Fiction: Strange World

I received a call from my boss on my day off. “Roxie,” he barked. “You were requested and I’m short-staffed. I need you here by 12.”

I sighed to myself, as I quickly packed my work clothes into a bag. I took a last look in the mirror as I zipped up my shiny black leather high heeled boots.

I arrived there quickly. I slipped into the locker room and changed into the required outfit. I slipped off my bleach blonde wig and arranged my long brown hair into a bun. I slipped on my glasses, grabbed my knitting bag and went into the work room.

I sat down in the rocking chair, rocked slowly and started a new row on a pale blue baby blanket. I waited a few minutes and looked up from my knitting. A baby boy with blonde hair and blue eyes was crawling towards me.

I set my knitting back down into the knitting bag. I could see the cameras in the corner of my eye as I reached down and picked up the baby at my feet. It always amazed me at how light the baby feels when I lift him into my lap.

I started to adjust my top and noticed that this baby didn’t immediately reach for my chest like the other babies do. He seemed to be studying my face. I pushed that thought out of my mind, as I lowered the flap for the nursing bra and moved the baby’s head towards my left breast. The baby suckled and drank while I softly caressed his hair.

The baby’s reached out and placed its right hand onto my breast. A flood of memories washed over me, immersing me in the life I’ve been trying so hard to forget since I arrived here.

I saw three blonde-haired children walking on a hill; two girls and a boy were laughing and running ahead of me. I remember the peace and joy of watching them enjoy the sunlight. How free and innocent the world was then.

My heart ached with the memory. I held back the tears and took slow, deep breaths of air, so that the cameras wouldn’t be able to pick up on my thoughts. I looked down at the baby, and lifted him to my shoulder, patting his back. I quickly switched the flaps of the nursing bra, and moved the baby to my right breast.

I rocked the baby as it appeared to drink. I could tell this one was different, he didn’t seem to relish my nipple or breasts like the other babies here do. I felt slightly uneasy as I looked down at him. He moved his arm and covered his face slightly as he nursed.

Our time was up, and the nursery assistant came to take the baby out of my lap. I refastened the nursing bra and my blouse, picked up my knitting bag and stood up. I went to the main office to ask my boss if there were more appointments scheduled for me. He said there wasn’t, and I could go home.

I went back to the locker room and changed out of my work outfit, which was a white blouse, a long knit skirt and sneakers. “He must have offered more a double rate to ask me to come in today,” I thought to myself as I washed the milk off of my skin. I am always careful to wash all evidence of my job off of me before I go out into the street. The girls who haven’t followed these rules have disappeared; the rumors at work are that they are killed or kidnapped by former clients.

The great danger of this job is that you never recognize your clients once you leave here. The machine that makes the grown men into babies has never been fully explained to me; however, when we are in that room, they feel, act and smell just like a real baby. While I never asked to come here, I figured I have to try to survive, if only to prevent other women from being kidnapped, taken away from their children, and made to do this demeaning form of sex work.

I slip on my tight black dress and zip up my thigh-high, high heeled boots. I have to dress as all the women do in the city, to blend in. I move my brown hair up and slip the blonde wig back onto my head. I slip on a pair of prescription sunglasses and reapply my red lipstick.

I throw my canvas bag over my shoulder and walk out of the building. As I walk down the street, a tall man bumps into my shoulder. I barely look up and say, “Excuse me.”

He softly, kindly replies, “Forgive me.” His tenor voice echoes through my heart in a strange way, so I look up. His blue eyes looked in kind recognition at me. I can’t remember the last time anyone had looked at me with such a gentle compassion.

He softly commands, “We have to keep walking. Come with me.” His hand gently grips my elbow and a flood of images of sunlight and laughter nearly stops me cold. My legs felt weak, but I take a deep breath and force myself to walk. I hide my trembling hands in my jacket pockets while I look forward blankly.

After walking a couple of blocks, I ask, “Am I being kidnapped?”

