Author: R.J. Keller

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t play one on TV

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

My left ear has been bothering me for a few weeks now. Nothing major at first…just that kind of irritating, itchy, waxy, full feeling you sometimes get. I spent a week or so doing a little bit of mind-over-matter therapy, but by this past Saturday the itching was pretty much unbearable, and I succombed to the Q-Tip’s siren song. Even though five-outta-five doctors will warn you against doing so, I had myself weekend long eargasm. I couldn’t help myself. And it was awesome.

By Monday, though, there wasn’t any real improvement and the inside of my ear was pretty damned raw. So, following the advice of a friend–who is also not a doctor–I poured a little bit of hydrogen peroxide into my ear. That’s right. I dipped a cotton ball into a capful of peroxide, tipped my head just so, and squeezed. It was actually pretty cool. It sizzled and popped and tickled and fizzed…kinda like liquid Pop Rocks. I bet my inner ear felt like it was tripping on acid. After about three minutes the feeling faded, and the itching was gone. Just for kicks I repeated the process a few more times throughout the day on Monday in between naps (I still work third shift).

Then I went to work Monday night like usual. My ear stung a little, like a mini sunburn, but it didn’t itch and that was all that mattered. Until the newspaper delivery guy showed up at about 3am Tuesday morning. He took one look at me and literally did a double take. You don’t see that too often outside of animation.

“Uh, Kel…what’s wrong with your ear?”

It still stung at this point, moreso than when my shift had begun, but I hadn’t thought about it too much until that moment. “I think it’s…it might be…why?”

“Well, it looks like a sausage.”

I ran for my purse, pulled out my compact mirror (shut up…yes I have one, and so should you), and took a gander. As impossible as it seems, a sausage is exactly what my ear looked like. A red, swollen, ear-shaped sausage™. (Yes, that’s a trademark symbol there…don’t get any ideas, Jimmy Dean.) Needless to say, I panicked.

“Oh my God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I shrieked, racking up twenty-one exclamation points.

“What did you do to it?”

I explained my predicament. He laughed heartily for quite some time. I wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. When he got control of himself again, he said:

“Peroxide makes bubbles. That makes oxygen. That holds water in your ear. That’s just what you don’t want.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

It sounded logical. “So what should I do?”

“Alcohol.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but I’m not allowed to drink on the job.”

“No, dummy. Rubbing alcohol. It’ll dry it right out.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever worked third shift at a rural convenience store before. If you have, you know that–regardless of how many naps you might take during the day to prepare for and to recuperate from being awake while the moon is out in all its glory–by 3am you’re more than a little punchy. Mostly alone for four straight hours, slightly buzzed from the cleanser I’d used to scrub the Slush Puppy machine, hopped up on three cups of Shock coffee and a package of Swiss Cake Rolls…this humble newspaper delivery guy seemed like nothing less than a medical messiah.

“Alcohol…of course…and there’s a bottle in the first aid kit in the office.”

It didn’t take me long to set it up. I poured a little bit of alcohol into the cap, dipped in a wadded paper towel, tipped my head just so, and squeezed.

On my top ten list of Stupid Things I’ve Done, this is number one.

“SUNUVA-FUCKING-BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yep…it hurt. It hurt a lot. I’d rather revisit the thirty-seven hours of labor it took to produce my son than go through that again. I screamed in bold faced type. I lost count of the exclamation points. I’ll be honest, I saw stars…literally. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Because if you spend the weekend raping your ear with a Q-Tip, and then you pour one acidy liquid into it, you really shouldn’t follow up the process with an even harsher acidy liquid.

Newspaper Delivery Guy gave me a sheepish, “Um…see ya later,” then ran out the door. Smart man. When I going through the above mentioned thirty-seven hours of labor, I smacked my husband with the hospital bed remote during the this is all your fault, you did this to me stage. And there are a wide variety of easily-propelled objects to choose from at a convenience store.

