#as somebody who has spent way too long grooming dogs

[dustinslovehandles]

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #420

lol blaze it (i’m funny i swear)

In your opinion, which fast food place has the best fries? Without a doubt, Bojangle's. Good. Shit. Are there hurricanes where you live? Yeah, they're common here. What do you hate the most about yourself? I'd really rather not get into this right about now. What song are you listening to right now? "Beast of Gévaudan" by Powerwolf. What was your first concert? Alice Cooper. Also my only concert. What’s your favorite Johnny Depp movie? Alice In Wonderland. Who did you last say “I love you” to? My sister. Do you like pumpkin pie? Anything pumpkin-flavored is a hell no from me. Do you know anyone named Austin? Knew, rather. Do you know anyone who is having a baby? My friend recently announced she and her husband are having their second child in December. What was the last thing you cried about? Just PTSD. Do you prefer regular or chocolate milk? I like both, but I prefer chocolate. Do you think you are an argumentative person? Definitely not. How many deep dark secrets do you have? Two or so, idk. What was the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten? Some wings at Buffalo Wild Wings with one of the hottest sauces. Wanted to die. ... Yet I continued to get that one whenever I went for years lmao. Who last called you sexy? I don't know. Would you class yourself as a good role model? In some ways, but in a lot of other ways, no. Are you scared of the dark? No. Do you have a motto? No. Who did you last see on webcam? The doctor that overlooks my TMS progress. Do you need a haircut? I need a trim for sure. How would you react if your mother told you that she was pregnant again? Well, considering 1.) she's way past menopause and especially 2.) she's had a complete hysterectomy, y'know... that's kind of impossible. She also hasn't been with a guy in many years, so she would have to be joking. You log into Facebook and see the red ‘1’ notification next to the message icon. Who do you want it to be? -___- Would you rather exercise alone or with other people? ALONE. You will NOT see me exercise in front of other people. What is the most difficult or involved video game you’ve ever played? The most involved is DEFINITELY World of Warcraft, and I guess you could consider it the hardest too, given some of the much more difficult things I've done in it. It itself isn't a hard game whatsoever, but you can pursue some really hard achievements. Ever watch the show Supernatural? If you have, then what’s your favorite episode? I used to love it, but just stopped watching eventually. My fave episode... Man, it's been too long to remember many. Probably one of the funnier ones. I remember I specifically liked the bit where they were in your everyday comedy show, as well as the one where I THINK Dean kept trying to prevent Sam from dying. I just remember the "Eye of the Tiger" bit that is pure gold. Ever heard of flavored honey? If so, what’s you’re favorite flavor? Oh, no, but that sounds good. Do you remember what your favorite show was when you were little? Yeah, Pokemon. Do you put anything besides cheese on grilled cheese sandwiches? Besides butter, which I think is pretty standard, no. When it comes to books, what do you think is the “perfect” amount of pages? Uh, I dunno. It depends on the book. I don't really care about page numbers. Would you ever be interested in going scuba diving? Yeah. Out of all of your friends/relatives, who would you say has the best vocabulary? Girt, probably. Are any of your fingers or toes deformed? What about the nails? I don't think so? When is the last time you cried? I was sobbing earlier today, fun stuff. Would you ever date somebody that has been divorced more than once? Most likely not. ESPECIALLY at my age. What are some stereotypically nerdy things that you like? Oh god. WoW, M:tG, big glasses, anime (does that count? idk really), video games... a lot of stuff, really. Have you ever attended a wedding that ended where the bride and groom didn’t actually get married? What happened? Y I K E S, no. That would be SO uncomf. What scares you the most about becoming a mother (hypothetically, if you don’t want to have children)? Actually raising it properly, physically and emotionally. Would you ever want a job in fashion? What would you enjoy about that type of job? No. Would you ever be a surrogate mother? No. What do you think would be the best and worst parts about being a twin? It'd be cool to have someone you feel an almost supernatural connection towards, but I'd also feel like I wasn't as "original" as I would be if I was born alone. Do you feel that your childhood was more rough compared to others around you? I mean it wasn't awful at all, but sure, in some ways compared to at least someone. How would you react if you found out today that you were actually adopted? Well today I'm a wreck, so don't tell me. I want to know that I wasn't lied to for 25 years. Have either of your parents ever cheated on one another before, that you know of? How would you react if you found out today that one of them cheated? I'm not entirely clear on this, but I'm 90% sure Dad cheated on Mom with his now-wife. Dad also accused Mom of cheating, but I HIGHLY doubt that's true. Do you like cleaning and organizing? Not really. How would you react if you found out you were infertile? If you don’t plan on having kids to begin with, what is a long-term goal you’d be crushed to find out was impossible to achieve? Fuck having kids. I'd be a terrible mother. So to answer the other question, I'll be pretty, pretty sad if I can't get permission to spread Teddy's ashes at Yellowstone. Would you take your dream job if it were out of the country? Well, obviously not considering my dream job is a meerkat biologist, and I'm not moving to Africa. Have you ever been robbed? No. Is anyone close to you an alcoholic? Not anymore. Dad was, but he's recovered. Have you ever dumped anyone? Yes. What kind of tea do you drink? I hate tea. Do you know anyone in a gang? No, and I hope I never do. What’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you? Risk his fucking sanity and health to try to hold my fucked up self up. What is your orientation? Gay? Straight? Metrosexual? Anything other? Bisexual. I've kinda been questioning pansexual of the late, though. I don't know. Have you ever done anything really dangerous or illegal with friends? Not to my memory. Name three feelings you’re feeling right now: Regret. Hopelessness. Loneliness. And the reasons for these feelings? Take a wild fuckin' guess. How do you feel about your life right now? It's an actual dumpster fire. Is it easy for you to like yourself? Why or why not? Fuck no. Because there's just not very much TO like about me. Even on my good days, I see flaw after flaw in myself. What subjects come naturally to you? English, some aspects of science. What subjects do not? Math, economics, politics, history... Do you read more fiction or more non-fiction books? Definitely fiction. When I read a book, I want an escape from the real world. How has today been for you? BOY HOWDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What did you do? Went to TMS therapy. Sat on the Internet. Cried. :^) Are there any candles lit in the room you’re in? No. Are there any lava lamps near you? No. I want one, though. Do you like cats or dogs better? Cats. Are any of your friends a pothead? Yes. What’s a goal you’re trying to accomplish soon? Start losing weight again. That'd be pretty goddamn grand. Are you a high maintenance person? Definitely not. The last time you yelled as loud as you could, what was the reason? I was having a nightmare. Have you ever been heartbroken? For sure. Who did that to you? First Dad, then Jason. Did you go through an ugly stage as a kid? Boy, did I. The last type of sandwich you made or ate: A pb&j. The last time you spent most of the day in bed: Literally every day. I do just about everything in bed. Pathetic, I know. The last friend or acquaintance you made: Ummmm idk. The last thing you took pictures of: A hydrangea bush. The last time you were scared: Now. The future is terrifying, my friend. The last thing you looked up online: The definition of a word to ensure I was using it correctly. The last thing you disagreed with: So I've been watching John Wolfe's old stream of him playing Alice: Madness Returns, and he went on a total soapbox about smoking being okay essentially because we're all gonna die eventually from something, and I really disagreed with it. Does your house have a separate laundry room? No, just like a closet. Do your parents still help you financially? I'm still entirely dependent on them. Does your car have a backup camera? No. Have either of your parents ever been in trouble with the law? Not to my knowledge. Have you ever had a pet that lived to be really old for its breed/species? REALLY old, no. Teddy was definitely up there, but beagles have lived longer. What was the last strong scent you smelled? Lysol. Have you ever told someone to their face that they were ugly? Christ, no. Is your bed against more than one of your walls? No. Have you ever been attracted to someone’s parent? Don't think so? Have you ever pole danced before? No. Have you ever broken into someone’s house? No. Have you ever seen a live bat? Yes. What is the most amount of money you’ve spent on a meal before? I dunno. Have you ever taken a woodshop class? No. How much time do you spend on Facebook, if you have one? Funny you ask, because as of today I decided to take a break from it for awhile. I've found it's nothing more than a breeding ground for envy and making me feel like a horribly incompetent adult. Has a teacher ever made you hate yourself/your work? I had one photography teacher in college that I was NOT a fan of. He was super, super hard on everyone, like to an unnecessary degree. We were students, not pros. Have you ever been on the barrier or front row at a concert? No. Are your parents supportive of you? Somehow.

[kingneptunesthinninghead]

In your opinion, which fast food place has the best fries? i love me some mcdonald’s fries.

Are there hurricanes where you live? they happen every once in a while

What do you hate the most about yourself? I'd really rather not get into this right about now. same

What song are you listening to right now? nothing but catch fire by 5sos is stuck in my head.

What was your first concert? brad paisley 🤠.

What’s your favorite Johnny Depp movie? willy wonka and the chocolate factory

Who did you last say “I love you” to? My sister. probably same

Do you like pumpkin pie? it’s about the only pie i DO like.

Do you know anyone named Austin? no one i like

Do you know anyone who is having a baby? my friend just gave birth to a baby about a week ago

What was the last thing you cried about? i cried in the car on the way home from work last night while listening to jet black heart lmaooo.

Do you prefer regular or chocolate milk? i dont drink milk.

Do you think you are an argumentative person? Definitely not. agreed, i’m conflict avoidant to a fault

How many deep dark secrets do you have? i dont think i have any

What was the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten? the hot wings from bonchon were pretty f’n spicy

Who last called you sexy? i dont remember

Would you class yourself as a good role model? i think for the most part

Are you scared of the dark? sometimes i am

Do you have a motto? nah.

Who did you last see on webcam? my club committee from school

Do you need a haircut? i just got one about a month ago so not atm

How would you react if your mother told you that she was pregnant again? that would be impossible considering she’s in menopause and has her tubes tied

You log into Facebook and see the red ‘1’ notification next to the message icon. Who do you want it to be? no one i hate facebook

Would you rather exercise alone or with other people? most of the time alone but sometimes i’ll exercise with my sister or in a structured workout class

What is the most difficult or involved video game you’ve ever played? any bc i suck at video games

Ever watch the show Supernatural? nope

Ever heard of flavored honey? If so, what’s you’re favorite flavor? i’ve heard of it but never tried it

Do you remember what your favorite show was when you were little? i went thru hardcore icarly and victorious phases, also LOVED spongebob

Do you put anything besides cheese on grilled cheese sandwiches? sometimes i’ll do bacon on mine

When it comes to books, what do you think is the “perfect” amount of pages? the length of a book has never deterred me from reading it, ever.

