No, this isn't a true story, no matter how much I would like it to be.  It was a challenge issued by the esteemed Mr. Pluck, at http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/2012/01/20/f3-cycle-64-bit-by-bit/

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My Computer, My Love 

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I have long regarded my computer as my best friend.  It's always there for me when I want it, it does whatever I ask it to do and it never talks back.  It keeps me up to date with the news and safely stores my attempts at writing poetry and short stories.  It helps me correct any spelling errors, but never criticizes the content.  What a pal! 

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But lately, I've become aware of a new dimension in our relationship.  Sometimes, when my fingers are pressing against the keys, I can hear a melodious hum and the keys feel warm.  The screen has developed a soft, rosy tint.  And the mouse - oh dear- I know this sounds strange, but really...just now, the mouse has started vibrating ever so gently, in a sensual way. 

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Now, I know what you're thinking.  You know that I live alone and haven't been with a man for over a year, so I'm probably pretty darned horny and my imagination is playing tricks on me.   

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Well, maybe so, but...wait a minute!  The mouse is really throbbing now and there's a message on the screen!  It says, "We can be more than friends, my dear.  Would you like that?" 

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Gosh, I don't know.  Maybe... 

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The mouse is bouncing around like crazy!  "Hold me!" the screen commands. 

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I wrap my hand around it. 

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"Put me in a place that will feel good to both of us!" 

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Okay, how about here...OH, OH, OH GOD, OH GOD!  YES!  YES!   

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Images of fireworks are dancing across the screen. 

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I light a cigarette and exhale slowly.  I am so glad that I upgraded to Windows 69.

Forget About It!

 

A great deal of my days are spent looking for things that I know I just had in my hand two minutes ago. Other times, I find an item in a very inappropriate place, e.g. the car keys in the freezer.  I get panicky then, thinking that Alzheimer's disease is just around the corner.  But then, if I can REMEMBER to do it, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have ALWAYS been absent-minded.  Here are some (but definitely not ALL) of the STOOPID things I have done in the past. Especially with my purse and with my car keys.

 

Purse:

When I was 16, I left my purse on the bumper of my dad’s pickup, when we were preparing to drive to town. By some miracle, it was still there when we got to our destination, 7 miles away.

When I was 30, I left my purse on the table of a restaurant, as we were traveling from L.A. to Salt Lake City. By some miracle, it had been rescued by the waitress, and she mailed it to me.

When I was 40 something, I left my purse on the ground of Musser Park, while I climbed a tree sculpture. By some miracle, it was still there when I remembered it on my way home, and went screaming back to the park.

When I was 50 something, I left my purse on the roof of my car. No miracles occurred.

 

I no longer carry a purse.  If what I'm carrying does not fit into my hip pocket, I don't need it.

Keys:

When I was 40 something, I left my car keys in the lock of the car door and went waltzing away to the Pizza Place to have dinner with some friends. Because the car was old and unattractive, the keys were still there when I returned.

On several occasions in the past few years, I have left the house key (on a key chain with my CAR keys) in the lock of the front door of my house, not discovering it until the next day.

Miscellaneous:

I left a bag of groceries on the car roof and drove away.

I left a tray of cookies on the car roof and drove away.

 

I left a suitcase on the car roof and drove away.

 Back when I lived on my ex’s and my “farm,” I had gone into town for the once-a-month grocery shopping trip. It was my habit to bring the many bags of groceries into the kitchen, set them on the floor, then put put them away, one at a time. There was always one bag containing several packages of meat, which were to be placed in our freezer. On this particular occasion, the phone rang just as I was almost done. Only the bag containing the meat was still on the floor. I forgot about it. It was still on the floor when we went to bed. The next day, we discovered that our dog had treated himself to a carnivore’s frenzy. There were bloody wrappers all over the floor. He had eaten about three pounds of hamburger and several steaks. He was so full, that when he got to the pot roast, all he could do was sink his teeth into it over and over, but he couldn’t swallow any of it. When I cooked it, it was extra tender!