I made it through the rest of my shift, battered but not quite broken. I drove home, slipped my sorry butt into bed, and slept until about noon. And when I awoke, would you believe my ear was back to its normal self? No itching, no stinging, no sausage-like swelling™. Was it the peroxide? The alcohol? The Swiss Cake Roll? A combination of all three? I’ll never know. Because the next time my ear bothers me I’m going to the damned doctor’s office.

—————————————————————
Check out Chapter 6 of Waiting for Spring at Readers and Writers Blog. It’s the chapter I struggled with so much last fall. It took me three days to write Tess down the stairs. Also posted is Chapter 18 of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good (a truly great book…you should really read it), and an amazing poem–This Is Your Rock Opera–by Laura Elliot.

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t play one on TV

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

My left ear has been bothering me for a few weeks now. Nothing major at first…just that kind of irritating, itchy, waxy, full feeling you sometimes get. I spent a week or so doing a little bit of mind-over-matter therapy, but by this past Saturday the itching was pretty much unbearable, and I succombed to the Q-Tip’s siren song. Even though five-outta-five doctors will warn you against doing so, I had myself weekend long eargasm. I couldn’t help myself. And it was awesome.

By Monday, though, there wasn’t any real improvement and the inside of my ear was pretty damned raw. So, following the advice of a friend–who is also not a doctor–I poured a little bit of hydrogen peroxide into my ear. That’s right. I dipped a cotton ball into a capful of peroxide, tipped my head just so, and squeezed. It was actually pretty cool. It sizzled and popped and tickled and fizzed…kinda like liquid Pop Rocks. I bet my inner ear felt like it was tripping on acid. After about three minutes the feeling faded, and the itching was gone. Just for kicks I repeated the process a few more times throughout the day on Monday in between naps (I still work third shift).

Then I went to work Monday night like usual. My ear stung a little, like a mini sunburn, but it didn’t itch and that was all that mattered. Until the newspaper delivery guy showed up at about 3am Tuesday morning. He took one look at me and literally did a double take. You don’t see that too often outside of animation.

“Uh, Kel…what’s wrong with your ear?”

It still stung at this point, moreso than when my shift had begun, but I hadn’t thought about it too much until that moment. “I think it’s…it might be…why?”

“Well, it looks like a sausage.”

I ran for my purse, pulled out my compact mirror (shut up…yes I have one, and so should you), and took a gander. As impossible as it seems, a sausage is exactly what my ear looked like. A red, swollen, ear-shaped sausage™. (Yes, that’s a trademark symbol there…don’t get any ideas, Jimmy Dean.) Needless to say, I panicked.

“Oh my God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I shrieked, racking up twenty-one exclamation points.

“What did you do to it?”

I explained my predicament. He laughed heartily for quite some time. I wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. When he got control of himself again, he said:

“Peroxide makes bubbles. That makes oxygen. That holds water in your ear. That’s just what you don’t want.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

It sounded logical. “So what should I do?”

“Alcohol.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but I’m not allowed to drink on the job.”

“No, dummy. Rubbing alcohol. It’ll dry it right out.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever worked third shift at a rural convenience store before. If you have, you know that–regardless of how many naps you might take during the day to prepare for and to recuperate from being awake while the moon is out in all its glory–by 3am you’re more than a little punchy. Mostly alone for four straight hours, slightly buzzed from the cleanser I’d used to scrub the Slush Puppy machine, hopped up on three cups of Shock coffee and a package of Swiss Cake Rolls…this humble newspaper delivery guy seemed like nothing less than a medical messiah.

“Alcohol…of course…and there’s a bottle in the first aid kit in the office.”

It didn’t take me long to set it up. I poured a little bit of alcohol into the cap, dipped in a wadded paper towel, tipped my head just so, and squeezed.

On my top ten list of Stupid Things I’ve Done, this is number one.

“SUNUVA-FUCKING-BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yep…it hurt. It hurt a lot. I’d rather revisit the thirty-seven hours of labor it took to produce my son than go through that again. I screamed in bold faced type. I lost count of the exclamation points. I’ll be honest, I saw stars…literally. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Because if you spend the weekend raping your ear with a Q-Tip, and then you pour one acidy liquid into it, you really shouldn’t follow up the process with an even harsher acidy liquid.

