Tag Archives: paffooney

Wonderful News!

Cool School Blue

My novel, Magical Miss Morgan, in manuscript form has made it to the final round in the Chanticleer Book Reviews’ novel-writing contest called the Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Novels 2015.   It is listed as one of 29 finalists that have been identified so far, and this year the competition judges are still reviewing manuscripts for possible inclusion in the field of finalists.  The judging has actually run past the announcement deadline.  So it is a large field to compete against for the actual prizes, but it is a huge honor to make it this far.

265469780

The Finalists Authors and Titles of Works that have made it to the Short-list of the Dante Rossetti 2015 Novel Writing Contest are as of Dec. 15, 2015. (Please check back often as we are still processing the Rossetti 2015 Finalists. We will add OFFICIAL FINALIST POSTING to this post when it is complete. Thank you for your understanding.)

  • Gail Selvig for O.W.L.S. and Other Creatures of the Night
  • Luke Evans for Hex
  • Jo Swanson for The Last Rodeo in Kingdom Come
  • Lis Anna-Langston for Tupelo Honey
  • KB Shaw for Neworld Series
  • Alix Nichols for What If It’s Love
  • Glen Alan Burke for Jesse
  • Ben Hutchins for Lackawanna
  • Jesse Atkin for  The Flying Man
  • Verity Croker for May Day Mine
  • Robert Joseph for Long Ago and Far Away
  • Aiden Riley for The Red
  • Pamela Beason for Race with Danger
  • Melissa A. Craven for  Emerge: The Awakening
  • Nikki McCormack for The Girl and the Clockwork Cat
  • Patrick Hodges for Joshua’s Island
  • Michael Burnam, MD for The Last Stop
  • Kathe Maguire for The Harriet Club
  • Suzanne de Montigny for The Shadow of the Unicorn II: The Deception
  • Laurisa White Reyes for Memorable
  • Mike Hartner for I, Mary: Book 3 in the Crofter Saga
  • Olivia Wildenstein for Ghostboy, Chameleon & the Duke of Graffiti
  • Suzanne de Montigny for The Shadow of the Unicorn II: The Deception
  • Stephanie DeLuca for Pilgrims 
  • Danielle Burnette for The Spanish Club
  • Cody Wagner for Camp NO Where – A Healing Home for Gay Kids
  • Michael Beyer for Magical Miss Morgan
  • Michael Sarrow for Mistress of Marrowglen

LIST TO CONTINUE — Thank you for your patience. We are working through the Dante Rossetti entries for 2015. 

This marks the second time one of my works has gotten this far in a writing contest.  In 2013 I was able to get my novel Snow Babies on an even shorter short list of finalists, though it did not win any of the available prizes.  But Snow Babies is now soon to be a real book published by PDMI LLC publishers.  I have hopes that before too much longer, Magical Miss Morgan will be too.

class Miss Mcover

5 Comments

Filed under announcement, humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, Uncategorized

Crying All The Time

Ima mickey

The horrible truth is, life would not be very funny and filled with laughter if no one ever cried.  And I am not just saying that because saying something is its own opposite is a cheap way of sounding wise.  You honestly can’t be happy if you have never been sad.  Nothing makes you appreciate what you have more than the experience of pain and loss.  I call everything I write “humor” because I defend myself against the darkness with a wacky wit and an ability to laugh when I am in pain.  Some of the funniest men who ever lived were creatures of great sadness.  Robin Williams may have died of it.

robin_williams_tribute_by_emilystepp-d7ut3q0

A beautiful portrait by artist Emily Stepp

And isn’t it true that the funniest movies are the ones that have at least one part of the story that makes you tear up?  I have been avoiding Downton Abbey even though my wife loves it, because I knew it was good enough to make me cry… a lot.  My wife makes fun of me when movies make me cry… or TV shows… or television commercials during the Superbowl.  She grins at me while tears are gushing.  And therein lies a connection between laughing and crying.  At least somebody gets a laugh out of the pain from a sensitive heart.