He smiles and whispers, “You don’t remember. You were kidnapped 3 years ago.”

I didn’t remember exactly how, but I knew what this stranger said was true. I knew I didn’t belong in this world and that every day I stayed here, a part of me slowly died.

We kept walking he looked quickly around, and carefully pushed me into the alley with him. There was a black car with tinted windows waiting there for us. I was still in a state of shock as he lifted me into the backseat and climbed in after me. He shut the door and knocked on the tinted window between the back seat and the driver. The car jumped into gear and turned into the street.

I tried to look out of the window, but it was too dark for me to see anything. I felt confused and tired, and I could hear him say, “It’s alright; you’re safe now,” as I suddenly fell to sleep.

Labor day weekend

I just came back from a walk and this evening the air feels like fall. It seemed like summer had barely started and fall is now here. 

It's Labor Day weekend here in the US, and it's been very quiet this Sunday. The kids are all looking forward to school, and I feel immobilized lately. It's as if I can't move forward, I don't want to move backwards, so I'm stuck, frozen in time.

My heart feels serene, self-aware and self-assured - but yet a bit unsettled. Maybe it's different things I'm feeling tremors from; events in the world and nearby that make things seem like there are a lot of changes, and they don't all seem good or positive. It's puzzling, but I admit that perhaps I'm not meant to know the answer.

I wonder if others feel this way as well...

It's August

This summer has gone by way too fast. I haven't done as much as I hoped as far as getting out and doing things. I was lucky enough to be able to see a couple of shows and have spent much time with the young ones, but I really haven't found a good way to "get out there" (so to speak).

I'm outgoing and shy at the same time. I also don't want to misinterpret things with people or mistake kindness for something more. I do believe in this world we can all use more friends. And that perhaps I need to learn to be a friend to others.

I know that I'm different from others. Sometimes it feels like I can see the world at 2 different levels at the same time. I know that it may be more difficult for me to find a relationship with another person because of this. After all, I had a partnership with someone and walked away from it. I have to be realistic about my own inabilities.



Of course, I did have someone do a spiritual reading for me a few weeks ago. Part of me felt a bit disappointed with it, because part of it reflected something an old friend once said to me. "Don't worry about your purpose. Just be there for your kids."

The reason why that disappoints me is that I've always wanted to show my kids that they could do anything they put their mind to. That they could make all of their dreams come true if they worked hard at it and approached life with an honest, loving heart.

Yet, I'm being told I can't have a purpose because I'm a Mom...

I do know, cherish and count my blessings every day because of my 3 little ones...please don't misunderstand that. I feel incredibly fortunate to have them in my life. I just wish I could find fulfillment within other areas of my life. To stop feeling so unsettled and in the way...

There are no easy answers in life. We all have to muddle though the best we can.

Absurdism in the Extreme, part 1

I'm finding life to be incredibly absurdist lately.

Not sure where to start with examples; I won't even mention that I think my boss and her boss are related through marriage (which could explain some "blind spots" for how my boss behaves).

I received a text from the wife of a friend of my ex-BIL. Apparently, she is obsessed with my grandma's meatball recipe, since the only other time I've seen her was 2 years ago, she didn't ask how the kids or I was doing. She just said, "I want a copy of your meatball recipe." It was right after the divorce and I was still dealing with emotions one goes through during that time.


Well, the text I received a few days ago stated: "This is S***** A-------, J's wife...wondering if u ever came across the meatball recipe...would love to get that some day!! Hope u r well!"

No, I didn't respond. How did she even get my phone number? It's one of the last people in the world I've wanted to have my number. Why doesn't she get recipes the way I do, by Googling?

[I should state that I'm on good terms with my ex-In Laws, but none of the friends have really talked to me and I wouldn't expect them to. I know how most people view divorce here in the Midwest and accept that I'm persona-non-grata now. It's more comfortable for me to be on the "outside" of things.]

