An Introduction

R. Murdoch

Okay, this is me. I have several things set up on social networks, but I want to make this one the important one. So here I go.

I’ve never been good at being open with anyone. In one week I’ll be done with my first year of college and I am no better off than when I began almost one year ago. I’m kind lost and lacking general direction in life. I’ve kind of resigned myself to the fact that I should be an English major, hoping that I’ll produce the next Crime and Punishment or Catcher in the Rye, but most days I worry that I’ll end up teaching Shakespeare to unappreciative teenagers.

Part of me feels like I’ve wasted this year. I planned on writing a lot, but I ended up not doing that. The best writing I did was a thank you card that I filled out at a baby shower that I was only supposed to put my address on. Despite all of that, it’s been one of growth. I’m no more disciplined, social, emotional, or sensitive than I was before but I’ve learned some things about me and about life in general.

Some things you should know about me. I can function on little to no sleep for months at a time. I’ve been known to drink pots of black coffee after midnight and recite Rudyard Kipling loudly. If I had to choose between losing music or an eye, I would lose an eye. I absolutely adore Meryl Streep. You probably would never guess, but my politics are on the conservative side. I don’t believe in God, and I don’t plan on doing so any time soon because I don’t see how I would benefit from it. I spent a year growing out my hair but then cut it off myself in an attempt to look more like the girl from Camera Obscura. Vegetarians annoy me, but I try to live by the phrase “no judgment, no opinion” but everyday that gets harder for me. One time I drank so much vodka that it came out of my nose the next morning. I’m pretty sure that I’m addicted to aspirin. I was recently so stressed out that I broke out into hives. My hair is graying (you probably can’t tell from where you are but I find more every day). I fear bloody noses more than anything else. George from Seinfeld was right when he said that pastrami was the sexiest of all cured meats. I don’t let people get close to me often, but when it does happen I freak out and put walls between us to establish distance again; I’m working on this though. I’ve been to nine other countries, and plans for future travel are in place. If I could do so without repercussions, I would get rid of everything I own and move to Engleberg, Switzerland and become a farmer (& I don’t even like sunshine or animals). I wouldn’t mind waking up tomorrow and being forty or fifty years old. Sometimes when I’m listening to “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” by the Decemberists for the millionth time in a row I wish that I was a pirate. I find it very, very hard to relate to people my own age. I like rainy and cold weather. I’m alone most of the time, but I’m not necessarily bothered by it. I’ve been in love once. I like very little, but things that I do like, I love intensely.

If I was going to be stranded on an island and take three things with me I would take my iPod, an expensive bottle of gin, and a copy of The New Yorker. Once I was done reading, my iPod dead, and the gin gone, I would probably drown myself.

What’s the point of all of this? I want a creative outlet, maybe even an audience, and someday some fans would be nice. Hopefully I’ll start writing again. Anything can go here- stories, poetry, the occasional album review, events from my life that I’ve twisted to a point, photos, sketches, old things that I dig up, whatever. I just want to have some decent stuff here.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Early evening in mid-January; it was cold outside, the wind was blowing, and the walk from the parking lot to the automatic-opening doors of Target left the skin on my face pink and covered with icy precipitation.

Inside the store, I remembered that I wasn’t there to shop. I was only there to kill a portion of time in my lonely day. I went to the café (café because I was in Target and is the café in Target really a café?) and bought a cinnamon pretzel and a cup of coffee, then settled at a small table in the corner.

Sitting there, squinting under the fluorescent lights, I watched the shoppers pass by. My pretzel was stale. I started to wonder why so many of my days ended up like this- me, sitting alone in the café of some bookstore or bad retail store eating unsatisfactory pastries. Why I barely spoke to my mother, or why I seemed to have very few friends, and how things got like this in the first place.

I drifted away from my thoughts and back into reality when I noticed an elderly woman sit down with two young boys sit down at the table next to me. The woman looked like she could be close to seventy-years-old, if not older. She was short, standing somewhere near five feet tall. He face was fat and her hair was short greasy, gray, and parted in the center. There were liver spots on her wrinkled pale face and her noise was not unlike a bird’s beak.