Downton_Abbey_season_1

So, you may have noticed that I confessed to avoiding Downton Abbey.  But I must also confess that I gave in.  She is watching every episode from the beginning in preparation for the final season coming up.  She made me watch it with her.  That goofy British soap opera set a hundred years ago is most definitely a comedy.  It is a comedy of manners.  Servants versus the upper class.  Scheming footmen like Thomas Barrows are almost cartoon villains as they plot their nearly infinite schemes of advantage and subterfuge.  You laugh when karma catches up to them, and they take a beating or lose their job.  And yet, like soap opera villains of the past, they never stay defeated.  Thomas found a coward’s way out of World War One and made his way back into the good graces of the Crawley family, achieving a higher rank in the staff than he had before.  And Dame Maggie Smith as Dowager Lady Grantham is the scathing-est of wits, surprising us with her shallow upper-class prejudices one moment, and showing a depth of humanity and compassion the next.  It is a comedy in that it plays off the soap opera form with exquisite self awareness.  But it drops the bottom out from under your feet constantly.  You fall directly into the tiger-traps of tragedy.  I cried when favorite characters died, like when Lady Sybil unexpectedly dies in childbirth, and when Matthew Crawley is killed in a car accident immediately after the birth of his long-awaited son.  When Valet John Bates goes to prison for murder though his first wife actually committed suicide, I became a fountain of gushing tears.  I cried again when he got out of prison.  I cried when his wife Anna was raped by a visiting lord’s valet.  And as that part of the plot works itself out in the next few episodes, I’m sure I’ll cry again.  My wife has been having a barrel full of belly laughs at my expense.  But because I have struggled through the depths of personal pain with these characters, and love them like they were real people, I laugh all the harder at their wit and ready comebacks and ultimate victories.  The only difference between a comedy and a tragedy is the comedy’s happy ending.

So I will continue to laugh and cry and call everything I write humor.  Forgive me when I’m not so funny.  And laugh with me sometimes, too.  Even laugh at me… because that’s laughter too.

2 Comments

Filed under humor, Mickey, Paffooney, review of television, Uncategorized

The Devil in the Details

There tends to be a good reason behind certain expressions.  Let me take a moment to explain it to you in the vaguest sort of way meant to protect the innocent, the privacy of the sufferer, and my privacy, and yet still get at that little old devil who is making my life a living hell.

20151213_154806

The problem stems from factors beyond my control, and the mental health of a family member who is not me, but I am responsible for paying for, because I can clearly see what the problem is (as can doctors and licensed practitioners)  while other members of my family (mainly for religious reasons) can’t see.  And, of course, you can imagine who the insurance company, who is supposed to pay for at least part of it, wants to believe.  I am the one who sat through the day in the ER two years ago, giving the best support and care I could while footing the bill.  (The truth is, Jehovah’s Witnesses have a complicated time in the ER because they don’t accept blood transfusions, and they worry about the practice of Psychiatry leading to some kind of evil mind control.)  In the ER it was determined for the sake of safety and protection of the patient, we needed to be sent to a psychiatric hospital.  Of course, the insurance gets to tell you where and what doctors you can work with, so we were sent to University Behavioral Health Hospital in Denton, the one facility that my family has determined CANNOT perform any more services for my family on pain of religious condemnation and angry black stares that ripple through time from then to now.    A weeks’ worth of time in UBH, determined by UBH to maximize profits, led to a bill of over a thousand dollars payable by me.  That, added to my own medical bills (from six incurable diseases) and the bill from the ER that the insurance pays less than half of because of deductibles, added up to a debt that maxed out my credit cards and brought me to the brink of bankruptcy. (A thing I narrowly avoided by engaging a lawyer for debt-reduction services).   I was forced to retire from teaching at that point because the time away from my job for the family member’s illness, plus the work missed from my own illnesses, was reducing my income to the point that I might’ve owed the school money at the end of every working month otherwise.  I was fortunate to have enough years in service to have a good pension.

