I Am the One Who Knocks (And No One is Home)

oh god ali

So, I’m only now getting into Breaking Bad (I know, shut up, I am the one who knocks last apparently), and found this picture, and turned to show it to my much-farther-into-the-show-than-I-am sister.

She smiled, but looked a bit confused, so I said “It’s blue rock candy,” because that’s probably the only confusing part of the picture.

She gave me a look, and, still smiling, said,

“But why does the baby have a goatee?”

She thought the baby was supposed to be a leprechaun.

A leprechaun guys, a Leprechaun.

She says she worries that she’s living inside of a blonde joke sometimes.

To those in the know of my other blog posts, you can find my sister, Lexy, at the link in her name.

Anyone But Rosa

So, I wanted to do a continuation of THIS story I did, where the prompt was to use the sentence “Rossamund was a boy with a girl’s name”… and then I did.

Simple enough, I think.

This is set far into the future, beyond its prequels middle school setting, and I hope you enjoy 🙂

PREVIOUS

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Anyone but Rosa 

“Hey Tuesday!”

He turned, smiling, and accepted the pat on the back as Rudy slid past him to the bus. His rucksack was full to bursting, same as Jackie’s, and he shared a look with Monroe. He and Monroe had packed the suggested amount of clothing for the trip, had packed the weather-specific pieces in the fairly full suitcase the four of them were sharing… and they were likely the only ones who would be able to travel comfortably on their hitch-hike around Scandinavia.

“Ross, why do you still let him call you that? Why do you still go by that nickname?”

He shrugged, and helped the driver get their suitcase into the storage compartment, handing over his backpack and then Monroe’s.

“That’s the thing about nicknames… they tend to stick.” Sadly. Tragically.

He’d gotten used to it.

“Mundy, get in the bus already! I’m not sitting next to tuna breath over here!”

He’d also gotten used to Jackie. She had a unique way of addressing people, in that she never used their actual names.

He did end up sitting next to her on the bus, and so got the honor of listening to her snore for most of the ride.

He sighed, and looked over her head out the window.

He thought it would likely be confusing for any friends they met along the way… because what would they call him? He had so many names to choose from.

His parents called him Rossamund, as that was the name they put on his birth certificate; from that Jackie called him Mundy, and through that nickname his classmates (including Rudy) stated calling him Tuesday, and later in college he was known primarily, as Monroe called him, Ross.

He was a man of many names…

But, Rossamund, Ross, Mundy, or Monday, at least he was consistent in his personality.

Jackie, once she’d moved on from her identity of the Tomboy of the class, had jumped from protest to protest, each cause greater than the last, with the latest being the injustice of feminazi’s trying to say tampons were Anti-Feminist.

She was currently very against feminazi’s giving feminists a bad name.

Rudy had shed his quiet-boy skin from middle school and had reveled in how genetics had favored him, finding sports more challenging and more extreme to throw himself into… it occasionally meant he also found various things to throw himself off of, the higher the better, and this trip was his way of trying to find himself.

He wanted to be able to throw himself entirely into his occupation, and to do that he had to settle on one thing.

He could only hope that finding himself didn’t turn into Rudy getting the rest of them lost.

He wasn’t terribly worried though, as Monroe had everything in their trip planned out, maps and back up maps on hand and in backpack and in pocket…

From what he’d gleaned, Monroe had been a bit of a bully as a child—a fact, he supposed, that would likely explain why he was so sensitive to his various nicknames. Now he was the very definition of a gentle giant, but once upon a time he’d likely have been one of the boys to make fun of him for having a girl’s name.

He’d met Monroe in college, sharing a room and then an apartment with each other… Monroe didn’t understand how he could introduce himself as Rossamund, offer the option to call him Ross, and be entirely fine with a manic girl crashing into their dorm calling him Mundy, and another guy shouting out for him, for ‘Tuesday’, across campus.

“Look, if they’re bothering you,” he’d once started, concerned and protective and likely thinking back to his own days of bullying, but he’d waved him off.

“I have a strange name, for a boy, and there are worse things to be called.”

He always remembered that. There were worse things to be called.

When signing things, he always signed his full name. He signed Rossamund, because at the root of it, that was who he was.He didn’t think he’d changed all that much

Ross was from Rosaamund.

Mundy was from Rossamund.

And, strange as it was, Tuesday was from Rossamund as well.

Okay, it was from Rossamund after taking a side trip through the mind of a dozen thirteen year olds, but the origin was there all the same.