Newspaper Delivery Guy gave me a sheepish, “Um…see ya later,” then ran out the door. Smart man. When I going through the above mentioned thirty-seven hours of labor, I smacked my husband with the hospital bed remote during the this is all your fault, you did this to me stage. And there are a wide variety of easily-propelled objects to choose from at a convenience store.

I made it through the rest of my shift, battered but not quite broken. I drove home, slipped my sorry butt into bed, and slept until about noon. And when I awoke, would you believe my ear was back to its normal self? No itching, no stinging, no sausage-like swelling™. Was it the peroxide? The alcohol? The Swiss Cake Roll? A combination of all three? I’ll never know. Because the next time my ear bothers me I’m going to the damned doctor’s office.

—————————————————————
Check out Chapter 6 of Waiting for Spring at Readers and Writers Blog. It’s the chapter I struggled with so much last fall. It took me three days to write Tess down the stairs. Also posted is Chapter 18 of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good (a truly great book…you should really read it), and an amazing poem–This Is Your Rock Opera–by Laura Elliot.

Underground

/ R.J. Keller / 8 Comments

A week from tomorow, my family and I will be traveling to Washington DC. It’s our first (and probably last, with gas prices doing nothing but going up) out of state vacation ever. We’ll spend a week there, seeing the sites, taking the pictures, and generally playing the role of Idiot Tourist Family. It’s something I’m actually looking forward to, having spent so many years in the role of Irritated Local. I was beginning to feel stereotyped.

My hubby–master tactician that he is–has scheduled our week pretty well, taking into account each family member’s Must See Spots, so we can make the most of each precious moment spent in our nation’s capital. I perused his schedule this morning, though, and discovered something a bit disconcerting.

“What’s this ‘metro’ thing? You’ve got it written down all over the place. I don’t remember anyone wanting to see a ‘metro.'”

“It’s not a thing to see. It’s a way to get around the city.”

“Public transportation, you mean?”

“Yep.”

Then he explained The Plan. We’ll board a train at a station near our hotel in Alexandria, Virginia that will take us into DC. From there, we’ll hop various subways and buses as we make our way from place to place.

“Subway? You mean…underground?”

“Yes, Kel. Underground. That’s where the subways live.”

It’s funny when you discover something new about yourself. There’s no mass transit system in the boonies, so until that moment “Subway” meant “place where they sell the kind of sandwiches I can get down the road for half the price.” But there I was, suddenly confronted with the reality of spending a good portion of my vacation crammed into a moving sardine can with millions of other sweaty commuters, in a strange and frightening city…several hundred feet underneath the earth’s surface. It made me want to puke. For real. And that is when I knew.

Apparently, I’m afraid of taking the subway.

“What’s wrong with our car?”

“Nothing. We’ll leave it parked at the hotel. With gas prices so high this’ll save us some money.”

There are times when even someone as cheap frugal as I am has to ask: is saving money everything?

“Besides,” he continued, “I’m not driving in Washington DC.”

“But–“

“I’m. Not. Driving. In Washington DC.” Then he grinned. “But if you’re that opposed to taking the subway, then you can do the driving.”

He had me and he knew it. I hate city driving. Bangor–with its “booming” population of 31,000–is almost too much for me. I’ll drive all around Robin Hood’s barn to avoid making a left hand turn that doesn’t come with the safety of a ‘left turn arrow.’ In short, I’m a total wimp. There is no way you’d catch me behind the wheel in a major metropolitan area.

So, that is that. I’ll be riding a subway. For a whole week. Lord have mercy.

Still, there’s some good news. Chapter Five of Waiting for Spring is up at Readers and Writers Blog (I tried to come up with a clever segue, but drew a blank) along with the latest installments of Disconnected by J. Cafesin and Ginny Good by Gerard Jones. Check ’em out. You won’t be sorry.