Would you ever be interested in going scuba diving? maybe

Out of all of your friends/relatives, who would you say has the best vocabulary? not to toot my own horn but me

Are any of your fingers or toes deformed? What about the nails? no

When is the last time you cried? didnt i already answer this

Would you ever date somebody that has been divorced more than once? mm prob not

What are some stereotypically nerdy things that you like? i guess marvel and space would count

Have you ever attended a wedding that ended where the bride and groom didn’t actually get married? What happened? no but i’ve attended several weddings of people who have quickly divorced

What scares you the most about becoming a mother (hypothetically, if you don’t want to have children)? raising them to be a good well adjusted person.

Would you ever want a job in fashion? What would you enjoy about that type of job? prob not

Would you ever be a surrogate mother? nope

What do you think would be the best and worst parts about being a twin? i would love having that strong of a bond with someone and having someone to go thru life with but i would also feel like i never had anything that was truly mine esp in early childhood

Do you feel that your childhood was more rough compared to others around you? my childhood was great compared to a lot of peoples and i’m extremely thankful for that

How would you react if you found out today that you were actually adopted? i would feel betrayed that i’d lied to for 20 years

Have either of your parents ever cheated on one another before, that you know of? How would you react if you found out today that one of them cheated? not that i know of and again i would feel crushed and betrayed

Do you like cleaning and organizing? when i’m in the mood for it

How would you react if you found out you were infertile? If you don’t plan on having kids to begin with, what is a long-term goal you’d be crushed to find out was impossible to achieve? i would definitely be upset bc i want to have at least one biological kid but in the end i would find just as much joy from adopting a child and giving them a loving home.

Would you take your dream job if it were out of the country? it depends on what other factors are in my life at the time

Have you ever been robbed? no

Is anyone close to you an alcoholic? my friend at college and that’s not even a joke that’s genuine. i think he’s getting the help he needs tho which is good

Have you ever dumped anyone? no

What kind of tea do you drink? I hate tea. same it tastes like dish water

Do you know anyone in a gang? No, and I hope I never do. same

What’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you? omg i still remember this bc i was blown away by how sweet it was. so in 9th grade i had one friend in my pe class and idek how we started talking but we just stuck by each other bc we didn’t have anyone else and we sat at our own table right by the teacher’s desk in health class and we actually became pretty close friends throughout the year well anyway i mentioned my birthday was coming up and she asked me what i wanted and i was like no you don’t have to and she was like do you want flowers and i was like sure why not and i didn’t think she was gonna actually do it but then on my birthday she shows up to health class with these beautiful purple flowers and i was so shocked that she actually got them for me so yeah i’ve never forgotten that ever. she moved away after that year and i never saw her again but i hope she’s doing well

What is your orientation? Gay? Straight? Metrosexual? straight but i have questioned before.

Have you ever done anything really dangerous or illegal with friends? nothing too wild

Name three feelings you’re feeling right now: bored, content, excited

And the reasons for these feelings? bored bc i’m at work, content bc i like the way my life is going rn, excited bc i get to go back to school and see all my college friends soon.

How do you feel about your life right now? pretty pleased at the moment

Is it easy for you to like yourself? Why or why not? no. it’s a conscious choice to like yourself that you have to make everyday and some days that choice is easier to make than others

What subjects come naturally to you? English, some aspects of science. agree with this, i’m very good at english and i understand some science

What subjects do not? MATH

Do you read more fiction or more non-fiction books? fiction but sometimes i like a good non fiction book.

How has today been for you? pretty good nothing too exciting

What did you do? watched tv and went to work

Are there any candles lit in the room you’re in? no

Are there any lava lamps near you? nope.

Do you like cats or dogs better? Cats. agree i have 4

Are any of your friends a pothead? yes, several

What’s a goal you’re trying to accomplish soon? start working out consistently again and get into therapy.

Are you a high maintenance person? nope

The last time you yelled as loud as you could, what was the reason? i was at a karaoke night

Have you ever been heartbroken? yep

Who did that to you? my ex crush

Did you go through an ugly stage as a kid? ohhhh yeah

The last type of sandwich you made or ate: a ham and cheese sandwich with pepperoni and mayo

The last time you spent most of the day in bed: when i was at school and i had stayed up until 6am the night before.

The last friend or acquaintance you made: my coworker

The last thing you took pictures of: a rainbow

The last time you were scared: when i thought a car was following me the other night

The last thing you looked up online: manic panic hair dye.

The last thing you disagreed with: i don’t remember.

Does your house have a separate laundry room? yep

Do your parents still help you financially? yes, a lot

Does your car have a backup camera? nope.

Have either of your parents ever been in trouble with the law? not to where they’ve been arrested

Have you ever had a pet that lived to be really old for its breed/species? my childhood cat lived to be 18 which was pretty impressive.

What was the last strong scent you smelled? my cat’s fart

Have you ever told someone to their face that they were ugly? no way

Is your bed against more than one of your walls? nope

Have you ever been attracted to someone’s parent? um yes some people i know have dilfs i’m sorry

Have you ever pole danced before? no

Have you ever broken into someone’s house? no.

Have you ever seen a live bat? yup at a beach house in the obx

What is the most amount of money you’ve spent on a meal before? i bought bonchon for my friends and i one time which was just about $100

Have you ever taken a woodshop class? no

How much time do you spend on Facebook, if you have one? as little time as possible.

Has a teacher ever made you hate yourself/your work? i had one math teacher in high school that consistently made me feel dumb bc i needed extra help to understand the concepts and couldn’t do mental math that fast so didnt like her

Have you ever been on the barrier or front row at a concert? closest i’ve been was second row

Are your parents supportive of you? yep

[bulletballetarchive1]

💍 Rings 💍

SO, this started off as something I wrote in third person. Then, because I was showing it to English Professors I rewrote it in 1st person. Which was my first time writing anything in this narrative. The only other thing I want to point out is that rather than New York, I placed The Littlejohn Family in the Midwest because I hoped the locality would better resonate with the audience. And with that said here we go!!

                                                              . . . . . . . . . . . .   I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me. 

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in. 

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget. 

In our early days together, my grandfather’s lover told me that she was not my mother and in that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven year old counterpart required when it came to maternal care. 

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place: seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time. 

Being the ever obedient child I was, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. But even with this said, I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

My belief would be silently proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me run errands. I can even remember believing Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white with a delicately laced-collar. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry. That evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight. 

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.”  I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful little rocks in Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice.  “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past, and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.” 

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories? Where does the hatred end and the sentiment begin? 

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no particular reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.” 

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales. 

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life. 

However, at that particular moment as a child, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it.  “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked.  “This -” she lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.”  “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded.  “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze.  Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided. 

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.  “No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.  “My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused, “We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. “That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”  My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.  “From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. And after my mother passed on, this has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”  Not only was I soothed by a far more preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp.  “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”  “My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.  “Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.” It was not shortly after this, but in gradual due time that when preparing me for an outing, Ms. Bedel would retrieve one of the necklaces from her sacred box and fasten it around my neck. In some cases, it was to enhance my church dress, or to simply show I was a colored girl of high esteem as she and I walked to a show downtown.  Each time this was to occur Granddaddy would part his lips, sneering that Ms. Bedel was making me into a ‘fast’ girl. Originally, his disdain was ignorable. As the sole man in the house, if Ms. Bedel disagreed - and I, as a result, found a voice to also disagree: I could exit the house, beautiful. 

Unfortunately, the days of the feminine rule Ms. Bedel and I shared left when cousin

Winston moved in. Although Winston and Granddaddy were separated by generations, their “masculinity” gave them a higher sort of power. If Granddaddy thought I was fast and if Winston thought I was fast, then it was so. From that point on, shiny gems would never again be around my neck.

I did not like this change. Prior to my aunt placing Winston in Granddaddy’s custody, I would receive comments from adults of how “lonesome” I must have been as an only child. I never thought I could be lonely, not when I had Granddaddy and Ms. Bedel’s company. In addition, I was also quite aware of the luck I possessed, because never did there come a time when I argued about what belonged to who.  While the alterations that occurred in my childhood home were minimal at best with Winston’s arrival, they were quite jarring all the same.  Breakfast was smaller, lunch and dinner too. I also had to be tolerant - patient - when Winston sat by my side, giving his own outlandish variations to the personalities of my beloved dolls. His rough housing even led to the tearing of Marilyn! And even though tears fell on my pillow that night by sunrise, I forgave him. One of the most noticeable changes was in how Ms. Bedel began to seldom speak to me. I thought it would be wise if I did not speak to her, as I acknowledged not just her body language but the dryness of her voice. The change that occurred was not my fault. Ms. Bedel simply detested my cousin.

In her eyes however, I was different. Different in the sense that when she met my grandfather, she met me too, and therefore knew what would come if she decided to move in. Winston was unlike me, not just due to gender or behavior, but because she never agreed to provide for him. Still, I did not know this. Instead, there were many days where I wondered if I had done something to evoke her coldness, but in truth I just didn't know of the hostile conversations taking place between the adults of the household. Some of my days were better than others, but the moment I made my greatest mistake came from one of my worst.  I returned home with low spirits after school. It did not matter that it was Friday as the memory of Lucinda Carter’s wrongdoing remained fresh in my heart and mind.  I will admit that in my childhood I more often than not felt an intense desire to be accepted by my peers. I was well-aware I had been viewed as the perfect, ideal child by my elders, but to those in my classroom I was thought of as little more than an old woman, masquerading as a child. During the occasional moments they were willing to overlook my small, shifting eyes and unusual silence, I was filled with jubilance.  With the little friends I had, I joyously followed to play Duck, Duck, Goose. With Lucinda circling us, I could feel the tension build. Each moment was thrilling. No one knew who the Goose would be, and I even speculated that it may be Thomas or Claude who would chase us around the courtyard. I did not expect Lucinda’s palm to fling into my face as she declared I was the wild goose. And what a fool I was, trying to rationalize the assault. I understood it was a part of the game. But I knew that with the way Lucinda usually treated me, it could not have been a giddy mistake. Still, I did not say anything to the teachers. Tears no longer slid down my cheeks by the time I climbed the concrete steps of my home. At that point, I began to think of the things that made me happy, and in that moment it occurred to me the last time I felt at peace was when I was among Ms. Bedel’s treasures. This is what brought me to her side, rather than confiding to my grandfather of the humiliation that occurred to me on this day. “Ms. Bedel,” I began meek and soft, “can I see your diamonds?" My first crime of that day was not realizing how Winston was among her. I was not aware Winston’s eye size doubled at the sound of diamonds.  “Yes you may.” All I knew was that Ms. Bedel looked greatly unhappy that I approached her, “but put everything back as found. Do you hear me? Everything, Delores."  “Yes ma’am.” And with that, I was on my way, embarking on my second sin.  After retrieving the jewelry box I navigated to the private sanctuary of my bedroom, shutting the door. Any other time I would not have done this, but it felt relieving to know that I was keeping to myself. Alone. Laid out on my wooden panels, I observed every pearl, opal, and amber gem. In this solace, I could not wait until I had my own collection of jewels to possess when womanhood approached, for surely everyday would be spent in happiness.  “Delores!” The sound of Ms. Bedel’s voice ripped me from my adult fantasies. Before I could rise to my feet and ask ‘ma’am?’ she opened my door, scolding me once more: “you better keep this door open, young lady. I don’t know who you think you are, secluding yourself away from the world! You are seven years old!” She did not have to curse at me as I hear some mothers do their children. She did not have to strike me as a reminder that she and my grandfather’s words were the law. I already felt the harsh sting of shame and humiliation coursing through me, and so although she did not keep watch on me with a critical gaze after ensuring I kept my door open: when she told me to put everything back, I did so - with the belief I had gathered everything.  It was my fear of further disappointing her that ruined my judgment. 