Now, of course you know that mental health conditions aren’t the kind of thing that goes away by taking a pill… or even a hundred different pills.  It requires constant monitoring, prescribing, and proper therapy.  UBH will not even release a patient unless you can prove that you have set up appointments with both a psychiatrist and a therapist.  We found excellent ones of each.  But, of course, along comes the insurance company to have their say.  (This insurance company shall remain nameless… but it rhymes with FAetna… and that is not a capitalization error, no matter what the spell-checker says.)  We lost the services of one of the best adolescent psychiatrists in North Texas because he refuses to take the crappy insurance.  I don’t blame him.  I blame him less now that I know so many more of the devilish details than I did then.  So, I tried to replace the good doctor.  I called the insurance provider for a list of doctors we could use.  I was given only two names.  The first doctor, a well-respected lady psychiatrist, let us make an appointment.  When I was filling out the required paperwork in the office on the day of the visit, we were informed that due to a technicality, the only way we could see that doctor would be to pay 100% 0f the bill.  The receptionist graciously let us end the appointment without charging us the late-cancellation fee.  We went to the other doctor, one that had unpleasant memories of my family from UBH, and were rejected by the doctor.  So… no psychiatrist anywhere in the State would treat my family ever again thanks to the crappy insurance.  (I tried to think of another adjective besides “crappy” to use here, but couldn’t think of any I could use that would not melt my keyboard.)

Now, recently, we have lost our only other professional help.  We had been seeing the excellent therapist weekly for over two years.  Previous insurance had no problem paying for the preventive services he provided.  I got by with a simple co-pay every week.  But when we had to transition to crappy FAetna, a stealth problem occurred.  Apparently there was a form that needed to be filled out to transfer the payment obligation from one provider to the next.  The form had an expiration date on it that absolved the crappy insurance from any payments at all once it was passed.  They, of course, did not tell the poor therapist about the existence of this critical document until long after the expiration date.  All claims during that time were recently nullified and payments denied.  We actually owe the doctor doing the therapy well over a thousand dollars. But he knows we can’t afford it, and he feels bad that it was caused by an error that was technically his.    We are still trying to dipsy-doodle through the nightmare health-care system to find needed services.  I have had my fill.  I don’t try to call Satan’s member-services department for the crappy insurance any more.  They won’t tell me the truth, and they won’t do anything helpful… only things that are harmful.

If I were to go to the main offices of FAetna Crappy Insurance Corporation, I would fully expect the front doors to be guarded by a massive three-headed dog-thingy.  The receptionists would all be red-skinned succubi with fangs and horns.  You would have to descend in an elevator to the Pit of Hell to see any of their superiors… You know, like Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Lucifer.  Apparently all the premiums we pay to health insurance companies entitle us only to arguments with intractable employees who don’t even know what the word “approved” means.  So, the Devil is indeed using the details to rule in Hell… and he is doing a Helluvah job.

2 Comments

Filed under angry rant, autobiography, humor, Paffooney, Uncategorized

Flu Season

20141219_150323

The very real possibility exists that it is illness that will end me.  I have six incurable diseases (diabetes, arthritis, COPD, hypertension, psoriasis, and an enlarged prostate).  I am also a cancer survivor (malignant melanoma in 1983).  My fragile, diseased body is like a house made of straw, and the Big Bad Wolf came knocking at my door yesterday.

The Girl with the Red Bird

My daughter, the Princess, came home from school yesterday noon with the flu.  She moaned and cried and was burning with fever.  She vomited on the bathroom floor.  Of course, the retired guy who stays home all day is the one who had to tend her and clean up after her.  But he is also the one most at risk of dying from the flu or from pneumonia as a side-effect of the flu.  I am the son of a registered nurse who worked in the ER and still gives excellent medical advice.  I have been taught how to care for the sick with proper precautions.  The poor Princess is already feeling better today after the overnight miracle of Theraflu.  I am no longer worried for her.  Now it is me that is at risk.

