When I was a little girl my mother would tell me, “if you look at yourself in the mirror too long, you’ll turn into a monkey.” That thought flickered across my mind as I stood looking at myself in the full length floor mirror. It is one of those that you would see in a movie. Old timey looking. It has a base and sits in the floor. Adjustable, it can be moved back and forth slightly. I told myself, ‘some day when I get my own house, I’m owning one of them’. And I do.
I fluffed my hair and smoothed out my clothes. Ready for work. Ready to face another day. Chico barked as if to say, ‘you look fine’.
I bent over; patted his head before taking one last look to make sure there wasn’t tissue hanging out of my waist band or tooth paste on my chin.
When I turned to walk away, Chico set it up. You would have thought there was a cat in the room.
Upon turning back to face the mirror. There she was. Um, I was? A mirror copy of me. I moved to the left. She moved. I moved to the right. She moved. I opened my mouth to speak. She did the same. A mirror copy.
When I turned to the side, I noticed her back side was dark. So, she’s not a complete copy? Or was that a shadow?
Chico looked back and forth between the two of us. He was more confused than I was.
She pointed her finger at me. An independent action. I did the same. She reached the pointed finger at me. As our fingers got closer, yellow and orange sparks of light flew from our finger tips. This didn’t hurt it was more of a tingle. A tickling sensation. I drew my finger back sharply. But she didn’t. So I tried again. The closer we got, the more sparks flew. It was like putting to lit sparklers together and watching them burn down.
The tingling sensation remained constant.
When our fingers finally touched, we both disappeared in a flash of light.
I shot straight up in the bed gasping for air. Chico sat beside me at full attention. My finger was still tingling but it wasn’t glowing. I examined it with great care.
What had I ate for dinner? Nothing to cause such a dream.
At work, I’ve been listening to A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME by Stephen Hawkins. On the way home, MAN IN THE MIRROR, by Michael Jackson was playing on the radio. I hummed it most of the afternoon. Think this had anything to do with my anti-self dream? 😉
“But I fail to see how that could stop you. Love is the most powerful emotion I know.”
“Watson.”
“Do not Watson me.”
She stood again, “soon you will know why. You will have the answer to your problem.” She turned to walk away, stopped, and then turned toward me again. “Watson, you will find love. She will be everything that you have been searching for.” She left me sitting on the bench with more questions than answers.
When I returned, she and Mrs. Hudson came into the room packing trays.
“What have the two of you been into?” Mycroft asked.
“Cooking and singing.” Lizzie smiled.
They had made homemade soup and bread.
“That smells amazing.” My stomach growled though my spirits had not lifted.
“Wait until you taste it.” Holmes laughed.
When we sat down, Lizzie smiled. But I noticed that she favored her right side. “Watson, it was funny. You saw no doubt the picture of Holmes when he was a little boy?”
I pointed at Holmes, “By jove, I knew that was you.” I forced a smile.
“Imagine that little boy; sneaking up behind my grandmother, who mind you was a large lady.” Lizzie smiled.
Mycroft pointed out with laughter, “my size.”
“He would reach into that big bowl of dough with his little hand and grab a fist full.”
“Can you wait until the bread it baked?” Mycroft roared with laughter. “And she would chase you around the kitchen.”
Holmes smiled, “but at the end of the baking she always saved me a ball of dough.”
“Yes she did.” Lizzie laughed.
“What was that fruit and nut bread that she used to make?” Mycroft asked.
“If it had a name, I have no idea.”
He patted his belly, “it was so good.”
“Sounds like your grandmother was a wonderful cook,” I stated.
Lizzie smile, “she was a wonderful woman.”
After dessert, which ended up being that amazing fruit and nut bread that Mycroft was so fond of, he and Lizzie went for a walk.
Holmes and I remained behind, “what is on your mind Watson?”
“Nothing,” I shook my head.
“I have known you for a long time. I will not accept that answer.”
I closed my eyes trying to bring order to my mind. There was a knock at the door. A welcome distraction. Mrs. Hudson had a letter. It was from Mrs. Mary Tarter and read as follows:
Dear Lady and Gentleman,
I am writing you to let you know that what the lady suggested was correct. We did what she asked. To our amazement, our son was hiding out in the basement. Our daughter was sneaking him food while my husband and I were out.
He understands why I feel the way I do about him wanting to fight.
I can never thank you enough.
Mrs. Mary Tarter
“And she has signed it.” Holmes took the letter. “She wrote it not.”