The only bad part of me being on the outside of things is that I don't have very many close friends. In the Midwest, it's hard to make new friends in your mid-40s. I'm working on it, however. Like all good things, it takes time.

What defines you?

Mr. D asked the Communications class, "OK, who can tell me something about me?"

Many of us looked up at the Mick Jagger poster hanging next to the classroom clock. One classmate tentatively raised his hand and said, "You like the Rolling Stones."

"Wrong," Mr. D replied. "That isn't about me. How would you know that for sure?"

This scene popped across my mind as I drove home tonight. I was thinking about how some people seem to etch their identity from the TV shows they watch and the music they listen to.


I should state that I'm a passionate pop culture fan, who adores movies, and appreciate music. I consider many rock lyricists the writers of musical poetry.

One of the groups who's music has been a touchstone in my life has recently recorded an album. It has been surprising, since they had broken up over 20 years ago, and it really seemed that this would be unlikely to happen.

They are going on a short tour to a few smaller venues. Some fans are upset they are not going to their town, and others are wishing they were playing at bigger concert halls.


Why are these people dissatisfied? Rock stars (as well as actors and sports figures) do not OWE us anything. Why do people think they should have an expectation that celebrities should do this or that? Just because we buy a few albums doesn't mean that these talented folks have to go to every major metro area to play a show.


All art forms (whether it's music, a painting, or an acting performance) is a gift that the artist chooses to share with the world, with us. If this gift reaches out and touches our soul, shouldn't that be enough? Shouldn't we be grateful that we are a part of a great continuum? We are never really alone. If we look and listen, art does communicate this to us every day.

I made a decision a few years ago. I don't want to be defined by what movies I like, what music groups I admire. I want to be defined by who I am. Letting go of society's expectations,and embracing the qualities that make me uniquely me.


So, Mr. D, I get it. It took me 25 years, but I understand what you were trying to illustrate. [I sure hope other students are able to see the lesson you were sharing with us.]

"Beauty's" True Price

Everything has been going very well lately. Life seems to be falling into place in so many ways.

Last fall, I was fortunate to win a free makeover at a salon in the smaller city I work in. This is a brief description of that experience and I hope you'll enjoy it.


Please know I do feel lucky that they were willing to work on my hair. It seemed like a fair trade off, before and after photos for their website, in exchange for them to do the cut and color they wanted on me. Any person who is interested in hair color should get the experience of a professional hair color at least once in their life.




However, some of what was said during the course of this seemed very strange and foreign to me. The hair stylist asked how I generally styled my hair. I explained that I usually let it air dry. When pressed, I did mention my reasons are for it to be better for my hair (as a couple of other hair stylists in the past have told me my hair was in great condition, because I air dry it), as well as better for the environment (using the electricity, etc.).

The stylist became very animated when she explained to me that using the hair dryer was very good for my hair, as long as I used a lot of "product." She further lectured that if I wanted to have my hair look different, that I had better change my ways and use a hair dryer.

Some before photos were taken, then the stylist took some time figuring out the tones for my hair color. She was very efficient in folding my hair into the foils and we chatted a bit about family. As I sat waiting for the color to take, I read a magazine while she cut another customer's hair.

When the color was done, she washed my hair and gave my scalp a vigorous scalp massage. I had a small break to sit up when she swept up hair off of the floor and she made the comment (like she thought she was reading my mind): "Why can't I have some of that hair?"

My hair rinsed and towel dried, she then waxed my brows. She plucked quite a few after waxing and I was starting to worry that I would look like my mom and her friends did in the 1970s, when they all plucked their eye brows out and drew on their eyebrows every day with pencil.

