Patricia Parkinson




Patricia Parkinson lives in Langley, British Columbia with her husband and two children.

Her work has appeared online and in print in publications such as, Smokelong Quarterly, Ecelectica, NFG, two stories in the great 69'er! Her most recent publication is in the Spring/Summer issue of HissQuarterly.

She has stories forthcoming in, All Things Girl, Chick Flicks and hopes to corner the market on Chick Lit. She dreams of being published in the Canadian publication, Rooms of Ones Own, however, has never subbed there as her fear of rejection coupled with the inordinate amount of time spent waiting to hear back is too much for her to bare.

She is currently working on her first novel which she describes as a Nancy Drew meets Prozac, has great sex and solves crimes mystery. Patricia is committed it finishing the novel by the end of this summer, most likely from a padded cell. She dreams of being interviewed by Oprah and imagines herself on a book tour. Visulization, it's one of her things, and who knows, it could happen!! xo

Her life is her family and writing and this thing called a job that takes up way too much of her time. She's a clean freak and a hoarder of food and water, left over habits from growing up poor, and has been known to write into the wee hours of the morning when sleep deprivation epiphanies occur making her think, "I've got it!" only to discover the next day that perhaps she "didn't get it" after all. In her spare time she can be found gardening, (she loves to dig and plant) talking to her the hedge or playing out field during family ball games in the backyard which her six year old son and nine year old daughter beat her at everytime.

She is very happy and honored to be included in this group of fine writer

Personal Plea to Bloggers




by

Patricia Parkinson

I hate to do this to you, but well, I'm still sick, not as sick, but God, why won't this fucker leave me alone? This virus, this pneumonia.... this cancer!

I always think its cancer. A sore throat turns into strep throat that turns into throat cancer and I picture myself with a hole in my larynx holding one of those machines to it that will make me sound like a serial murderer, and I have a nice voice! I do! It's one of my favourite things about myself. Aching bones become arthritis and osteoporosis and finally, Lou Gehrig’s. God forbid if I get back an irregular pap smear. My current illness has turned into lung cancer.

I am a smoker - a heavy smoker if the truth be known. I perceive I don't smoke a lot because I never smoke the entire cigarette. I get bored after the first few puffs and flick the rest away. I only smoke cigarettes with white filters and have a theory that if all filters were brown, fewer women would smoke. The white ones seem clean, less bad for me and look better in an ashtray.

Anyway, the thing is, this illness is hitting too close to my mortality home and I've decided to quit smoking!! I suppose this is the thing reformed smokers who can be such a pain in the ass, I hope I don't become like that, but, yes, I will, I can see it now… anyway, this sickness has caused the thing that all non-smokers told me would happen, the thing I didn't believe could ever happen and the thing I didn't want to ever happen. I like smoking.

They’ve all told me, "You'll know when the time is right for you to quit." This saying, resisted for 28 years of my life, I've smoked for 28 years! God, I should have written this number down sooner, reminds me of the times I asked, probably the same people, "How will I know when I'm in love?" "You'll just know," they said. "You'll just know.” They were right about that, so, I figure, they must be right about this too. So this Monday, all the books I've read about quitting smoking say to pick a day, and this Monday, November 27, 2006 will be my first official day of not smoking.

My plan is to get those new nicorette fake cigarettes that look like a cigarette but are plastic and have a nicotine cylinder thingie you put in them and you suck it, or, well, I haven't tried it yet. My main concern is that I'll gain a pound and ditch the idea altogether and never try to quit again. I refuse to be one of those people that walk around with this supposedly healthy smile, clearer skin and increased energy spouting,"Oh gee, I may be a fat porker but at least I don't smoke anymore."

My plan to control weight gain is to go off my antidepressants that I take for anxiety, I’m not depressed, I’m not, really. Anxiety is a good weight loss program, that, and laxatives, I'm kidding of course about the last two points, however, I could take less of them as they slow down my metabolisim and I figure, hey, it's all about less!!! And then I think if I take less and already have increased anxiety because I'm trying to quit smoking, maybe I should take more meds and be semi-comatose and sit around all daying eating bags of things that say, “No Trans Fats! You now have insight into the inner workings of my mind, not that you didn't before, but well, I’m freaking about doing this.

