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Bella’s Very Last Attempt

Regardless of how many mariachi bands Hancho might hire, Bella knew her time with him was nearing its end. In the days that followed, he returned to his grumpy self. The dinners were no longer heavy spreads of flautas, fried plantains, and sangria.

Hancho grilled chicken or steak without seasoning and served it with cold salsa. He cracked bottles of beer and burped between bites. Despite his ever-bulging biceps, the man had lost all attraction for her.

Bella felt like a kept woman. She gave him one last test by hopping on Etsy and buying this gorgeous silk slip dress in burgundy. She wore it at dinner, hoping Hancho’s eyes would finally turn toward her as tears slid down her cheeks.

Listening to Hancho’s endless exercise routines made her sick. What about gazing at her once in a while? Asking about her day?

Bella tried three solid nights to connect with him. She cleared her throat, yet he spoke over her. She let him fondle her nipples while she talked about a new piece of gym equipment, but she might as well have been cloaked in armor.

On her final testing night, Bella broke down in tears. Hancho kissed her on the cheek, skipped to the bedroom, and shut the door. He might as well have buried her in that silk dress, spit on the tomb, and cursed her name for the rest of his life.

Bella had no choice but to form a new plan. One that will be revealed in the next post.

There’s an alluring piece of wardrobe made purely of silk. Should you use that link, I will be offered a few coins strictly for my amusement.

Hancho, Make This Real!

If you run a bakery, wouldn’t it make sense that your customers support you by buying pastries, breads, and other baked goods? If your answer is “no,” then I can’t help you. Not sure who can.

When it came to Bella and her romantic life, she expected Hancho to meet her partway. Not just by offering his gorgeous physique, but at the very least checking in on her.

Here’s a fantasy that often crossed her mind: she’s on her way home from work. Every passerby reeks like rotten eggs. Maybe she smells that way too.

The stairs up to her apartment feel like thirteen miles. She opens the door, and a woman Bella has never seen before has a massage table propped open in the living room.

“Bella, dear,” the woman says. “Hancho will be back any minute, but please hop in the bath.”

She locks fingers with Bella and leads her to the bathtub. The room is dimly lit with lavender-scented candles. Rose petals are tossed here and there. The bathwater is the perfect temperature.

The woman offers Bella a glass of champagne and tells her to take her time. When she’s done with her bath, she should wrap herself in this gorgeous pink robe.

Instrumental flute music plays in the background. Bella’s muscles ease. She almost falls asleep, but then remembers the massage.

She lifts herself out of the bath, dries off, and slips into that wildly soft pink robe. She shuffles to the massage table, lies down, and this time does fall asleep.

Each time she woke from this fantasy, she knew something had to be done. Either Hancho had to step it up, or she’d have to leave.

Above is a link. If you click it and buy that stunning robe, I’ll earn a teeny tiny profit.

Farewell, Doug

You might be wondering where I’ve been.

Shortly after publishing my last post, I got a call from the New York State Troopers. Doug had collapsed in his front yard and was unresponsive.

He was taken by ambulance to the Ellenville Regional Hospital, where he passed a few hours later. The police couldn’t locate any of Doug’s relatives, but my contact information was scattered all over his house.

“Just in case I forgot your number when I go into the next room,” Doug would have said.

Bella and I were in New York City, sifting through her storage unit when I got the call. Luckily, there was a rolled-up futon behind me as I fell backward in shock. Once I regained composure, we hopped on an Amtrak to Poughkeepsie and headed back to my place.

Doug had written a last will and testament that could put the entire Brandon Sanderson catalog to shame. The last three hundred pages were one long letter to me, detailing every step for his memorial.

“Not a funeral,” Doug wrote. “Those are disgusting. A memorial service.”

The event was to be held on his property. All attendees were required to wear a flannel button-down shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a wide-brimmed rodeo hat. “Special bonus for those touting a lasso,” he added. He never did specify what the bonus was.

No prayers were to be said. Only happy songs. Crying was allowed, if done in private.

His body was to be placed on a wool mattress, naked, under a single linen sheet. Once the celebration wrapped, the food was eaten, and nothing left unsaid, everyone had to leave… except me. I was to douse the place in liquor, especially Doug’s body, and set the house on fire.