I identify myself with the cardinal.  Yes, the bird is the mascot of my favorite sports teams.  But it is more than that.  It is the resolute little bird who doesn’t fly away when the winter comes..  No flying south with the snowbirds when the world is covered in pure, white, cleansing snow.  It stays through the ice and cold to watch over its personal territory.  But it is not invulnerable to the ravages of winter.  Many of its bright red and pugnacious kind succumb finally to old age and the cold, and die in winter.  But I have no regrets.  If the final winter has come… well, I cannot exactly say I have no regrets, because I have goofed up a lot over rime… but I am satisfied.  If my life has to be complete from this moment, then it is a good life, well-lived.  And I am satisfied.

Leave a comment

Filed under humor, illness, Paffooney, Uncategorized

The Underdog

293867_10151234543532298_409060322_n

Yesterday I failed to add to the list of magical powers I possess the ability to make football teams lose.  I have always believed that all I have to do is root for a team to win and they will lose.  I have tested out this power thoroughly over the years.  Through most of my life I thoroughly detested the Dallas Cowboys.  I hated the way they always seemed to have the advantage, the way they would always injure players on my favorite teams and force them out of football for the rest of the season, and they would always win.  Even after moving to Texas and, still rooting for the St. Louis Cardinals even after they moved to Arizona, I rooted against the Cowboys in every game they played.  I am amazed that they didn’t go undefeated for three decades.  But a little miracle called “General Manager Jerry Jones” happened to the Cowboys.  I moved to Dallas at a time when the team was being dismantled and dismembered by a magical ability of Jerry’s that seems very similar to my own.  The Cowboys became the underdog.  So much so that I actually began to root for them when they were not playing the Cardinals.  This, of course, magnified Jerry’s magical gifts tenfold.  The Cowboys became the same kind of perennial losers the Cardinals had always been.

20151211_101211

So, you can easily see that I am one of those superstitious nerd-body nincompoops who always pulls for the underdog.  I admit to helping the Boston Redsox win their first World Series at the end of “Babe Ruth’s Curse”.  Those perennial also-rans benefited from playing my beloved Cardinals’ baseball team.  So I rooted against them fiercely, and they won.  In fact, underdogs sometimes win even in spite of magical ability.  Some times they just have to win.  In 2006 the Cardinals won the World Series on the strength of Chris Carpenter’s throwing arm and Albert Pujols’ bat, along with a team of underdogs and ne’er-do-wells who all played far above themselves.  I rooted for them every step of the way.  And we lost some battles, but we won the war.  Such is the way it must be in this world.  The ultimate victory belongs to the Underdog, the unlikely superhero that is sometimes confused with a flying frog.

The football Arizona Cardinals came through for me again in the same way last night.  They were up against another good team in the Minnesota Vikings.  And in spite of the fact that I was rooting for them every step of the way, I saw them pull victory from the jaws of imminent defeat.  With mere seconds left, they created a fumble and recovered it, preventing a game-tying field goal that was practically in the bag.  The Cardinals are now in the playoffs with an 11 and 2 record, poised to make another run at the Superbowl.  That may not seem like an underdog to you, but if you look back over the years of rooting for a team that was often the butt of jokes and were usually losers like the current Cowboys are, then you can see that these are underdogs at the end of a long, long uphill climb.  And aren’t we all like that most of the time?  Aren’t we all climbing the mountainside in spite of numerous avalanches, storms, and falls?

Listening to the radio station KLUV doing their annual radiothon for Children’s Hospital while taking my daughter to school this morning, I heard the heartbreaking story of a little boy who is both autistic and epileptic.  Apparently he collapsed in school, and when taken to Children’s ER, was found to have leukemia as well.  I had to stop the car and cry for ten minutes.   It never seems fair to have to listen to stories like that.  You want to help the underdog to win.  But you feel totally powerless.  I don’t have enough money to pay my own medical expenses, and my daughter had to come home early with a fever.  But believe me, I had to donate $20 to Children’s Hospital.  It is a tiny, meaningless amount… but the magic is in the doing and the believing.  I will continue to use my goofy magic to the very best of my ability.

4 Comments

Filed under humor, Paffooney, philosophy, Uncategorized

Gosh I Love Maps!