Dance like nobody’s watching

/ R.J. Keller / 8 Comments

First things first…I had a great time in Portland over the weekend. As promised, I ate myself sick and danced like an idiot to some truly awesome music. In fact, I danced so ecstatically that my family pretended not to know me, and people who didn’t know me were proud of it. However, reality beckoned, and I had to go to work Sunday night after only a very brief inside-the-car nap on the ride home.

After I clocked in, I drank three cups of Shock Coffee and a can of Triple Mocha in less than an hour by way of girding my loins for the shift. It didn’t exactly go as planned. Too much caffeine plus not enough sleep equals…well, have you ever been drifting off to sleep after a very, very long day, only to be awakened suddenly when your cat pounces on your head? That sort of dizzy, heart-in-your-throat, “what-the-fuck-was-that?” shock that leaves you still exhausted, but completely wide awake at the same time? That’s how I felt from 11pm Sunday night until about 5am Monday morning. Six straight hours. Then came the crash. It was a bad’n. By the time my boss wandered in at 6:45am, I was ready for a two week nap. Instead I was told I had to stay for a brief summary of the ‘important’ store meeting I had missed over the weekend, presided over by a couple of Higher Ups from corporate. Allow me to summarize the summary for you:
There’s a big, bad recession goin’ on. People in our area are having a hard time financially. (Actually, they have been since the local textile mill and shoe shop closed down during the 90’s, but it’s worse now than ever.) Historically, poor people living through hard times sink into a depression. This frequently causes them to spend money they don’t have on things they don’t really need…like liquor and cigarettes and lottery tickets. “This,” said my boss, with a gleam in his eye, “is good news.”
“Did you say, ‘good news’?”

Yep, he did. Good News because convenience stores specialize in liquor, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. Increased misery equals increased profits. And, as a Loyal Employee, I’m supposed to maximize the misery/profit flow by suggestive selling scratch tickets and upselling liquor and cigarette orders (half-gallons instead of fifths, three-pack specials instead of packs). AND I’m supposed to play a CD (made specially for us by some shithead at corporate) that’s filled with sad, sappy, depressing music, to capitalize even further on this recession depression.

I nodded, anxious to get home and get to bed, and told him I’d be happy to go along with this “Kick ‘Em When They’re Down” Plan…even though, of course, I had no intention of doing so. I like my customers. I’ve known most of them for years. They’re my neighbors and friends. Most of them work their asses off for not enough pay, unfortunately spend too much of it at our store as it is, and the fuckwads in corporate want me to charm even more of it away from them? I don’t think so. It’s hard enough getting enough sleep when you work third shift; I don’t need a guilty conscience interfering with the process.

This is what I did instead.

Monday evening I burned a CD of my own, filled with upbeat, happy tunes, and brought it into work. I wore my brightest lipstick and smiled my biggest smile to each and every customer who came through the door. I asked fondly about children, subtly reminded customers about mortgage payments and fuel bills, and expounded on the futility of gambling away hard earned cash on a 1-in-500 chance of winning a few bucks from a handful of lottery tickets. At six-thirty I wiped off my lipstick, replaced my happy CD with the sappy CD, and added up my sales. $150 less than the night before. Then I left the store with a spring in my step, drove home with a smile and slept like a baby Tuesday morning.

I only dance for myself.

Stuff and nonsense

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments
I’ve been neglecting this place all week long and I feel kinda bad about it. To be honest there hasn’t been a whole lot going on worth blogging about, and I’m not going to bore you with any “So, I was clipping my toenails last night…” type of posts. Even though I really did clip my toenails last night.

I’ve also been working like a crazy woman on a new screenplay this week. My muse has been very generous and my internal editor has been mercifully silent, which almost never happens at the same time. I’m too superstitious (and a bit gun-shy, after the recent attempted plagiarism of “No Pants Lady”) to share any details on my work-in-progress, so that–to quote Forest Gump–is all I have to say about that. At least for the time being.