Now, he looked out at the passing landscape, down to the blur of faces alongside the road, and wondered what other nicknames he would get here.

He was looking forward to it, actually, what different people with different languages would do with his name… because as ‘bad’ as any of them could end up being, there was always something worse.

Because Rossamund could be Ross, or Mundy, or even Tuesday, but he would never, ever again allow himself to be Rosa.

…_-~-~-~-~-~-~-_…

So, hope you enjoyed that, and look forward to more fiction 🙂

I’m looking forward to the next prompt 🙂

Looked a bit like I had a Boner…

So, one thing that I’ve noticed bout when Lexy goes on Walks, is that she usually carries a bag with her. One to sling over her shoulder and hold onto a water botle, a fold-up dish, and the poop bags.

The other day when I went for a walk with Gwynn, I decided that it was hot, yes, but we were only going out for a half-hour for now, and another short walk later, so I decided to forgo grabbing a bag and just shove the bags in my pocket.

A few streets from my house, I looked down and noticed that the tube of bags I’d shoved into the pocket of my shorts was looking a bit odd.

A bit like I had a boner…

I’m sure no one thought that I, in my girly short shorts and floral shirt, was a man showing off my junk, but still, in the same way penis jokes have amused me when I was in middle school, I was still amused at the thought.

Makes me wonder if other people would have connected the bulge by my crotch was a roll of poop bags (lavender scented, even) and what else they could have thought it was.

Just thoughts.

Sisters, Not Twins Though…

This past Easter Weekend my family came to Ottawa.

This was nice, as it meant that I wouldn’t have to make the treacherous journey myself to Toronto.

There was a great deal of walking (not as much as one would think though), we went to the Museum of Civilization (GO THERE! Especially if you have kids. Not specifically kid-oriented, but a lot of things for them to touch, look at, all that stuff), ordered too much food on more than one occasion, and, among other things, they helped me start packing up.

Some may be reading this, checking the date, wondering why I am packing up now rather than later, closer to when the actual school term ends, and I’m going to have to say it’s because there’ll be less crap to pack up at the end of the year this way.

Three bins of stuff, a couple of boxes, a shelving unit that they brought down part way through the school year, and some other things, and my room is much sparser, but likely will be much easier to pack up in May.

See? I’m not just crazy here.

The packing was done on Sunday, with much cleaning and failed organization on my part (and cleaning on the family’s part, I admit), and at one point, nearing the end of the moving-stuff-to-car phase, Mom and I were in my room, and Lexy was in the kitchen…

I heard the Yeti, my only female roommate come in and say “Hi!” to Lexy.

In my mind, this was a normal thing. The Yeti is being friendly. Ok.

I walked out of my room and into the kitchen, and said Hi myself.

“WHOA!”

The Yeti had apparently thought that my sister was me. I at first thought that her startled yell was over the bins in the kitchen… but no. It was the startlement of saying Hi to someone, getting a response, and then having the person you thought you just said Hi to come into the room. And say Hi back again.

I still giggle over it… I think I take too much pleasure in people mistaking me for Lexy and Lexy for me, and us for twins…

we really aren’t.

There is more than a one year gap between Lexy’s and my own age. More than 3, in fact.

So it’s funny that I look that old, and Lexy looks that young, and we look that much like each other despite such a gap…

And we sound pretty much the same as well.

I mentioned that I probably take too much pleasure in us being mistaken for each other?

That extends to the phone.

So it is totally understandable that the Yeti thought my sister was me, and despite me having some colour in my hair, and Lexy’s hair being shorter than my own…

To show, here are two pictures of My sister and I side by side

Lexy: Left & Me: Right

This is over last summer, taken at Grundy Park (where I worked).

Me: Left & Lexy: Right

This is a slightly more recent picture, before I got colour in my hair.

So yeah, entirely understandable…

But still makes me giggle.

Another highlight of this weekend was Blueberry pie.

We had some…

and I have the leftovers 😀

Pie is delicious.

Hope you all had a wonderful Easter!

Confessing my Skating Guilt….

So, this past weekend I went with a couple of my friends down to the canal to go skating. It was fun, and brought back memories even as I saw huge changes to what I remember.

We went at night, so there was skating snow everywhere on the ice, and it reminded me fondly of when my parents used to get REALLY angry and concerned for me when I was a child.

See, I had the habit of deciding to sit down and play with the snow. During the busy day-time hours, in the middle of the canal.