Saturday was fine, Sunday was as well as we attended church like a prim and proper family. It is horrible to reflect on the change that came a mere few hours after our worship.

“Ever since you took that boy in he’s been nothin’ but trouble!  He wasn’t even sick on Tuesday, he was connin’ you!”  This was not an argument that could be ignored. It was clear as the siren of an ambulance: both Winston and I could hear the clashing of our guardians echo through the walls. Ms. Bedel’s fury summoned Winston to crouch outside our elder’s bedroom. I was tempted to steer him away and convince him to mind his business until all was calm, but I was also taken by the enragement.  “I didn’t know you was a doctor!”  “I was with him that entire day!” Ms. Bedel shouted, “I could see him running and jumping and just actin’ a fool! Maybe if you weren’t trying to keep up with these young men out here-” “Woman!” I jumped at Granddaddy’s raised voice, “You don’t know a THING you talkin’ ‘bout!”

Hearing the heavy thud of Ms. Bedel’s feet, I wondered what if the door swung open and the nosiness of Winston and I would be displayed before her eyes. Surely we could never live it down. 

“Look -- damn you Amos, look!” However, she did not open the door. Ms. Bedel was elsewhere in the bedroom, and I could only assume she took a stance by the dresser. “My ring is gone! I know that he took it and he sold it to some...some-”

“Some what?” Grandaddy snapped. 

“Some hustler!” 

My knowledge of the streets were limited, but I knew the title she used for Winston was not right. “You should have seen him - the way he was looking when Didi had mentioned I had diamonds. I could just about read his mind!” 

“He’s nine years old, who does he know? If he took it, he prolly gave it to some lil’ girl!” 

“Amos! Why are you defending that heathenistic-”

“Shut up!”

“No good-”

“Dammit woman, I said shut your mouth!”

“Ungodly grandson of yours!” 

There came a sharp sound. The sound of skin hitting skin. It was stronger than how Lucinda hit me, that I knew.

However, this was not a new sound for Winston. In contrast to his excited face, I was cringing as if I personally witnessed Granddaddy’s powerful strike.

“You hard headed woman.” He hissed, “y’ain’t gonna keep standing here and keep callin’ my grandson outta his name. Y’got one more time t’do that and I’ma drag you outta here. Keep on talkin’ about some itty bitty ring. Keep on.”

“It was my mother’s.”  “Your mama was the thief you’re makin’ my grandson out to be. Your mama wasn’t nobody.”  

At that point, Winston was stretching his legs and placing his palm against the door knob. I decided that if Winston would get himself in trouble for getting into the adult’s business, so be it, but I personally would have no part in it.  But the truth of the matter is, by not prying I spared myself from the sight of my grandfather - a man who was more commonly stern whilst simultaneously doting, in a state far different than what I was accustomed to. I knew he was in the wrong - he was terrifying me, just to overhear him in this private moment. But what would I do if I looked at him? Caught him in whatever dominant position he stood in? Then, I heard Ms. Bedel weep.  

“I hate you.”  As she continued to weep, my heart broke. “You old bastard - what makes you think that I have to be with you? I don’t have to be with you. I accepted your granddaughter, willingly, I never had to do that for you. Then you put that grandson on me, and...and I’m too damn old to be going through burdens like you! Get away from me! Go on!”  Don’t go… I can recall thinking, I can recall wanting to act out: to cry and scream, but instead I was biting at my bottom lip, thinking: Don’t go. I felt shame at that point, too. Incredibly small, irrelevant. A burden. Now, I was willing to peep through the door like Winston, treated to the sight of Ms. Bedel moving faster than I had ever seen her. Apathetic and rough, she tossed the jewelry box on the bed, grasped at her coats, blouses, and furs. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Granddaddy had the audacity to ask, as if he had not personally told her to remove herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?!” I did not know where the ring of Ms. Bedel’s mother had been. Truly, I thought it was in the box as it needed to be. The truth of the matter was that it was under my bed, somehow knocked there by my little feet as I spent my Friday evening admiring it all. But never would I have stolen from a woman I respected. At this moment, I did not think of my own potential mistakes, but I did think about letting my tears fall and what it would have been like if I rushed into Granddaddy’s bedroom, asking him if she could stay. “Move, move!��� My surely disastrous idea never came to be as Winston grabbed my shoulders the same time Ms. Bedel’s feet came our way. Before I knew it, we were scurrying like small, brown mice to my bedroom. It was very likely Ms. Bedel saw it, but hadn’t possessed enough care to say anything.

“When y’find that damn thing,” Granddaddy followed her, not caring about our wide eyes. “You can’t never come back here. Never!”

“I don’t plan on it, Amos!” 

Ms. Bedel would only return to Granddaddy in the pursuit of her fine china. Shortly afterwards, I believe she left Dayton to return to New York.

This would be the first memory that brought me pain and discomfort: something I could not dwell on because it was too harsh. At some point, my grandfather realized that the woman he loved was forever gone, because he would issue cold gazes to Winston. Asserting that if he took her ring, he should speak up. Each time, Winston claimed innocence.

As the months came and went, so did the severity of the emotional wounds of that day. Never would we forget the disaster, but we had to shoulder it and proceed on with our  life. Though, one day, I would find something shiny below my bed. Like a calling, the light green streaks requested for my attention in an abyss of darkness. As I cupped it and brought it to light: that fateful day would hit me all over again.

Needless to say, as a teenager I spent many of my days wishing to turn back time. I wished that I could have considered that maybe it was I who made a mistake. Then, I would run to my bedroom, I would search up and down until I found that emerald ring and both of my guardians would enter a state of calmness. This was my fantasy. But silent, I would keep this ring. Though I would never wear it. Not even as eleven became thirteen. Or thirteen became sixteen. Or sixteen became eighteen.

Always, this ring was to be hidden. Forever my secret.

Even now, it is in my own jewelry box. And though Ms. Bedel’s mother stole it - and I in a way inherited this ring through the tradition of ‘stealing’ it, have never worn it. It has always felt taboo. Instead, what I do is keep it safe. 

I am blessed to remember things as well as I do, yet precise memory can be a curse. 

[deloresisout]

I wrote this story for a creative writing contest at my college - then shit hit the fan after the deadline [social distancing] so I don’t even know if I’ll hear back from faculty anytime soon. This was my first time writing in 1st Person (or rather converting a story into 1st person) and I was proud enough to show some people close to me in real life. So, I’m going to post this excerpt here. 

I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath: anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me. 

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in. 

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However, when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget. 

In our early days together, Granddaddy’s rotund lover told me that she was not my mother. In that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven-year-old counterpart required when it came to maternal care. 

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a wide-eyed, meek child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place. Seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time. 

Being ever obedient, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

This belief was proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me. I can even remember believing that Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white, its collar delicately laced. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There even came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry, that evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot, I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open, and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight. 

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s own.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.” With this answer, I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful pearls of Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice. “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.” 

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories. Where did the hatred end and the sentiment begin? 

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.” 

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age as I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales. 

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life. 

However, at that particular moment, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it. “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked. “This -” Ms. Bedel lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.” “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded. “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze. Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided. 

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.

“No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.

“My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused. 

“We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”

My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.

“From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. After my mother passed on, I received it. This beauty has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”

Not only was I soothed by a far preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp.  “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”

 “My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.

“Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.”

[it-stheaulifeforme]

lonely but never alone

Fandom: Playmobil: The Movie (2019)

Characters: Rex Dasher, Del, Amber (my cute kitty OC)

Whumptober prompt: October 11th (1 day late), Stitches.

Rated for: consistent mention of injuries (generally not graphic, but still), drugs (hospital themed, but still), violence involving brief mention of a physical assault, accidental injury by a cat, brief musing on a near death experience, stalking

Premise: After getting back late after a while out after shaking off some people that were following him, he’s greeted by a cute bundle of black fur known as Amber. Seeing his cat when he gets in always brightens him despite everything, and he muses on his life and commitments as a result. This is besides understanding even more when he decides to have a shower and has to be reminded again of a particular wound on the side of his head, nonetheless feeling comfortable knowing the people and things in his life that he wouldn’t know how to live without.

Word count: 2,033

Tagged: @whumptober2019, @unlikelyxmisfit

It was a late night by the time Rex got back home. He hadn’t had the chance the last couple of nights because he hadn’t been able to shake a particular bunch of people off of his tail, so he ended up having to sleep in his car. His whole body ached from lying in awkward positions, from running, and he felt so dirty. His sleeves were rolled up and he held his jacket over his shoulder as he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Ugh, he thought, throwing his jacket on the floor and switching on the light. He shut the door and slid down against it. He put his hands up to rub his eyes, and sighed.

Mew?

That was always a good thing to hear. He looked up, seeing a sleek black kitty with golden yellow eyes pad his way over to him. He laughed as she stopped next to him, nuzzling into his neck and licking near his face. He could feel that same warm purr he always did every time he got in. It was always something to look forward to.

“Heyyyy,” he said, in an amused tone, “ya missed me then huh? Sorry, I didn’t expect for this to happen.” He went to scratch the top of her head, feeling that contented vibration as always on his skin. Besides - it was quite soothing considering the level of bruises and scarring he’d endured. They were fading, but still tender. The warm softness of a cat helped to take his mind off of things like that.

He’d named her Amber after the striking colour of her eyes. He remembered he found her abandoned and half-starved in an alleyway, and was discreetly able to take her to a vets that he knew of near his work where he wasn’t as recognised. He usually took in animals like this, managing to find them new homes in the end. He just couldn’t keep them permanently considering everything, but she’d stuck round the longest. 2 years now, actually. He didn’t know what he would’ve done without her.

He stroked down her back and she sat up, tilting her head at her. God, he loved the way she looked at him with those eyes. No wonder he named her after them.

“Hey, yeah, I’ll go grab your dinner before I have a shower,” he said, pulling himself up and stretching, “I damn well need one.”

He picked his jacket back up, and strode towards the kitchen as best he could, her strolling next to him. Although, she then decided to go in front of him, meowing and going in between his legs, almost tripping him up. “Alright, alright, careful! D’you want your dinner before or after you make me fall over?” he asked, laughing, trying to step over her. He eventually made it to the kitchen, but not without falling into the door frame.