I'm telling you all this here, it's making me manic just thinking about posting it... which seems like overkill now, but I wanted to do this, sitting here late to post, because there are a few things I like to think I know about myself. I am habitually late, not too late, but late none the less, my favourite clothes are outerwear. I love coats and robes and shawls and scarfs and ponchos and fishermen’s knit sweaters. I am a whore for the smell of my husband’s after shave and if I tell people I'm going to do something, especially in a public forum such as this, I will be one hundred percent more likely to follow through. I have to quit smokling. I love my kids and it’s not man hater week so Phil is in the good books and besides, I haven’t finished my novel and Barbara Walters isn’t going to live forever, so with that in mind, this is my request to you. Please ask my about this, do not read this and then forget that I'm trying to quit smoking, ride my ass. Okay? Because well, I have to be accountable you see, so wish me luck and pray that my chest x-ray comes back clear.

P.S.

At the time of posting, my first official day has moved to Tuesday.

Sick





by
Patricia Parkinson

I have been sick, very sick, walking pneumonia. The results of my urine tests came back, cold in my kidneys and possible bladder infection too! My inner ear hurts as well as my throat and my back. Still waiting for the results of the blood tests. I know, it's thrilling isn't it? Sickness somehow becomes obsessive.

I have whined about this all week, actually, I'm not much of a whiner, however, I'm sick and those around me don't seem to get it that Mom is sick, that My Wife is sick that The Worker Patricia is sick. I sleep all day. I sleep all night, waking up in painful intervals to attempt to go to the bathroom, constipation is a side effect of my drugs. I've discovered a love of Metamucil, the orange flavor is best, and live in anticipation when it will take effect. Gross I know, but well, when we're babies, our parents talked about our bowels movements, our first bowel movement is most likely recorded in a book with our first wisps of hair and the event of our first birthday or Christmas. When we get older, bowel movements again return as a topic of conversation.

My father in law is a robust 82. When we chat his toilet habits take up most of the conversation that and home remedy advise, prune juice, fiber, and now, well, I should phone him about the Metamucil, actually, I think he recommended it to me.

I am not a good sick person. I am generally in very good health, on the go all the time, ready to do anything, regretting often plans made in advance but these are the times when I end up having a better time than the dreaded, tried and longing to leave time I thought it would be. however, when I crash, I crash big. I was a sickly child, a fake sickly child at times, bored with school. With an imagination beyond book learning, I professionally held the thermometer over the heat register, pressed the mercury to light bulbs for the accurate amount of time that produced the desired temperature for my mother to utter the words, "You're not going to school today!" as if it was some kind of punishment.

I missed weeks; really, I'd miss two weeks of school at a time 4 times a year, one spell for each season. No one questioned it. I was prone to bronchial infections, obviously still am. On the days I faked it, I gloried in the ability to eat Lipton’s Chicken Noodle soup for breakfast, with lots of crackers, they have to be Premium, Salted Tops, lunch and dinner. I read all day and watched some TV - we didn't have cable – or color. I napped and hung out and went through my mother’s things and then there were times when I was really sick. For real sick, not having to hold the thermometer over anything.

I hallucinated about things; about a plane crashing in my bed, my sheets were the fuselage. I was so upset and adamant and crying and flailing about. A plane had crashed and no one was doing anything about it. My mother sat next to me and cried while my family gathered. I hallucinated about my uncle, who came into my room - did he come into my room? I wonder still, not in a bad way. I think he was dead by then, so, maybe he was there. I like to think that. My mother cried. Our doctor came, I’m happy that I’m part of the last generation to receive house calls, and I survived.

I am not delerious this time round, have been having some pretty wild daytime dreams mind you, which leave me a bit disorientated, among other things which involve nudity. Friday, I’m writing this post early, will be the first time I’ve been out of the house since Monday. The thought of showering and doing my hair and actually putting on clothes that may have zippers makes me achy. I am planning on washing my sheets that day and having a bath before I go to bed, soak my aches away, maybe even shave my legs. No. That would involve bending and could lead to a cut, bleeding to death, maybe a clot.

There are no planes crashing in my bed, just me sliding in between cool sheets, warm and clean from the bath, wrapped in my blue robe, also freshly laundered, laying back on fluffed up pillows, the glow of my reading light casting campfire shadows across the walls while I pray that the Metamucil kicks in before I go back to work on Monday.

Brocolli Wockolli



By Patricia Parkinson

Written after talking to a friend on my cell phone while grocery shopping.



Today we talked on the phone while I did my grocery shopping. I felt like you were with me, walking next to me. If we really were together, I think I'd keep bumping into your heels with my cart. I have a feeling you're one to stop in the middle of an aisle when something catches your eye, while I, I am the type of shopper that likes to centralize my buggy between various departments eliminating the need to push it altogether. I like to stroll and pose and touch things and pretend I'm at Saks 5th Ave. or Tiffany's and I'm really not Patricia Parkinson, I'm Audrey Hepburn. This is my grocery shopping style.

