Because Politics is Not My Love:

I'm making this dress sometime soon. No pattern but the instructions seem super easy. It's from this nifty "Weekend Designer" blog. Love it. :) http://wkdesigner.wordpress.com/

Goldfish and Gunpowder by Kathryn D'Elia

There were only two other people in the building with him, both shuffling through their last few insurance claims, itching to go home. “I’m about to head out, guys,” Allen said, as he stood up, stretched his shoulders, stiffened from cubicle-induced sloth. Carol glanced up from her computer and nodded in his direction. From the other side of the room, the “De-li-lah” radio show theme played on Jim’s portable radio. The antenna pointed up and left in an awkward diagonal. “G’night Allen,” emitted from the remaining individual. He was barely audible over the pleasant reflective song that Delilah herself had selected to play for a troubled listener. “See you tomorrow, Jim.” Allen shuffled his feet and took his time shutting down his computer, lining up his folders, and putting all stray pens in their appropriate location. He looked up at Carol and Jim a few times as he did this. Their eyes were glued to their tasks. All that could be heard was the clicking of keys, lightly veiled by the whining music in the corner. He hated himself for lingering, but the vision of wandering into his apartment alone, staring into its dark quiet corners, made him even more aware of his steadily mounting loneliness. Reluctantly, Allen grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and swung his backpack over his right shoulder. He looked back once more before stepping outside. They didn’t move.
The chilly air blanketed around him as he pulled the heavy door to. He tried to cover a shiver by pulling up the collar of his windbreaker. He made his way off the stoop and down the cement steps to the bike rack which was bolted off to the left of the building. Allen was the only employee at Rodgers & Goldbach Insurance that opted for two-wheeled transportation. Everyone else had cars or took the Lightrail. He knelt down next to his cerulean ten-speed, feeling his knee smush into a mound of fallen leaves and ripe earth.
“Hm…Allen Apollo Nielson…” a voice said, slowly sucking on each word as if it was sweet, like candy. He stiffened and righted himself from his stance at his bike lock to face the direction of the sound, inhaling the dirty metallic smell of the gears as he moved. There was the outline of a figure, tapping its fingernails against the crisp plastic of an ID card. Quickly trying to grasp some understanding of what was happening, Allen slapped his hand over his back pocket, feeling the absence of a very familiar bulge.
“Apollo, huh? it continued. The voice was female. He didn’t realize why he hadn’t gathered that immediately. The voice was sing-songy; sweet, the tones rounded and smooth. “That’s very regal,” she said, giggling lightly. “I bet your mom picked it. You’d be her little Greek God.” He searched the twilight for the woman’s features, squinting in attempt to align the blurred plains of her face.
“Who are you?” His question got to the point, but lacked the conviction that would have landed him an actual answer. The woman said nothing but approached him, small feet crunching through the fallen leaves. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Rustle. Crunch. The dim glow of the office’s porch light began to define her form as she approached. Crunch. Rustle.
“How’d you get my wallet?” he added, studying her nervously.
“You scared?” she giggled again. The wind blew her pretty raven hair across her face, leaving only her mocking grin in his view. She didn’t bother to brush it away. Allen surveyed her, spying his wallet in the grip of her right hand.