He always wondered how he managed to look after these animals, knowing him. His job was irregular enough without getting living things involved. He had enough trouble trying to keep the people he cared about from getting too close, and yet he always got super attached to animals enough to keep them. I mean, he was never really able to connect with his peers, instead preferring to hang out with the family cat and dog when he got home from school. Not that he didn’t like people - he cared about them a whole damn lot. He just wasn’t good at being able to be friendly with people, especially ones his own age.

Not that his parents seemed to care. He looked like he was alright, as far as he made them aware. They just seemed like a naturally distant family, and he just kept to himself.

He put the bowl of food down in front of her, since she was clearly eager. He’d been away for a bit but planned to be home earlier if it wasn’t for certain people that decided to follow him. He still wondered why, since he’d spent pretty much all his time trying to shake them off and wait it out in back alleys, make his car signal more secret and take a longer route home. He’d already had a late-night job somewhere else, he didn’t need this.

He unfortunately knew this came with who he was. He’d gotten rid of them, for now.

Fortunately, he wasn’t usually out for long, even if some enemies did manage to catch up to him. Of course, there’d be some scarring and bruising in the escape process, but many of them he found would have an easier way out. The others were more of a problem, but sure, they couldn’t keep him forever. He’d be damned if they ever did.

She went to work eating it, and bent down to scratch her head softly. “Heyyy, I knew you’d be hungry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, but I’m gonna be around here for a bit here. Maybe I can do some things from here,” he said with a small smile, “I’m not always one to want to be long anyway...some people just like to remind me how popular I am, and not in a good way, frankly enough.”

She was clearly more intent in the meal, but it was nice just to feel like he was talking to somebody. He had company, that was the main thing.

He stood up and left for the bathroom. He really did need that shower.

It was obvious how terrible he felt once he was in there. Everything really did ache, and places like his neck and shoulders always seem to sting in contact with warm water. It was hard to know just how much he seemed to bruise and scar, as even when they faded, there was always new ones. It hurt knowing how much he needed to cover up when he went out, especially in a more casual manner. He didn’t need the questions.

He had stopped though, hissing as his fingers, after putting his hands through his hair, went over a recent wound in the side of his head. He’d been so busy with everything else, he’d forgotten he actually got that recently treated with stitches. It wasn’t too big, but it really did sting now. He wondered why it took so long to remind himself even with what he’d been doing, especially with the number of times he’d put his hands through his hair and how much time he spent just trying to cover it up.

He ended up kinda just letting the water fall over him as he ran his fingers gently across it. He always seemed morbidly transfixed with his injuries, maybe because he didn’t have a whole lot of time to focus on much when he was doing jobs. And maybe because they were such heavy reminders of why they were there.

This was a particularly bad one, where he remembered he’d been in a fight after he’d managed to escape with something important, and blocked off on a street. He achieved a few bruises during it, but it got to a point where he was losing and stumbling on his feet. Seeing their opportunity, he was shoved sideways into the brick wall and fell to the ground almost instantly.

They took what they needed back from him, leaving him on the ground as if to die there. He wondered how he was still alive - and if it wasn’t for a much needed emergency call just beforehand, as much as his instincts said not to involve anyone, to Del who drove over with the truck, he pretty much wouldn’t have survived anyway. He’d remembered waking up in a small underground doctor’s place that both of them had been aware of, drowsy from sedation and his injury in a bed and stitches barely hidden by his hair. Del had been sitting next to him, absolutely relieved and grateful that his friend was still alive. It must have been funny to see him of all people lying in an absolute state practically comatose in an underground hospital.

He did have to laugh about it. He hoped it wasn’t the drugs he’d been given that made him look up and grin like an idiot at seeing his friend there over the moon and not worried sick.

He pushed his hair back, blinking rapidly. He’d been here a while, standing under this stream of warm water. He did need it, feeling less strained, especially across his neck, back and shoulders.

He should get out though. He couldn’t stand here all night.

After he washed and got out, he heard the familiar sound of scratching at the bathroom door.

“Hey, Amber, I’m here,” he soothed, opening up the door once he’d put on his dressing gown to see her stretched out up against the door, claws unsheathed and staring up at him, “you can stop scratching the door now.”

She kept staring up at him, meowing, before she sat back down to lick her paws. He always found that adorable, watching her groom herself. She was always just as curious, whenever he went to use the hairdryer and she sat by his bed.

It made him smile, thinking of the parallel. She was always there whenever he woke up, whether that was her sitting on him and pawing at his face, or watching from a distance near his bed. He still had a companion with him, even if he found it difficult to maintain close connections with people he cared about. He’d always been an animal person, and whenever he got in the door, he at least knew he had someone waiting for him. In each other’s ways, they relied so much on each other. It was comforting, understanding that. He could forget how lonely he felt when she was around, or even just knowing she was.

When he was eventually dressed in his pyjamas and dried his hair, being followed and watched by a warm load of black fur, he had ended up sitting in front of his TV with his dinner. Since he had quite the chaotic lifestyle, it was usually microwaveable, but he didn’t care. Amber was perched on the arm of the sofa as he ate, half tuned into one of his favourite B-movie sci-fis on the TV. Usually he could distract himself enough with these things, and not have to think about anything else.

He was chewing on some potato and staring past the screen when he was surprised by Amber pawing on his head to the point she was scratching on the stitched area and he practically jumped at the painful sensation, managing to save most of it from going on the floor. He grabbed at her paw and managed to pull away without catching anything, breathing heavily. He turned to look at her, not happy, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Hey, please don’t do that,” he said gently, stroking her head, “you can touch my head, just...not there please.”

She was really one of the few living things that could touch his head and end up messing his hair up. He could get self-conscious about his hair, and as much as he cared about others, he wasn’t keen on people just touching it. Especially with something like that underneath it.

She put her paw down and licked his face. Her breath smelled like chicken and he amusedly pushed her face away and licked his hands instead. “Hey!” he said, laughing, “I’ve just had a shower!”

She sat up, gazing at him with that head tilt. Of course, he didn’t think she understood. But for someone like him, he couldn’t care less. He was pretty much too tired to really want to, anyway. Care that she didn’t really understand the things he did or said. It wasn’t really the point.

Mrrrrow? she seemed to ask.

“I don’t know,” he yawned, looking back at his dinner and then the screen, “I think things are okay for now, maybe.” He stroked her down her back and turned around to her again with a soft smile. “Even if it’s just the two of us.”

[beingmyownhxro]

@brviscs || lena and the kitten ((mostly under a cut, because I wasn’t joking when I said I wrote u a novel))

---

Lena had been looking for a new cause to invest in, and when she heard about a local animal rescue shelter in need of financial help, it seemed like a perfect match. Still, of course she wanted to take a tour of the place and speak with the various staff and volunteers. Most places were perfectly wonderful, but she knew there were some places that weren’t always entirely humane, and she would never want to support someplace that didn’t treat the animals properly. She also liked to find out the details of what funds would be used for, because sadly, there were unscrupulous types who would pad their own pockets more than anything else.

So far, things had checked out. There was just one more area she hadn’t seen yet.

“Ms. Luthor, would you like to see the animals?” the volunteer asked.

Lena smiled. “I would love to.” Of course, this wasn’t only about seeing cute animals, though she would never object to that. Seeing the conditions the animals were kept in and confirming how well they were cared for was a vital part of assessing the quality of the shelter.

The volunteer led her to another room, first showing her the dogs. They all had as much space as possible and seemed well-groomed and happy, jumping at the fences. “If you’d like to meet any of the animals, just let me know,” he told Lena.

“Thank you.” She... probably shouldn’t do that, though. Lena just knew that if she did that, she would get attached.

Next were the cats. They had blankets, full or nearly full water dishes, and their litter boxes were clean enough that one could easily tell they had been changed quite recently. As Lena walked around, many who weren’t sleeping came up to the bars and looked at her, some meowing.

But somehow, they weren’t the ones who caught her attention. There was one all the way off to the side to minimize the number of people who would come up and poke fingers through the bars, and inside was a small kitten cowering in the corner.

Seeing the question in Lena’s eyes, the volunteer explained. “This one-- we’ve been calling her Sophie. She was never really given a name by her previous owner. We think she was separated from her mother when she was too young, and the home we rescued her from, she was neglected and abused. There was a lot of debate about putting her up for adoption yet, because she’s still pretty afraid, but we were worried it might hurt her more if she got too attached to the workers and then was relocated. So we’re waiting for someone to come by who’s got the patience to help her learn to trust. ...It’s pretty heartbreaking to see her passed up over and over again, though.”

Lena didn’t know why, but that story hit her hard and she was barely holding back tears. “Why is she so small?” she asked out of genuine concern, her voice soft.

“Some of it is because of the separation and neglect when she’s still growing. She also doesn’t eat much. We give her the most nutrient-rich food we have to help, and as you can see, there’s a bowl there for her to eat anytime... We think it might be because she isn’t used to having food when she needs it.”

It was all too much. Her heart ached, and she couldn’t stop the question that left her lips. “Can I meet her? I don’t want to scare her, but I would love to meet her.”

He nodded. “Sure. As long as they’re patient and gentle with her, it has helped her to get exposure to people. If she wasn’t ready for that, we wouldn’t put her out here yet.” He opened the kennel and spoke softly to Sophie, eventually coaxing her out so he could pick her up. She didn’t protest or struggle as he carried her to one of the visiting rooms and opened it so the three of them could go inside.

Lena sat down on the bench, and the volunteer followed suit before placing the kitten down on his lap. “She feels more secure with contact, so long as it’s with someone she trusts.”

At first, Lena just observed her. Normally she would hold a hand out for an animal to sniff, but she didn’t know how to make sure she didn’t scare her, and if Sophie would be okay with a stranger in her personal space. “I’m not sure how to interact with her without frightening her,” she finally confessed. “Or should I just wait for her to come to me?”

“Try talking to her first, and then -- slowly, with your palm up and never raising it above her head -- you may be able to offer her to sniff your hand. She might or might not be comfortable to do it, though. You’re the first person outside of our rescue team she’s met like this.”

Lena nodded, not knowing what else to say, before softly talking to the kitten. “Hi, Sophie. My name is Lena.” She was suddenly self-conscious of the higher pitch she was using. It wasn’t that baby-talking to animals wasn’t perfectly normal, but she had really come here as Lena Luthor, CEO of L-Corp rather than as Lena. It was too late now, though. Besides, she wasn’t really worried if somebody started to spread a ‘rumor’ that she loved kittens. If that was the most people said about her, she would be quite glad.

“I’ve never had a pet before, but I’m so happy to meet you,” she continued. Ultimately, she doubted the content of her words was all that important in comparison to the way they were spoken. Which was good, because she didn’t really know what to say. “I like flowers and tea and spending time with my best friend.”