Holmes looked at me, “very good.”
“Do you think she can write at all?”
“Perhaps not.” He laid the letter on the table.
“Should we tell Lizzie?” Saying her name made me mad.
“I am sure she knows.”
During the coming weeks she also hired Mr. McFarlane to sell Wiltshire. Because she was his legal wife, she was charged by law to settle Mr. Merryweather’s accounts. She made sure that all of his assets were transferred to his children. Her father’s timber mill she gave to the foreman that had been running it the last twenty years. One piece of property she kept the piece where her grandmother lived and died. I was to learn that it was close to the property where Holmes’ grandparents lived. The other piece of property she gave to Mr. John Paul Riker.
Dreams are amazing. I love what happens to us when we dream. It’s like a mess of images someone tried to put in order for your viewing confusion.
Last night, I was at a fast food restaurant. A burger was in my hand. A man brings every side in the restaurant to me. Lines them up on the counter in front of me. Each time he says, “is this what you ordered?” And I always replied with, “no. I ordered fries.” The last item he presented me with was fried pickles. While I enjoy fried pickles, I ordered fries.
A lady covered in food grime approached me carrying a bag of shoe string fries. I felt a twinge of disappointment, not my favorite but I did order fries.
She says, “you ordered fries?”
“Yes.” Finally someone recognized that I ordered fries.
“It will be 3 am before they are ready and they’re 35 cents each.”
My heart sank, “What?” 😯
Needless to say, I didn’t get any fries. Not even in my dreams.
I was a large baby. If memories serves me correctly, I weighed 10 pounds at birth. Pictures of me show a normal child up until I hit puberty. I’ve never been a normal weight since. The lowest I’ve been in my adult life, I could wear a size 12 jeans. My heaviest, I wore a 22.
When I was at my heaviest, it broke my heart when the chart I was reading said, ‘morbidly obese’. Really? But I go and do. But that’s what the chart said.
Boredom is my biggest weakness. I am a boredom eater.
So today; 9-19-2023, I’m going to give myself one more honest try.
I’ve tried all the diets (within reason). I haven’t taken any medication or drank any shakes to loose weight. My doctor batted around Mounjaro. In all honesty, I’ve always been afraid of weight loss drugs.
Frozen. I freeze all the time. The office I work in is like a meat locker. It’s nothing to see me in long sleeves or wearing a sweater when others are burning into the ground. I talked to my doctor about this. He says some people are just wired that way. They are cold natured.
Any weight loss adventure I go on must stick to my frugal lifestyle. No expensive gym memberships or equipment. Food cost will go up. It has been my experience that the healthier you eat, the more food costs.
I’m at that age where fat sticks to a woman like burs stick to a dogs fur in the fall. This adventure will not be easy.
Using MyFittnessPal to keep a food log. Free app.
I weighed myself this morning. Fully dressed (no shoes).
More water.
More fruit & veggies.
Move more. The goals on my watch are whatever came preloaded.
Write about your most epic baking or cooking fail.
I cut my baking teeth on chocolate chip cookies. Instead of a cup of sugar, I used a cup of salt. 😯 They turned out so pretty on the sheet until you bit into one. 🫣 Not sure how old I was but I think I was younger than 10.
One muggy August afternoon, Inspector Hopkins came calling. He was a sorry sight. His head was hung low with his hat in his hand. Holmes, myself, Lizzie and Mycroft were having tea.
The good inspector took a deep breath.
“Both?” Lizzie spoke from her seat on the window.
Inspector Hopkins looked at her with shock in his eyes. “Both.” He shuffled his hat in his hands, “how did you know?”
“I know my father.”
I looked at Holmes who was looking at Lizzie. He finally made eye contact with me. Somehow he knew what was going on. I could see it.
Over the next couple days, Lizzie busied herself with funeral arrangements. Her father had a will and she employed Mr. McFarlane to settle it.
I had never known Holmes’ to be religious or spiritual. However, it was becoming apparent to me that Lizzie was. Her afore mention of God was no accident. During her stay with us, we had many heated debates about religion. Holmes was about logic, data, and facts; if he could see it, taste it and touch it then and only then it might be real. Myself, though I never went to church, I saw many things on the battlefield that logic could never explain away.
