To-Do List

Jill got tired of looking for her misplaced iPod earbuds. Perhaps the pool banter was something she should endure, it might help write her novel. Pool guy from the other day could have been horrified with Jill’s responses, but continued on surprisingly. Ironically Jill found herself saying,

“Oh, that’s my Father’s name.”

“Oh, my Father was in the Navy Air too.”

And the pool guy kept going… what could be more disturbing than trying to pick up a girl and be told you share her Father’s name, and on and on? It did naturally keep the conversation going, despite Jill’s short responses.

Pool boy continued prompting, “So, do you play sports?”

“No, not really.” though Jill liked tennis and a good game of H-O-R-S-E, provided she wasn’t a H-O for long, or a H-O-R, but the dreaded S was no good either—one away from losing. And if the opponent pulled a layup on her, she might be in for it, and definitely a goner if forced to shoot anywhere near the top of the key—she couldn’t shoot that far accurately. She also wanted to get into golf beyond the driving range and try racket ball someday, and maybe sky diving. And Jill was an expert poker and chess player, she took her gaming seriously—it was a sport, she’d argue that for kicks.

He continued with, “I like racket ball.”

Another coincidence, “My Dad’s favorite sport.”

“You’d love it, it’s a great game.”

She’d not let on she was interested, “My dad died following a rigorous game of racket ball. I’ve not played.”

Jill wanted to play someday. She imagined it was like tennis on speed and she wouldn’t have to leave the court to retrieve missed balls—like the ones occasionally shot over the fence—even though a hard hit racket ball might nail her, it would be worth the risk.

She remembered hesitantly signing a form prior to playing paintball, “In the event of death, we are not responsible”. Her group got randomly assigned to compete against official Navy guys, out for fun in full camo, who brought their own automatic guns. Jill remembered the elation she got from pegging a very big guy in the forehead, with her slow hand-pumped gun. She eventually got tagged, hard, but loved walking up behind “big macho guy” hearing him announce, “some tiny little girl nailed me in the forehead, damb, and it was a good shot I must admit! A little thing—I can’t believe she got me.” The whole experience was a rush Jill would fondly remember, along with her many bruises.

She’d sign another release form for her life again at a beachside Extreme Sky Flyer ride, dropping her around 200 feet with a line catching her some 20 feet above pavement. Jill heard a couple years later that this beachside ride was closed down, after a death occurred. Perhaps she’d rethink sky diving—though she’d had a split second taste of the coolest rush ever.

Despite asking Jill out three times, this pool guy was pretty harmless. It would be no big deal if she ran into him again. But one step out to her porch revealed the 98-degree air, yikes—perhaps she wouldn’t be going to the pool today. Slightly disappointed it had gotten so late in the day and she’d not even eaten yet. But now, all she had to do was eat. Her to-do list was cut in half!

 

Eating had become something Jill “had to do”, yes, she actually starting putting “eat” on her list of things to-do. Jill normally reserved to-do lists for times of great procrastination or when packing for a big trip. She didn’t create to-do lists for the euphoria of crossing stuff off—they were resorted to when she had too much to do. She was making a list now because she had too little to do. It was a good thing Jill didn’t have children—if they were eating when Jill ate—…? Had this living alone thing made Jill even more self-centered? Yes. She knew one thing—she’d become quite fond of this I-can-watch-what-I-want-when-I-want flip of the remote. She didn’t realize what a compromise she’d been making.

 

Before Jill got sick, her life seemed tolerable, but was now spiraling out of control. Jill needed a list—a gentle guide, for the evening. A schedule perhaps—though she couldn’t stand being scheduled. She’d find herself at 9 p.m. still drinking wine, dinner not made (she could tolerate the loudest of growls intently doing other things), with shows on her DVR waiting (that she wanted to watch that night), and not get to bed until 2 a.m. She gave in and made a list:

Home @ 6 p.m.

Dinner @ 7:30 p.m.