Sophie had raised her head and actually looked at her, briefly though it was. The volunteer pulled a bag from his pocket and offered her a treat, placing it next to her on his lap, to reward her for it. He slowly, gently pet her, and when she seemed okay with it, he told Lena, “You can offer your hand now.”

Lena continued to speak to Sophie as she slowly moved her hand toward her, watching for any signs of discomfort so she could stop if Sophie started to feel afraid. “It’s okay. I promise, I won’t hurt you. I just want you to be able to meet me. Is that okay? Would you like that?” She paused just a short distance away from Sophie, not wanting to force her.

She moved ever so slightly until her nose was close enough to Lena’s hand to smell.

“Stay still,” the volunteer told Lena. He gave Sophie another treat. “We pair treats with interacting with people, because it helps animals associate it with good things instead of fear.”

Lena listened and committed his advice to memory. She was glad to hear he was so knowledgeable, and what he had been advising her to do was clearly helpful.

Several minutes of continuing to talk to Sophie and let the kitten sniff her hand went by, until Sophie took and took a small step toward Lena. The kitten was given another treat, and she kept talking to her, worried that a reaction might give the wrong idea and scare her.

The volunteer handed the bag of treats to Lena. They were in a thin sandwich bag so as not to scare the more skittish animals with loud crinkling.

After looking to the volunteer for confirmation that she understood the process, Lena kept offering Sophie treats for each bit of progress. After a couple of steps she stopped accepting them, but the volunteer told her,

“Just keep talking to her. Praise her. Talking like that can be a reward by itself.”

So Lena did. She continued to tell Sophie that she was a good kitten and how brave she was, and soon she found the kitten in her lap. She still praised her and didn’t yet reach for her.

“Once she’s gotten settled, you can offer her your hand again. If she seems okay with it, it’s okay to pet her. Just as long as you’re slow and gentle.”

Once again, Lena did as instructed. And to her surprise... Sophie was okay with it, even when she pet her. This tiny kitten who was afraid of everybody trusted her, at least enough to know Lena wouldn’t hurt her. The feeling was overwhelming. “Can I adopt her?”

There was a lot of conversation then about logistics, as they decided it would be alright for Sophie to come to L-Corp with her and shouldn’t be left in an empty house too long because of the neglect she had experienced. They talked about how not to scare her, and other things she needed to know about Sophie, like what kind of food was best, and when her next vet check-up should be. And finally, Lena signed the paperwork and got to take her home.

---

Lena had had Sophie for a couple of days now. The first day, she stayed home with Sophie all day and read to her. Of course, the likelihood that Sophie had any interest in a single one of the books Lena owned was probably zero, but the volunteers had confirmed to her that the most important thing was that she spoke to her gently and praised her often, in addition to not making too sudden of movements around Sophie if she could help it.

And that was how she ended up softly reading a book on quantum physics aloud.

The second day, she took Sophie to L-Corp with her, but had Jess clear her schedule so she could stay with Sophie, just the two of them, all day, save for the occasional visit from Jess. And, of course, Jess had been informed of the situation beforehand so she would know how to act around the kitten. A few hours in and Sophie was beginning to explore the room, though it wasn’t until the end of the day that she approached the center of it.

Both days, Sophie rarely came up to her and ate minimally, though food was always available. When she sat on the floor with her, sometimes Sophie would sit on her lap. Sometimes that brought Lena to tears.

On the third day, she decided it would be okay to introduce Sophie to someone else, at least briefly.

[text: Kara Danvers] I have a surprise I’d like you to see. Meet me in my office for lunch? I need you to be very slow and quiet in my office, though. It’ll make sense when you get here, I promise.

Lena asked Jess to let her know when Kara arrived so she could make sure Sophie wasn’t by the door, but otherwise spent most of the day much like the previous, working on her laptop while sitting on the floor, offering Sophie treats that were ignored more often than not.

[phanarchy-blog]

The Greatest Thing

Description: Phil attends his family wedding alone, and spends the very awkward day trying to ignore the fact that he wishes Dan was with him. But he can’t be. Because who brings their best friend to a wedding?

Words: 1.5k

Disclaimer: This is the result of a morning at work with nothing better to do. Written very distractedly as I worried my supervisor would come in and catch me. Not by any means my best, but let’s see how it goes over.

Read on AO3!

Phil buttoned his suit jacket and looked at himself in the mirror. It was slightly too big for him, unlike the stylish jackets he would wear to events like the Brits Awards. It made him look slightly kiddish, which reflected the feeling of the day well enough. There he stood, alone, in his childhood bedroom dressing up for a wedding that he would be attending equally alone.

“Remind me again why Dan couldn’t make it?” his mother said. Phil jumped as he didn’t realize until just that moment that she was standing behind him, watching from the doorway as he got himself ready.

“He was busy today,” Phil lied. “A family reunion.” Though Phil knew he would be spending the day in the sofa crease scrolling Tumblr.

“Well, that’s just unfortunate. I’m sure everyone else would love to have met him,” she said. She paused and looked at him seriously. “Maybe next time.”

Phil could tell that she was just being kind by not pushing her suspicions on him. He nodded at her in appreciation, both for the support and for her discretion. The day would be hard enough.

The true reason Dan was not with him was because you simply don’t take your best friend to a family wedding. It’s just not something you do.

Phil sighed and straightened his cuffs, walking out the door behind his mum and filing into the backseat of the car. He bent his head slightly to fit in, and his knees nearly touched his chest.

Martyn opened the opposite door and waved Cornelia in. She sat between them, the three squeezing together uncomfortably close. Phil thanked the universe that he got along well with them both and it wasn’t as awkward as such a situation could be.

As the car set off into the morning glow on the horizon, Martyn grasped Cornelia’s hand. She laced their fingers together, entwining them easily. Phil caught himself staring for just a moment too long. He snapped his head back to the window, unsure if the knot in his stomach was his travel sickness or something else. 

“You okay, man?” Martyn whispered across Cornelia’s face. She too looked concerned as she scrunched her eyebrows together. Though he may be approaching thirty years old, they never seemed to stop worrying about him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Phil said dismissively. “Just forgot the dramamine, that’s all.” But he noticed that it got worse when he looked at the pair, looking as much like a team as anyone in the world, and unashamed to let it show.

Suddenly Felix’s voice popped into Phil’s mind. YouTube power couple. I mean, YouTube power duo.

Truth be told, Phil lived for those jokes. He smiled into the landscape, head resting against the car window.

Phil cursed himself for following his parents around like a puppy dog at the church, sitting next to them. He felt like the third wheel regardless of who he was with. But soon enough, the pastor began the ceremony. Phil relaxed, thinking this would be a break from the stress of being there alone. He wasn’t exactly right.

The wedding march began and everyone stood, turning to see the bride enter in a flowing champagne colored dress. She held a small bundle of flowers, and looked forward beneath a matching cage veil. This was the favorite part of weddings for Phil, as he turned around the instead watch the groom. He caught the glisten in the groom’s eyes. Not fully crying, but no one would miss the effort it took for him to hold it back. They smiled, and giggled.

Phil thought of the only person who has ever made him feel that way.

“You may be seated,” the pastor started. “The groom requested to begin with a reading.” The crowd was absolutely silent, paying close attention to this unconventional turn of events. The best man handed the groom a small piece of paper.

“Elizabeth,” he said. “I love you very much, probably more than anybody could love another person.” The phrase rang a bell in Phil’s mind. He was unsure where he had heard it before. “I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” Phil realized this was obviously a quote. “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird. I could die right now, Liz. I’m just, happy. I’ve never felt that before. I’m exactly where I want to be. And the greatest thing I’ve ever learned is just to love and be loved in return.”

Phil scoffed inwardly at how cheesy it all was. Quoting romances one after another. But some part of him was left slightly shaken.

Could he ever have that?

He pulled his phone out and his mum gave him a dirty glance and a quick elbow to the ribs. He continued anyway.

“I really wish you were here.” He sent the text and remembered to flick his phone onto silent.

At the reception, Phil looked up from his phone to find that his table was empty. Everyone was off dancing and having a good time. Phil had spent a good five minutes staring at his screen which read:

“You know why I can’t be. But yeah, I miss you too.”

The first dance had passed and Phil had all but avoided looking the newlywed couple in the eyes all night when they approached him, arms wrapped around one another’s waists.

“Phil! So good to see you!” his cousin said. He stood to greet her and her new husband.

“You too Lizzy!” he said as he hugged her and shook his hand.

“So, why couldn’t Dan make it?” she asked kindly. “I would’ve loved to meet him. You know I’m such a fan of your guys’ videos.”

“Yeah, well, really who brings their best friend to a wedding anyway?” Phil mocked. She gave him a patronizing look.

“Really? Who do you think you’re kidding, Phil?” She jabbed at him. He had forgotten that they grew up together, and she had seen him go through all his childhood crushes.

“Yeah, fair. I can’t really put it past you.”

“No, not just me. I mean, do you really think you’re fooling anyone? What, like leaving him out of family events is going to convince people you’re not together?”

Phil felt the spread of heat move up his neck and color his cheeks pink. Because Dan was not his best friend, no matter how many times he said it today. No matter how many times he denied anything else.

Because they were a team, a duo, a power couple.

Because Dan was the person he thought about when he watched other people hold hands, get married. Because he wanted that for them, but their stupid pact to keep it hidden got in the way.

Only it didn’t even work, apparently.

“Fair,” he said finally. Ending that discussion before it got the chance to really begin. “But today isn’t about my relationship. Congratulations, you two!”

They both blushed and looked one another in the eyes. The groom pulled her closer to his hip.

“Thanks,” he said. “And good luck to you.” He walked away, but Phil heard a final whisper. “What was that all about?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Dan was the person Phil told everything to. He downed his drink and let it burn.

Up each agonizing step, Phil’s feet seemed to resist him. It was like adding sand bags to his ankles with each stair. But when he reached the landing, turning the key in the lock, the weight lifted off his shoulders because he was finally home where there were no secrets. Dan was on the other side of the door, ready to greet him after the long day apart.

Phil saw his dark eyes the second the door swung open. He took a slow step inside, letting it click shut behind him. He bounded to his boyfriend, and wrapped his hand around the back of hi neck, pulling his face in for a kiss.

Their lips met swiftly, Phil backing him against the wall and roaming his hands all up his chest.

Dan slid his hands up Phil’s back, untucking his button-down from his pants and grazing his fingers across the soft skin of his love handles.

They breathed together, the sweet same air, the scent of cake and wine on Phil’s breath. Dan couldn’t get enough.

“You know I’m going to marry you someday, right?” Phil said.

Dan nodded fiercely. “Right.”

“Someday soon?” Phil asked. He ran his hand along Dan cheek and then through the bristly hairs at the base of his neck.

“Yeah?” Dan questioned. He kissed him again.

“We should probably get comfortable enough with sharing our relationship to actually attend weddings together first,” Phil concluded.

“Agreed,” was all Dan said. He was out of breath. Meanwhile, Phil felt as if the breath he’d been missing all day had finally returned.