“Can I have that back, Please?” he mumbled, gesturing to his rightful possession. He couldn’t fathom how she’d managed to get it, but he sure as hell wanted it back.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” she teased. Allen studied her for the few seconds she remained there. As the cold wind blew through again, her hair fell back into long dark waves around her pale face. She avoided his direct gaze. She kept her eyes down at the wallet in her hand, at the toes of her boots, at Allen’s neck, hands, as if contemplating her next move. When she finally lifted her chin up to catch his stare, Allen saw that there was something unspeakably wild in her eyes, indescribable. She took another step forward and reached out her left her hand, grazing her fingertips on his chest. Allen stiffened at the contact, unfamiliar now with a woman’s touch. Swiftly she slipped his ID into the breast pocket of his button-up with her right hand. The pressure of her fingers changed. They were now pressing firmly against him, possessively.
“What a shame, you’re such a cutie too,” the words slid off her tongue like that of a snake. He imagined slithering coming from the shadows. With that, she pushed off of him and leapt away, seemingly gazelle-like into the street.
“Hey! Wait!” he called after her. By the time he had blinked and managed to the form words, the nameless girl had dissolved into the chilly Baltimore air. He ran down the driveway after her, but when he stepped out on Michigan Ave and searched for some sight of her, he found none.
“Shit.” She still had his wallet.
“Shit.”
The silvery twilight was transforming into dark, fast. Allen stared into it for a few minutes in disbelief before kicking the brick building, unlocking his bike, seizing the handle bars and putting as much distance between himself and what had just happened as his legs could manage. The chain squeaked and scraped from the force. “Fucking embarrassing…I just stood there and let her take it,” he thought, blood pounding in his ears. He made a private resolution not to tell anyone about this little incident. “Mugged by a belligerent homeless man,” would sound better. As for the stolen wallet, he considered calling the cops and writing statement and then decided against it. What were the Police going to do about it? This was Baltimore. There was real violence here, big theft, street gangs, murder. Real criminals too. What kind of cop would waste his time going after some random girl who stole a wallet with barely any money in it, when they could spend his time trying to take down gang leaders? Plus, how dumb would that sound? “Yes ma’am, I have no idea how she got it away from me.” “No, I think the Greek god thing was just a play on my middle name.” “Well, it’s Apollo.” “That’s right, she ran away.” “No. I couldn’t stop her…” Calling the cops was embarrassment just waiting to happen.
When his apartment building came into view, Allen swung a leg off his bike and cruised up near the wrought iron railing, which stood complementary to the structure’s brick facade. It was much too dark to make out the details of what probably used to be a very charming building. Now it stood like a familiar fortress, backlit by light pollution and the few working streetlights. He dismounted, lined his bike up with the railing, wove the chain through the spokes and frame and secured it with a Masterlock, which he clicked and tested twice before headed up the steps to his apartment. He glanced over his shoulder into the street before walking into apartment C.
“Damn,” he thought…
Allen locked the door behind him and let his backpack drop from his grip. He spent some time switching on some necessary lights. The spooky un-obliging feeling of the house lifted as light flooded away the shadows. From his spot in the hall Allen could make out a reflective glint coming from his bedroom. He walked closer and found the “Thank You” plastic bag on his dresser had caught the light. Nervously, he glanced at it and turned back to the kitchen…