So when at the funeral Holmes played and she sang it brought tears to my eyes. The desire in me was to fall to my knees and weep openly. His playing accompanied with her song was sad yet joyful at the same time. I was not along in my feeling of joyful despair other sobs filled my ears. Inspector Hopkins was beside me, he too was wiping fiercely at his face.
A few days after the funeral, Holmes had been out for some reason. I was sitting on the couch when he returned reading.
“Engrossed?”
“Fascinated.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. “Indeed.”
“Holmes, what do you know of the song that you played at Mr. Parker’s funeral?”
He took a deep breath, “they sang it all the time. Her grandmother loved the song. She had gotten the lyrics from a traveling preacher.” He smiled a sad smile as he looked out the window. “The house always smelt of food. She would be in the kitchen kneading huge piles of dough.” Holmes sniffed the air. There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Come Watson.”
We went down stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, we heard singing. I knew not the song. We snuck into the kitchen to find Lizzie kneading dough and Mrs. Hudson stirring in a pot. Holmes tiptoed behind Lizzie and stole a piece of dough.
Lizzie playfully gasped and giggled, “dough thief. Am I my grandmother now? If so; I need to chase you around the kitchen with a cloth and threaten you within an inch of your life.”
He stared at her for a moment, “something is missing.”
She looked wounded, “from my bread.”
He smiled trailing his finger through the loose flour then wiped it down her nose. “Now you are closer to being your grandmother.”
She laughed and chased him around the kitchen with her cloth. “I hope you mind not, I invited Mycroft over for tea.”
“Not ah-tall.”
The look on his face; I had told Lizzie that I knew Holmes loved her. From the look on his face at this moment, I knew that he adored her.
He had caught her hands, “you boys run along up stairs.” The bell rang, someone was at the door. “Find a way to entertain your brother. I know that might be difficult.”
He whispered something in her ear. She smiled as he kissed the top of her hand. Mrs. Hudson looked at me and smiled.
It was Mycroft at the door. I was lost in thought as we three walked to the parlor. I thought about Irene Adler and how Holmes called her “the woman”. I always thought she was the woman that he judged all women by. Then there was the young Violet Smith. I had hopes for those two. But it was not she that he was attracted to, it was the problem. The thrill of the chase. However, downstairs was a woman that had from all accounts, crushed him. After having met her, I understood why a man would detest the female sex. Though she had no malice in her for her decision to take another path that included him not; the pain was no less the same.
I left the room. As if in a haze, I walked down Bakers Street until I found a bench. My head ah-whirl with images and thoughts. I noticed not that someone had sat down beside me until she hissed.
“Do you need to talk?” Her voice was but a whisper.
“Where do I begin?”
“How about at the beginning?”
“All of my life, I have been searching for love. Holmes often makes off colour remarks when it comes to my knowledge of the fairer sex.” I smiled. “My short marriage to Mary was as I hoped it would be.” I paused, “I miss her.” We sat in silence as I collected my thoughts. “You have told me your reasoning behind why you turned him down. I see it but fail to understand. The way he looked at you in the kitchen, I dream of that. I dream of a love so strong. You two have it and will do nothing with it.”
Her voice was calm when she asked, “what would you suggest I do?”
I was ah-gasp, “get married, start a family, moved to that little cottage in Sussex Downs and live out the rest of your lives in the bliss of love.”
“How do you see that?”
I was stunned. “What?”
“Tell me what you see. How do you see us?”
“You both blissfully happy. The man adores you. I saw it on his face.”
She stood, “I will not do that to him.”
“What give him joy?” I was angry beyond measure. I stood as well.
She sat back down very gently and I followed. “Watson, think with me for a minute, humor me.” I looked at her blankly. She closed her eyes before speaking. “For as long as Sherlock has been in your life; he has never been fond of women. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Tell me why?”
“I have learned that you made the decision not to marry him.”
“Yes, why? From a married woman’s point of view why?”
“Well,” she stammered. “Uh, the big romantic wedding.” With a coo I heard, “the dress. All the love. People are happy that you’re happy. It’s your BIG day.”
“A wedding that costs at least $5,000. Half the gifts are duplicutes of things you already own. In a dress that you starved yourself to fit into since you set the date.”
Sipping sounds, “the honey moon.”
“Singles cruise.”
“Babies!” She shouted. “I love my babies.” Birds flew out of a near by tree.
“Befriend someone with small children. Or better yet, nieces or nephews. Okay, play with them. Shower them with love. And leave when you’re ready.”
“Sex.”
“Vibrator.”
