My next letter to Santa is going to read "Dear Santa, Thank you so much for granting my wishes. With waffles and chocolate abounding, I'd like to give you a gift in return. Please accept ten pounds on my behalf, available at your earliest possible convenience. With love, Fat Me."
Alright, I know what you will say. I have friends both thinner and wider than myself and their weight does not affect my love and appreciation for them. I know this is true in reverse, that my friends will not think less of me for being a chocolate waffle pig whose fly doesn't quite reach the button. If my opinion of me is affected, however, I should hope that they understand that it may not be a case that requires sympathy, flowers, or a good talking to.
In light of the coming new year and all those dreadful resolutions we bandy about like paper swords, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on why my almost-but-not-quite single digit pant size should vex me so greatly, if indeed it vexes me at all. There are days when I rather like myself.
First, a story: Once there was an almost normal little girl with two sisters older, one younger, and an increasing number of little brothers as the years rolled by. Mother was pregnant, Father worked long hours, and home was a crowded place where beds and toys met from one wall to the next. Sometimes the girl enjoyed playing with her sisters and dressing up her brothers as more sisters, but more often than not, the siblings did not get along.
Mother was too tired to stop the fighting, Father was too busy by day's end to be diplomatic, and like the old woman who lived in the shoe (not the gentle version of the story) the naughty children were whipped soundly and sent to bed. For many reasons that could possibly fill the pages of a psychology text, the fighting between the children only worsened over time. Now, either because her bone structure was larger than that of her sisters' or because she grew faster than they (or both), the almost normal girl was constantly teased for her physical appearance. Her name rhymed with belly and she was called fat.
It did not matter that the girl was not fat, or that doctors (in the rare occasion she would see one) thought she was oh-so-petite. Every day she looked at her twig-thin sisters and listened to their horrid teasing and knew that Mother's words of comfort and assurance were spoken because that was what mothers were supposed to do. Father, on the other hand, wished that his third daughter had been born a boy, and even said as much to her. Sometimes when she was alone, she cried for no reason. When she looked in the mirror, she was sad.
Looking at such a tale, one can see a recipe for disaster in the making. Throw in a little family tragedy with her coming adolescence, the cruelty of the world and her inescapable poverty and ... well, you get the picture. Not pretty.
Much of who we are is determined by our upbringing. The proverb says that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he(she) is old he(she) will not turn from it. But we also know that as beings of free will, we sometimes veer from the path on which our parents set us. Considering the number of poorly trained children in each state alone, we should definitely be thankful for that ability to choose.
Events of my childhood affect the way I view myself, but that alone cannot ruin the rest of my life or rob me of happiness. Time and education, friends and a loving husband have helped me to alter my erroneous childhood notions of self worth. So why do I persist in dieting? I could just say I dislike the wobbling lower regions of my person, but let's dig deeper, shall we? I have a tendency toward depression, something (I believe) is as genetic as height and hair color, and equally part of who I am. I might dye my hair, or put on heels, but such superficial things won't change my inner makeup. I can be very pretty and still be depressed.
Consider: two people start smoking at the age of thirteen. Ten years later, with a pack a day habit, they each decide they want to quit. The first succeeds, cold turkey. The second tries and fails, tries and fails, dozens of times over before finally giving up and smoking the rest of his short life and dying from lung cancer. The same could be illustrated if both smokers did not try to quit, but one died of cancer at the age of 38 while the other lived to be 65. Why would one smoker die young and the other not, if they both smoked an equal number of cigarettes daily and lived, otherwise, healthy lifestyles? Why can one person quit cold turkey while another struggles and struggles, never to conquer?
The answer is genetic. I may well be one of those that could never kick the smoking habit, or I may be pre-wired to alcoholism. Since I neither smoke nor drink, I'll never know, but that's not the point. The point is, we all have some weakness, be it physical, or psychological, something as obvious as a missing hand, or as hidden as a tortured past. We have pain in our lives, so what are we going to do about it? I could take medication to manage my depression, they've got a drug for all occasions these days, but I don't believe it is necessary. In no way am I advocating against prescription drugs, there are those that do need medical assistance, therapy, or a doctor's care. I manage alright with diet, exercise, and spiritual assistance (prayer and church attendance).
My methods of personal management might not work for everyone, but for me, the material point is that I am doing something to help myself, working (notice the active verb) to improve, achieve, and maintain a level of happiness, or at the very least, sanity in my life. The smoker that tries to quit is better off than the one that does not. If he should still die of cancer, at least he died trying to live.