Lillian and Gilbert watched their Master come in from their designated spot by the living room window. “I still don’t know why he bought that gun,” thought the female fish. Gilbert hid behind the castle at the bottom of the tank…

The next morning Allen busied himself straightening his thin red tie that the company required him to wear. He thought it made him look like a Mormon schoolboy, especially when the bike got involved. As far as his wallet was concerned, he was much more annoyed with the loss of Derek’s Costco membership card than anything else. That, and the shame of being mugged randomly outside his office building by some strange woman that just popped out of the dark… credit cards were easy to cancel, but explaining to your best friend of eight years that you lost his key to bulk shopping because some girl just took it from you, was pretty weak. The only thing Allen ever bought during their Costco trips were big jars of chocolate covered raisins. Hence why he’d rather freeload on the membership rather than get one of his own. With the circumstances, it’s a wonder he had ever been chosen to hold onto the card. However, Derek had been recently married and had even more recently discovered that his new wife, Annie, was pregnant. Things like Costco memberships tend to fall to the wayside when that kind of thing turns up. Looking down at the kitchen counter, Allen gazed at his ID that he’d tossed there the night before. Without a wallet to use, he stuck the card in his back pocket by itself. The weight was nowhere near the same, but the feeling of it was comforting.
Allen shook some flakes into the fish tank. The two bubble-eyed goldfish bobbed at the surface, pecking at the tiny bits of dried splendor. “See you later, guys.”
He rolled up his right pant leg to keep it free of the chain, unlocked the bike, folded the chain, stowing it in his backpack, which he then threw over this shoulders. Straightening the handlebars, Allen mounted his bike and hoped today would be significantly more predictable than the night previous.
His boss waddled by, gesturing to him with a handful of manila folders, “I’ve got quite a stack for you, Nielson.” The man carried a stern expression on his heavily browed face. He always did that. This kind of greeting/threat only served to keep up an air of authority that no one particularly felt. After bestowing it, he would disappear for the rest of the day. It worked out well enough. “Alright Sir, I’ll get on it.” Allen said, committing himself to another fascinating day shuffling through insurance claims.
“So some creepy chick had your wallet and then ran off with it?” Derek’s voice came in ragged and tired sounding on the other end of the phone. Allen examined the distinct and evenly geometric edges of the receiver on his work phone. He ran a fingertip over the eight evenly spaced holes on the mouthpiece that made this machinery possible. He imagined his voice getting trapped in it, sucked in through the tiny holes like a vacuum.
“I don’t know man. It was so weird,” he replied.
“Did you cancel your cards?”
“Yeah, I took care of it.”
“Dude, that’s so fucked up. You know, watch her have taken it just for the Costco card. I could totally see that happening. Weird chicks.”
“Who knows? I just thought I’d tell someone about it. I don’t know how the hell she got her hands on my wallet. Whatever. How’s Annie doing?”
“She’s good. I’m exhausted. Catering to a pregnant woman will kill ya.”
“Eh, well give it a few months and you can trade that for a screaming baby that will have to be catered to.”
“Not helpful, man.”
Allen ended the conversation and returned to his work. He opened a folder with pictures of a hit and run accident, a Land Rover with a crushed driver side door. “If the driver had been in the car… he definitely wouldn’t be around,…” he thought, popping four chocolate covered raisins into his mouth. Three minutes later, now examining the conditions of the car owner’s policy, Allen removed four naked raisins from his mouth, one by one, and laid them on a napkin. He usually called it quits on the raisins as soon as his pile began to resemble a volcano. That was the stopping point, volcano.
The air was sharp and cool as it hit Allen’s skin. He unlocked his bike quickly this time, looking around for signs of the mystery girl. He surveyed the parking lot and the shadowy area on the side of the building. No sign of her. The departure from the norm the previous night had made the experience of heading home exciting again. Nothing out of the ordinary was expected, but there was a shiver running his spine as he built up speed and headed home.
He deftly wove the chain in and out of the spokes the way his dad had taught him. “They’ll never be able to get her if you do it like this, son.” He attached the lock, checked it, and headed inside with the smile on his face, listening to his own feet crunch on the leaves around the stoop. As Allen stuck his key in the dead bolt, he faintly heard sounds from beyond the door. He threw the door open. The one light that as on hung just above her head, spotlighting his kitchenette. She sat on the counter, swinging her legs impatiently like a child. His wallet sat on the counter directly next to her, a jar of chocolate-covered raisins behind her.
“How the hell’d you get in here?” Allen yelled from surprise…but also not surprise. Encounters like the night before were too unusual not to repeat themselves. She looked over at him curiously from her perch. “You shouldn’t hide extra keys.” The woman said playfully. “You never know who will find them.” Her disposition would be cute if she hadn’t just broken into his house.
“Listen lady, who the hell are you? What do you want?” His voice told of his rising anger. It seemed to get her attention and she bit back her grin. She hopped down from the counter, her boots making the gentle double-footed stomp that indicates landing. She walked up near him. There was something particularly beautiful about the way she moved.
“Well if you’re going to be Apollo. I’ll be Daphne. Do you know that story?”

“I don’t like her,” thought Lillian. Gilbert blew some bubbles through his gills. They both adjusted themselves for a better view…

