Turn Your World Upside Down

Appreciating Another’s Perspective is a challenge, but the key to bringing us closer. Like the moon from opposite hemispheres…

Nothing But Dave

Breaking Up Ruins My Playlist “I’ve noticed,” he said as he took a seat at my desk, “that although Spotify has a wide range of music styles and artists, you only listen to Dave Matthews Band. I would expect you to have broader taste than just Dave.” With resentment at the intrusion while I was writing, and having to pause Grey Street, I clicked the button on my keyboard to allow my limited attention to fall upon the visitor. His green eyes followed me as I turned from my desk to face him. He was wearing the thick wool white sweater I loved. After a weak moment when I disclosed my preference, he’d worn it three times since. “Nice sweater,” I said. “I like it. So do you. We’re still good for dinner tonight?” He rubbed his hands on his knees. “Of course.” I crossed my legs, revealing my leather boots. He stared at them. “I’m thinking lakeside,” I suggested. “Agreed. The sunset should be amazing.” He tapped his feet. “But back to my question.” “Why only Dave?” I asked, reiterating. “Yup. In all these months, that’s all you ever play.” I stared at the ceiling, locating the dust web that plagued me. I needed to dust. I said, “I have eclectic musical taste. Pretty much love everything. But Dave Matthews is all I have left.” He frowned. “All you have left? How so?” I offered a sheepish smile. It was all I had at the moment. “Because each time I break with a man, I can’t listen to his favorite music anymore.” His frown deepened. “Leaving you only Dave Matthews?” “That is correct.” He tilted his head. “That’s a lot of guys.” “Depends on who’s counting,” I said. I turned in my chair to face him. His five-o’clock-shadow was distracting. I said, “I love the theatre.” “I’m sorry,” he said, offering a chuckle and a wide smile. “Anyway. I love it. Wicked. Les Mis. Rent, especially. I’ve seen Rent seven times. But then I dated a performer for quite a while. He’s married now to some lady who likes to crochet. But listening to any Broadway show bothers me. He liked Elvis, too. All taken when we broke up.” “The Broadway crap, no biggie. But Elvis? That’s a crime,” he said. “I know. Nothing I can do. I hear Elvis and Mark’s face comes into my mind and I can’t shake it.” I closed my eyes, trying to wipe any residue away from my thoughts. When I opened them, he was still staring at me. “I’ve upset you.” “Not at all. I understand completely.” He leaned back in the chair and stretched. Then sat up with a start, and said, “You can’t be a true Gen X without some grunge. Pearl Jam. STP. Tool?” “Nope. Not anymore. A Chris Cornell devotee broke my heart. I can’t listen to grunge without crying.” “That’s sad.” “I guess.” I shrugged. “It is what it is.” “You’re protecting your heart. Explains why you refused my advances for these many months,” he said. “Two months.” “An eon,” he said. I laughed. He had pursued me for several weeks. Asked about my interests. If I was single. If I liked Italian food. I asked, “Your point?” “There must be some corner of the music world that doesn’t trigger you into increasing Kleenex’s stock. What about jazz?” he asked. “Don’t even get me started. I divorced a jazz trumpet player. Now anything jazz related is painful. He also took drum corps. And Chicago.” “Bastard. How about 80s crap? You know, George Michael?” He flipped his hand up and waved. I smiled. “Love George. Don’t pick on him. He’s a love. But now I can’t. High school and so many no-shows at school dances it can’t be counted.” I shrugged. He frowned. “That I can’t believe.” “Yet, it’s true.” I reached for my coffee to avoid his stare. He continued, relentless. “Rap? Club? Dance? I bet those are a big no with you.” I nodded and said, “You’d be right there. I don’t have the palate for those.” He paused, and his brow furrowed. He tapped his knee with an elongated finger. He asked, “Disco?” “Nope. His name was Joe. Big Earth, Wind, and Fire fan. Which sort of covers the genre,” I replied. “True. But the seventies had other choices. Country rock?” “Ugh. Lost the Doobies and Alman Brothers with a guy named Jim.” “Glam rock?” “Lost that, too. That paramour was a Bowie freak.” “That’s a damn shame.” He shook his head and pouted. “You’re telling me.” I mirrored his pout. “Irish jigs?” he asked, a chuckle caught in his throat. “His name was Dave.” “Seriously?” he asked with his green eyes popping from his lids. “No shit,” I said, reminiscing for a moment. “Fun times.” He looked at the ceiling. “Did you see the dust thingy up there?” I nodded. “I have.” He stood, extended his arm, and considered jumping. Lowering his arm, he disappeared for a minute and returned with the broom, which he used to swipe away the web. As he returned to the kitchen, he called out, “Alternative? Yes, Rush, Pink Floyd?” “Another Jim took those.” I blurted my response. Why stop now? He returned from the kitchen and said, “Glad my name isn’t Jim.” “Me, too.” He asked, “Classical?” “Dated, seriously, a pianist. No more Mozart or Beethoven or any of that for me.” “How about Blues?” he asked. “Nope. My first meaningful relationship, all he played was blues. Especially B. B. King. And some Johnny Cash. Can’t do it.” He frowned and again tapped his knee with his finger. “Opera. Can’t be anyone — really?” “Yup. He was older. Distinguished. Drove a Porsche. Broke my heart when I refused to live in the apartment he offered me. ‘Nuff said there.” “Wow.” He shook his head. “That’s probably quite a story.” “It is,” I said. “You going to tell me?” he asked. “Probably,” I admitted. He gazed at my boots. Then shook his head and raised his