I thrive on feedback! Get at me if you have an opinion on this, good or bad! <3 Thanks so much for reading.

[wendyimmiller]

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing.

So, it’s come to this.

As a nation, we are so starved for American garden programming that we are willing to accept that a woman worth over $620 million dollars, stuck for 82 days on her 153-acre estate in Bedford, NY; with her gardener, one of her housekeepers, and one of her drivers; and joined as needed by groundskeepers and their foreman, is going to fill that need and leave us hungry for another season of down-to-earth gardening advice.

So starved, that we are willing to accept HGTV promos that tell us that this immaculately dressed and fully made-up celebrity, sans sweat, sans grimy hands, and sans, apparently, a production assistant to create some small illusion of same, is relatable; and “puts the G back in HGTV.”

So starved, that we are willing to overlook her frequent – and historical – transposition of the pronouns “I” and “they” when discussing the nitty-gritty of projects undertaken on that 153-acre estate.

So. Starved.

Six episodes worth of gilded crumbs. And I’m afraid this gardener has lost her appetite.

It’s not about the money…

Perhaps the best way to launch into my review [and accompanying visual aids] of the first season of HGTV’s Martha Knows Best, (which I watched in its entirety after Susan’s recent review here) is to make it perfectly clear that I have no problem with the [legal] accumulation of wealth.

What wrestling a tiller really looks like.

I have no problem, as it were, with the wealthy.

You earned it. You spend it.  Martha Stewart is not just an extraordinary business woman, but a talented creative with an expert eye sharpened over many years.

She also has the genius to recognize, nurture, and promote that spark in other creatives.

If she insists that the 1000+ containers on her property be of the same color family (stone, concrete or marble), and never wishes to see an artistic vegetable in a flower arrangement, and lines utilitarian pathways to peacock enclosures with cut blocks of granite, who am I to criticize her from enjoying the whims that whacking great wads of cash can indulge?

I’ll have to tell my insanely talented friend Louisa Zimmermann-Roberts at Thanksgiving Farms in Frederick, MD, that her summer arrangement of Swiss chard, sweet pea, red raspberries, grapes eggplant, okra, chives, black-eyed peas and banana leaves is not officially sanctioned. She’s going to take it really well.

If I lived across the street as one of her “very many fancy neighbors” I would raise a glass to her abilities at the neighborhood block party, and conscientiously ask her advice when it came to pairing champagne and stemware for a well-lubricated celebrity crowd of twenty on a Saturday night.

I might even ask which echeveria to use in the tablescape.

Wickedly, I’d also try to tempt her hardworking gardener, Ryan McCallister, to cross the street and become my personal gardener.  My current gardener, Cutout Andy (though versatile and well-traveled), doesn’t have the same twinkle in his eye.

Cutout Andy and I discussing plans for the garden.

All this to say, I respect what she has achieved and have no desire to set up a mini-guillotine in the exquisitely designed cobblestone courtyard of her horse stables. I won’t even debate aspects of her gardening advice.  Susan did that already.

I also respect the fact that she is a 79-year-old woman who is a damn sight more active than your average 79-year-old American.

Let Them Eat Cake

What I don’t respect however, is this laughable attempt to appear ‘relatable’ as someone who is just like me, or like 99% of the gardening public.

I don’t respect the producers of this show having so little awareness of the current suffering going on throughout the country that they felt that a conspicuous display of fabulous wealth could feed the public’s very real (and in many cases, economic) need for gardening advice.

At a certain point it goes from being laughable, to being downright offensive. From the intro:

“I’ve lived on this farm for about 17 years. And like you I’m spending more time at home than ever before.  So I’m going to take you behind the scenes as I do my gardening projects. I’m going to help my celebrity friends. And surprise new gardeners.”

Here’s one of my gardening projects – Endlessly Weeding. On my knees. On my own. And I’m one of the lucky ones.

It must be horrific to spend 82 days on 153 acres. With a modified staff.

What about 82 days on a tenth of an acre (like my last house)?  What about 82 days in an apartment with a philodendron?

Uhhh….there’s a pandemic going on?

We have been six months at this pandemic.  After years in cramped quarters, I now live on ten beautiful acres in a four-bedroom house. And I’m ready to bury my husband’s work-from-home body in a remote corner of the property at this point.  It might even be classified as a COVID death.

And no doubt my husband feels the same way.

And yet, every evening of this mess, when I watch the news and see cities in such turmoil, I think of my 10×12′ apartment in New York, when I was 100% dependent on food service jobs and student loans to make my bills.

Each and every morning when I walk through the garden I think of our little upstairs flat in Southeast London when my son was a toddler, and how desperate I was for more than a window box and a few pots by the door.

My very first vegetable garden – a 2x17ft unpaved strip in the parking lot outside our tiny apartment in Southern California. (Photo from Big Dreams, Small Garden, 2017)

And each morning I am deeply grateful for the space around me, and painfully aware that others are struggling in this pandemic under terrible conditions with no end in sight.

No awareness from Hollywood apparently.  Or from Bedford.

“When the pandemic started and quarantine became de rigueur,” says Stewart, “I invited Ryan, my gardener, I invited Carlos, one of my drivers, and one of my housekeepers Elvira, to stay with me during this time.”

Quarantine.  De rigueur.  Alrighty then. So is a floor length gown at a debutante ball Martha. But okay, we’ll just go with it.

Lost in Translation

And if you didn’t study French in high school and are currently running to Google Translate – keep the tab open. To Martha, soil that is ready for planting does not resemble a palm full of pastry dough, but pâte brisée.

It’s actually an excellent analogy that falls short in its delivery. As does dropping mise en place to describe setting gardening tools in place for a project.

While you’re at it, you might want to check out  Île de la Cité, where Martha gets “all her seeds.”

No Chanel or Dior for this everyday gardener when she arrives in Paris, she tells us, but straight to those lovely little seed markets.

I didn’t want to bring Marie and her cake into this, but damn.

My husband and I on our way to the seed markets. Regrettably he had to drive us due to some staffing issues.

I remark upon these Gallicisms as someone with five years of French under her belt, a fair amount of experience in the kitchen and garden, and an unfortunate history of dropping sans into conversation, but a young, beginning American gardener doesn’t know her pâte brisée from her pot of ease-ay.

99.9% of low or middle-income gardeners are not jetting to Paris for their seeds and will probably see what’s available at local garden centers before they consider even splurging on shipping fees for online sources, no matter how wonderful they are.

I know I did.

And here. Here is the issue.  Pretending that this is a gardening show instead of a celebrity reality show.

The wonderful thing about Cutout Andy is that he is so incredibly portable.  Here he is on his way to help my mother in her garden in California.

Just Ask Martha

A few moments of FaceTiming Mitch in Lemoore, California about soil preparation for his carrots; or telling Maggie in Mississippi that she needs “ferns” for the north side of her shady house; or letting Karlin from Florida in on the not-so-little secret that she needs a coop for her ducks to keep them safe from predators; does not constitute ‘hanging with the little people.’

Especially after each performs the requisite sycophantic prelude before speaking to “the Gardening Queen Herself”

Maggie:  “I almost started crying but I did keep it together.”

And then there are the celebrity cameos.  Hailey Bieber needing dog grooming tips. Jay Leno showing us the kitchen in his garage and asking what a pomegranate is. Zac Posen telling Martha he’s been gardening since March in Bridgehampton.

“Well. It’s SOOO easy to garden in the Hamptons” she laughs.

I’ll just leave that right where it fell.

Cutout Andy taking a few moments away from digging out a new pathway to enjoy a warm tomato from my mother’s garden.

I made my life-long gardening mother watch two episodes with me.  When Martha begged Snoop Dogg to join her in Maine on her 63-acre estate, Skylands, for her next party post-COVID, Mom turned to me with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s like digging your heel into somebody’s face.” She said quietly.  “I’d be embarrassed to say that.”

Even if I gave millions of dollars to charities each year – as no doubt Martha does – I would too.

To his credit, a tee-shirted Richard Gere sat cross-legged and underneath a tree in his father’s average suburban garden where he grew up – even if they spent the entire time discussing the shade beds at his exclusive Relais & Châteaux establishment, The Bedford Post Inn.  He almost seemed a little embarrassed.

Perhaps we have his friendship with the Dalai Lama to thank for that.

She knows her stuff. But she’s forgotten her audience.

Martha’s smart. She’s exceptionally talented. She built an empire.

But she is not the person to put the G back in HGTV.

Those are people like Joe Lamp’l on Growing a Greener World, or Nan Sterman in A Growing Passion, or or down-to-earth influencers like Erin Schanen (www.impatientgardener.com) or Doug Oster (www.dougoster.com), or Ron Finley (www.ronfinley.com) who show you the trials, tribulations and glorious successes without the catchy music and celebrity friends.

Ron Finley of South Central L.A., an activist gardener who has changed thousands of lives by inspiring people living in the food deserts of inner cities to garden (Source: www.RonFinley.com)

For advanced gardeners who have yet to watch ‘Martha Knows Best,’ do. I’d like to know what you think.

But if you’re a brand-new gardener – look to the shows, feeds and podcasts of those who garden with the resources and in the region that you do. I guarantee you there are hundreds on YouTube.

Or, depart these shores altogether and take advantage of UK programming that still respects its population enough to provide polished and professional gardening programs to inspire everyday gardeners, such as Charlie Dimmock’s new endeavor, Garden Rescue, classic episodes of Ground Force, or Monty Don and others truly getting their hands dirty in BBC Gardener’s World. (Please leave your suggestions in the comments for excellent gardening programming in other parts of the world.)

Martha Knows Best is not a gardening show. It’s a celebrity reality show that takes place outside. And in the middle of a pandemic, when millions are out of work, businesses are shuttered, and large segments of the population are watching their future dreams for even a modest home and garden sabotaged by something completely out of their control, we deserve better.

Let’s hope HGTV digs a little deeper and finds it.

  ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. originally appeared on GardenRant on September 10, 2020.

The post ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. appeared first on GardenRant.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2020/09/martha-knows-best-is-not-great-its-not-even-a-good-thing.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing.

So, it’s come to this.

As a nation, we are so starved for American garden programming that we are willing to accept that a woman worth over $620 million dollars, stuck for 82 days on her 153-acre estate in Bedford, NY; with her gardener, one of her housekeepers, and one of her drivers; and joined as needed by groundskeepers and their foreman, is going to fill that need and leave us hungry for another season of down-to-earth gardening advice.

So starved, that we are willing to accept HGTV promos that tell us that this immaculately dressed and fully made-up celebrity, sans sweat, sans grimy hands, and sans, apparently, a production assistant to create some small illusion of same, is relatable; and “puts the G back in HGTV.”

So starved, that we are willing to overlook her frequent – and historical – transposition of the pronouns “I” and “they” when discussing the nitty-gritty of projects undertaken on that 153-acre estate.

So. Starved.