I didn’t think anything of them at first but then I started to overhear their conversation. Looking back, it wasn’t really a conversation. The grandmother broke into the song “Hit Me with your Best Shot” only, she didn’t sing the whole song, just that line, “Hit Me with your Best Shot” over and over again, and she wasn’t singing the tune of that song. Just a tuneless line, “Hit Me with your Best Shot” and she held on to the “O” sound for a long time, so it was “Hit Me with your Best Shoooooooooot” without a tune.

Normally, when I am in situations like this, I try not to look and this occurrence was no different. But I had a hard time believing that others weren’t looking up from their tables trying to figure out if the woman was crazy or not.

Her grandsons were a different story though. They couldn’t have been more than five-years-old and were not fazed by their grandmother’s behavior. The boy with lighter hair looked at her and said,
“Grandma, you love that song, don’t you?” And she perked up and said, yes, she did love that song.
While the three of them sat at the table, the boys ate lollipops. They were the lollipops that were colorful and a foot or two long and the candy spiraled down the stick. After her rendition of “Hit Me with your Best Shot,” the grandmother broke into her own version of the pop song from the 1950’s, “Lollipop.” One can only imagine that this was brought on by her grandsons’ snacks. Her version of “Lollipop” was the word, ‘lollipop’ sung a few times, followed by some mumbles in place of lyrics, and ‘lollipop’ yelled a few more times.

When her grandson decided he was finished with his lollipop he headed across the room, while his grandmother watched, and threw out his half eaten lollipop. Upon his return to the table, his grandmother asked him,
“Did you just throw out your lollipop?”
“Yes,” he replied
“Well why on earth,” she trailed off, seemingly outraged by what her grandson had done, and then continued, “but why, don’t you want it, I could wash it off for you,” she said in all seriousness.
“It was too big,” said the boy, his mouth stained green and red from the aforementioned lollipop.
“Do you want me to get it,” she asked again.
“No,” he replied nervously, and beginning to stand up, his grandmother said,
“All you have to do is wash it off…”

Maybe sensing some desperation, the other grandson spoke up,
“Grandma, have you ever had diarrhea?” And his grandmother sat down in her chair and smiled a most bizarre smile,
“Well, yes. I have had diarrhea,” she exclaimed.
“Yeah, me too,” said her grandson. He continued, “You know, I was watching a movie, and it happened someplace far away, in England, I think. And this guy had diarrhea. But in England they have these things, and when you have diarrhea, you sit over it and it shoots water up into your butt and cleans you up! I think it is called a butt cleaner.”
“Really,” asked his grandmother who was visibly amazed.
“Yep” said her grandson.
“Well, I would love one of those,” the woman said excitedly.

At this point in time, I couldn’t take it any more. Instead of joining in and saying,
“Actually, they are called bidets, and I happened to use one the last time I was in Paris. It was interesting if not strangely enjoyable.” But I refrained from it. I buttoned my coat and pulled my collar up to protect my neck from the cold. I walked out the door into the cold evening and recalled all of my problems. Then I remembered that I knew the proper name of the “butt cleaner”, and things could be far worse.

Varicose Veins

Varicose Veins
by R. Murdoch

A bocce game late in the month of May.
The lopsided score that was evening out with each throw of the green balls at the small brown pill.
A boy in a neighboring yard throwing around a baseball.
The bocce player walking to the other side of the small suburban yard in preparation for the next round.
A freak throw from the young baseball player.
The improbable collision of the boy’s baseball and the bocce player’s calf.
A yelp, a stumble, and finally, silence.
The endless, frantic apologies.
A painful red mark, and a trip to the emergency room.
The red mark, ruptured varicose veins.
A warm Friday evening in late May.

Therapy

Therapy
by R. Murdoch

“So, R. why are you here today?” she said as she rested her chin in her hand, picked up her pen and looked at me. And I knew perfectly well I was there but I shifted in my seat and lied,

“I don’t know. They made me come here,” and she asked me,

“Okay, why did they make you come here?” and I started to cry. Putting down the pen and the clipboard she asked me what was wrong. I remember thinking that she didn’t look like a therapist. She looked like a normal person, not like the ones on T.V. shows and in movies. I tried looking everywhere except for at her, and I took a few breaths chocking back my tears, and mumbled,

“I really don’t think I need to be here right now. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m sure she got that all of the time, but at the moment it was no concern of mine.

“R., no one said that anything is wrong with you. But I’m getting paid for this hour either way. How we chose to use our time is completely up to you. You can act like a child, or you can act like an adult. Even if you’re only here this one time, I would like you to get something out of it.”

