Odd Thoughts That Add Up To Good Stories

Over the weekend, my dear Mr. Demonic and I had our standard date night out at the local seafood grill. We try not to talk about business, but it’s hard since we own three of them and they are the parasites sucking the life out of us.

Both of us are over 50. I’m older than he is by about nine months. He thinks this is hilariously funny and that I’m so much older than he is. Never mind that we graduated from high school the same year. This has caused some tension, and for the past several years, I spend my birthdays in other locations, with people who love me. Well, with people who at least tolerate me. But that’s another story.

So, during dinner, we were discussing the awful economy. We couldn’t sell our house if we wanted to. Ditto for the business, and the buildings where the businesses are located. In one building, there is a 4,000 square foot space upstairs, that in a good economy, we could consider making genuine loft space out of. Right now, it’s rotting like the rest of the state.

Sometime after the grilled scallop appetizer (which was delicious, by the way), a heated discussion ensued about packing it all in and going elsewhere. We’ve had this discussion before. Mr. D, being a man, feels that giving up would be a coward’s way to act. On the other hand, I feel that it might save us from impending doom. Mr. D also has an unexplainable fondness for this state. Neither one of us is from here, and if I had my druthers, I’d be any place but here.

Mr. D then brought to my attention that he is too old to start over.


You’ve got to be shittin’ me, right?

This coming from the man who claims his gray hair is actually blond? Who says I’m getting old?

I tried to tell him that 50 is the new 30, but he wouldn’t have any of it.

The discussion led me to thinking over the weekend. (I know, I’m dangerous when I do that.) What if we were to sell everything and leave for pastures not as burnt up as those here?

Then I came up with a plan which later on, I thought would make a good story… I might work on that if I have more than ten seconds of time to myself.

I like going to cemeteries, so I could hunt up someone who is 15 years younger than me. (I think I could pass for late 30s. I’d be pushing it trying for anything younger.) Then, I would go and establish a whole new identity using the dead person’s information.

This would instantly make me a lot younger on paper. If a prospective employer asked my age, I could provide documentation showing that I am indeed 39.

I’m thinking the name of the story would be “Perpetually 39.” I think this scenario could lead to hi-jinks untold. I’m not sure I could pull off being fifteen years younger, but I could certainly give it the old college try.

Of course, doing this in real life would make me a law breaker at the least and a felon at the most, so I will not consider it as a viable option. I want to get out of this state, not be stuck in prison in it.

Tumbling: Don’t Try This At Home Without a Spotter If You’re My Age

Last night I was working on various writing projects, and IMing the IB (Internet Boyfriend) late into the night. (It’s not what you think. MIB and I have a joint online venture that we’re trying to remove the bugs from. There’s no romance involved, unless you call being enamored of our project a romance.) The reason for working at home is that I have another life during the day time. It’s a business life, and it’s a busy life. Writing is my recreation, and while I try to do it at work (sometimes without much success), I can really only concentrate if I’m sitting in my perfect purple chair, which is in my bedroom. It’s hard to concentrate with the phone ringing all day. No one calls me at home, except telemarketers. I have caller ID so I choose not to answer those calls.

After spending five hours typing, the perfect purple chair was not feeling quite so perfect. In fact, I was beginning to feel a serious issue with my back and neck. While MIB was chatting away, I put my laptop down on the floor and stretched out. Doing this helped a bit, but not much.

It was 1 a.m., and my daughter was cleaning her room and making a terrible noise. So I got up (without MIB knowing) to survey her progress. It was very positive! I was impressed. It was also helpful to move about. My back felt much better.

When I returned to my laptop, I realized that the article I was working on for another forum had suddenly disappeared. It was a huge article, with lots of links to other things. I was angry. I was almost despondent. I was really tired. But, this is what happens when you use the web based publishing tools of various sites. I neglected to save it as a Word document. It was my fault. Even though I was bleary-eyed, I managed to reconstruct the article much as originally written. In fact, dare I say it? It may have been better than the original.

By 2:30, my fingers started to do their own thing, and it was hard to keep up with a IM conversation and type an article at the same time. Besides, my back was now killing me. So I said good night to MIB and thought I would lay prone on the floor again before going to bed.

While I was doing so, I decided to do some up dogs and down dogs, otherwise known as baby yoga. This usually helps, but not early this morning. What I really wanted to do was flip all the way over. I started rocking backward in an attempt to flip over, but found that I couldn’t get my legs to cooperate! My muscles felt like they didn’t belong to me, and my stomach had gotten into the way. Damn! What had happened to me? This used to be an easy task for me!

By the third attempt, I was annoyed. I wanted to flip over, damn it!

After getting up this morning (I overslept because I only got three hours of sleep), I decided to clear a spot downstairs and try again. Since I couldn’t seem to complete the task by flipping my legs over my head, I thought I would try it the other way. You know, by doing a somersault, head first.

This method worked. Somehow, I made it all the way over, even though I nearly lost consciousness.

I guess I should have had a spotter.