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Peculiar Puppy Parents and Patty

Photo by Faith McDonald on Unsplash “I never had trouble with names. You spend some time with them until you get to know them. Get to know what she’s like. Princess here? She was just so expectant to be waited upon.” Belinda cuddled her teacup poodle against her neck. “I had to name you Princess, didn’t I, sweetheart?” The dog wriggled out of Belinda’s arms and returned to the glass dish that served as her food bowl. Patty stretched over her nine month pregnant belly to pet the dog’s pink bow-covered head. The creature growled. Patty withdrew her hand and took a moment to catch her breath. Breathing was becoming her second toughest challenge. Her third challenge was to have enough energy to get out of the house to visit with friends. In six years, she had never missed Belinda’s barbeque. Not wanting to be one of those pregnant ladies, she had to get up and go. She forced herself to dress in the most flattering maternity bag-dress she had. The fifteen minutes to squeeze her swollen feet into her Keds took her last moments from any attempt at applying makeup. Her hair, brittle since the fifth month of her pregnancy, remained in a ponytail. She asked, “So I have to wait until my baby is… a teenager to name him?” “Well, you can always change his name. Like if he is very brave, you can go with maybe Danger, or Risk. Great names.” Belinda poured herself another cup of coffee. Patty could not take her eyes from the crystal-brown liquid. She hadn’t had caffeine in weeks. She couldn’t. One cup at six in the morning on Monday meant no sleep until Wednesday. She said, “I think we have to complete the birth information before I can leave the birth center.“ Belinda scoffed. “Are you sure? It would be a shame to name him Burbank or something inane when he’s really a Zippy.” “Yes, that would be a shame.” Patty rubbed her wet finger across the rim of her glass, anticipating the high-pitched whistle. Yet her finger only slid around and left drips of virgin pineapple daiquiri down the side of her glass. She pressed her lips together. “And you have had your three dogs for how long?” “Well, let’s see. Princess is thirteen. I don’t know how many knee surgeries I’ve paid for her. Just keep gluing her together. You’ll see after you have that little one. You’ll do anything to keep them alive. She almost died six times during the last surgery. And the vet comes out of the theatre and says, she’s not going to make it. And I told him, that’s my baby, you asshat. You do whatever it takes! You’ll see.” Belinda added rum to her coffee as Patty tried to recall the last time she had alcohol. Belinda said, “Skeeter is three now. I got him from the adoption place on Greco Street. You know? The one with the dog bone sign? No. Well, that’s the place. I didn’t know about it when I adopted Quest. He’s eight years old now, the cutey! Look at him sleeping! I guess you can hear him! That signature French Bulldog snore! It doesn’t bother me. I think it’s adorable. But I always recommend the place on Greco now.” Patty struggled to find anything to say. She had never adopted a pet and feigned interest with polite nods and a tight smile. All she thought about was the life inside her. This would be her first child. She and Glen had been trying for two years. She never considered knee surgeries. What could she say? That she was happily married? That she didn’t need a pet. She felt guilty that she had Glen at home. “It must be hard raising them all alone,” she offered. “Ah, the world of a single mother… Luckily you have that baby daddy of yours.” “My husband,” Patty said. She craned her neck to look out the sliding doors to see Glen on the patio. He was chatting about last night’s baseball game. She wanted to go to him, but was afraid if she stood, she would pee herself. Again. Her biggest challenge. She willed Glen to come rescue her. Belinda swallowed her sip of coffee and said, “Right. The male who put sperm in you. He seems like he’ll stay around. He isn’t even looking at Theresa. They all do. But he’s not. And I can clearly see her nipples through that shift she’s barely wearing.” From the living room, Deirdre called out, “Does Glen hit you? They all do.” “No…” Patty said. Do they all do that? Glen was a sweetheart. “Well, he will,” Deirdre said as she took the seat next to Belinda. “That’s their nature. Men. Ugh. I have no use for ‘em. You have your pet now. Just skip town.” Patty frowned. She was tired. She had to pee. Then Deirdre’s words sunk in. She said, “My baby is not a pet.” “Will you feed it?” Belinda asked. “Of course.” “Give it a place to sleep?” Belinda asked. “I don’t understand.” Patty took a sip of her daiquiri. It was too warm. Urine snuck out. She was thankful Glen had stocked up on her Depends. Belinda laughed. “Of course you understand. You’ll buy it little sweaters?” Patty agreed. Sort of. “He’ll have clothing.“ “And toys? Lots of toys?” Deirdre jumped in with her own questions. Patty thought the question ludicrous. “We already got him stuffed animals. And this beautiful mobile for his crib. With planes and birds. It plays Wonderful World.“ “Lots of squeaky toys is my advice,” Belinda said. She pursed her lips together. “They all love those.” “And you’ll train him?” Deirdre asked. “I sent both my rotties for training. It’s imperative. You don’t want your little bastard biting people.” “Imperative? Like school?” Patty asked. “They have trainers for humans?” Deirdre asked. “School.” Patty had, in the past, wondered why Deirdre never married. And why