INCONCEIVABLY BLONDE....

Packing up leftovers, licking the spoons of their savory sausage-appled-and-sagey stuffed goodness-- Oooh, did you taste this?! Scraping remnants of recipes collected through the years together. Small and simple. Kept it small and simple this year. Enjoyed more easy moments full of food and family. Peaceful. Good.  Car keys tucked into nooks and crannies with time to spare until kickoff, gentle laughs about the gravy stain on your new shirt—oh well. Grab another butter-baked roll to mop it up-- I won’t tell! Fetch me another roll of towels while I let the pans soak-- I’ll just buff up the trays before putting them away for next year. Did you happen to catch the score? Lounging in loaded down lazy-boys remotes slipping as body and mind decide between holding on to their piece of pie or to consciousness-- Hmm, so tempting, so warm…. Quiet dialogue floating amid the TV din. Doorbell—Come in! Make yourself home, grab a cold drink from the fridge and sit ...

I did it again. Yes, ma’am, I sure did. Left the house again without my face on. Not quite like getting my game on, but a little like putting war paint on. Gearing up, getting ready for battle for the day, to face the world, dare it to squint, to smirk, to bat an eye at me the wrong way-- nuh uh, no way! Not today…. You heard me, I said “face-free,” that means no spackle, no cream, no base, no powder no shadow or dream of what I seemed to be, only yesterday-- just what I am.  And what is that? Well? I'm waiting.... Am I a woman, muse, wife, daughter, deep thinker, ruse to rile you up at night, unsung super heroine, a closet comedienne, professional picture- messer-upper? Voila—c’est moi!! Good enough to drive to work without accident or incident, unless you count the lookers-on who seemed to part the waters, so to speak, as I dared to bare all.  Of my face, that is. Nice try, though…. What, no cat calls? So!?  W...

Holes in the ceiling tiles stare down at me, blank, zoned out, gape open at my utter lack of mental oxygen today tomorrow whenever.... myopically gulping for any last tasty tidbits clinging to the surface before, during, and after hours. Unheard of. Absurd.  Irrelevant to my frame of mind. Fluorescently buzzed, numbing thumb-tacked memos to my forehead-- What was it you said? You did say something, didn’t you? Or are mine the only lips I hear moving? Hmmm…. Written November 17, 2010 by Eliza Jane Farley Gomez ©2010 by Eliza Jane Farley Gomez

OK, I guess I had a blonde moment, no matter how artificially intelligent I might currently be (I recently wandered over to the REDHEAD side), LOL! I follow several folks on my Twitter account, one of which is someone I’ve long admired and respected, albeit from very far away—Mr. Roger Ebert. Back when I was in high school, my best friend and I loved going to movies, and we’d sit for hours afterwards discussing them, along with other important things like books, boys, and music, of course! We would fancy ourselves to be critics, believing that one day we could be famous critics like Mr. Ebert. Someday. Fast forward over 20 years….. Mr. Ebert has an online journal and his entry on his site on November 5th is titled “All the Lonely People.” It simply captivated me, and I had to read it several times and quietly reflect upon why, exactly, his words so moved me. I had to respond and let him know—something I’ve never done. However, I firmly believe that when someone touches your li...

Standing in the checkout line, Humming and tapping to the muzak in time, waiting just to pay and go. Browse the fashion trashing tabloids and tasty artisnacks, looking over my loaded cart, putting stuff back that’s not on my list. Lady behind me’s all pissed about all my disgarded junk invading “her” space in line. HERS. Do you mind?! Hurry up, now, I gotta run, gotta get back home in time to fix  a little something for dinner.  I gotta life, you know, outside this store. I can’t wait here all day…. Just another minute, almost done, I’ll be home soon…. Fall back with my head on the pillow, trying to let go of the thing that won’t leave. The damn I.V. dug in my arm, dripping steady and warm, drowning my pain down the hall of my dream. Hmmm, seems pretty real, though-- It is just a dream, right? Did I imagine all the nurses browsing down the hallways of the patient rooms, like shoppers in the stores, checking, fluffing, holding cl...