There are so many places in this world (or maybe out of this world) to visit and become a part of, that it really helps to have a map to navigate the places (especially imaginary places) with the mind’s blurry eye.

20151209_110432

If you are ever lifted up into the stratosphere in your house by a twister, bonked on the head so you see wicked witches flying on brooms, and set down in a place filled with magical dwarfs called Munchkins… the above map might prove very useful.  I found it’s like as a kid to be thoroughly helpful as I read not only Frank L. Baum’s first book, but also his second and fifth books.  It really helps to know where you are in Oz.

20151209_110601

Edmond Hamilton’s hero, Captain Future, needed a map of worlds like Futuria as well as Mars, the Moon, and Venus in his 1940’s Science Fiction Adventures from Captain Future Magazine.

20151209_110633

This is Fritz Lieber’s city of Lankhmar where giant Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser commit numerous acts of stealing, wenching, fighting and drinking.  A map like this would help them in their many dealings with wizards, magicians, and strange beings.

20151209_110459

This map could easily prove to be the salvation of Robert E. Howard’s hero, Conan the Barbarian.  The well-traveled Conan was a peerless fighter, but not much of a thinker.  So barring the odd smart girlfriend and witty, fast-talking sidekick, Conan couldn’t do without it.20151209_110653

This whole map thing was inspired by this old book that I have thumbed through so much the pages are falling out.  It contains maps of Middle Earth, Pern, Pellucidar, Atlantis, the planet Arrakis from Dune, and Narnia.

It is now the inspiration for my holiday art project.  I will create my own imaginary map from my hometown novels, a map of Norwall, Iowa, that will include the homes of many characters, fairy battlefields and secret lairs, the Gingerbread House where the witch lives, and more.  As you can see… I have only just begun.

20151209_142126

4 Comments

Filed under humor, maps, Paffooney, Uncategorized

The Current State of My World

20151202_174334

I am busy reinventing myself.  There are things that have to get done.  I have to raise my finances phoenix-like from the abyss I found myself in three years ago after five hospital trips in five years devastated my bank accounts and credit rating at the same time I was forced to retire from my teaching career by health problems.  I went through a debt-reduction program with the advice of a law firm in California that has helped me reconcile 35,000 dollars worth of credit card debt.  I am nearing the end of that painful belt-tightening process, which can be likened to putting a pumpkin in a vice and cranking the handle tighter than you ever believed was possible, and I did not pop the pumpkin.

Health matters are better too.  I am farther away from doom’s ultimate doorway than I was when I retired.  No longer teaching has kept me from getting the four cases of the flu yearly that I had become accustomed to when I was in the germ-filled giant Petri  dish commonly known as a public school classroom.  Lovely Aetna health insurance people decided they would no longer pay for my maintenance medications for diabetes, depression, blood pressure, and cholesterol, so I was forced to cut down and cut out medications.  Ironically, the less I take the meds, the better I feel.  Maybe… just maybe… I am not going to drop dead tomorrow.

20151206_104957

I am stuck indoors quite a lot, because COPD and not using an inhaler and sensitivity to every allergen in Texas makes for a less than wonderful outdoor experience.  So I have taken to reorganizing my library and various vast collections of junk.  I am rereading old and beloved books.  I am playing with my toys more than ever.  I am winning computer baseball games.  I just pitched another perfect game.

20151121_180141

I have been painting the house too, when the weather allows, making the outside of things look a little better too.  The football Cardinals have been winning.  And the Iowa Hawkeyes were perfect up until the narrow loss to Michigan State.  12-1 is still the best they have ever done.

I have recently been able to shave and look a little less Santa-like, though psoriasis is trying to peel my lower face away again, so I will probably be growing my author’s beard and Gandalf hair back again.  And I have completed collections and written up a storm.  My work is not yet complete on this Earth, and there needs to be a new Mickey in town to clean up this cowboy-infested heck-hole where I live my life.

I know this has been a rather goopy-goose of a post, but I am feeling good for a change, and it is hard to do humor about everything going too well.