“You know, I see you coming and going from your office sometimes.” Her expression was sweet and sincere. She ran her fingertips over Allen’s forearm, drawing curving patterns on the stiff white cotton. Despite himself, he began to relax. “You always look so sad, like you don’t want to leave. But in the mornings you don’t always look like you want to be there either.” So great, his emotions were entirely transparent…awesome. “Yeah, sometimes I don’t,” he replied. Her hands groped for his tie. She grabbed the knot and loosed it down to his chest. She pulled it up and over his head. Her fingers gently stroked the back of his head, igniting his nerve endings. “So where do you want to be?” she asked. He looked down at the floor. His slightly scuffed dress shoes and her brown suede boots faced each other. The negative space between them made unusual organic shapes. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” She also looked down at their feet. “Sometimes, you just get tired of being alone.” She said quietly. She leaned forward and rested her forehead on his chest. Allen looked down at her form and impulsively wrapped his arms around her, hold her to him.
He woke up with her straddling him, smooth thighs pressed around his hips. Gingerly, he allowed his eyes to open, gradually letting the planes shifted to their appropriate locations. That’s when he felt the cold ring of the gun barrel pressed against his forehead, and saw her peering at him curiously around the hefty piece of steel she had jammed up to his cranium.
“Jesus Christ! What are you doing?!” He attempted to stick his hands up at his sides to express surrender and found that his wrists were knotted to the headboard, held fast by strips of white plastic that has previously concealed the weapon she now bore upon him. He tried to wiggle out from under her trying to angle himself away from the weapon. She squeezed her thighs down tighter holding him, clamping his body down beneath her.
“Why do you have a gun?” she asked sweetly, despite her aggressive position. She leaned her pelvis forward to prompt him to speak. Her hands still gripped the Beretta.
“Put that down! This is not a joke!” He glanced over at the spot on the dresser where the gun had previously lived, when shrouded in its “Thank You” bag. Trying not to turn his head with the gun that intent upon him, he could see the now shredded bag’s new resting place in pieces on the floor. He wondered if that’s how he would end up, in pieces. Why the hell had he left it out? Better yet, why the hell had he bought it? And the most obvious question, to top all the others, why the hell had he let this girl stay in his house? Somehow, despite the insanity of the circumstances, this was his fault. “People only buy guns for two reasons,” she started. “Either you’re afraid of something, or” she gestured lightly with the gun barrel to his forehead, “you want to die.” She flopped her head to one side, her long strands changing direction. Above him she wore nothing. “Do you want to kill yourself, Apollo?” She centered the Beretta directly between his eyebrows at this, extending her arms fully and pushing her shoulders back. On instinct Allen pulled his hands back further in retreat, forgetting he was bound to the spot. “No! I just bought it! Now, point that thing somewhere else! Please!” She rocked her hips back and forth, grinding on him. “Well then, what are you afraid of?” She moved faster. Allen hated himself for being aroused at a time when his life was hanging in the balance. Pausing, she pointed the gun to her own chest. “Tell me.” His head was spinning. Forming the words became a challenge. “I don’t know… I just am.” She looked down at him with an almost loving gaze. Whack!
It was mid afternoon by the time he came to. The light came streaming through the blinds, warming the room to uncomfortable temperature. His right temple throbbed. Scanning the room, there was no trace of her. Allen tore at the plastic around his wrists. They were so tight the weight of his arm was enough to cut impressions in his skin. Some pulling and twisting he was able to get his right hand free. Pins and needles erupted within the numb limb. With the help of his right hand, his left came free easily. He kneeled in place on his bed, trying to reorder the events that had taken place. Stolen wallet. Break-in. Girl. Gun. Black. He craned his neck to look out into the living room from his place on the bed. At least she was gone. He stretched his stiff shoulders and rubbed his face with his hands. His feet found the floor.
Lillian and Gilbert bobbed their mouths open and shut in unison as they evaluated their Master’s troubled face. “What the hell just happened?” he asked them. He studied their shiny orange bodies and their bulging eyes. Allen thought he could hear elevator music playing between their recessed ears. “Way to let me down, guys.”
The apartment looked the same. The shabby stucco walls, the TV he rarely turned on, the volcanic piles of naked raisins, none of it had changed. But the room felt foreign, contaminated. “Where would she take the gun?” he thought, wheels turning. “Where the hell did she go?” He tried to come up with some comical scenario that would make what happened lighter, easier. Nothing came. Work called and left him a voicemail. His boss’s deep voice demanded an explanation for his absence and explained the proper way to request a day off in a condescending tone. Allen listened to half of it before jabbing the “delete” button.
The next day was the most productive day of Allen’s work career. He went through claims with speed and precision, looking up only when necessary. A few people greeted him, but other than a quick glance, he refused to entertain them or to explain why he had been gone he day before. He opened a new folder. Ford Explorer involved in massive pileup. His raisins remained forgotten in his desk drawer. He read the report, verified the claim, and offered the owner a deductible.
He returned from work to find the Berretta sitting on his dresser, angled to the exact position it had held within its plastic bag. Approaching it, Allen saw sooty black dust coating areas of the weapon. Trying not to touch it, he grasped the very end of the handle with the hem of his shirt and slid open the chamber. All ten rounds had been fired. Allen slammed the chamber closed again and pushed the gun back up on the dresser. He found his head in his hands.
“Uh oh,” thought Lillian. Gilbert said nothing.