My hair was combed out and the color was very nice, with lowlights and some lighter blonde streaks. She put 2 or 3 'products' in my hair. The stylist cut my hair a small amount and layered it a bit. She then proceeded to instruct me on how I would have to use a medium (for a giant) round brush in a specific fashion with the hair dryer to get the correct Stepford wife look. While she was drying my hair, due to the heat of the hair dryer, her necklace started to burn her skin, so she had to move it a couple of times on her neck. She then ratted (wait, it's called "back-combing") my hair to give it volume with a $5 brush that everyone is so happy with when they buy.

When drying was complete, she sprayed 1 hair spray on and then applied a special 'product' that makes your hair look dirty without it actually being dirty. [I would rather have the fun in being dirty to get my hair looking that way, but that's another story for another time.]

Finally was the time for the makeup. She spent at least 20 minutes working on my eyes. She had several layers of colors – purple and brown (ok, purple did match my shirt and with my brown eyes, yes it is a good color), black pencil liner under, mascara. As she was performing this procedure, I glanced at the mirror occasionally, and was reminded of Ozzy Osborne's stage makeup. She layered some foundation on my face and blush on my cheeks. She did not apply anything on my lips (maybe that is a new "rule" for us over 40). When she was done, I looked like a drag queen (not that there is anything with how a drag queen look, it's just not the look I like for me).

The after photos were taken, we shook hands, and I thanked her for her work. Yes, I know she put a lot of time and thought into what she did. I am grateful for this experience. It made me realize some important things.

At the relatively young age of 42, I feel I know what does suit me, as a woman, office worker, etc. I understand that she is there to try to promote her work and her "products." I temporarily felt displeased that she uses such tone and attitude to a new potential customer. In a way, she took what should have been a fun experience and made it unpleasant. Fortunately, I tend to see the humor in these experiences soon afterwards.

More importantly, I have deep concern for her younger customers. Those young women would believe this 'professional' in that they are not beautiful unless they follow her narrowly defined rules of beauty. This type of attitude is part of what is wrong in our society. Women are made to feel less than, unless they fit into this narrowly defined sculptured look.



So, am I buying a round brush and finding my hair dryer? Umm, no.

Many kinds of Sad Songs...

I was thinking the other day about Sad Songs, since there are many different types.

Some sad songs make you slightly ill, since they are treacle-filled glurge-fests, guaranteed to rot your teeth and mind.



I'll leave it to you to sort out your thoughts on that...

Other sad songs strike you on many different levels. This one is sad, since it reminds me of my childhood, as well as makes me feel guilty as a parent at the same time.



OK, if this song scares the songwriter to death, why did he decide to take us along on that journey?

Some songs are sad, because they speak to a person on a whole new level. A song that seems to speak to your very soul.



Why does this one make me feel like I've experienced this journey in too many lifetimes?

Finally, there can be sad songs that make you happy.


"It's just a sad song, and it won't take long..."

Plain Travel

Some people seem pretty comfortable
  -Happy to be on a new adventure


Others are flying to a job
   -Feeling a bit tired knowing of
    all of the work ahead of them.

"I love how you keep the smoke stack clean. It's a beautiful thing."
     -Random bits of overheard conversation

As we are inclining,
can hear the familiar sound
that the mice make in
the vents at home.

So, do mice chew on airplanes too?


I need to keep positive in thoughts,
feelings, actions and words...
don't lose sight.

Don't get caught up in others'
negative thoughts and feelings.

Too much triangulation
---ends up strangling YOU! 

Photo courtesy of:

Another Saturday Night

It was one of those rare nights for me. I decided to go out to see a local band at the bar in the nearby town. I’ve had others tell me I should see this band, as they write their own songs, as well as do covers. Of course, as usual during these times, I wandered out alone.

Walking across the parking lot, I saw that the lights were turned on the trees and slide. I stopped and took a couple of pictures with the camera I had in my pocket.