5 Comments

Filed under autobiography, humor, photo paffoonies, Uncategorized

Viking Christmas Carols

 

Nerrak

Nerrak, the Christmas Viking,,, He is blue in color because he lives in upper Norway and it gets very, very cold.

I guess I need to explain the festive Christmas Viking that I included as the initial Paffooney of this post.  You see, during the Princess’ Christmas concert where she played the tooty leather pole, one of the pieces was called Sleigh Ride.  But as we talked about it at the dinner table, Henry, the Princess, and I, it was quite naturally understood to be Slay Ride.  It probably stems from too much Dungeons and Dragons adventuring.  You tend to get into an entirely too slaying-sort-of mind set.  And, naturally enough, we figured a “Slaying Song” had to be the kind of Christmas music that would appeal to Vikings and barbarians everywhere.

1349564-groo

Groo the Wanderer, created by Sergio Aragones

Yes, my kids and I often err to seriously demented misspelling demons and magic of most misinterpretive sort.  This led to a further discussion of why there were no Vikings named Bob.  After all, there are plenty of Canutes, Karls, Ymirs, and Siegfrieds…  so why no Bobs?

Henry suggested it was the general mistreatment of Bobs by the Vikings.

“Mistreatment of Bobs?” I asked innocently enough.

“Yes, in Viking culture, Bobs are constantly bullied.  The other Vikings insist on using them as sleds.”  Henry grinned as he said it.  “You’ve heard of Bobsleds, haven’t you?”

“Oh, of course!  Now that all makes sense… in a weird sort of way.”

This led to a sudden surge of Viking creativity and we burst into song.

Dashing through the snow
On a horse, we hoped to slay,
Swinging swords we go,
Laughing all the way (Ho, ho, ho, ho!)
Bells on Bob’s tail ring,
making Bob want to fight (while we use him as a sled)
What fun it is to laugh and sing
A slaying song tonight!

Oh, yingle bells, yingle bells
Yingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
On a horse so we can slay!
Yingle bells, yingle bells
Yingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride                                                                                                    On a horse to burn and slay!

1 Comment

Filed under humor, Paffooney, satire, Uncategorized

The Terrible Strip Poker Game That Sealed My Fate

SUN GAMES

Any time you try to play Russian roulette with girlfriends, especially two girlfriends at once, especially especially two girlfriends who don’t like each other, you have to expect at some time or other, a gun is going to go off.  This happened to me during a card game.  And it was fatal.

Now, I should warn you, the innuendo in this story is R to X rated.  But the truth is neither of these two young ladies became my wife (although my wife is actually more like Ysandra than she is like Abby… a fact I probably should not reveal because I promised never to write a post like this about her).  I never consummated anything with either young lady, though in the course of five years of this double-trouble relationship thing, I had way more opportunities than I am comfortable with.  And I really don’t know if Ysandra would be upset or happy to know that she was not the first young lady I ever saw naked.

The trouble began when I said yes to Abby’s plan to have a card party at my place.  It didn’t seem like such a terrible idea at the outset.  Card parties were a thing on autumn or winter nights in the Midwest, and both Abby and I had family experiences with card parties.  Abby diligently invited others to attend.  She offered a tepid, half-hearted invitation to Ysandra… out of a sense of duty, I suppose.  She also invited Mother Mendoza to play cards with us.  Now, Endira Mendoza was the older sister of the 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Evangeline Delgado, and she had been a Catholic nun before taking a job in Cotulla to teach 7th grade Science.  Everyone called her “Mother” or “Mama” because she loved all her students like they were her own children.  And she disciplined them that way too.  “I am fed up with this nonsense!” was the phrase that her students dreaded because the use of the paddle was not banned in Texas schools in those days.  What could go wrong with a party that included everyone’s “Mama”?

Well, I didn’t know everything about the situation before I committed to the party.  Mother Mendoza looked upon Abby as the wild and carefree little sister that she always wanted and never had.  And Abby could do no wrong in her eyes.  So, apparently, she was actually in on the plot.

