Tuesday, March 17, 2015

injaynesworld "Kiss Me, I'm Irish..."

This is the first St. Patrick’s Day I can actually say that.  Up to now, I’ve only guessed at the possibility.   Being English and French (and we know what sluts the French are), I always figured there had to be some fence-jumping way back when my bloodline was still “across the pond.”  Turns out it wasn’t across the pond at all, but just to the north in New Brunswick, Canada.

It was there that my paternal great-grandfather, Daniel Carrigan married Jeannie Baker and spawned a brood of seven daughters, my grandmother, Ellen, among them, born in 1885.  On July, 7th, 1902, Daniel and Jeannie would give their first-born, then only 16 years old, to Herbert Martin, 32, in marriage.  I would like to believe that Herbert was rich and handsome and offered Ellen a wonderful life, but I have no idea.  With the birth of my father, Joseph, in 1907, in Winn, Maine, my family history on my father’s side stops.  I never knew my paternal grandparents.  I have no idea if they ever even met me.  Truth be told, I barely knew my father. 

For much of my adult life, my red hair has allowed me to pass for Irish.  I always felt like a bit of a fraud, but it got me free beers and a few drunken kisses once a year, so what the hell.  But this year, I won’t be flaunting the green or guzzling the suds.  I’ll be thinking about Ellen and my Carrigan heritage, and wondering what part of them I carry.  Do I have Ellen’s eyes?  My great-grandfather’s smile?   With no photos, I can only imagine.  But at least now I have them in my heart.  

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. 

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

injaynesworld "There's a Carcass of a Bull on Top of My Remains..."

Can’t say when I’ve been more surprised.  One minute I’m waking up on the couch with my head feeling like I’m on one of them Tilt a’ Whirl rides.  Then there’s this big-ass explosion and I’m like 'What the -- " And bam!  I'm dead.  Just like that. 

Damn, the place is a mess.  Whole front window's blown out, half the wall, too.  Sheriff and fire guys milling around…

Molly’s standing over by the TV in her bathrobe crying.  Yeah, she should be.  I wouldn’t have been sleeping on the couch if she wasn’t such an unreasonable woman.   Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have stayed for that last round at McKinley’s.  Guess I can finally assure her it won’t happen again.

They’re saying it was some twisters just north of here.  Big suckers and fast-moving.  Barely got the sirens on before they whipped around and headed this way.  Bull belongs to Bill Wolich just down the road.  His place got leveled.  Suppose I should be grateful Molly still has a roof over her head.

Still…  Hell of a way to go. 

Sunday, February 22, 2015

injaynesworld "Technology Marches On..."

While I march in place.

I recently received a letter from AT&T informing me that they will soon discontinue service on their 2G network:  This is one of a series of notifications which AT&T is providing to customers like you. 

Is it me or is there clearly a tone of hostility in those last two words? 

Yes, Jayne Martin.  You.  And others like you clinging to the past like gum on the sole of a Nike and gumming up the works for the rest of us.  Without your kind taking up valuable space on the spectrum your friends and neighbors – the ones paying us the big bucks – could download porn and upload dick pics at twice the speed, and you can be sure we’re going to let them know about it!

This isn’t the first time AT&T has threatened to cut me off.  In 2004, I received a similar letter telling me my two-pound analog Motorola was about to be relegated to the Smithsonian and kicking me into the unwanted future.  I must admit that my tiny 2G Nokia with the camera and the ability to download the theme to “Sex and the City” as my ringtone was an improvement, and it has served me well ever since.  It’s everything I need in a cell phone:  It makes calls and receives calls. On the rare instance when I receive an (unwanted) text, I have the ability to text back the sender asking them not to do that again. It’s relatively cheap to operate at $43/month, with unlimited rollover minutes, and I think I’ve accumulated about 4,000 such minutes at this point.  That’s how little I use the thing, and I’m perfectly happy with the whole arrangement.

The letter goes on to say that 2G service will be completely eliminated by January 1, 2017, but just when I rejoice at the prospect of remaining recalcitrant for another two years there’s this:  Don’t even think about it, asshole, because if we’re in the mood (and we can assure you we are) we may just pull the plug whenever we feel like it.

Or words to that effect.

Finally, an invitation to contact my AT&T account representative who will be a valuable resource in shaming you into a Smart phone you don’t want while signing you up for a bazillion- dollar data plan you can’t afford and will never use. 

While no one loves dragging their feet more than I do, even I know when I’m beat, but I’ll be damned if I’ll put one more penny into their sinister corporate coffer than I have to.  You want me to upgrade to 3G?  Fine.  And off I go to Ebay (the second happiest place on earth) to find another phone that's as close as I can get to the one I currently clutch. 