Whatever in between

Online 10:30 p.m. latest (ya right, Crack-book-space-café)

Bed @ 11 p.m.

Wake 7 a.m.  

Jill would get her full eight hours by snoozing till 8 a.m.—she’d never make it to bed before midnight. She’d just have to get ready faster and her wash-her-hair-every-other-day-shower-cap-plan was working out nicely. She got more sleep, compliments the day she didn’t wash her hair, and the hairdresser said it was better…but mostly she’d grown tired of doing her hair. In fact, everything seemed like a chore these days.

 

Her doctor told her to not be so hard on herself—give the Vitamin D mega-dose time to kick in—and do what she needed to get through the day. So Jill cut her hair short—it had been weighing her down, as well as the shower cap. It had been falling out in stress clumps. Jill was told this hair loss syndrome had a name, Alopecia—she hoped she didn’t really have that. Jill was growing tired of doctors throwing potential syndromes at her. At least her new short doo would seem as though she was losing less hair. And the heck with that guys-like-long-hair-crap she’d heard too many times…who cares (at least not right now)!

Jill was so tired of feeling sick—it was going on three months. And it took two months before they discovered how low her Vitamin D was—so low she was having hot flashes. A sample size taste of menopause, so much to look forward to. At least her joints had stopped aching so much and her muscles didn’t feel like dead weight. The mega-dose was starting to work. Jill wondered what other pesky ailments this mega-dose might cure.

How long had her body been struggling? How long had she buried her nose in a health book to figure this stuff out, to no avail? How long had people wondered why she was sick, again? She actually looked forward to days when she was actually sick enough to stay in jammies all day, eat toast with honey, brew some tea, make chicken soup, and watch TV. But then she’d curse those days, too sick to even make soup. But anything was better than trundling through another not-sick-enough-to-call-in-sick day.

 

At 1:30 a.m. Jill posted her wonderfully-fabulous-I’ll-do-better-soon-to-do-list-guide on her frig.

She’d gotten home late that night floating on appetizers, had cereal, missed the finale of her favorite show, took a phone call that lasted way too long, was very tired (but still online) and starting to feel feverish again, and remembered she had an early morning meeting—oh great! So what did she do instead of brushing, washing, getting into her nightshirt and jumping into bed? Jill stayed up to write a list—she would go to bed encouraged.

At first she railroaded over all the scheduled times, but if it was 8 p.m. and she’d not started dinner—she forced herself to stop whatever it was she was doing. If she was online and it was midnight—um, get to steppin’ girlfriend! She started getting to bed closer to midnight than 2 a.m. Progress.

Jill was certain all this scheduled-time-obsession-rebellion was directed at her first stepfather, it had been lingering since middle school.

The bedtime ogre would peer in, “Did you brush your teeth?”

“No,” Jill had already learned her lesson not to lie.

“Well, what are you doing in bed then? Brush and floss your teeth young lady, and the time it takes I’m going to round up, and subtract it from your bedtime tomorrow.” As he looked at his watch, he eventually announced,  “8:50 tomorrow, and have them brushed and flossed.”

The next night when she hit the bed in a running dive, teeth brushed, the ogre peered in disappointedly,“8:52? What time did I say? Tomorrow you must be in bed by 8:00—clearly you have no respect for my rules.”

She wondered how two minutes turned into being punished by a full-hour—his punishments always went to the extreme. The next day at ten seconds past 8:00 she was instructed this would be her bedtime for the next week. Jill exclaimed, “but my clock says—”.

She was cut off, “Don’t argue with me or I’ll make it earlier and longer.”

 

Come to think of it, there were a rare few mornings Jill remembered being “up and at em” while the dew was still fresh, admiring the garden in the glowing fresh sun while picking a strawberry—perhaps going to bed early wasn’t so bad after all. But Jill was such a night owl. She was more Einstein (he required 8–10 hours of sleep), than Edison (he only needed 4–6), but Jill had been running around as if she were Edison. Her sleep was so shorted, even weekends weren’t catching her up, especially not when she stayed up a couple times till sunrise. What was she thinking? How was she to get better?