Six episodes worth of gilded crumbs. And I’m afraid this gardener has lost her appetite.

It’s not about the money…

Perhaps the best way to launch into my review [and accompanying visual aids] of the first season of HGTV’s Martha Knows Best, (which I watched in its entirety after Susan’s recent review here) is to make it perfectly clear that I have no problem with the [legal] accumulation of wealth.

What wrestling a tiller really looks like.

I have no problem, as it were, with the wealthy.

You earned it. You spend it.  Martha Stewart is not just an extraordinary business woman, but a talented creative with an expert eye sharpened over many years.

She also has the genius to recognize, nurture, and promote that spark in other creatives.

If she insists that the 1000+ containers on her property be of the same color family (stone, concrete or marble), and never wishes to see an artistic vegetable in a flower arrangement, and lines utilitarian pathways to peacock enclosures with cut blocks of granite, who am I to criticize her from enjoying the whims that whacking great wads of cash can indulge?

I’ll have to tell my insanely talented friend Louisa Zimmermann-Roberts at Thanksgiving Farms in Frederick, MD, that her summer arrangement of Swiss chard, sweet pea, red raspberries, grapes eggplant, okra, chives, black-eyed peas and banana leaves is not officially sanctioned. She’s going to take it really well.

If I lived across the street as one of her “very many fancy neighbors” I would raise a glass to her abilities at the neighborhood block party, and conscientiously ask her advice when it came to pairing champagne and stemware for a well-lubricated celebrity crowd of twenty on a Saturday night.

I might even ask which echeveria to use in the tablescape.

Wickedly, I’d also try to tempt her hardworking gardener, Ryan McCallister, to cross the street and become my personal gardener.  My current gardener, Cutout Andy (though versatile and well-traveled), doesn’t have the same twinkle in his eye.

Cutout Andy and I discussing plans for the garden.

All this to say, I respect what she has achieved and have no desire to set up a mini-guillotine in the exquisitely designed cobblestone courtyard of her horse stables. I won’t even debate aspects of her gardening advice.  Susan did that already.

I also respect the fact that she is a 79-year-old woman who is a damn sight more active than your average 79-year-old American.

Let Them Eat Cake

What I don’t respect however, is this laughable attempt to appear ‘relatable’ as someone who is just like me, or like 99% of the gardening public.

I don’t respect the producers of this show having so little awareness of the current suffering going on throughout the country that they felt that a conspicuous display of fabulous wealth could feed the public’s very real (and in many cases, economic) need for gardening advice.

At a certain point it goes from being laughable, to being downright offensive. From the intro:

“I’ve lived on this farm for about 17 years. And like you I’m spending more time at home than ever before.  So I’m going to take you behind the scenes as I do my gardening projects. I’m going to help my celebrity friends. And surprise new gardeners.”

Here’s one of my gardening projects – Endlessly Weeding. On my knees. On my own. And I’m one of the lucky ones.

It must be horrific to spend 82 days on 153 acres. With a modified staff.

What about 82 days on a tenth of an acre (like my last house)?  What about 82 days in an apartment with a philodendron?

Uhhh….there’s a pandemic going on?

We have been six months at this pandemic.  After years in cramped quarters, I now live on ten beautiful acres in a four-bedroom house. And I’m ready to bury my husband’s work-from-home body in a remote corner of the property at this point.  It might even be classified as a COVID death.

And no doubt my husband feels the same way.

And yet, every evening of this mess, when I watch the news and see cities in such turmoil, I think of my 10×12′ apartment in New York, when I was 100% dependent on food service jobs and student loans to make my bills.

Each and every morning when I walk through the garden I think of our little upstairs flat in Southeast London when my son was a toddler, and how desperate I was for more than a window box and a few pots by the door.

My very first vegetable garden – a 2x17ft unpaved strip in the parking lot outside our tiny apartment in Southern California. (Photo from Big Dreams, Small Garden, 2017)

And each morning I am deeply grateful for the space around me, and painfully aware that others are struggling in this pandemic under terrible conditions with no end in sight.

No awareness from Hollywood apparently.  Or from Bedford.

“When the pandemic started and quarantine became de rigueur,” says Stewart, “I invited Ryan, my gardener, I invited Carlos, one of my drivers, and one of my housekeepers Elvira, to stay with me during this time.”

Quarantine.  De rigueur.  Alrighty then. So is a floor length gown at a debutante ball Martha. But okay, we’ll just go with it.

Lost in Translation

And if you didn’t study French in high school and are currently running to Google Translate – keep the tab open. To Martha, soil that is ready for planting does not resemble a palm full of pastry dough, but pâte brisée.

It’s actually an excellent analogy that falls short in its delivery. As does dropping mise en place to describe setting gardening tools in place for a project.

While you’re at it, you might want to check out  Île de la Cité, where Martha gets “all her seeds.”

No Chanel or Dior for this everyday gardener when she arrives in Paris, she tells us, but straight to those lovely little seed markets.

I didn’t want to bring Marie and her cake into this, but damn.

My husband and I on our way to the seed markets. Regrettably he had to drive us due to some staffing issues.

I remark upon these Gallicisms as someone with five years of French under her belt, a fair amount of experience in the kitchen and garden, and an unfortunate history of dropping sans into conversation, but a young, beginning American gardener doesn’t know her pâte brisée from her pot of ease-ay.

99.9% of low or middle-income gardeners are not jetting to Paris for their seeds and will probably see what’s available at local garden centers before they consider even splurging on shipping fees for online sources, no matter how wonderful they are.

I know I did.

And here. Here is the issue.  Pretending that this is a gardening show instead of a celebrity reality show.

The wonderful thing about Cutout Andy is that he is so incredibly portable.  Here he is on his way to help my mother in her garden in California.

Just Ask Martha

A few moments of FaceTiming Mitch in Lemoore, California about soil preparation for his carrots; or telling Maggie in Mississippi that she needs “ferns” for the north side of her shady house; or letting Karlin from Florida in on the not-so-little secret that she needs a coop for her ducks to keep them safe from predators; does not constitute ‘hanging with the little people.’

Especially after each performs the requisite sycophantic prelude before speaking to “the Gardening Queen Herself”

Maggie:  “I almost started crying but I did keep it together.”

And then there are the celebrity cameos.  Hailey Bieber needing dog grooming tips. Jay Leno showing us the kitchen in his garage and asking what a pomegranate is. Zac Posen telling Martha he’s been gardening since March in Bridgehampton.

“Well. It’s SOOO easy to garden in the Hamptons” she laughs.

I’ll just leave that right where it fell.

Cutout Andy taking a few moments away from digging out a new pathway to enjoy a warm tomato from my mother’s garden.

I made my life-long gardening mother watch two episodes with me.  When Martha begged Snoop Dogg to join her in Maine on her 63-acre estate, Skylands, for her next party post-COVID, Mom turned to me with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s like digging your heel into somebody’s face.” She said quietly.  “I’d be embarrassed to say that.”

Even if I gave millions of dollars to charities each year – as no doubt Martha does – I would too.

To his credit, a tee-shirted Richard Gere sat cross-legged and underneath a tree in his father’s average suburban garden where he grew up – even if they spent the entire time discussing the shade beds at his exclusive Relais & Châteaux establishment, The Bedford Post Inn.  He almost seemed a little embarrassed.

Perhaps we have his friendship with the Dalai Lama to thank for that.

She knows her stuff. But she’s forgotten her audience.

Martha’s smart. She’s exceptionally talented. She built an empire.

But she is not the person to put the G back in HGTV.

Those are people like Joe Lamp’l on Growing a Greener World, or Nan Sterman in A Growing Passion, or or down-to-earth influencers like Erin Schanen (www.impatientgardener.com) or Doug Oster (www.dougoster.com), or Ron Finley (www.ronfinley.com) who show you the trials, tribulations and glorious successes without the catchy music and celebrity friends.

Ron Finley of South Central L.A., an activist gardener who has changed thousands of lives by inspiring people living in the food deserts of inner cities to garden (Source: www.RonFinley.com)

For advanced gardeners who have yet to watch ‘Martha Knows Best,’ do. I’d like to know what you think.

But if you’re a brand-new gardener – look to the shows, feeds and podcasts of those who garden with the resources and in the region that you do. I guarantee you there are hundreds on YouTube.

Or, depart these shores altogether and take advantage of UK programming that still respects its population enough to provide polished and professional gardening programs to inspire everyday gardeners, such as Charlie Dimmock’s new endeavor, Garden Rescue, classic episodes of Ground Force, or Monty Don and others truly getting their hands dirty in BBC Gardener’s World. (Please leave your suggestions in the comments for excellent gardening programming in other parts of the world.)

Martha Knows Best is not a gardening show. It’s a celebrity reality show that takes place outside. And in the middle of a pandemic, when millions are out of work, businesses are shuttered, and large segments of the population are watching their future dreams for even a modest home and garden sabotaged by something completely out of their control, we deserve better.

Let’s hope HGTV digs a little deeper and finds it.

  ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. originally appeared on GardenRant on September 10, 2020.

The post ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. appeared first on GardenRant.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2Zo3nqd

[weddingplans12-blog]

Stacey and Ryan’s Intimate Vintage Mountain Wedding - Bridechilla Wedding Planning

New Post has been published on https://weddingguideto.com/trending/stacey-and-ryans-intimate-vintage-mountain-wedding-bridechilla-wedding-planning/

Stacey and Ryan’s Intimate Vintage Mountain Wedding - Bridechilla Wedding Planning

​Ryan and I have been together for 7 years. We met at a party at my parents’ house after my stepdad hired him for his first job out of college. After that summer, we both went back to school in different states and decided to stay long-distance between Texas and Oklahoma to see where things went. I just kept thinking to myself that I would stay in this relationship as long as it made me happy and not worry about the future!

After a couple of years, I decided to move back to New Mexico to be with Ryan and my family. We moved in together, got a dog, and loved traveling and playing board games with friends.

When Ryan got a job in Colorado we faced a turning point in our relationship. We made the decision to stay committed to each other and he proposed on an Alaskan cruise with the 7-year-old map he had drawn to my parents’ house from the night we met. We both moved up to Colorado and have been enjoying camping, hiking, and skiing in the mountains.

We ditched the Pinterest Board and Started from Scratch

Like every couple, we really wanted the day to feel like our own. I had a whole Pinterest board before we got engaged, but I chucked it out the window because it was all rustic with lace and mason jars—and I felt like I was planning somebody else’s wedding (no hate on that theme; it’s beautiful). And we started from scratch. Making the decision to get married in Colorado was hard because that meant both families would have to travel, but we decided to do what was right for us—and we wanted the mountain venue!