Fifty-bucks-with-free-shipping later, it’s mine:  In fashionably red, 3G, and best of all unlocked, so anymore crap from you, AT&T, and you can kiss my stubborn ass good-bye.

"Flip" you, AT&T

Saturday, February 7, 2015

injaynesworld "Et tu, Brian...?"

Dear Brian,

Just when I thought I was so old and hardened that my heart was bulletproof, I find myself once again shot down in flames.  As someone who spent her youth falling for narcissist cads – actors, rock stars – I thought I’d finally found my perfect guy in you:  Handsome, sexy, smart, funny, with unimpeachable integrity, yet still emotionally unavailable.  Motherlode!

Source: Nate Beeler, Columbus Daily Tribune

Why, Brian?   Sure, we all have brain farts, but you could have had a colonoscopy after this one.

You were the guy.  With your boyish charm and sincere crooked little smile, we even believed you when you said that watching your daughter’s anal sex scenes on “Girls” didn’t bother you.  Although, I have to admit I found that a bit creepy.  Now you’re just one more celebrity with “poor judgment” who has to do an apology tour, go to rehab and get counseling from the Reverend Al Sharpton.   

I may never recover from this, Brian, but don’t worry.  You will.  You can always go to work for Fox.  

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

injaynesworld "Together..."

Our proper clothes lie under a pile of leaves in the conclave at the foot of a tall pine, abandoned along with every other stitch in the thread connecting us with our past. 

We pull on the trousers, shirts and boots of field hands hidden there days before, tug caps low over our eyes, covering our newly-shorn heads, just two more boys among the many who walked these roads anonymously from town to town.

“Brothers” we will tell anyone who asks as we make our way far from the families who would keep us apart, and later “sisters,” orphaned, alone… spinsters in years to come.

We rub dark, damp soil on our faces to hide our smooth cheeks.  Only our hands betray us; soft and white, unmarked by the labor we now seek to survive.  I take hold of her fingertips, bring them to my lips, then silently we step forth into the unknown. 

From the Five Sentence Fiction prompt “abandon.”

Saturday, January 17, 2015

injaynesworld wherein "An Old Dog Learns A New Trick..."

I love to dance.  Always have.  In my youth, I spent countless nights anywhere that had a band and a dance floor.  Save that surfer shit for someone else.  Soul music was my bag and DAMN!  I had moves!

Today’s music, as James Brown might say, is a whole “new bag.”  When my gals Jessie J, Ariana, and Nicki belt out “Bang! Bang!” or Iggy Azalea promises “I’m Gonna Make Ya Pay For It,” I get my ass up and get down!  I’d been thinking about taking a dance class for some time just for fun and a little exercise, and so it was with great excitement that I went to my first hip-hop class with my dearest friend in tow for support.   

It was a class for beginner adults.  To me that meant beginners at hip-hop, not beginners at adulthood.  Alas, the class was filled with young, nubile bodies still flexible from being able to suck on their own toes.  No matter.  I had experience on my side. 

The teacher is a twenty-something young man, adorable with a crown of platinum hair atop his otherwise black locks and a smile that could power the entire town.  The warm-up jumping jacks nearly kill me, but hey – I didn’t come here to do no stinkin’ jumping jacks.  Bring on the beat!  And he does.  With Bruno Mar’s “Uptown Funk” blasting from his boom box we’re off. 

Holy crap! 

For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that we’d have actual choreography.  I’m mortified at my inability to even remember the moves, much less actually perform them.  I try to squeeze myself into the back row, but my “dearest friend” had already taken the last place and the bitch won’t budge.

I joke with the teacher that he’s doing 78 rpm’s, while I’m barely at 33 1/3.  He has no clue what an “rpm” is, but clearly having been taught to respect his elders, smiles at me politely.    

This wouldn’t be the first time my skills were vastly out of proportion to my confidence.  Still, I am tenacious – and I’ve already paid for the entire month.   So the following week, there we are again – me and my dearest friend.  I make it to the back row before she does, then realize I can’t see the teacher from there because of all the previously mentioned young, nubile bodies.  But I am better this week.  Out of 24 moves, I’ve nailed the first four.  Take that, bitches!

By summer, I should have it down. 

Thursday, January 8, 2015

injaynesworld "Next of Kin..."

The force of the old woman’s hand across Charlotte’s cheek knocked the young girl’s glasses off her face and onto the floor. 

“That fresh mouth of yours may have been tolerated in your parents’ house, but you’re in my house now,” the old woman said.

Tendrils of bright red spread across her tender flesh, the burn a welcome relief from that which tore at her from inside. 

Charlotte did not flinch as she picked up her glasses, set them back on her face and met her aunt’s steely gaze with one of her own.

The accident that had taken her family had taken all her tears.

This post from the prompt “fresh” at Five Sentence Fiction.

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