Author: R.J. Keller

Stinky butts

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

You may (or possibly may not) remember that the store recently underwent some pretty major construction. New pumps, new walkways, new parking lot. This has been great for business, but not so great for me. Seems that my boss wants to keep our new walkways and parking lot looking nice and clean, so he added a new item to my already long list of Things To Clean Every Night:

Sweep up all the cigarette butts from the parking lot and walkways.

I must state, for the record, that cigarette butts gross the hell out of me. They’re stinky, frequently smoldering, saliva-covered remnants of legalized addiction, and I resent having to deal with them. Why smokers can’t take care of the damned things themselves is beyond me. The last time I knew, ashtrays still came standard in every automobile. There are no less than four ashtrays prominently on display in front of the store. And yet, every Monday-Wednesday morning, promptly at 1:20, I must go out into the parking lot and spend a minimum of fifteen minutes sweeping the little fuckers up.

I say ‘a minimum of fifteen minutes’ because on Mondays I usually spend at least twice that amount of time outside with a broom and dustpan. Seems the guy (we’ll call him “J”) who works third shift opposite me–himself a smoker, and frequent butt chucker–can’t be bothered with this little chore. Not that it surprises me. He can’t be bothered to do much else, either. My boss knows this, but won’t do anything about it. J’s sole purpose for being employed at this rural convenience store is to deter troublemakers from making trouble on the weekends. He’s a pretty big guy, and apparently his mere presence keeps the rowdy crowd in line. That’s all fine and well, but it means I get stuck with all the real work.

If only I was 6’8″ and had a penis.

Wilderness Walmart

/ R.J. Keller / 4 Comments

At the risk of sounding anti-Walmart…oh who the hell am I kidding. I am anti-Walmart. But this should burn the britches of even the most ardent Walmart supporter and/or shopper.

It seems there aren’t enough Walmarts in the world already. It seems Goliath wants to build himself another hideous grey castle. His sights have recently been set on a nice little spot in Virginia right next to the Wilderness/Chancellorsville battlefield. For those of you unfamiliar with Civil War history, two separate battles were fought on this spot a year apart from each other; Chancellorsville in May of 1863 (you may remember that I blogged a little about this a few weeks ago) and The Wilderness in May of 1864. Both of these battles were bloody and brutal, with the latter battle marking the start of General Ulysses Grant’s year-long campaign to destroy General Lee’s army. Tens of thousands of Americans fell here. It is hallowed ground, a rare and precious thing here in America, as opposed to Walmarts. As a friend of mine put it: “Wal-Mart doesn’t need to expand. And I’m a shareholder.”

The Civil War Preservation Trust has been fighting for years to preserve important sites like The Wilderness, with varying success, and they’re fighting like mad to preserve this one. They’re asking for our help…for your help…and I think we should give it to them.

So take a few minutes and check out their website for lots more information about the battles, why it’s important to preserve our battlefields, and what YOU can do to support them. Robert Mackey of the Huffington Post said it better that I ever could:

“Support the saving of our heritage, so that decades from now, when a Wal Mart SuperCenter is finished sucking the resources and life from a small community and has moved on to another victim, we will still have a quiet piece of land where we can bring our children and remember what the cost of freedom truly means.”

An "itis" and an "oid." Not to mention Eventually, Severe and a Warning…

/ R.J. Keller / 11 Comments

Before I got married, I drove a 1984 Ford Escort. It was a real piece of shit. I called him Evenrude, after the dragonfly in The Rescuers, because it would drag up hills and fly down them. It rumbled and rattled everywhere I went. At least that’s what everyone told me. I didn’t know personally because each time a new rumble or rattle appeared I simply turned the volume of my stereo up another notch so I couldn’t hear it. I worked at Dunkin Donuts at the time, a job not particuarly conducive to affording car repairs, so ignorance was bliss. It got me from Point A to Point B, and occasionally to Point C, and that was all that mattered. But shortly after Dear Hubby and I started dating, Evenrude up and quit. DH’s brother–who is something of a mechanical genius–took a good, hard look at the poor thing, shook his head and told me there was nothing he could do for it but administer Last Rites and haul it to the junkyard. Before he did so, he gave me a lecture about Warning Signs and Taking Care Of Things before it’s Too Late.

When it comes to my body’s rumbles and rattles, I’m afraid I fare little better. I related an example of this, you may remember, a couple months ago with the story of my left sausage ear. Although the pain, itching, and swelling went away for a day or two (as reported here) it came back less than a week later (as not reported here). Did I–as promised–go to my doctor to inquire what the hell was causing the trouble? Of course not. I just turned the radio up a notch–in this case, by pouring alcohol into my ear on a daily basis, as recommended by Newspaper Delivery Guy. As long as I remembered my daily treatment, all was well.