“Psst, come now.” I could just imagine her getting embarrassed. More sipping. “Having that warm body to cuddle with.”
“Get a dog.”
“That need for human affection.”
“Best friend, family, social media.”
“Second income. It’s almost impossible to live off one income.”
“Stop living above your means.”
“Such as?”
“I drive an 11 year old car with cranky down windows. No WiFi at my house. My phone is my computer, planner, camera. You name it there’s an app for that. Get a side hustle.”
“Side hustle? What do you do?
“Clean gutters, build fences, paint, stain. My latest project was, I built a fire pit.”
“Wow! Really? That’s amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“So you own a home?”
“Me and the bank. When I was pre-approved for a mortgage, they pre-approved me for $75,000. I knew I couldn’t afford that. My house cost $45,000. It’s perfect for me and my little dog.”
“Ours was $150,000 and we used it all. Plus.”
“With two children, I can see why.”
She sighed, “maybe.” There was a pause. “I’m a stay at home mom. Ben would be so upset if he couldn’t single-handedly provide for our family.” Sip. Sip. “Someone to do stuff with.”
“I’ll give you that one. Sometimes it’s nice to go out to dinner or the movies. But that doesn’t mean I want to take anyone home with me.”
“Did I mention sex?”
“You did. I can’t wait for society to make it acceptable to procreate in a Petrie dish.”
“You don’t like sex?”
“Overrated. Do what you need to do and let me up.”
“Then you haven’t had good sex.”
“Pointless unless you want to procreate. We waste so much time and energy on sex. Emotions. Someone hurt my little feelings. Blah, blah. Move on.”
“It feels good.”
“So does charity work. Or a good hard days work for that matter. Seeing a job well done. Lot’s of things make you feel good. If we spent as much time worrying about poverty, climate change, or finding cures for our greatest illnesses, we wouldn’t have any thing to worry about.”
“Men have special needs.”
“Blow up doll. And she won’t take half of what he owns when he deflates her.”
“I like having Ben around. He makes me feel safe.”
“Baseball bat, gun, uh huh dog.”
“Gun,” she shuttered. “No. Do you own a gun?”
“Yes. But I don’t have children to worry about either.”
“Now I don’t believe that someone doesn’t turn you on. Who is he? Come on you can tell me. Or she?”
“No on both counts.”
“Then who is your favorite actor. What about that person turns you on?”
“Do you remember Mr. Brown’s history class?”
The tone of her voice dropped, “yes.”
“Remember that poster he had…”
“Yes,” she snapped her fingers as she cut her friend off. “That hunk holding a beach ball shaped like Earth. I always wondered why a history teacher would have that poster when it was more suited for gym class.” She whispered, “do you think Mr. Brown was really gay?”
“Hmmm, don’t know. I don’t know where he got that particular poster from but Atlas had a chiseled jaw. I just wanted to hold his face in my hands.”
“A chiseled jaw line rocks your world?” Her friend was not amused.
“And a smokin’ hot voice.”
“Voice?!” She squeaked.
“Yeah, you know the kind of voice that sells romance novels to women.”
“What about money, status, muscles, car, oooh eyes. Dreamy eyes.”
“Most of all, I want someone to be kind to me. I can buy my own shit.”
“Well, okay. What about the man you were engaged to?”
“The closer we got, we discovered that we really didn’t have anything in common. He wanted a family. I didn’t. He wanted to move to California. I didn’t. He wanted to combine our household income so that I could help carry the burden of his debt. I made more than him at the time. I didn’t. I had my own student debt to pay back. In the 3 years that we dated, he bought 6 different cars. He was a financial mess. I ain’t got time to raise a child. So yeah. Nope.”
“You made more than him. Most men I know get tore up over that.”
“Oh, he loved it.”
“Well.” Sip. Sip.
“How’s your family?”
“My mom’s dead and my dad’s a piece of,” she paused. “Work. We don’t speak.”
“How sad. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s better this way.”
“It just seems so sad to me to go through this life alone.” A shiny red sports car pulled up and blew its horn. She squealed, “Hi honey. This is Ava.”
“Hi.”
Woman one; jumped the patio fence and got into the car, waving as they drove the 1,000 feet to the entrance of the hotel. If she would have looked, there was a little gate not far from my feet. I guess the coffee shop gets lots of customers from the hotel.
I took this moment to look at the woman that got left behind. She simply grinned, “God, let it be 31 more years before I see her again.”
Poetry & More 