Back to me and the millions of people who might resolve this January to get fit and eat right, try not to make assumptions that your skinny neighbor has no reason to want to take off a few pounds, or that the round one should. Good health is always a good idea and can start with walking down the street each day or trading a healthy snack for an unhealthy one, quitting a bad habit or cultivating a good one. The act of reaching for a goal (make it reasonable) brings happiness, and we, the imperfect inhabitants of Earth, should all strive to improve.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Official Rambling Disclaimer
I find that it is requisite, on occasion, that I should tell people my views, officially, lest there be any confusion. Despite anything that I have said or will say prior to or following today's blog, I would very simply like to state that I love my family. Yes, that includes the kids. There are ten days left to the Christmas.. strike that... holiday break and I intend to survive them all. Breathe.
This is the best Christmas ever! I am totally stoked! And I will repent of any and all lies right after the typing is finished. Not that I've told any. Yet. Or can you tell? Is my nose growing?
On with it... I am not selfless. No matter what anybody else might say, my worlds within worlds revolve around yours truly. There are times when I think of others, friends, sickly younglings, fuzzy kittens (they count) but mostly I'm in it for myself. I make dinner 'cause I'm hungry. I wash clothes because somebody (no names, please) reeks to high heaven and needs access to freshness. When I clean a room, you can bet that it's because I wanted to remember what the floor looked like.
Yes, I'm insidiously selfish and deserve no praise. My fingernails are long from laying about doing nothing day after day. I won't wash the dog. I lack sympathy for whiners and execute punishment, very often, without sufficient proof of crime. But only if I feel like it.
The laundry is awaiting my selfish desire to find a particular article of clothing. The dishes wait for my needing a clean cup. It's all good.
Glad I got it off my chest. Now everyone knows. I've neglected my blog for lack of brain activity, but my friends will understand. That is, unless they are like me. But here's the post, horrible in its brevity, lacking in direction, and pitifully void of proper humor.
But that's it. I feel better. Don't you?
This is the best Christmas ever! I am totally stoked! And I will repent of any and all lies right after the typing is finished. Not that I've told any. Yet. Or can you tell? Is my nose growing?
On with it... I am not selfless. No matter what anybody else might say, my worlds within worlds revolve around yours truly. There are times when I think of others, friends, sickly younglings, fuzzy kittens (they count) but mostly I'm in it for myself. I make dinner 'cause I'm hungry. I wash clothes because somebody (no names, please) reeks to high heaven and needs access to freshness. When I clean a room, you can bet that it's because I wanted to remember what the floor looked like.
Yes, I'm insidiously selfish and deserve no praise. My fingernails are long from laying about doing nothing day after day. I won't wash the dog. I lack sympathy for whiners and execute punishment, very often, without sufficient proof of crime. But only if I feel like it.
The laundry is awaiting my selfish desire to find a particular article of clothing. The dishes wait for my needing a clean cup. It's all good.
Glad I got it off my chest. Now everyone knows. I've neglected my blog for lack of brain activity, but my friends will understand. That is, unless they are like me. But here's the post, horrible in its brevity, lacking in direction, and pitifully void of proper humor.
But that's it. I feel better. Don't you?
Monday, December 14, 2009
MISSION (IM)POSSIBLE
Meet the Putman children: the two girls (ages 15 and 9) are fairly self-motivated and will do almost anything you ask. The four boys, a rowdy and quarrelsome lot ranging in age from 14-2, will do almost nothing without the threat of death hanging over them, and even then it's a toss-up.
Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to transport all six children, clean and comely, across the county (a 25-30 minute drive) to church services without killing anyone and maintaining a spirit of love.
Your team: God will be with you, other than that, you're on your own, sucker.
The day begins at dawn. Grab a shower before the hot water runs out. It is an unwritten rule that any preparations supposed to be done on Saturday, will still need doing on Sunday morning. Dress in casual clothing until after meals, otherwise they will be spoiled. Feed the little ones (already up and running in circles) and try to remember that Sunday is the perfect time for family togetherness and big breakfasts, waffles, pancakes, eggs and sausages. You can watch them eat it while sucking down a diet shake.
After breakfast, corner the first stray child you find and order them to bathe. Wash dishes before the teetering pile of syrupy, eggy plates and cups ends up across the floor. Grab the next wandering child and order them to bathe. Hunt down the baby and change his diaper, it's probably leaking down his legs by now, and he'll still insist it doesn't need changing. When you've finished wrestling with the obstinate one, stripped him down and cleaned him off, carry him kicking and screaming up the stairs to take a bath (it will be empty because nobody has actually obeyed your order. Yet.)