Gummy Bear Excavation+ White Legging Horror:

My mother has an insatiable sweet tooth. While searching for apartment stuff for most of Saturday afternoon, she told me she was hungry and propositioned that we go to get icecream at Cold Stone Creamery on Southside. I really just wanted to find a restroom so I smiled, nodded, and parked. When I joined her at the counter she had selected some sweet cream mash-in with coconut and strawberries, a legitimately good tasting arrangement. While mildly interested in the concept of unnecessary sugar consumption, I wasn't all that into dessert arranging. I scanned the cornucopia of options and really had no idea of what I wanted. My eye caught something entirely strange and I remembered "Never marry a Mexican" from the Scriber Anthology. "Um...This is going to be a kind of weird request...but, Can I have Chocolate Cake Batter Icecream with Gummy Bears?" For the sake of the scene, let me let you in on the fact that I don't particularly enjoy gummy bears. They're alright but they don't satisfy my sugar fix and chewy isn't really my texture. I just wanted to see what the little bear bodies would look like buried in the chocolate. Like drowning teddy grahams in milk, it was burying bears in the cold. (we're into inanimate bear torture around here.)

i sat down with this loaded waffle cone and a spoon and poked at the little blobs of brightly colored gelatinous mass sticking up on top. I probably ate a few of them, but gummy bears get very stiff when exposed to cold. It became a game for me. Instead of eating my treat as one typically would, I would uncover a bear until I could see a distinct head or leg, pull it out of the cone, suck off any clinging icecream, and then line it up on a napkin.

I ended up with quite a collection. My mom laughed at me when I rearranged the sticky boogers in pyramid format. I tried to avoid the guy who scooped my dessert. Seems insulting to disassemble something he took the careful time to smush together evenly on a slab.

I took these pictures with my camera phone and I am blown away with how clear the images turned out. With the outside light, the half melty gummy bears were really glowy and bright. Beautiful.
Anthony brought up that it was weird that I ordered something not for it's taste value, it's main function, but for a purely visual experience. It was neat.

And, on a separate note, this was a Walmart Adventure gone strange. It reminded me of that "People of Walmart" blog page. We got behind this woman and who I assume was her youngest daughter (she was probably 15, but sort of short for that age.) The girl had a shirt on that said "look but don't touch!" in big letters. I couldn't really imagine anyone doing either...but that's a different story. My opinion on graphic tees is not the issue here. We stood behind them and while unloading the cart, the mom pulls stuff away and ends up knocking the girl's Mcdonald's Orange Soda backwards off onto the floor. "Oh shoot. Well Ma-ma (which i assumed was a pet name) I'll get ya another one." The drink made a pretty sizable puddle. The girl behind the counter had a look of "oh...." on her face when she realized she was going to have to mop the stuff up. The mother did not apologize to the cashier for causing the mess. The poor girl used half of an industrial roll of paper towels to soak up the liquid. (somewhere in the middle, the daughter ran back over to the Mcdonald's and got a refill.) The cashier used a plastic bag to gather up the mound of now orange towels. She coated her hands in sanitizer when she got back up to her post. I wonder if that helped the stickiness. So overtaken by the action involved, I hadn't really absorbed the appearance of the mother. She had a sizeable "landing stripe" of gray growing in at her roots. We're talkin a good inch and half from her scalp. She had the front of her hair pulled up with a red scrunchy that matched her blouse. It had a peasant shape and a ruffle on the bottom. It may have hit her at the hips length-wise. Under this she wore WHITE FOOTLESS LEGGINGS WITH LACE TRIM, through which you could see her black bikini-cut UNDERWEAR. I took a photo. Couldn't stop myself. One should NEVER wear leggings on their own. They are called "leggings"...not "pants." It's different! The cashier smirked at almost everything that came from the two after that point. She sent me a sympathetic look after they left, which I returned. People are strange.