The only draw back to this style, are the times, all the time actually, when I forget which department I left the cart in. Panic hits. Did I leave it in the feminine hygene aisle? No, I wouldn't leave it there. At age forty-five, the fear of running into a cute guy while holding a box of kotex pads remains. It could however, be in the meat department. There's something about hanging out with raw meat that's very primal. I poke at my meat. Sometimes I break the plastic wrap and get blood on my finger which brings on panic of the ecoli variety, and yet, there's nothing like mixing hamburger with my bare hands - hamburger and raw eggs - The feeling of the cold meat squishy between my fingers forming it into a meatloaf or rolling it between my palms into balls. It's likely my buggy could be found in the meat section.

On occasion when I lose track of my grocery cart and it's no where to be found and I've drifted off course to the far end of the deli section where dolmades float in extra virgin olive oil and I realise I've drifted far past the allowable time of leaving my cart unattended and now a stock boy is ununpacking what has taken me what seems like forever to find back onto the shelves meaning I have to start shopping all over again. I will have to decide, Corn Pops or Froot Loops? Ragu or Classico? Sweet Basil or Red Wine? Crowns, or Brocolli Wockly? The thought of having to do it all over again is to much for a woman nearing menopause to take.

And then I think when I'm standing there, carrying three jugs of milk with my purse strap threatening to slip past the bone at the end of my shoulder, that I do these things on purpose, I create this panic, and then I think, PP, you lead an awfully boring life where the only excitement you get is the thought of having to re-grocery shop.

I needed to change my shopping style and talking to you today, having to pause and not butt up against your heels, but stop and look at the food, maybe buy a papaya or a bag of lentils. Next week, I'll call from the new Safeway. They have a great deli, fabulous rice salad and a Starbucks, which, well, is odd since everyone knows it's impossible to push a buggy with one hand and drink a coffee with the other unless you have the worlds perfect buggy, of which there are none. So, I have to get my coffee at the end of the trip when I have raw meat and cold cuts which does not fit into the implanted vision of drinking coffee outside at one of those tables with uneven legs, pretending I'm her, Aud, as I prefer to call her, Aud, it fits don't you think?. So, if I call you from this store, I can only buy non parishables, unless, well, bananas would be okay, and I'll sit outside at a table looking over the parking lot while talking to you on the phone, like we're really together, and I'll try to remember where I parked my car.

Buying Time




by



Patricia Parkinson


Time, I want to talk about time, the lack of time, and how we as writers, as workers, as perhaps parents or girlfriends or wives or mothers of our own mothers try to find this time.

As a wife/mother/worker/writer woman (so many "w's") person - interesting how writer came at the end, anyway, time is valuable, time is fleeting, time is something that is always leaving, it abandons us, one can't earn it, yet, I think somehow I can. which is why last Thursday night, the night before my one day off, I was up until two in the morning doing laundry, setting the table and getting dinner ready for the next day, cleaning toilets, all so I could have the next day to myself to write. There could be no excuses. All my chores were done. Nothing stood in the way of accomplishing my goal of lounging in the last of my Indian summer days, God, Indian summers on the west coast of British Columbia are amazing and a secret so don't come!..lolololol … I even wore my bathing suit all day. All day. Were you wearing a bathing suit in your backyard last Friday? And yes, it was the suit. I had found a way to buy time.

It started well. I got the kids to school. Everything was clicking along, I just had to go home, make the last of the beds, tidy up breakfast and the day was mine, but maybe, well, maybe I should put in a small, a very small, load of laundry before I situate myself in a chaise lounge in the backyard beside the pool, yes, we have a pool, (refer to Phil's blog) that way, I could be ahead for Saturday as well! I's so smart, I thought, clever girl, buying all this time for myself to write.

I threw in a load of dark, if I tried harder I could have made a white, and readied myself for the day. I went upstairs, changed, with some difficulty involving spandex and adjustable bathing suit straps, into my suit. I grabbed my computer, threw a couple of things into a bag. I was going outside, I was not coming back.

We have a quarter acre. The pool is at one end of the yard, the house at the other with a lot of green space in between. Call me a spoiled brat, I am an only child, but I hate getting to the pool and having to walk all the way back to the house if I forget something.

I looked at my reclining deck chair and the side table holding all my stuff. my book, one never knows when a reading opportunity may arise, my ashtray and my cigarettes, without, oh my god, a lighter. Back I went to the house.