So, my three reasons for posting tonight are:

(1.) To remind you guys that Chapter Four of Waiting for Spring has been posted at Readers and Writers Blog, (along with a new short story by James Fox–Cross Roads–and Chapter 16 of Ginny Good). I had a lot of fun writing this particular chapter, as it introduces eight-year-old Cassidy Burke, who–truth be told–is my favorite character.

(2.) To ask if there are any HTML geeks in the house? I need a tutorial in how to post spoiler tags here in my blog, and by “tutorial” I mean “explain it in language a 37-year-old HTML illiterate woman can understand.” I’ve had a few Waiting for Spring questions emailed to me this week that I’d love to answer, but they’re all rather spoilery.

(3.) To say I hope everyone has a great weekend. I’ll be in Portland for the Old Port Festival on Sunday. Check it out if you’re in the area. If you see a super-hot chick with rock-hard abs and flowing raven locks…well, it won’t be me. I’ll be the dowdy mom in an old Red Sox t-shirt and

even older jeans, stuffing her face with whatever food isn’t tied down while dancing very badly.

The Geek Gets A Day To Herself

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

My family has a tradition. The Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, my hubby takes my kids fishing on a remote lake deep in Maine’s ‘unorganized territory ‘. I can’t be any more specific than that, because he has sworn me to secrecy. The place is tourist-free at the moment, and he’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible. Besides, where they choose to drown a few dozen worms every year isn’t the point of this story. The point is this: I had an entire Saturday all to myself.

What would most women have done with this valuable time? To be perfectly honest, I really don’t care, because that isn’t the point of this story, either. This is what I did:

Having bumped three of Kel’s Must Watch DVDs (aka, movies nobody else in my family cares about watching) to the top of our Netflix queue, I spent all of Saturday watching them.

First up, Todd Haynes’ “I’m Not There.” If you’re a Dylan fan, and you haven’t seen it already, get on it. Next up was Kenneth Branaugh’s Hamlet. All four hours of it. Then I watched it again with the director’s commentary. That’s right…eight hours of Hamlet. Finally, disc 3 of season 2 of “24.” Blame my buddy Elle . She recently got me hooked on Jack Bauer’s frequently questionable exploits.

All total, I spent just over 14 hours sitting on my ass in front of the televsion. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. After all, I did manage to weed my garden and worked a little bit on a new screenplay in between the onscreen action. Maybe someday a woman with some time to kill will spend it watching a movie I’ve written. That would be cool.

In the meantime, something else I’ve written is available online right now. That’s right, Chapter 3 of Waiting for Spring is up at Readers and Writers Blog, along with an amazing poem–Oh Mathilda–by Ian Spitzig, the latest installment of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good, and the final chapter of The Unearthing. Check ’em out.

Guilt

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments


Recently I’ve taken a liking to Jelly Belly™ jelly beans. By “taken a liking” I mean “I eat the damned things all day long.” What’s not to like? They’re delicious, fat free*, and look really cool in a glass jar. Like all good things, however, my Jelly Belly™ addiction has a downside, and I think you can guess what it is.

Black jelly beans.

I can’t eat them. I can barely bring myself to look at them. I don’t know who decided that the ghastly flavor of black licorice would make a tasty snack, but he** was obviously a mentally unstable individual. But my problem doesn’t lie with the jelly beans themselves. They’re easily picked out, easily avoided. No, my problem is this: what do I do with them?

I can’t throw them away. Years of “clean your plate, there are children starving in [insert country here]” brainwashing renders me incapable of wasting food. I save every scrap of uneaten supper, stash it away in the fridge, and every four or five days toss it together in a concoction I call Betcha Can’t Guess What’s In This™ Pie. Oddly enough, I’m the only one who eats it, the rest of my family inevitably opting for PB&J sandwiches. But I digress…

I thought about donating them to the local food cupboard, but that won’t work, either. First of all, there’s the sanitation issue. I’ve handled each one of these grody beans, and although I frequently wash my hands, there’s no guarantee they’ll arrive at the shelter germ-free. And how do you go about sterilizing a bunch of jelly beans? I don’t think it can be done. More importantly, though, is what I call the “Muffin Stump” dilema. If black jelly beans aren’t good enough for me, then why would I force them onto those less fortunate than me?