Even worse than going to bed early was being forced to stay in bed all day. When home sick, the stepfather ogre required the following: no getting out of bed, no TV watching, no phone calls, no joining the family for dinner, no nothing, except tea and toast. She was allowed honey, if she wasn’t on dessert restriction (another favorite ogre punishment). Jill stayed home only when she had a raging fever. And she was quite proud when she received those good attendance certificates. She had learned to take her lumps and find the positive side of them—like a lump of sugar.

 

This living alone thing, at age 36, brought Jill an exaggerated sense of I-can-do-what-I-want, when-I-want, and I don’t have to hear a damn word about it—though it was making her sick. The last time she recalled doing what she wanted, when she wanted, was at age six, after her father’s death. Her and her sister made a chocolate cake for breakfast, and decided not to bake it, and dipped their spoons in the bowl until all that remained required drawing a line down the middle for licking. Thirty-some years later and this is the memory of freedom that popped into her mind? This was a time she could run around naked, play with pots and pans in the rain gutter (at the corner of a busy main road), after she’d spent hours making red-clay pies, and avoid her nighttime bath, since she’d “washed” in the rain.

When Jill’s Father was still alive and around he encouraged such freedom. If discipline ever approached, he’d hoist Jill six feet to his shoulders, one foot out of her Mother’s reach. But Jill couldn’t remember her Father or being lifted to safety—all her memories came from sibling stories or photos. In fact, Jill only remembered her life post-father’s death—aside from her numerous traumatic accidents, captured in blips. Her father was stationed on aircraft carriers for most of Jill’s life. Her mom revealed to Jill years later how devastated and physically sick her Father’s death had made her. Jill finally found compassion for her Mother, like none she’d ever known. Jill now understood how she’d gotten away with playing at the street’s edge alone, it wasn’t outright neglect. After her Dad died, her Mother was either hidden to the comforts of her bed in deep depression, assuming the older children were looking after Jill or her Mother was chasing Jill with a fly swatter. Jill vaguely remembered outrunning her.

 

Whenever Jill’s mind wandered to the past it was a large black hole to infinity. She could linger amongst traumatic memories as quantitative as the stars. Her buttons were so easily pushed. When “the pusher” pushed they might as well be hitting blast off, with turbo boost. Jill had not learned to keep better guard on her control panel—or get therapy. Perhaps things were said to her in kindness, but disguised as controlling (or so it seemed).

She’d grown quite tired of questions such as: what are you still doing up, why are you still online, aren’t you going to eat yet, is that all you are eating, that’s not a real dinner, are you really going to have another when you just had one, are you really going to wear that—to comments like: no you cannot put that there, you never load the dishwasher right, what kinda recipe is that, don’t do it that way, you will never do that, why would you do that, who do you think you are, you can’t sing, you’d need training, people have years of training for that ya know, what makes you so smart, who says so, you always have to be right, I can’t tell you anything without you thinking I’m controlling you, you have issues, you are too sensitive.

Perhaps Jill was too sensitive?

Or perhaps she’d become immune to taking a wheel-barrel full of CRAP!

Jill realized that the last thirty years she was in a state of calm rebellion—when she wasn’t crying, cussing, or slamming doors—she was stuffing things down so deep small things became huge. And even though she’d had years of therapy by now, meds, and more Jesus in her than she could imagine (unless he were—)…yes, she was still rebelling. But there was also major progress.