Took some convincing for the High Falls Fire Department. Eventually, the chief agreed, showing up in his truck dressed like a wild Texan, ready to extinguish the flame if necessary.

“Those metal urns,” Doug wrote, “total shit. Once the house collapses, you’re to collect my ashes and put them in a teak vase.” This exact teak vase I’ve linked is the one Doug wanted. “If the seller’s out of stock, contact them. See if they’ll make an exception.”

There were plenty in stock. I ordered one. It arrived in perfect time.

Had Doug made it just three more weeks, he would’ve turned 83. I can’t say I’ll miss those 2 a.m. phone calls, but man, he was a character. May he rest in peace.

Not to be a disgusting pig, but there’s an affiliate link in here. If the vase speaks to you, I might make a wee bit of money. So will the seller. But most importantly, Doug would want you to have it.

Please don’t put ashes in there. Use it for flowers. Doug would want beauty, not bones.

Bella, Part Three

For three solid weeks, Bella and Hancho hobbled around his apartment in silence.

They moved like mute pantomimes, directionless and bruised by something neither would name.

Hancho’s time at the gym doubled, denying Bella the chance to watch the veins bulge in his arms during a bicep curl. So she stayed home, staring out the window, eating beans out of a can.

On the street were happy couples, arm in arm. Some walked dogs. Others pushed baby strollers.

“Will I ever get there with Hancho?” she asked herself.

Before she had a chance to answer, he came bursting through the door with a box.

“This is for you,” he said, sliding it her way. The side of it grazed her left calf.

Inside was a leather briefcase.

What the hell was Bella supposed to do with this?

“It’s very nice,” Bella told him. “But… what’s it for?”

“What’s it for?” Hancho’s face turned red. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “You’re gonna go to work.”

Then came the expletives. Then the mumbling. Something about how ungrateful she was.

Back in Wisconsin, Bella’s only job was at Dairy Queen. She started in high school and worked there until several days before she left for New York. If she showed up to Dairy Queen with a leather briefcase, everyone would’ve laughed. The manager might’ve pulled her aside and asked if she intended to move up in the company.

As she stared at the briefcase — tilted sideways in its cardboard cradle — Hancho told her to use her time wisely. He gave her two days to find a decent office job.

“And what if I can’t?” Bella asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Hancho replied, gym bag in hand.

He slammed the door behind him. Its vibration sent a chill down her back.

In next week’s post, Hancho’s abusive energy is put on hold while Bella navigates joy in unexpected places.

Oh, and if that briefcase link above gave you a tingle of “maybe I need that,” just know it’s an affiliate link.

If you grab one, I might make a few coins — not enough for a mansion, but maybe enough for Bella to upgrade to a can of organic beans.

Bella, Part One

It’s the middle of the night. You’re lying in your tent, tossing and turning, searching for that perfect position.

You’re about 50 yards from the trail, yet the sudden scream sounds like it’s coming from inside your tent.

This isn’t a dream. Not a drill.

You know someone’s in terrible danger—but you have no idea what to do.

If you unzip the tent, he/she/it/they might spot you.

Do nothing, and the person…

What would you do?

I’ll tell you what I did.

First, I shut Abby up—her barking was ruining the vibe.

Then the beast in me tore the tent wide open, and I hollered,

“Pull your shit together or I’m gonna beat all your asses.”

Silence.

Not a stir.

I then grabbed this fucker.

Thank god for it—if I’d had any weaker flashlight, I would’ve seen nothing but branches.

Turned it on, and just beyond the light: a woman in her early 30s, dressed in what looked like a large doily.

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” she asked, trembling.

I didn’t dare step forward. She almost looked feral.

“If you attack me, I will.”

“I won’t attack you.” She grinned. “My name’s Bella.”

Bella said she has regular nightmares and was hoping a night out in nature would cure her.

“Could take a while,” I told her.

I hadn’t shared my name—must’ve forgotten.

Just as I thought the conversation was winding down, she asked if she could stay in my tent for the rest of the night.

“With me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I nodded.

She hobbled over. In we went.

We didn’t sleep, but there was no hanky panky either.

More on Bella—and our journey—next week.

