. Not just because of time concerns, but because I'm having a hard time thinking of good things to say about the book. It's not horrible. But it's not that great, either. The point of the blog is to promote books and spread the word about them. I'm not sure how to do that with this one. Every time I sit down to write the review, all I think about are the book's weaknesses.

When I started that blog, I worried that something like this would happen. That I'd read a book I wasn't into, but would have to write about it because I would have already announced it. The first few books I reviewed were ones where I was either already familiar with the author's writing, or I had already read the book before committing to review it. I'd like to say that once I sit down and force myself to write this review, I'll be able to move on and the blog will move much more efficiently. But I can't, considering my latest shameful secret: I haven't been reading on any sort of regular basis in the past month.

Workshop manuscripts and freshman comp papers have been my main reading material for the past month. And Esquire keeps me company when I'm on the throne. But I haven't been reading any stories, essays, novels, or poems. This must change. I'm well aware of how bad I've been. This week, I screw my head back on and get to work. I've gotten some review queries from authors--which means free books--and if I want that to continue, I can't neglect this thing anymore.

Singled-Out

My mom is on the Facebook, which I find both hilarious and frightening. I can only imagine the weird shit she'll say on her status updates. (Oh, shoot! My latest batch of potato salad didn't turn out too well.) Or her responses to mine. (What does boner-kill mean?)

It's super weird signing in to Facebook and seeing my mom's sole update under the Highlights column on the left-hand side of the screen. "Irene DeWolf is single." That's the sort of announcement that says, "I'm on the prowl." The thought of my mom using Facebook--the one social networking site I'm on--to pick up dudes doesn't sit right with me. There are a ton of creeps on this site. Case in point: me.

At the beginning of this semester, I looked up everyone from my English 101 roster on Facebook. I wanted to know what to expect: are there any bad seeds in my class? do any of these kids like music that doesn't suck? am I going to laugh at any of them because of the way they look? These are good things to know beforehand. How's it going to look if the slack-jawed, crossed-eye chick walks into my class on the first day, and I start pointing and cackling at her? Pretty fucking awkward. It's called desensitizing. You stare at the little freak's picture until her appearance no longer makes you laugh.

On a side note: It amazes me how many people don't privatize their FB accounts. Are they aware that creeps like me are on the internet in swarms? Guess not.

My point is that I'm not cool with my mom advertising her relationship status on Facebook. There are plenty of dating sites out there that I imagine weed out the creeps more effectively. Or, at least, those sites give the illusion that they're creep-free. I fear the day when my mom's relationship status changes to "in a relationship," only to find a profile picture of her with some dude sporting a porn-stache and a skullet.

Compromise

I don't understand the appeal of Craig Ferguson. He's never made me laugh--not on the Drew Carey Show and definitely not on his late late show. His talk show monologues are super cheesy, filled with hand puppets and jokes that grade-schoolers would roll their eyes at. I just want to hit the mute button during his interviews; they seem to go nowhere, and he's constantly redirecting the questions toward himself.

I do, however, understand the appeal of Sophia Bush. When she makes an appearance on Ferguson's show, I'm willing to put aside my hostility and watch in awe.

DeWolf Terrier

Sometimes I wonder what's stopping me from acting on impulses at inappropriate times. Case in point: anytime a poet reads at Good Thunder, I feel the urge to bark. Not like a doberman or a lab. No. When the poets read, I want to yelp like a terrier. Or any of those small, yappity little shits that obviously have anxiety issues.

After the readings, I have an idea as to why I didn't bark during the event. There's the whole social decency aspect, and the fear of being yelled at by some faculty member I don't know. But while the reading's taking place, I think, "What's stopping me from letting out a harmless little bark?"

Absolutely nothing. And don't think I haven't come close, either. Holy shit. During Beth Ann Fennelly, I almost cracked. When Bob Hicok read, I looked around and thought, "I am actually about to do this." And when Li-Young Lee was here, well, that time I almost burst into flames. But there may have been other forces at work that time.

I've never barked during a Good Thunder reading. What I find to be odd is the fact that this impulse only occurs when the reader is a poet. Though, in a similar sense, I always wanted to yell in church when I was a kid. Mainly during the congregational prayer. That would have been amazing.

Anyway, I believe the reason I want to bark during the poets' readings has to do with their deliveries. It's nothing against the poets or their work. But let's face it: many poets have that fluttery, deliberate way of reading. Not all poets, but a whole hell of a lot of them do this. You know exactly where their line breaks occur, and the end result is a boatload of downtime.

Downtime makes me antsy. Nervous. Jittery. Anxious.

ARF!

Shut In

My neighbors from across the street are watching me; they have been all summer. Every time I look outside at night, I see a red dot in their second-story window. It's a video camera, I'm convinced. I've pretended to go on late night walks just to get different angles on the red dot. It's definitely coming from some sort of dark box that's propped up on a tripod. At least, that's what I've pieced together from my recon missions. I'm guessing there's a bench or night stand on the other side of that window, since the tripod is small and needs the help of a table in order for the camera to overlook the window sill.

That damn camera's on all night, too. I've never seen a cord, so it must get some charge out of the battery. If I wasn't so worried about the reason why my neighbors are videotaping me, I'd ask them what kind of camera it is and how long the battery lasts. I could use a video camera. I've got ideas. Ideas that could find their way onto YouTube. And then...I guess that's it.

They're videotaping me in case they pick up footage that proves I'm breaking my lease. They're doing this because I'm assuming they're friends with my landlord. I recently found out that my landlord has been taken to court eight times by previous tenants. My former downstairs neighbors were the last to do it, and they won their case. Now, my landlord is pissed. He wants to get back at all of the assholes that have wronged him through misdirected voyeurism. And I'm his victim. I've been sued by a landlord before, but that jackass didn't count on the fact that one of my roommates happened to be the son of a district court judge. We ended up settling, but ever since I've become increasingly defensive and paranoid when it comes to renting.

Tonight, I don't see a red light from my window. So I go outside. It's damn cold out there right now, even for October. The clouds look like ice sheets drifting over the moon, and the wind reminds me that my wool coat won't be enough tomorrow. Get ready for the winter cold, for closed windows, and drawn shades. My neighbors blinds are down. They have no need to watch me in winter. Apparently, this is the time of year they think I don't do anything too exciting. They might be right.