 

I have improved, in some ways.  I no longer set anything on the car roof.  As I mentioned, I no longer carry a purse.  I work very hard to remember not to release the house key from my hand after I unlock the door.  But darn it!  Why the heck did I go into the kitchen just now?  I stood there, blankly staring into space, gave up and came back here to finish whatever it is I'm doing with the keyboard of this contraption on my desk. 

 

 

Never Again

Tonight I watched the History Channel as it re-broadcast the ghastly events of 9/11/2001. It was horrifying, of course, and I felt almost like I was re-living that awful day. But a strange thing happened to me, as I was watching. I started thinking of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in August of 1945, which would make NYC on 9/11 look like a walk in the park. In each case, the U.S. was not the one to start the fight. But to the suicidal, homicidal maniacs in the planes of 9/11, the U.S. "deserved" to be attacked. And to the war-weary military planners in Washington in 1945, the Japanese had to be given a blow that would leave them no option, but to surrender. Over 3,000 people died on 9/11. Over 300,000 people died from the A-bombs dropped in 08/1945. The numbers don't matter. Each person, in both cases, was a living, breathing, human being who loved and was loved. None of them had anything to do with the motives of their killers.  But, the many horrors and atrocities of WWII made all the countries involved wary of ever repeating such a catastrophic conflict.  The Muslim jihadists, however, seem driven to rain death and destruction on the infidel.  I fervently hope that they will reject those beliefs and join the 21st century. 

Life goes on, and then it doesn't

Damn, damn, damn!  One of the nicest, bravest, funniest, most good-hearted men I've ever known died two days ago.  Yes, yes, I know...we all have to go sometime and he certainly had more than his share of risk factors.  Age (over 70), diabetes (both legs amputated), he smoked (in spite of doctors' dire warnings), and ate anything he danged well pleased.  But damn it!  He should have lived a lot longer, because he made people feel good.  You could never leave Buddy without a smile on your face, because he had a contagious smile of his own and lots of good stories to tell.  Adversity paid Buddy many visits, but Buddy never let him stay long.  The 14th child of a sharecropper family in Missouri, he was picking cotton by the time he was 5 years old.  He dropped out of school early and hit the road, having all kinds of adventures on his way to California, where he developed his "ladies' man" persona, which eventually swept my sister, Julie, into his arms.  Six kids, several moves, lots of financial woes, health problems (including the loss of one of his legs) happened, and Julie kicked him out.  Five years ago, he went back home to Missouri, where several of his kids and grandkids followed him.  I lost track of him and heard very little about how he was doing, except that his other leg was amputated a couple of years ago.  Not that a little thing like having no legs kept him down, however!  He got around just fine, thank you, with a couple of prosthetics, according to my favorite nephew, who sent me a photo of Bud standing up, with his characteristic big smile.

But now, he and his smile are gone.  Damn, damn, damn.

Rhyme Time

I'm going to write a poem, or die in the attempt.
That would be an interesting way to commit suicide, wouldn't it?
"Damn! Can't come up with a poem, so I'll hold my breath until I die."
If only it were that easy...
Hm.  Can't think of a poem.  (deep breath...) How about a limirick?


There once was a woman named Zelda.
Who found there was no rhyme for a Zelda
She threw down her pen
And started again
After changing her name to Cruelda.


Hey, Walt Whitman!  Top that!

Little By Little

I visited my "adopted" family for the fourth time today.  Jamali has made excellent progress with his writing, I am happy to say.  I had given him a tablet with lined paper and a chart of the printed alphabet, both capital and small letters, and told him to copy the alphabet on a sheet of the paper, each time I visit.  He has done so, and I am amazed how much he has improved, in just two weeks.  I wish I had a "before and after" to show you.  He is slow with his reading, but I am optimistic, because he tries very hard.

One thing I have been reminded of, in my experience tutoring third-graders, is just how difficult and complicated English spelling is.  It seems that for every rule, there are exceptions, and the only way you can dependably learn to read and spell is by memorizing.  The letter "c" always makes Jamali hesitate.  Who knows whether it is to be pronounced as "s", "k" or "ch"?  How about "...ough" at the end of a word?  Is it "uf" (as in tough) or "o" as in "though"?  And don't get me started on the vowels!