The bathroom will be a disgusting mess. Exercise all your powers of restraint and do NOT clean it. The only exception to this rule is if the air is completely unbreathable, only then may a preliminary cleaning be done. Baby will cry and complain until it is time to get out. By then, he will be happy and splashing and never want to leave. If, during the course of littlest child's bath, a dirty six-year-old happens by, accost him at once. Repeat washing.
Once the actual washing is finished, settle down with a good book and wait for the water to turn cold. However, if time is running short, more wrestling will be required. Take care, they're slippery, have towels handy. They will shiver and complain for 1.3 minutes before throwing off the towels and running naked through the house. Catch them if you can.
Fast forward... the four youngest are washed and dressed and ready to go. Time to wake the teens. Be sure to do this at least one (1) hour prior to departure time as it will take that long for them to ready themselves. Prepare snacks, toys, blankets, and other necessary church items. Locate matching shoes for each set of feet. Don't forget to dress yourself, shaving is not required (that's why God gave us long skirts) and make-up is only necessary if you don't want everyone at church inquiring after your state of mind.
Fifteen minutes before actual departure time, tell everyone it is time to leave. It will take at least fifteen minutes for them all to 1) believe you really mean it, 2) find the coats and shoes you've laid out for them, and 3) shove as much contraband into their mouths and pockets as possible before that long, LONG drive. Outside, since you've forgotten to warm up the car, you will either freeze for an additional ten minutes or discover that a window was left open all night while a thunderstorm rolled through (or both). The ultra-hated demon dog, who happens to fear thunderstorms above all else, will have leapt in through the open window to sleep in the comfort and security of your (now wet and doggy-smelling) car. Try not to kill the dog.
Strap all little people into appropriate, cumbersome seats, sandwiched between towels and blankets. You're almost there. Two minutes down the road, somebody is touching so-and-so. "Please stop touching your brother/sister." Repeat every two minutes. Halfway there, little Houdini has escaped his car-seat; the entire back seat is in an uproar; at least three of the six are fighting over the one Game-boy DS while poking/prodding/teasing whoever is seated next to them, and the oldest teen is fiddling with the volume control on the radio while simultaneously listening to whatever is playing on her i-pod.
Just remember that these tribulations shall be but a moment, and with God, all things are possible. Grit your teeth and keep driving.
Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to transport all six children, clean and comely, across the county (a 25-30 minute drive) to church services without killing anyone and maintaining a spirit of love.
Your team: God will be with you, other than that, you're on your own, sucker.
The day begins at dawn. Grab a shower before the hot water runs out. It is an unwritten rule that any preparations supposed to be done on Saturday, will still need doing on Sunday morning. Dress in casual clothing until after meals, otherwise they will be spoiled. Feed the little ones (already up and running in circles) and try to remember that Sunday is the perfect time for family togetherness and big breakfasts, waffles, pancakes, eggs and sausages. You can watch them eat it while sucking down a diet shake.
After breakfast, corner the first stray child you find and order them to bathe. Wash dishes before the teetering pile of syrupy, eggy plates and cups ends up across the floor. Grab the next wandering child and order them to bathe. Hunt down the baby and change his diaper, it's probably leaking down his legs by now, and he'll still insist it doesn't need changing. When you've finished wrestling with the obstinate one, stripped him down and cleaned him off, carry him kicking and screaming up the stairs to take a bath (it will be empty because nobody has actually obeyed your order. Yet.)
The bathroom will be a disgusting mess. Exercise all your powers of restraint and do NOT clean it. The only exception to this rule is if the air is completely unbreathable, only then may a preliminary cleaning be done. Baby will cry and complain until it is time to get out. By then, he will be happy and splashing and never want to leave. If, during the course of littlest child's bath, a dirty six-year-old happens by, accost him at once. Repeat washing.
Once the actual washing is finished, settle down with a good book and wait for the water to turn cold. However, if time is running short, more wrestling will be required. Take care, they're slippery, have towels handy. They will shiver and complain for 1.3 minutes before throwing off the towels and running naked through the house. Catch them if you can.
Fast forward... the four youngest are washed and dressed and ready to go. Time to wake the teens. Be sure to do this at least one (1) hour prior to departure time as it will take that long for them to ready themselves. Prepare snacks, toys, blankets, and other necessary church items. Locate matching shoes for each set of feet. Don't forget to dress yourself, shaving is not required (that's why God gave us long skirts) and make-up is only necessary if you don't want everyone at church inquiring after your state of mind.