Ysandra never actually said no to the card party.  She just didn’t show up.  She and I had talked about the possibility of buying a house together and living together.  But she insisted she had been married and divorced for the last time in her life.  She had no intention of going through that again whether she ultimately decided whether she loved me or not.  And, while I had done her bidding and gotten in contact with the American Naturist Association in Tampa, Florida, and discovered there was a club near San Antonio, I had never actually done the naked tent-camping thing that we had discussed.

So there were only three of us at the card party.  We had the requisite soft drinks and snacks.  We had a small table to use and plenty of chairs.  And I had a pack of playing cards that I had bought at the local grocery store.  But, oh no… My cards were not to be considered.  Abby had been to a novelty store in San Antonio, and she had purchased some very special cards.

“We have to use these,” she said.  “I bought them just for you and for this card party.  Endira was with me.”

I should have realized what was going on as she pulled things out of the brown paper bag she brought with her.  They were pornographic playing cards.  Each and every one had a picture on it that would turn me bright purplish-red.

“We are going to play strip poker!” Abby announced.

I immediately looked to Mother Mendoza for the expected, “I am fed up with…” but it never came.  Endira just sat there with an embarrassed grin on her Catholic nun face.  Remember, Abby could do no wrong in her eyes.  And besides, I later learned that Abby had won her over with the temptation of getting to see me at least partially naked.  Loneliness can work strange magic even on the most virtuous of maidens.

“Urm… ah… I can’t possibly do that…” I mumbled, unable to contain my shame, and my knees visibly shaking.  “Can’t we play gin rummy or trump or one of the other card games we talked about?  I may have some UNO cards.”

“No.  We have to use the playing cards I bought, and there will be prizes if I win the gin rummy game.”

“Well, okay… I guess…”

So we played a hand of the most embarrassing game of gin rummy of my life.  I could barely stand to hold my cards in my hand, let alone look at them long enough to plan a winning strategy.

“Rummy!” she cried eventually, laying down a run of 2, 3, 4, and 5 of hearts matched with three Jacks.

“Oh, uh… another hand then?” I timidly said trying to avoid… you know.

“Oh, now, wait a minute, Mike.  You promised me my prize.”

“Um, I may have some pie in the refrigerator.”

“No.  My choice.  I bought you something.  You are going to model it for us.”

I could not speak.  She reached in her brown paper bag and pulled out a male g-string.  I am not going to tell you what happened next because I may have fainted.  Suffice it to say that everything in this story is true… except I changed the names.   Any lies that are part of this story are lies of omission.  There are certain things I can’t tell you even thirty years later.

Ysandra forced me to reveal every little detail about the card party on a later date, and she got one of the best laughs of her life over it… at my expense.

12240330_1064707073548623_4595113678298695739_o

I eventually said goodbye to both of these young ladies.  Between the two of them, although I later realized that I didn’t love either one of them, they managed to ease up my self-imposed sexual repression to the point that I would be able to marry when the next real opportunity came along.  Abby moved on to a job in San Antonio where she became something of a hero-type teacher when she ran down and karate-chopped a purse snatcher trying to steal school-event money from her after an organized bake sale.  Her fiance was with her when she stopped by my apartment to tell me about moving to South Carolina.  He witnessed her giving me a hug and a kiss to say goodbye.  I understand the two of them had two beautiful little blond-haired daughters, and were both still teaching the last time I had word.  Ysandra decided she was never going to change me enough to suit her.  And we parted ways about a year after Abby left.  I actually bought a year’s membership in a nudist club, but I never had to use it before she left me.  I wanted to part as friends, but she emphasized that she wanted me to be happy, and she was sure if I ever found a wife, that she would not appreciate Ysandra as a close female friend.  The last I knew she was still single, still living in Cotulla, and still getting her way about everything there at the center of the universe.

Life is like that.  You juggle two girlfriends at once, you are bound to drop them both.  But it turns out for the better in the end.