On my way to get my lighter the phone rang. It was my best girlfriend. We chatted and chatted, laughed and laughed and I managed to find enough dirty clothes to make a white load. "Thank God for cordless phones," my friend and I say to each other. What would we do if we actually had to sit down and talk? Where would we find the time? And then well, I had to put the dark load in the dryer, and would you look at that! The dishwasher was done. "Guess I better empty it," I said, and continue to buy more time for later on before dinner. This thought occured to me while still on the phone watching the clock on my oven tick past. I whirling sensation started in my gut. I have earned this time, I thought. I'm going to take it.

Back out I went, forgotring my lighter again, realized part way to the deck, feeling proud of myself for not forgetting entirely. I went back in. I went back out and sat in my chair - lap top poised and ready to accept my words. I even brought my sunglasses and a hat so I could see the screen better. I am ready, I thought. The stage is set, I'm ready to write. I turned on the computer.

“Critical battery. Hook up to a power source or risk losing your work,” it said.

“Please, no God!" I shrieked. I did.

I stood staring at the thing as if my eyes could somehow send power to the hard drive, which, well, spoiled brat princesses have powers, but electricity is not one of them. I had to get an extension cord. Off I went, this time to the garage.

After unwrapping, untangling, undoing!!! Who the hell wraps these cords? I asked myself, flinging the cords around, becoming increasingly agitated with the process, three cords later, after one that, regardless of how hard I pulled refused to reach the extra six inches I needed, isn’t that the case in most things, six inches??? I found one that stretched from the house wall socket to the computer. Problem solved.

I went back to my chair to find the sun had shifted. If I wanted to remain where I was, I’d have no sun. I looked at my suit, at my fading tan and decided to move my camp to the sunny side of the deck. I need not go into the painful details.

By this time it was past noon, it had taken me over three hours, three hours to accomplish, what? An empty dishwasher, made beds and clean, dry clothes which would eventually lead to the dreaded folding and putting away and I hadn’t written one word.

Back in the chair, feeling somewhat, exhausted, frustrated, I breathed in, breathed out and…well…started again.

My computer hummed and buzzed above my belly, Microsoft word with its blank page, a clean slate waiting for me, for me to embellish it with prose, literature, a story…something, and wouldn’t you know it, I had to pee.

It was closing in on one I was sure, sigh, a very heavy sigh. If I could have a drink, I thought, a cocktail to calm me down and get me into the writing mode! This would to the trick! However, I had to pick up the kids in an hour and a bit and wine breath and carpooling are not a good mix. The cocktail would involve going yet again into the house and there was still the issue of having to pee.

I looked at the house, the long walk back. I looked at the pool.

What would you do??

My decision ended up in the deep end. I dove, it was beautifully executed, my body leapt like a slinky from the edge of the pool, my hands and legs sliced the water with little splash, and I was in, in the water, the chaos and hectic week I had left my body, I felt myself relax, relax, and sigh, a good sigh. I bobbed on my back, did my business, what the hell, I figured, we use lots of chlorine, and quickly swam in the other direction.

In the end, I floated around on my chair. I was too wet to write. Why risk electrocution when I can float? I enjoyed the last part of my Indian summer and realized I can’t buy time, I have to find it, and if I’m lucky, it will find me. xoxoxoxo

This is a picture of our backyard towards the pool. The pool is behind the fence, you have to open a gate, it's a long ways from the kitchen. xoxoxoxo

Home



by Patricia Parkinson

Been home from holidays for three hours. I have to say, I am so happy to be here. Not that we didn't have a great time, we had the best time, the best, the weather was wonderful and when it wasn't we snugged down in the trailer on the fold down table and the fold down couch and watched movies and told stories and went to bed with sand between our toes, and other areas of our bodies I'm sure, and on the sunny days, it was paradise on earth sitting on the edge of the Okanagan Lake in my black and pink bathing suit, building sandcastles, rowing out in the dingy to bird poop island, which later became known as, "The Big Floating Turd," as RV, was the movie of our last two weeks, projected one night on the side of a 40' with three pull outs, the guy had a projecting TV that hooked up to his laptop and we had movie nights, don't ever say that I don't know how to rough it, anyway, okay....lololo...it makes me laugh at myself, that and I found the greatest boutique of alllll boutiques in Westbank, had some alone time one afternoon after a tiff with my hubby sent me off to town in nothing but my suit and a sarong, the hundred square feet held charm for only so long, that and a cell phone call from hell, don't ask, that ended up with me on the buying end in a groovy store that carried a clothing line by the name of "Velvet," I was in consumer and credit card heaven, even went back today it was our last stop of the day as I have made a vow to myself to not leave a place and say, "I wish I did this or I did that," you know, like going to Paris and not seeing the Eiffel Tower, I had to go back to that shop and try on the red sweater I had seen hanging from a maniquin and walked past! GOD! It looks great on me and was stuffed with it's gold bag, (gold bags!) between the now deflated dingy and the roof of the truck. All in all, our holiday was spent looking, looking out, book in hand or computer turned on, I had the best intentions, really I did, but I looked instead at my daughter who went on her first speed boat and taught me, "When you find a penny on the ground tails up, you turn it over and leave it heads up for the next person," it's the best rule in life I've heard since becoming an adult and my son who poured pizza sauce over our sand volcano to simulate lava and told the folks gathered round the campfire that his mother had "diaherra farts," and my husband who flashed me while barbecquing burgers while wearing the most ridiculous red pair of bathing trunks and will understand because he does and won't question the value of the contents of the gold bags, yes, there was more than one, and knows something about star formations that I never knew he knew before.