Navigating the challenges of planning a big event as introverts

One of our biggest priorities (and challenges) was keeping the day intimate. As introverts, neither of us wanted to stand in front of a crowd of people we only knew half of. We chose our venue because of the slightly smaller size, and saved money by choosing a Friday date. We also decided that kids (save our nieces) weren’t appropriate for this venue or the kind of event we were having. It was hard to do this, but in the end it all worked out for the better. I’m also a professional designer and love to do projects, so it was really important to me to include special handmade details throughout the day. I spent months hand-crafting our custom invitation suite and made a few signs using barn wood from Ryan’s family farm in Oklahoma. About 10 months before our wedding, a very special cherry tree in my parents’ backyard fell over—and after crying about it for a good 20 minutes, I took my mom’s offer of using it for the wedding and hand-lettered each guest’s name onto a slice of wood for their place card. I thought that would be a detail that was only important to me, but our guests took them home afterwards and have been doing all kinds of fun things with them!

My favorite part of the entire day happened right after the ceremony. There’s a small amount of time that the bride and groom get alone together before everyone else comes in for the recessional and our feeling of elation was so high at that point. I’ll never forget the kiss we shared right then and what it felt like to have done it!

Okay, okay. And I know I’ve rambled for a bit but I have to share the most classic part of the day. First, it downpoured right before our outdoor ceremony (yes, we had a plan B). And I had no idea. Guests afterwards kept asking me if I was freaking out, but really, I was just glad about this:

When I arrived at the venue, I walked up to the doorway with my brother and our photographer. As we approached the doorway, I heard a hissing noise—and looked over to see a large rattlesnake reared up, fangs bared, and rattling/hissing 10 feet away from my brother! We backed away, used a different entrance, and the venue called a ranger but eventually the snake just went away on its own. So rain wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to us and it gave us some great perspective and a great story.

My invitations. I know a lot of people throw fancy invitations in the FIB, but I spent hours and hours on mine and loved every minute. We got so many compliments on them and people really appreciated the attention to detail.

My dress. Y’all… the cost of wedding dresses can be INSANE I know. We splurged a little more than I had planned on mine—and it wasn’t even my mom or grandma’s favorite. But I loved it so much and it made me feel so incredible.

The. Open. Bar. And I don’t mean this in a “you’re a bad host if you don’t have one” way, because, ew. We didn’t think we had it in our budget, but we found a company in Colorado that did it for just $16 (yes, SIXTEEN) dollars a person for the entire night (whaaaat?!). So we spent the money on it and it really helped loosen everyone up for the dancing and socializing. And our guests were grateful for it. I have photos of my cousins hanging out with my friends from college. Of Ryan’s uncle dancing in the middle of a group of my aunts. Everyone mingled and I don’t think it would have been the same without the bar.

​Okay… I know this sounds cliche and like I am seeing our day through rose-colored glasses. There was a lot of stress leading up to the day and it wasn’t a fun year planning. But I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Oh, this. Meeting with wedding planners wasn’t worth it. I didn’t end up hiring one, which made me really nervous because of our short timeline for setup. But I put a trusted aunt of mine in charge and my family tackled everything beautifully! I did make sure everything was ridiculously (and y’all, I mean ridiculously) organized for them, but they were happy to help and another vendor would have just gotten in the way. Not sure I would have the same advice to others unless they have ready and willing people like mine!

Everything traditional beyond the first dances! No bouquet toss, no garter toss, no cake cutting… just a really fun party! And we got feedback from everyone about how much fun it was instead of feeling like a checklist of things to get done during the night.

We also threw the traditional timeline in the FIB and did a first look, which was fabulous because it calmed us both down before the ceremony, and we were able to get photos out of the way so we could enjoy cocktail hour!

Transportation. People are adults. They can get somewhere on time and drive responsibly on their own.

Our traditional American rehearsal dinner also went in the FIB. At first I didn’t want to do this—I wanted a nice wedding party dinner in an intimate setting without the whole family around—but as the planning went on I found that I didn’t think the money was worth it, and just went with my mom’s suggestion of using the fabulous AirBnb they had rented with a barn area out in the back. My MIL had tacos brought in and we ended up inviting the whole extended family—which was GREAT after all because then everyone had been around each other before the wedding so it was more relaxed and much less divided on the wedding day.

​ Try to just feel gratitude, not guilt. I spent a lot of time worrying about other people—how much my bridesmaids were spending to travel, how awful of a person I was for not inviting all of my parents’ friends when they were helping us pay for the wedding, how everyone would have to take time off for our Friday date. And in the end, everyone was so happy to be there and to be a part of it. They all had a fantastic time and I learned that while it’s YOUR special day, it will be special for others too.

Also, hire professionals. They’re good at their job and they’ll make everything better for you.

​ Bridechilla helped to keep me sane! There were so many times that I felt so alone throughout the process. It was great to have a community of people to reach out to who would respond with understanding and not judgment.

Source

Stacey and Ryan’s Intimate Vintage Mountain Wedding

[windycityparrot]

How to get your bird used to toweling for restraint & why it's essental

This is a follow-up to our recent post about learning how to restrain your bird using the zombie death grip. The grip goes hand-in-hand with toweling a bird when you need to restrain it for maintenance like nail trimming or a first-aid emergency. Speaking of emergencies. You have to love technology (or not). It's been a very wet summer so far much of which has come in the form of storms. Severe storms triggering a loud screeching sound emulating from my phone reminding me that I may have to vacate my location or kiss mine and my birds arse goodbye. Murphy's law states "anything that can go wrong will," I've often found Mr. Murphy highly optimistic. One morning more than one of you reading this will wake up and find that a thunder boomer caught your bird off guard and triggered night frights.  This caused a large broken flight blood feather while flailing it's wings in the scary darkness. Your bird will be stressed, in pain and pulling the remaining broken blood feather out, is above your pay grade. AN EMERGENCY IS NOT THE TIME TO FIND OUT YOUR BIRD IS AFRAID OF A TOWEL AND IT'S TRAVEL CARRIER.

You don't want to have this conversation with your bird while F3 tornados are touching down across town Begin rant via GIPHY Why do captive bird keepers seem to be the only sanctimonious pet owners there are?. I spent 25 years reading raising and showing dogs, I never saw this kind of attitude. "I learned it this way and you're wrong, I'm leaving your Facebook site"! Once again I dared to hold a small bird the way it was shown to me by more than one veterinarian and bird behaviorist. There's a couple of very prolific and talented authors on Quora. They both have a sizable flock. Whenever somebody writes about "what kind of bird should I get" "what's the right bird for a small family" "what's it like to have an African grey"their are persistent answer is "don't even think about it"! "It's too much work, their noisy and messy". My favorite is "you need to spend 6 to 8 hours of face time with the bird," coming from somebody who has for birds so it is opaque to me how he is able to spend 24 to 30 hours of face time each day with his for feather companions? "Why can no one but you have birds Mr. or Ms. Quora answer person"? Why the self-righteousness? Back in the day, circa 2004/2005 - we used to hold open houses at the birdie boutique up in the Jefferson Park area of Chicago. Once a month for close to 14 months I believe (before the facility burned to the ground) we would have upwards of 300 people and 100 to 150 birds descend upon our 10,000 ft.² space - to learn about keeping birds as pets. We had rescues alongside of breeders with veterinarians available to answer very specific questions. We had a beacon nail trimming booth. We had guest lecturers. Personally I handled between 500 to 1000 different birds that year. Thus the foundation of my knowledge base was laid. After the fire we morphed into a company more focused on the Internet. Seems to be the up-and-coming trend these days. I've built cages in countless homes throughout the Chicago metropolitan area and saw that birds were situated properly. We've interacted with tens if not hundreds of thousands of people via email and help desk tickets Exchanging images and videos. The information we present will always be as accurate and bird safe that is humanly possible. Because you disagree with our actions, threatening to not buy from us only confirms what we already know. If everybody agreed with us 100% of the time, now THAT would be suspect. The trigger to this land was a video the video (below) I uploaded to YouTube showing how a toy is big is the bird itself could be easily accessed providing a brilliant foraging and enrichment opportunity (courtesy of catherine). "How dare I traumatize that little bird" Really? So the body of this blog post goes to a place that not enough caged bird keepers go to and that's common sense maintenance and good well bird care. End rant We received an inquiry from a Birdie Brunch subscriber. "I found your pages on the need for and techniques of towel training very useful. Unfortunately, we didn't know about this need when our female African Grey was young. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fF8-dW42ipM In the video of the woman getting her parrot used to the towel in her lap, she did many things with the bird that ours will not permit - so we couldn't even get started down that suggested path. Kiele will step up and she will let me lightly stroke her beak. Sometimes, she will bend her head down to let you rub the top of her head. But that is it as far as touching goes -- at least with me. She is a bit more relaxed with a couple of regular visitors to our house.. I'm wondering if you have any more videos or write ups that could help me get her more relaxed and playful." Great question! Let's walk through the steps we can take: Try sitting on the floor alone or with another human with the towel to be used in your lap. Have your bird so he or she can watch you and not feel threatened. Just as you would with a baby or young child begin to play peekaboo with the bird. As your bird begins to show some excitement and enthusiasm for the game, begin to move closer. After a few peekaboo sessions, get yourself comfortably seated on a chair and take the towel with the long ends hanging over your lap. Put your bird on your lap on the towel with your bird's head facing you and begin rubbing and scritching, whatever makes your bird comfortable and relaxed. Begin to pick up either side of the towel very slowly while saying “peekaboo”. Do this for another few sessions until you can bring both of your hands (while holding the towel) together while your bird remains comfortable in your lap but is now wrapped loosely by the towel. As you’re doing this speak in a calm and soothing voice making sure you’re lavishing praise and providing high-value treats like sunflower or millet. The goal will be for you to be able to take a towel to wherever your bird is perched and lay the towel over the bird then ask your bird to “step up” with the towel on your bird and partially on your arm.   We want to get your bird comfortable in the towel with the towel being used to restrain the bird’s wings. Restrain your bird's neck with what we affectionately call the zombie death grip which doesn’t choke your bird because parrots have cartilage rings in the trachea. Do be careful not to compress the bird's chest because that will interfere with its breathing and could suffocate them.   You can let the bird chew on a corner of the towel while you’re performing whatever grooming or maintenance you doing. Just don’t stuff the towel into the bird's mouth if you are getting bit just move your thumb and forefinger a little higher up the bird's neck under its beak and you can avoid bites altogether.   The process is similar for your bird to engage anyone or anything. Your bird wants to make your toys her toys. That's why advocate the use of clicker training to help build trust with any bird. 5 to 10 minutes a day will change the relationship between you and your bird regardless of age.   Another game helping make towels more easily accepted and bird friendly is wing-around-the-towel. This is especially useful for birds with clipped wings deprived of flight an essential source of exercise.    There are wing flapping exercises that you will want to do with your bird to keep its chest muscles toned - find bird exercise videos here - but a simple exercise of chasing your bird around the towel, making it a fun game will aid in the acceptance of said towel while providing happy calorie burning activity and human interaction.   written by mitch rezman approved by catherine tobsing Read the full article