“What is it? Are you worried that I’m going to pull something dark and scary out of you? Is it a secret you’ve never told anyone?” something in the way she said that made me more scared than I had ever been in my entire life. I looked down,

“No,” I replied. It was a lie though; I was terrified and thought she was going to do just that. Even worse, I was worried that she knew it, the secret about me that no one else knew. I felt like she knew everything about me.

“Good, then we shouldn’t have a problem here, should we?”

We spent the remainder of the hour talking about the basics, school, family, friends, interests, I cried a lot but talking wasn’t so bad, I actually kind of liked her. When the hour was up she looked at me and asked,

“Will we be seeing each other again?” I was nervous all over again, and I gulped down the lump in my throat,

“Yeah, I think I’ll come back.” And she took out a business card and wrote down a time for an appointment next week. She walked me out of her office and touched my arm as she told me goodbye and that we would see each other soon.

I left her office feeling happier than I had in a long time. However, I was worried about the dark scary secret that she mentioned earlier. But I was arrogant; I thought I was smarter than her. I was convinced that she would never hear those words from me. And that’s the day that my life really started. I saw her for over a year, and she didn’t even have to pull it out of me, I gave it up willingly. And in doing so she became the only person I ever became freely close and stayed close to. She was the only person I had ever been honest with.

The Ballad of Sheldon and Elizabeth

The Ballad of Sheldon and Elizabeth

by R. Murdoch

At my family’s annual family reunion some years ago when I was still a teenager, the emotions of a five-year-old got the better of her and stirred up quite the talking point of our long weekend.

The reunion took place at my grandparent’s summer home on Findlay Lake. It was a hot July weekend which included much reminiscing, bon fires, swimming, three on three soccer matches, screaming children, and drinking. I was at the reclusive moody phase of my teenaged years, and with no one there close to my own age, I stayed on my own away from the group most of the time.

On out reunion’s final day, we had a feast planned that was to be followed by fireworks after the dusk. I spent the day swimming on my own, and returned in the late afternoon when I could smell our dinner being cooked on the grill. There was to be sword fish, tuna, salmon, crab legs, steaks, corn on the cob, and homemade fruit pies. Everyone had been waiting all weekend for this meal. My uncle, who worked in food sales, got us a case of live lobsters for the occasion. When the meats were put on the grill to cook, the lobster case was opened, and everyone could see the lobsters squirming all over each other.

My five-year-old cousin, Elizabeth, didn’t know we were going to be eating the lobsters for dinner. For in the half hour between the time the case was opened and the time they were to be cooked, Elizabeth had formed a close relationship with one of the lobsters. She named it “Sheldon.” When my uncle told Elizabeth that it was time to cook Sheldon, she went mad. She started sobbing in protest, claiming that Sheldon was her friend and she loved him. The tantrum lasted for another half hour; I stood and watched the incident from a distance, not really wanting to involve myself.

Family members tried to rationalize with her saying that it wouldn’t be fair to keep Sheldon as a pet, but how does one rationalize that to a young child? Everyone grew tired of Elizabeth and my uncle finally yelled out,

“Jesus Christ, someone get that lobster from her.”

No one did anything, so I took it upon myself to take control of the situation. I walked through the crowd of my family members that were clustered around Elizabeth and I crouched down and said nicely,

“Elizabeth, could I see Sheldon for a minute?” she sniveled and reluctantly handed him

over to me. As soon as I had the almost foot-long brownish-red crustation in my hands I sprang from my crouched position and darted across the porch where my uncle had a large pot of boiling water set up on a hot plate near the grill. As soon as I started my run Elizabeth was chasing after me screaming,

“No, no. Sheldon. No!”

I reached my uncle and shoved Sheldon into his hands, and he in turn quickly threw the lobster into the boiling water. When Sheldon hit the water we heard a loud hiss as the life was quickly boiled out of him.

The look on Elizabeth’s face was incredible when she saw Sheldon fall into the pot. I thought she was going to jump in after him, so I picked her up and carried her across the porch and gave her away to my aunt. I can still hear her screaming,

“Take him out, take him out, Sheldon!”

Elizabeth cried for a long time. The Sheldon incident, as it’s now referred to, sort of ruined the dinner that everyone had been looking forward to.