Until last Tuesday.

I was sitting with my family and several friends, visiting and shooting the crap and generally having a good ole time, when I noticed something odd going on underneath my left eye. It was twitching. Visibly. Many comments were made about Working The Night Shift and Not Getting Enough Sleep, much laughter ensued, and the conversation reverted back to normal. Until a few moments later, when the left side of my face went numb.

Naturally everyone else assumed I was having a stroke. I suppose it’s the normal thing to assume when your friend or loved one’s face suddenly goes numb. Not me. I knew it had something to do with the abuse and neglect I’d been alternately subjecting my ear to for the past few months, and stated so as vehemently as I could with only half my mouth working.

Did anyone believe me? Nope. Not Dear Hubby or Concerned Friends, not the paramedics who were immediately called. (They got there in less than ten minutes. Beat that slow poke Sheriff Dispatcher!) Certainly not the kind and helpful nurses and doctors who greeted me twenty minutes later. They drew blood. I was given a CT scan. I was threatened with an MRI (fortunately, the hospital is so small that the machine was closed down for the night). Not once did anyone look inside my ear, despite repeated requests by me that they do so. I would’ve had an easier time getting my local Top 40 station to play me some Skynard.

Finally, convinced I wasn’t suffering from a stroke, the kind doctor sent me home. While I slept, the slides (or whatever they’re called) from my CT scan were sent to a doctor in Australia. He read them and sent the diagnosis back to my regular doctor, whom I wasn’t able to see until almost a week later (did you know doctors are allowed to take vacations???) The verdict? A rather severe case of Acute Mastoiditis – ie an untreated ear infection that retreats into the honeycomb-like air cells behind your ear called the ‘mastoid process.’ A few of the many symptoms of mastoiditis are pain, itching, and swelling of the affected ear, with later symptoms including weakness or paralysis of facial muscles.

My glee at having been proved right was short lived. The initial treatment for mastoiditis is a fourteen day regimen of very strong antibiotics. How strong? The pharmacist literally did a double take when I handed her the prescription, then called my doctor to make sure she’d written it down correctly. And before handing over the vial she said, with a sympathetic eye, “The benefits will eventually outweigh the possibly severe side effects.”

Nervous, I nonetheless took the prescribed dose when I got home. Nothing drastic happened and I was able to work my graveyard shift with no problem. In fact it wasn’t until about an hour after my third dose (the following afternoon) that the trouble started. I won’t go into great detail here. Those of you who’ve ever had a reaction to antibiotics know just what I’m talking about, and those of you who haven’t can make use of Google Search. Suffice it to say, if I can’t lose weight on the Antibiotic Diet, then nothing’ll work.

Hopefully it’ll work on the infection. Because if it doesn’t, a mastoidectomy might be required. That’s right. They might actually have to remove the honeycomb-like air cells behind my left ear, with the possible risk of permanent hearing loss. It’s apparently a rarely performed surgery nowadays, because most people go to the doctor when their ear swells up like a sausage, instead of turning the radio up a few notches like an idiot.

So, Dear Readers, please learn from my idiocy. Pay strict attention to Warning Signs and Take Care Of Things before it’s Too Late…

My first interview!

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments

You may have noticed this button – – over yonder to the right of my blog. It leads to a website I write and edit for called “The Movie Fanatic,” founded by Mr. Jed Medina. Today he posted an interview with your favorite 37-year-old writer from rural Maine (that would be me) where I pontificate about writing and books and stuff.

Am I excited? Dang right! Check it out HERE if you get a sec.

New Works

/ R.J. Keller / 3 Comments

Readers & Writers blog is chock fulla new stuff. Steal Tomorrow (my blog buddy Bunnygirl‘s post-apocalyptic novel, begins its serialization today; Tim Hulings’ short story Parcul Centru is featured; as well as chapter 25 of Waiting for Spring.

Sid Leavitt has also announced that, beginning this week, R&W Blog will post new material only on Sundays (two chapters at a time for novel serializations) so he can take some well-deserved time for himself during the week. I know I’m not speaking for just myself when I send a big THANK YOU over to him for all his hard work, and for his kindness in giving so many writers a home. When you click over there next, be sure to check out the Works section. It’s quite a library…

Frugal Woman Searching For Irony Finds Treasure

/ R.J. Keller / 1 Comment

Hubby and I celebrated our 16th anniversary the same way we’ve celebrated for the past nine years. We spent the day at The Big Chicken Barn Books & Antiques mall. It’s just what it sounds like: an old chicken barn that’s been converted into an antique mall. The bottom floor is like a huge indoor flea market, and the top floor is nothing but books, books, books. And comic books. And old magazines. If you’re ever in Maine, you should absolutely stop in. It’s right on Route 1…either in Ellsworth or Bucksport…I’m not sure which…but either way, you can’t miss it. I mean, it’s a big chicken barn, with a sign and everything.