But what I really want to talk about now, is my blunder in a conversation with Jamali's mother, Tunza, this morning.  I had done a little research on Burundi, and saw that there are people of the Hutu and Tutsi tribes there.  I asked Tunza if she and her family are from one of those tribes.  She said yes, they are Hutus.  I asked if the tribes are still fighting and she said yes.  Then, like a big, thoughtless dumbbell (it just popped out), I asked if that's how her husband died.  Tunza burst into tears, which she tried to hold back, and she looked so terribly distressed that I would have given anything to suck back my stupid question.  I kept apologizing as she kept saying it's okay, until I was ready to run for the door.  Fortunately, Jamali came back into the room then, and we were able to switch channels, back to reading.

So...I learned a lesson today that is as important as how to pronounce "antidisestablishmentarianism."  And that is, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!  I just hope I will pass the test, if one is given.

I Hope I Can Help Them

For the past four years I have been volunteering at the local elementary school, helping third-graders negotiate their way through the mazes of reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic. Third grade today is much more difficult than it was way back when I was eight years old. Children are expected to learn skills that I wasn't confronted with until I was in junior high. But I sit with the ones who are having trouble, and together we muddle through the muddy waters.

When this school session ended last week, I thought I was through for the summer. But on the last day, the principal took me aside and asked if I would like a "summer project." Before I could say, "No thanks,"she told me about a little boy whose family had recently emigrated here, as refugees, from Africa. He is eight years old and has been here for almost a year. He spoke no English at all when school started, but was placed in a third grade class ("immersion," I think they call it) and, with no special treatment, was expected to learn the same lessons as rest of the class. He has made remarkable progress, but is still way behind the other kids. In spite of that, he is being sent to fourth grade in the fall. Ms. Principal asked if I would like to visit his home once a week during the summer and help him with language and reading. She then introduced me to him and I was a goner. He is the sweetest little guy you could ever hope to meet. So of course, I agreed. Ms. Principal then mentioned that the boy's mother, who works nights as a cleaning woman, and speaks almost no English, might want to sit in on the lessons. That was fine with me.

We had our first session this morning. The little boy, Jamali, greeted me at the door. He was all smiles and very eager to get started. The mother, Tunza, came into the room, shy and smiling, and we introduced ourselves. I asked if she would like to sit with Jamali and me while we had our lesson and she eagerly accepted. So the three of us sat at their dining room table and began to discuss the alphabet (which Jamali knew fairly well, but Tunza did not), the sounds the letters make, and how to spell some simple words. Ms. Principal had provided me with some teaching materials from the school, which helped. I also had bought a tablet with bright colored paper and a mechanical pencil for Jamali, which pleased him. After about 1/2 hour of "lesson," I looked up and saw a girl a little older than Jamali, who was watching us. Jamali said, "That's my sister, Xani. She's in eighth grade." I invited her to sit with us, and she accepted...all smiles. So we continued with the lesson, which now had three students. When one or more of them did not understand something I said, one of the others would translate, as best as he/she could. Their language was completely unfamiliar to me. It sounded like bees buzzing, with occasional hiccups. A few minutes later, another girl appeared, looking just as eager and sweet as her sister. Jamali introduced me to her and said she would be in 10th grade. She spoke even less English than Jamali. I felt so sympathetic towards these children. How on earth could they keep up with their classes, if they could not understand the words the teacher and their textbooks used? But then I reminded myself that the U.S. is a country of immigrants! Few of them (except the ones from the British Isles) were fluent in English when they first got off the boats. But human beings have amazing brains and can learn things amazingly fast and well, when they are motivated. My grandparents didn't speak one word of English when they arrived on Ellis Island, from Norway, back in 1913. But they worked hard and learned what they needed to know to be successful and to raise 9 kids who were all successful. So I'm sure Jamali and his sisters and their mother will work hard and be successful too. And they will appreciate whatever I can do to help them and will make me feel like a queen!