1 Comment

Filed under autobiography, humor, Paffooney, Uncategorized

Double The Trouble (Juggling Girlfriends – Part Two)

Disclaimer;  Believe me, I know how dangerous telling a story like this is when the parties being talked about have the potential to turn into Glenn Close Fatal Attraction level stalkers, but the fact is, I have changed the names and fictionalized just enough that they might not even recognize themselves, and they never really liked me that much any way.  Thirty years later they will have forgotten all about me, and my paranoia about it is merely the symptom of old age and looming insanity.  (At least, I pray that it is so.)

Superchicken at the Beach xx

As I got to know Ysandra better, I learned that some women are particularly self-absorbed and even downright mean.  She was a pleasant enough person to talk to, and I had been attracted to her dedication to education as a no-nonsense sort of teacher’s aide.  But she had a dark side.  She believed that she was more or less the center of the known universe, and we, who had the privilege of orbiting about her, owed her what her little black heart desired.  She liked to go places and do things that cost plenty of money.  She liked me to pay for it.  And this I gladly did even though a teacher’s salary was not exactly lucrative in the 80’s.  We went to Austin together quite a bit.  My parents lived in a suburb of Austin at the time, and she had a sister in the city with whom she could stay.  We went and saw The Phantom of the Opera when it came to the Frank Erwin Center.   I don’t regret spending the time and money with her, broadening my social horizons and learning how to live larger than I ever did as a lowly country boy from an Iowa farm town.  But there were surprises too.

Ysandra’s sister and husband lived in a rather unique apartment complex.  It was a fortress-like five-story affair on Manor Road with a gate where you had to speak through a sliding panel and give the name of the resident who invited you to enter.  The reason it was so secure was because it was an entirely clothing optional establishment.  They were nudists!  And I was still a sexually repressed little prude dealing with my secret issues of shame.  Ysandra had all kinds of yucks and giggles at my expense whenever I had to drop her off or pick her up there.  She was not dealing with issues, and didn’t mind naked people… or even being naked in public herself.  I turned bright shades of red-violet in the presence of young women not wearing any pants.  Thank goodness my parents lived fairly close, and I didn’t have to stay there too.

After the first time we visited Austin like that I was forced to explain to her about my secret problem.  She was slightly sympathetic to my discomfort, but firmly believed that what was good for her was good for everybody, and insisted the way to overcome fear was to confront it.  She put me on a path of accepting the inevitability of becoming a nudist myself.  It was supposed to be the cure for me, and she intended to enforce it.

Now, this is supposedly a story of two girlfriends at the same time, and Ysandra was fully aware of Abby, the Reading teacher.  She accepted that Abby lived next door and was a rookie teacher who needed guidance.  She felt about her about what you would expect an alley cat to feel about another alley cat that was eyeing the same canary in a cage.  Ysandra spread all kinds of nasty rumors about Abby in her Spanish-speaking gossip circles, and those came back to bite me a couple of times when I may have been the source of the vicious half-truth.  (In my defense, it didn’t seem like a vicious detail when I told Ysandra about it.  The devil was in the presentation.)  I had to learn to keep the relationships separate.

And keeping things separate was hard because Abby had very little in the way of self control.  I could not tell her about the secret that neutered me because it would almost instantly slip and become public knowledge.  She enjoyed life in a very sensual way.  She wore the shortest of shorts, the tightest of dresses (even in school), and she wore her considerable bosoms like a pair of headlights, lighting up everything male with testosterone in it ahead of her.  She was almost child-like in her feigned innocence.

I told her from the very beginning that Ysandra was my girlfriend to try to curb her enthusiasm a little.  It didn’t work.  She apparently respected Ysandra, and feared her slightly.  But that wasn’t enough to keep her from visiting me late at night, watching my TV and eating my food and making plan to go places with me without regard for how all these things might look to the First Baptist Church Ladies whose fundamentalist Christian values might get us both stoned to death. And I was too intimidated by my own reactions to her to tell her stop and leave me alone.

So, I will leave this perfidious narration here for the time being and save the story of the fatal strip poker game for the next post in the series.  And I must say, I did actually turn red with embarrassment writing this post, so that next one will probably make my head explode and be the end of me.

Leave a comment

Filed under autobiography, horror writing, humor, Paffooney, Uncategorized