We went camping and now we're home. I was first in the house as I am every year and stood in the doorway from the laundry room to the kitchen and sort of gasped at the vastness of space and surprise that I actually live in this house. It's our house. Camping on a bigger scale.

Life in a one hundred square foot trailer, okay, maybe it's bigger, narrow, but bigger, with four people, is an experience to treasure, to remember, to endure, the bathroom had lap space only, but in the creases of my tan and in the memories and lessons I will treasure and remember the thing I take away from this vacation is that things don't have to clean and shiny to be perfect, that something doesn't have to be eloquent to be romantic and everything, they, them, he and me too, can be just what we are.

My vow today is to hold tight to this camping feeling.

This is a picture of my family last night at the campfire. If I can ever figure out how to post this picture I will do it..xoxo I promise xoxoxo



Happy Labour Day weekend everyone..xoxoxo Enjoy xoxo

Fantasizer



We are leaving for holidays today. I might already be in vacation land in the sun on the lake in my floating chair drinking a strawberry daquiri.

This year I bought the best, the best bathing suit of all time. It's called The Fantasizer Suit. It is!! It promises to do everything, lift, pad, suck in and adjust my body to the body I fantasize about having without working at it! And you know what? It works. The suit is black on the bottom and the lovliest shade of pink on the top with sheering at the sides and underwire and an empire thingie that makes my breasts look far larger than the double A they really are. (Sorry to disapoint, however, I did breast feed for three years, not consecutively, can you imagine? But,I'd gladly give up two cup sizes for nursing again.)

My children, who have seen me out of the suit, out of everything - my mind included -I have a habit of walking around naked - I clean in the nude, saves on bleach stains on my clothes, I cook in the nude and have been known to do a naked skip to the curb at dark to deposit one last thing into recycling. I have no idea if my neighbors have seen me naked. I do not care.

Anyway, my children, budding nudists themselves, were with me when I bought the suit.

"Boobies. Boobies. Boobies!" my six year old son said,laughing, covering his eyes, sitting on the bench in the change room while the magic of a curtain covering the doorway made his voice silent to all on the other side.

I slipped a leg into the suit and attemped to pull it up. The suit is made of some wonder fabric that sucks onto your skin, not in an unpleasant way, making it next to impossible to get into.

"Help me out here honey," I asked my daughter.

She tugged at the side and I felt my back fat bulging over the top of the scoop back, and then one last tug, and it, really, this happened, my back fat rolled, realigned itself past my sides, and Shazam! I had bigger breasts. It is a fantasy, the foam inserts don't hurt either, but I have to say when I walked out of the change room, I modeled the suit it was that good, and the seventy-two year old sales clerk said, "It's darling," I knew it.

I knew it, standing there in my black socks with my underwear poking out and my hairy legs and hairy, you know, (I bought the suit in March when bikini lines are not an issue) that this would be the suit I'd be wearing while on holidays. Even with my winter white complexion, I knew it would be the suit of the season. I wish I bought four. However, I'm hoping the suit will be my main attire for the duration of the trip. If I had my druthers, I'd go to the beach naked, get up in the morning, sit at the picnic table with my coffee, naked, definetely swim in the lake naked. Maybe I'll do that, the lake part. I'll let you know.

Maybe you're asking what does being naked have to do with writing? Or maybe you're asking yourself, Isn't this post over yet? No! it isn't, and I I'll tell you what being naked has to do with writing, Everything. If your writing isn't naked, you best start stripping down baby, or, you could get yourself a great suit like mine and pretend to be naked. I think I have the last one in existence. I'm a superhero woman really. Naked Woman! Able to suntan without lines, shower without having to change and write without fear of exposing myself. It's the only way.

See ya in eighteen, 18, I like writing the word better, it looks longer, eighteen days...xoxoxoxo