I don’t remember this being because I was tired or anything, just that I wanted to try making a snowman or something. Sometimes a snow angel.

Nevermind the blades of horrible child-death that were whooshing around my tiny form.

I was a kid. I was brought there by my parents.

No harm could come to me.

I was invincible. No harm could come from sitting in the middle of this.

The area’s I remember for having booths for hot chocolate and beavertails still had those odd little buildings on the ice, but they now have this even larger building thing for changing into skates and whatnot. They also had a building to rent skates, knee pads and whatever else you may need as a tourist.

When I was little I think I asked just about every year how the buildings managed to stay there when the ice melted.

I had never been there during the not-frozen-over years, and thought that the buildings were maybe stuck to the side of the canal.

Or maybe the canal was frozen over all the time.

Or maybe the buildings had huuuuge basement parts that went down to the bottom of the canal, so that the buildings weren’t floating on the canal, they were sicking out of it.

I don’t think I ever believed my parents when they said that they brought the buildings onto the ice, they didn’t stay there year-round.

Now, of course, I know that they use some sort of Ottawarrian ice magic to put the buildings on the ice as soon as they have forced the ice to be thick enough to support them.

But when I went with my friends, it was about 8:30pm or so, and so significantly less busy.

It was darker than this, but about as busy

Meghan, a native Ottawarrior, I thought she would be closer to my level skating-wize, as she had the opportunity to go skating on the canal every day should she want to. It didn’t matter that she’s from Kanata. Turns out that she’s more of a rusty skater than anything, and I”m fine with that. A lot of my friends are at this stage in Toronto, and so I’m used to skating around them and working with their pace to do huge loops around them to be able to go as quickly as I want, get as much exercise as I want, and still be able to keep up a conversation.

Eleanor, I admit that until this past winter break I thought she would be at the same level as Meghan is actually at. This past winter break she got a job to teach children how to skate. When we went skating, I saw that she doesn’t look as comfortable skating as I thought she would, but she’s good at skating. She definitely doesn’t look as comfortable skating as I do.

I’m going to pause on that here, and mention for the sake of people who don’t know me that I have been playing hockey since I was 5. Lets round that up to 6 though, because I was signed up for playing hockey when I didn’t know how to skate.

Then, up until I was about 10 or 11 I did skating lessons, and Hockey Skills classes where they taught me how to skate better than all the other kids my age group, and do it while having a stick in my hand and doing my best to carry a puck, aim, keep it away from all the boys in the class (I was pretty much the only girl, but that was no difference to the fact that I was on a boys team), and NOT fall down.

I still fell down a lot, but I had Hockey equipment on.

My mom, confidence boosting as she is, has mentioned numerous times that she can’t believe how ‘graceful’ on the ice I am. I’m fine with that. I take it to mean that she can’t believe how awesome on the ice I am.

I’m not being overconfident. I know that there are people out there who are better at skating, who are better at playing hockey than me. Hell, I still have problems raising the puck when playing (shooting the puck so that it lifts off the ice).

But it’s not arrogance to say that I’m a more than decent player, or more than decent at skating.

Meghan can skate. Eleanor is a decent skater.

Melissa, the other friend who was with us when skating, is not a good skater.

She does that shuffle down the ice, looking stiff and uncomfortable as she stares at the toes of her skates and hopes she doesn’t fall down.

I really don’t like skating with her.

I really like her, she’s a great friend, has a great sense of humour, and I feel really bad about thinking this, but I really don’t ever want to go skating with her.

Again, I mean.

I’m a horrible person.

She hasn’t gone skating for like 3 years, and after skating with her for 30 minutes I’m thinking she sucks and I don’t want to skate with her.

I’m thinking that she needs to get a chair to help her skate.

I’m thinking that I really don’t want to ever go skating with her again.

I suck.

GUILT!

I feel like I wouldn’t have thought these things if she hadn’t been as bad a skater as she was, and made it seem like we should have at least one of us skating right next to her.

I feel like she wasn’t having fun at all either.

I also feel like if I hadn’t been as enthusiastic about skating as I was, she would have felt better about saying that she didn’t want to skate anymore.

I SUCK!

What kind of friend thinks this stuff up and then posts it on a blog???

I just needed to mention it to SOMEONE, and I didn’t want to mention it to a friend 😦

I love skating, but I don’t like skating alone if I can help it…

BAH!

Now the internet can see my guilt, and point its gigantic finger at my shame. I feel a bit better after three days, but still…