 

While Jill was writing, her iTunes shuffled onto a song called “Get Down”, by Denver & The Mile High Orchestra. It was too groovy not to get up and jump around, so she did. She came back writing even faster, smiling all the way. It was amazing how music transformed her. Just as she was about to doubt what she’d just written, the song belted out “who’s really running the show?” Jill was certain both she and God were, by way of the Holy Spirit (which spell check reminded her to capitalize). Jill and God were running the show; God in the role of conductor. Would she get tossed out making a joke about Jesus about sex? Na! You think too much Jill. Go on, get down girl, and get on with it! She knew she had God’s grace, even through trials—it was always for her own good. Besides, so many of her bible studies discussed having an intimate relationship with Jesus. Jill frowned in confusion at that one still. Perhaps Jesus could provide Jill immaculate orgasms, while she was honoring being sex-free, wouldn’t that be intimate? Comic relief God…please forgive me.

 

Her first time living alone and there was no significant other to tell Jill what was best for her—other than family and friends calling occasionally. But mostly she was isolated and this list dwindled to her and God (promptings). But Jill was still relying on herself too much. She would walk past her bible study book several times one bad habit to another. The study was about hearing God, which she desperately wanted, but at times the study seemed to bring on stress. It was a double-edge sword. The deeper she went, the more she learned, believed, and prayed, and good things seemed to happen in supernatural ways. Set against, the deeper she went, the less she could do what she wanted. Jill kept getting convicted—was what she wanted best?

Jill was finally beginning a phase of self-teaching—no one in close proximity to express her anger on, other than herself. And she was way too hard on herself. But how could she be mad at herself when she told herself it was time to eat, or go to bed—all that remained was disappointment when she ran over her self-imposed schedule, “late again”. And how could she be mad at herself when she decided not to hang that piece of art after-all, for dozens of good reasons. Or when she censored the outfit herself. Or when she’d cooked something badly—she’d much rather tell herself not to do it that way again. Or the time she—well, that was enough, for now. Jill sealed off the black hole (closed the Word document she’d been typing) and remembered she was supposed to eat!

 

Jill was thrilled to find leftovers—no time lost to cooking today—as well as a leftover reality dancing show!

Eating—check. Favorite show—bonus.

Then she remembered the one thing she really should do, above all else. She hadn’t made that radiology appointment for her lump and it was almost time to recheck her Vitamin D blood levels. She dialed and couldn’t believe she got a mammogram within two weeks and it didn’t require pre-authorization. Now, if Jill only could find her baseline x-rays from two years prior. Jill knew she put them in a good place, but with the move and all—she had two weeks to find it.

Find x-rays, added to her mental to-do list.

Appointments scheduled—mental check.

 

So much accomplished, Jill could get back to writing.

Should she plan her novel better? She’d posted her first chapter online and was getting good feedback with tips. One good recommendation advised better organization. Jill realized she couldn’t, or wouldn’t get more organized, and it was for a good cause—for the sake of her new forward-moving-less-controlling progress. And rewrites took too much time. And this chapter was getting long with no end in sight. As it was, Jill was concerned she couldn’t add to her story quickly enough. She’d felt so intermittently sick, writing came in excited spurts—with enthusiasm diving when Jill couldn’t get a chapter finished and posted. Her illness also came with great mental fog. Jill would get frustrated looking up simple words and get even further disturbed when she realized she should have known it. And then she’d get a hot flash and stop.

Though the story consumed her, writing it in her mind all the time—but mostly second-guessing it. What if she’d created a character too close to herself? What would happen when she snuck in fiction? She already had friends emailing and calling asking if she had cancer—this was not in Jill’s plan. And just in time, Jill remembered again… there was no plan for Jill.

 

Friends thought Jill should have more fun.

“Perhaps Jill should kiss a girl!?” her rainbow friend bantered.

Her gay friend had told her to stop whispering when she said gay—he said that was offensive, so she was more careful. Was rainbow friend ok? Her friend, and his friends, had adopted God’s promising symbol to never flood the earth again as their symbol for acceptance. Jill didn’t know this was their symbol and was happy her friend clued her in at 30-something, Jill quite liked rainbows—now she understood all those looks. Her friend laughed at her telling her she had no gaydar to boot. Jill was well aware she was terrible at picking up signs. And Jill was tired of not being “in the know”, so she stayed close to Urban Dictionary now. Apparently the youngins’ these days are referring to a rainbow as rows of different colored lipsticks on their…—sigh. Ok, red for AIDS, Orange for HPV, Yellow for … yucko!