Anyway, having already completed my three hour downstairs shopping spree (result: a 19 x 24 antique picture frame and a rainbow clown wig…yes, you heard me; a rainbow clown wig!), I made my way upstairs. I happened almost immediately upon a hardcover book I just knew I had to have. I’d never heard of it before, nor of its author (Charles Mergendahl), and I tucked it under my arm without bothering to read the synopsis on the inside jacket. What was the reason? Get a load of the title:

Don’t Wait Up For Spring.

That’s right, not only did I not know what the book was about, at that moment I didn’t care. All that mattered–at that moment–was the ironic image that immediately popped into my head of seeing it displayed in my bookshelf right next to Waiting For Spring. Call me silly, but I really dig irony.

I think I should mention–in case you hadn’t already noticed–that I also didn’t bother to look at the price of the book. I wasn’t really all that concerned about it–at that moment–to be honest. The average Chicken Barn price range for a regular sized hardcover book (ie: not a coffee table book) is $2 – $5. I had reason to believe this particular book would hover closer to two bucks than five. It was obviously quite old, not in what you would call mint condition, and I’d never heard of it before. Who, other than a weird lady aching for a little irony on her bookshelf, could possibly interested in this book?

Imagine my astonishment, therefore, when (well over three hours later) the cash register informed me that the thing cost $15.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I’m not cheap. Okay, well maybe I am a little cheap–although perhaps frugal would be a better word. But when it comes to books I’m neither of those things. Remember, I’m the geek who paid almost fifty bucks to have Luke Davies’ God Of Speed shipped to her house all the way from Australia. (It was worth every penny, by the way. The man is a genius.) It’s just that fifteen dollars is a lot of money to pay for Irony. Still, if I gave voice to the “What the hell????????” that was running through my mind and declined to fork over the dough, the clerk–who had no knowledge of my Australian extravaganza–might have gotten the impression that I was either Cheap or Frugal. And I couldn’t have that. Because something else I am is Vain. So, I ignored Hubby’s “WTF?????????” look (his total: $19 for seven hardcover books, $3 for a tie pin) and forked over the dough.

As you can imagine, I was itching to find out just why this book had cost me more than two bucks. As soon as we got to the car I read the inside flap. I had purchased a love story set during World War 2, a touching and passionate story of young people in love in war time, of young men at war when they should have been just in love.

“Touching and passionate is good,” I said to Hubby. He just grunted and flipped through one of his new Robert Ludlums. Then I noticed something on the opposite page. “Hey, look! The author signed it!”

Hubby perked up a little. “Signed by the author is good. But is it fifteen dollars worth of good?” (This might be a good time to mention that Hubby is a little cheap.) “I mean, who is this Mergen…Mergen…Mergen-whoever guy, anyway?”

“Well, he’s obviously no Robert Ludlum.”

I investigated a little further. The front flap informed me that Lieutenant Charles Mergendahl wrote this story between engagements at North Africa, Tarawa, the Marshalls and elsewhere. As his book is being published, he is still in active service in the U.S. Navy.

As you may or may not know, I am an avid student of American history. Even if I wasn’t, I’d be aware of the fact that World War 2 has been over with for quite some time. At least, I hope I would have. So the still in active service bit let me know I had something kinda hot in my hands. I checked the publication date. 1944 was the only date listed; fourth printing. Then I noticed something unusual on the back flap:

The format of this book is designed to save paper, which is now rationed…

And, at the very bottom:

BUY WAR BONDS AND WAR STAMPS.

Hubby and I both conceded that my fifteen bucks was well spent.

Bonus: I started reading the book when I got home. It’s very good. Worth every penny.

Aside.

Hubby and I overheard the following conversation during the downstairs portion of our Chicken Barn visit:

Husband: What do you mean you don’t like it? It’s art! You like art.

Wife: Just because there’s a naked lady in the painting, it doesn’t mean it’s art.

Plug it in

/ R.J. Keller / 1 Comment

Well, I racked up three different blog entries yesterday without once mentioning that chapter 24 of Waiting for Spring was posted on Thursday at Readers and Writers Blog.

If you’re a student of writing fiction, you’re probably familiar with basic plot structure: introduction, conflict, climax, resolution. Personally, I like to look at it like this:

1) Introduce bucket of shit.
2) Turn on the fan.
3) Toss contents of bucket at fan.
4) Give the characters a shower.

Let’s just say that by chapter 24 of Waiting for Spring, the fan is whizzing at full speed.