When I arrived the first set was nearly done. I went into the fairly empty room next to the main band room, and sat by the fireplace. I thought it might be a good place to sit a bit until the next set started. I wasn’t able to sit for 5 minutes before a group of 4 women at a nearby table decided I would be more useful to them by taking their picture in front of the fireplace instead of sitting there. After being told that I need to take their photo higher, because they’re so tall and statuesque, and then taking another photo or two with another camera, I was tempted to pull out my own camera and take a photo as well, but I thought better of it. I decided to wander back to the other room before they sent me off to fetch them some more drinks.

I found a place against the wall to stand, which was near the entry/exit for the room. Of course, there was an ebb and flow of traffic, and at times, I would press myself against the wall, in order not to get knocked over by unsteady patrons. Fairly soon, the band started again.

They were a fairly good band. They did quite a few Tom Petty songs, the Smithereens and it was fun to see the crowd get excited and sing along when they did one of their own numbers. I should add that the person singing lead of “Refuge” most likely did not know the words, as mainly the chorus was sung. Overall, it seemed like a good crowd, most people seemed to find others they knew, and it was just a regular small town bar on a Saturday night.

I was really having a good time, when suddenly I felt someone reach over and touch my right shoulder and ask, “Which of the band members do you have a crush on?” I look over to see an older fellow (who resembled one of my children’s TV Show hosts, Mr. Dressup). I shook his arm off of my back, shook my head and stated, “I hadn’t seen this band before.” He quickly asked, “Where are you from?” I quickly responded, “It doesn’t matter.” He asked again, and I walked off, tripping up the stairs to another part of the establishment.

[J. a F.T.: Since I don't go out on the bar scene much and am a bit odd, I need to ask, does this type of approach work for guys? Personally, I felt a bit put off by this person by how he approached me. Basically, all I know about him is: 1) he doesn’t respect a person's personal space. Why can’t guys understand that if you are invading my personal space before even saying “hello”, why would I presume you are a “nice guy”? The nice guys I know would never do that.]

I did need to go to the restroom anyways, so I stopped in there. While in a stall, I heard a young lady state, “This bank suuuucks!” and she began singing “Summer of 69” in a wonderful voice. Her friend and her discussed that all of the guys at the bar were married and decided that there wouldn’t be any young single guys at the other bar in town either. After her and her friend left, I wondered why she didn’t start her own band, since there are so many 80s songs that should be sung by a woman. [Think about it: wouldn’t “Little Red Corvette” make much more sense if a woman sang it?]

I did go back to listen to the last song or two of the set by the band, but I found myself looking around and not feeling very comfortable. I did see the elderly lecher one more time, but fortunately I was able to make myself invisible while he went upstairs. I debated staying for the last set, when I saw the elderly lecher sit at an empty table which had a view of the stairs to the room I was in and the main bar (where he was in). I decided it was time to go home.

So, I moved up the stairs, through the crowd and to the door, stopping briefly when the couple in front of me stopped in front of the door. She was adjusting and zipping her coat, while her man gingerly carried her large purse. He realized I was behind them and moved to the side; I thanked them, and left the building, walking on the parking lot to avoid all of the cigarette smoke from the smokers on the sidewalk.

The lights were turned off of the trees and ice slide. It felt a bit desolate without the lights. I was glad I took a picture when the string of lights on the path and the trees were on.

As I walked back to the car, I realized that I’m lucky I’m not going out every weekend trying to find a single guy. I feel very content living with me.

Too much Information

This seemed a bit comic to me, but perhaps since I tend to explain things too much, I notice this type of thing more than other people.

I bought a pre-fab coffee table the other day. Here is the instruction booklet that was included with it:

Front Cover:

Next page:

Table of Contents:

Parts of the table:

How to assemble:

(I think they just flipped the parts of the table page upside down - don't you?)

Weight Limits and other things that their Lawyers required:

Yes, Logo of Store:

 (You know, in case you missed it on the front cover...)

Back cover (blank page):

 Are they making up for the fact that the pre-fab furniture is fake wood, so they want to waste as many trees as possible for the instructions?


Absurdest mysteries of life.