Her friend continued to prompt, “Come on, let Jill have a little fun. Kiss a girl.” Inspired by the latest song… “I kissed a girl, and I liked it, the taste of her cherry chapstick”—a catchy tune, Jill couldn’t stop singing it.

If Jill had been quicker on her feet she could have replied to her friend, perhaps he should kiss a girl?

Jill would not be kissing a girl. Jill hadn’t kissed a girl since—never. Though, there was that girlfriend in college who sat way too close—Jill would just inch over, but continued meeting her for study-(apparently)dates.

And that time when Jill was six and her brother caught her and the neighbor girl playing doctors and he shouted, “Lesbo’s!—perhaps Fisher Price should not have been pushing that doctor’s kit, blame the toy makers. Jill never played doctor again. And Jill would not be kissing a girl. But most importantly, Jill was starting to wonder when she’d EVER kiss a boy again?

“Perhaps Jill should die? She might have cancer, ya know,” she told her friend wide-eyed, with side turned puckered lips, until she could no longer hold the look and started laughing.

“No! Don’t kill Jill! No…” he pleaded ending in laughter.

 

Fiona Apple interrupted, “I’ve been a bad, bad girl. I’ve been careless with a delicate man. And it’s a sad, sad world, when a girl will break a boy, just because she can. Don’t cha tell me to deny it.”…“I’ve been living like a criminal, and I need to be redeemed to the one I’ve sinned against, because he’s all I ever knew of love. Heaven help me for the way I am, save me from these evil deeds, before I get them done. I know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand—“

 

Jill decided she should stop writing. It was 2:00 a.m., she should get her butt to bed. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, and she was already behind—she had so little to-do and she’d missed her bedtime by two hours. Good thing her sister’s BBQ wasn’t until 4:30 p.m.—she’d have plenty of time to sleep in.

 

***

Reviews

[Carole]

Wow, Tanya~! As Tammy said-Riveting!! You really draw your reader in. I kept wondering if you were using any real examples from your own life? I have written a few where I have done that. I would imagine all writers do unless you have one heck of an imagination! You really have a lot on the inside of you. I hope you are still working on this. I am not on much. Decided to come over and do a couple of reviews for the heck of it.

Hope you are well, Carole

[Cliff Rhodes]

Nice beginning of a book about an author writing. If you ever get a little free time, read "The List" by Steve Martini, paperback Dec. 1997. This book is a real intriguing adventure for people who are writers and know a little about how difficult it is to make it. Anyway, if you are having fun then it is all worth it.

[Clyde McBeth]

Whoo!
This is the best beginning to a story I heard in years! You have a very clear voice, it translates splendidly to the page. I normally hate reading online but this is really good. I couldn';t help but keep going.
Keep on writing. It's great!

[Celtic Cat]

That was quite a ride!!! Thank goodness the cancer is purely fictional... and thanks for those words about friends thinking it was real... because you had me!!! I was kicking myself saying 'damn why didn't you come read this sooner - she needs support!!!".
Excellent weaving of this tale. I can relate to Jill all-too-well, I'm afraid. Except she's got one up on me... I haven't the nerve to write to-do lists. I know me.. .they'd just be another way to feel bad about myself!

love this write.... hope you keep it going!!!

[TL Boehm]

wow. this is riveting. It smacks of 'realness' - a chilling type of realness...like it's not really fiction at all. Well done.

[M Lamont]

This was great. The best part is I can follow what is going on in the background. I am totally enjoying this for what it is. I am not one to critique a "novel" or "book" writing so I only hav something positive to say. it flows easily for me and is very easy to read. I am drwn to the charater and the way it is written keeps me interested and following the story. Great job! More Jill, more Jill!!!!!