Sheldon was the last lobster cooked that night. My uncle got the distinct pleasure of eating Sheldon. When he cut into Sheldon, he found lobster eggs inside. Sheldon was actually a female, but no one ever told Elizabeth this.

Kick the Football

I'm a huge fan of soccer and over time, I've got to see many stadiums and matches. I forgot about these picture files until yesterday when I was going through some old stuff. These aren't all the games I've been to either. I think I have thousands of 3 x 5 photos of soccer matches all over my room at home. I took all of these photographs, I think they're pretty good, but let me know.

_____________________________________

Wembley Stadium under construction. London, England. Summer 200?

Amsterdam, Holland. July 2004. I was walking through Amsterdam looking for a place to eat breakfast and I stumbled upon the Ajax fan shop. Inside on the back wall they had the signatures of former stars like Guilit, Witsche, Rijkard, and a lot more.

United States vs. Paraguay

International Friendly in Columbus, Ohio

Summer 2003:

Champions World Series

Manchester United vs. FC Barcelona

Philadelphia, PA

A few years ago we had season tickets in Columbus, but then Dad and I realized the Crew were pretty bad. I've been to many games there, lots of photos, but no more season tickets.

FIFA Women's World Cup, 1999

United States 3, North Korea 0

Boston, MA

Thank You

I wanted to say, I can not figure how to set up paragraphs with quotations properly on this thing. I'm hoping I'll figure this out soon. But in the mean time, I promise you that I do know how to do these things properly.

___________________________

Thank You
by R. Murdoch

It was the day before Christmas Eve. I didn’t want to be there, but I was at a baby shower. Not mine of course; it was for my uncle’s wife. They live out of town and I only see them at Christmas time.

I couldn’t recall ever being at a baby shower before. Initially, the idea of going didn’t thrill me but my sister and all of my aunts and my grandmother insisted I went. Everyone was going to be there, and after all, it was their first child.

I got there with my sister, Annie who met up with Nickie, our step cousin and I stood off on my own. People started showing up, and the awkward “hellos” with distant relatives and family friends started to pile up. I’ve never done well at social events. I’m not very social and most of the time I don’t have much to say and I’ve also been told that I come off as dry and pretentious from time to time. That is why I choose to be alone so often. When everyone was finally there and I said hello to everyone that I needed to say it too I stepped out to the bar and spent a few minutes trying to collect myself.

When I re-entered the party room, it was game time. I heard these things entailed games, but I didn’t know how horrible they could be. I saw Nickie had the name “Julia Roberts” taped on to her back. This seemed ridiculous to me so I said,

"Hey Nickie, why is Julia Roberts taped to your back?”

I was subsequently beaten with the pocketbooks of thirty pre-menopausal women who informed me that I had just ruined the game. I stumbled back to my seat, and the only thing that was going through my head was,

“The only reason I’m here is because I don’t have a penis. Christ.”

I sat through the rest of that afternoon. The baby crossword puzzles, the scavenger hunt, the opening of presents, the sobbing of the grandmother to be at the sight of her own gift (which to this day I don’t know what it was). The smoked halibut I had for lunch was wonderful, but even that couldn’t redeem the afternoon that I would never get back.

As the shower came to a close, one of my aunts brought around thank you cards, instructing us to fill out our address on the front of the envelops so my expecting aunt wouldn’t have to go through all of the trouble of looking up the addresses of her guests. I found this to be annoying and lazy. I started to write my address

R. Murdoch

4702 Sta.......

But then I got to thinking,

“Why make her go to any trouble at all? I’ll fill the card out for her, too! That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

It was one of my better ideas, and read as follows:

Dearest R,

Thank you so much for the wonderful baby clothes. I nearly burst into tears when I unwrapped the beautiful package and saw what was inside. My God, you are a wonderful shopper! You have always been my favorite niece, and I would be honored to have you in the delivery room with me when I give birth to your cousin. And remember, if you ever want to come out to the west coast to visit us, don’t hesitate to ask! We’re just a phone call away and will fly you out in second. Thank you again.

Lots of Love,
M.

P.S.
I forgot to mention how lovely you’ve been looking lately? What ever have you been up to?

The holidays passed as did the next few weeks. Each day I checked my mail, and finally that little white envelop was there for me. I don’t think my aunt appreciated the favor I did for her as on the little white space that was left, my uncle’s hand writing read:

R-

You pretty much summed it all up.

- J.