Hopefully the affiliate link above didn’t blind you. It has that power.

Camping Restoration Activated

I’m a bit tired of the day-to-day. This weekend, I’m hopping in my car and heading to an undisclosed location. No electricity. No running water (except a river). A lean-to, if I’m lucky. My phone? Stored in the glove compartment.

If you need to reach me… too bad.

It’s been a hell of a year — full of loss, grief, and drawing firm boundaries with loved ones. And yet, at the same time, the excitement of starting my business. All of it has been swirling together, sometimes creating more confusion than clarity.

I’m ready for this trip. Just me, the car, and my dog Abby. Here’s what I packed:

1. One small towel

2. One change of boxers

3. An extra pair of socks

4. Raingear

5. Canned vegan nutrition (for me)

6. Canine nutrition (for Abby)

7. Can opener

8. Tooth and skin hygiene supplies

9. A lovely survival kit (in case things go sideways).

I wish I had more to say, but my head’s spinning.

May I return with greater clarity and balance.

Magic #9 (isn’t that a song title?) has an affiliate link tucked in there.

I’m On Edge?

Maybe I am.

Sure, being single sucks — but I thought I was fine until last Thursday. I was out in the garden, yanking weeds, whistling Dixie, and a handful of other tunes.

That is, until the honking started.

Relentless.

All coming from Doug’s house.

I pulled off my gardening gloves and headed over.

The moment he saw me, Doug shouted, “Go back home, Mr. Edgy!”

What the hell was he talking about?

I was the one minding my own business.

He was the one sitting in the driver’s seat, blaring his horn at god only knows what.

“You alright, Doug?”

“Am I alright?”

He walked toward me — a momentary break from the honking.

“You’re the one always on edge. Always coming over, complaining about one thing or another.”

“Doug, you’re the one blaring the horn.”

“See what I mean?”

“I was checking on you. Making sure you’re okay.”

“Go home. Doug. Find a hobby. Knitting would be perfect for you.”

I left without a word.

Hopped on Amazon.

Bought this knitting kit.

Two days later, I set up a camping chair on my driveway, adjacent to my car.

Opened the kit and went to town on a winter hat.

Every few minutes, I’d pause from knitting to blare my horn.

Doug, sadly, never came to check on me.

A few other neighbors, however, glanced over with grave concern.

“All’s well!” I called out. “Just working on a new project.”

In between the bundles of yarn — and through these words on the page is an affiliate link.

Dougie Wuggy Road

The man is 82, almost 83, yet acts like a child sometimes. Yes, I’m talking about Doug again. How can I not?

The town board considered renaming the road Dougie Wuggy Road. There are only seven other houses on the block. Why was I the neighbor blessed with receiving Doug’s midnight calls?

His latest? Since returning from his reunion, he’s been complaining about his sheets. They aren’t as comfortable as the ones at the hotel. The sheets at home stick to his leg, producing an uncomfortable insomnia.

“But you’re an insomniac,” I reminded him. “I can show you my phone records.”

“It’s the sheets, I tell you.”

He went on like this for days. Finally, I hopped on Amazon and researched the hell out of the best sheets fit for an insomniac. Found these bed sheets. 100% cotton sateen… luxury… blah blah blah. Expensive, but possibly well worth the cost if I could get my sleep back.

Two days later they arrived. Knocked on his door. Pushed past Doug as if I owned the place.

Ripped the old bed sheets off.

Put on the new ones. So soft. So yummy. So worthwhile testing out, but that would have been odd.

I was one million percent certain this would keep him in bed — if not for eight hours, then twelve.

The first three nights? Not one phone call. I was in the clear…

Until the fourth night. It was 1:15 a.m.

“Got a confession,” he started. “This insomnia has nothing to do with the sheets. At the reunion, I exercised. Walked. We drank tea instead of coffee.”

“So, let me get this right, Doug. You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that at home your habits are shit and I have to suffer because of that?”

He may have hung up. Possibly I hung up. Maybe I fell asleep mid-sentence.

All I know is, the next morning I was sipping coffee, looking out the window…

And there was Doug. Speed walking down the street.

In this excerpt depicting one of the most bizarre humans I’ve ever met is an affiliate link.