My third option is to use the frigging things in some sort of arts-and-crafts project. Slice ’em in half, hot glue ’em to a popcycle stick picture frame, and you’ve got yourself a great gift. Except…I’m not eight years old.

And so, my black jelly beans sit–dejected and alone–in a small paper bag on top of my fridge. It’s like confectionary segregation, and that brings me great shame. Any ideas?

In the meantime, check out Chapter 2 of Waiting for Spring at Readers and Writers Blog, along with the latest installments of The Unearthing and Ginny Good.

* I don’t know this for a fact, but it sounds good.
** I refuse to believe a woman had anything to do with it.

A post in which Kel rants a little

/ R.J. Keller / 5 Comments

Okay…I’m gonna be ranting a lot. In fact, I’m gonna be downright bitchy.

You may have noticed my pretty new Creative Commons licence over yonder in the right sidebar. I’ve been meaning to get one for awhile, but never got around to it, even though few things in life are easier than acquiring one. This morning, however, I got an email from a buddy of mine that kicked my butt into gear. She saw my “No Pants Lady” series posted at someone elses’ blog. Attributed to someone who isn’t me. The little twerp.

I contacted the offending blogger, gave him* the keyboard lashing of a lifetime (I’m REALLY good at that), and the post was removed post-haste. Still…it kinda pissed me off. I’m sure you can well imagine.

See, here’s the deal. I don’t make any money from this blog. There aren’t any Google ads or any other kind of ads that give me money when you visit here. (I don’t have a problem with bloggers who do have ads; it’s just not my thing personally.) I write here because it’s a fun outlet, it’s a great way to cyber-meet other people (especially other writers), and (I’ll be honest) to attract attention to my book…for which I am also not making any money.

It’s flattering to know that people enjoy reading my stuff. It’s why I write . It’s even more flattering when people are inspired to share what I’ve written with other people. It’s kind of how this whole blogging/writing thing works. If you feel inclined to quote some my stuff on your own blog or website, go right ahead. I honestly don’t mind. Just don’t try to pass it off as your own. Leaving a link back here would be cool, too.

FYI: Anyone thinking of swiping any or all of Waiting for Spring and trying to pass that off as their own…well, don’t do it. In fact, don’t even think about doing it. I’ve got plenty of documentation proving it’s mine, including (but certainly not limited to) correspondence with a lawyer that dates back to April 2006. You seriously do not want to mess with my baby.

End of rant.

*Yes…a him. Honestly, it wasn’t half as funny coming from a guy’s POV.

Ooops!

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

Bad news: I didn’t get any writing done yesterday. I don’t really have an excuse…I think I was just burned out. May the flogging commence.

Good news: My boss’s boss’s boss decided that having a third shift is a good idea after all. My job is safe. Whoo-hoo!

Marshmallow fluff

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments

That’s what my brain resembles this morning, only not quite as sweet. That’s right, another overnight shift. Unfortunately for my blog, it was a very uneventful night. Even worse, I found out that my boss’s boss decided that it isn’t necessary for the store to be open 24 hours, and has therefore cut the third shift. That’s right…I’m out of a job. Tonight’s my last night. (I suppose it’d be rather selfish for me to forget to mention that the other third shift guy is out of a job, too.)

Being “let go” is an icky feeling. I’m sure I’ll come up with something better than “icky” to describe it once I’ve had a good day’s sleep.

In the meantime, check out Chapter 1 of <a href=”http://readersandwritersblog.com/fiction/waiting-for-spring/
” target=”_blank”>Waiting For Spring at Readers and Writers Blog. There’s a bunch of other cool new stuff posted there as well, including a new non-fiction short story from Hugh Yonn, “a Florida writer who reflects on the inadvisability of becoming a big-time marijuana dealer.” It’s led to a very interesting discussion about the pros and cons of legalizing marijuana and other drugs.

Speaking of which, it’s time for me to take my Benedryl…