Fifteen minutes before actual departure time, tell everyone it is time to leave. It will take at least fifteen minutes for them all to 1) believe you really mean it, 2) find the coats and shoes you've laid out for them, and 3) shove as much contraband into their mouths and pockets as possible before that long, LONG drive. Outside, since you've forgotten to warm up the car, you will either freeze for an additional ten minutes or discover that a window was left open all night while a thunderstorm rolled through (or both). The ultra-hated demon dog, who happens to fear thunderstorms above all else, will have leapt in through the open window to sleep in the comfort and security of your (now wet and doggy-smelling) car. Try not to kill the dog.
Strap all little people into appropriate, cumbersome seats, sandwiched between towels and blankets. You're almost there. Two minutes down the road, somebody is touching so-and-so. "Please stop touching your brother/sister." Repeat every two minutes. Halfway there, little Houdini has escaped his car-seat; the entire back seat is in an uproar; at least three of the six are fighting over the one Game-boy DS while poking/prodding/teasing whoever is seated next to them, and the oldest teen is fiddling with the volume control on the radio while simultaneously listening to whatever is playing on her i-pod.
Just remember that these tribulations shall be but a moment, and with God, all things are possible. Grit your teeth and keep driving.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
To Be Determined...
I wonder what would happen if I didn't procrastinate like I do. Would I have hand-made quilts on each of the beds in my house, or get the Christmas lights and decorations up while it still mattered? Maybe. Or maybe I'd have a beautifully organized house that really could fit eight people comfortably. I bet I could figure out a way to balance my budget, cook healthy meals each night, and still have time for writing. And then I'd make room for getting involved with my community, volunteering at the schools, participating in fund drives, and letting my voice be heard by contacting my local leaders and representatives...
Just imagine what could come of my life if I didn't put off all those great things. Why, I'd get that education every one's always talking about, the kind that comes with a fancy-printout on high quality paper that says you know more than certain paper-less folks. Why, then I could get a job where people actually want to hear what I have to say, where I collect monetary reimbursement for the time I've put in. My name would be known, because I'd be putting it out there for all to see. Yes, I could be something.
But then I have to wonder what's holding me back. Kids? Money? Motivation? Certainly, being Mom comes first, and always will. Back when time moved slower and I had to choose where my life went, I chose being Mother over college. I'm not sorry. As for money, well there's never any money, but it's never stopped me. There are definitely ways of working around the greenback dilemma, as proven by the historical accounts of hundreds of underdogs. America sure loves the underdog. And then there's motivation...
Ah, yes. What makes me tick? What motivates me? Slap me into the shrink's chair and come back in a few months, because some days I haven't a clue. But I'm willing to bet that if I really wanted a clean house, I'd have one. If I really want stroganoff or chicken salad for dinner, I make it. In all fairness, I have to say that even though I would like to be more involved in my community, I have other commitments that take precedence. What spare time is left after basic cooking, cleaning, diaper changing, busing, shopping, and the loving and tending of my brood is rather precious. As much as I'd like to do it all and be that Super Mom, one: I know it's impossible, so why burn myself into dross trying to prove otherwise? and two: my heart pulls me toward (have you guessed?) writing.
Over the years, my hobbies have hopped between reading, sewing, cross-stitching, exercising, gardening, painting, home remodeling and decorating, and other odd schemes of self-improvement. Some of those projects are tucked away, half done and waiting for that spark of interest to reignite. Perhaps writing is a phase I shall pass through gracefully and move on to better things, but I doubt it. However, if I could see the future, I'd be rich already. Deep in my bones, I feel there's something more challenging about writing than in anything else. Not that I ever conquered gardening, as the state of my yard can attest, but the difficulty of arranging ideas and feelings into words in such a way that others can feel and hear and see what I do, is just so tremendous and thrilling to me that I believe I shall love it forever. It is more than simply telling a story, or making a point, more than falling in love or painting a picture. It is all of this and more, a journey of mind and spirit, an energy that passes from my mind to another through the medium of typed characters arranged on a page. It is Magic.
So, as to my potential and all that crap about greatness, if I can't do it between 8 and 11 with a pen, paper, or computer word program, it will just have to wait. Because I'm busy.
Just imagine what could come of my life if I didn't put off all those great things. Why, I'd get that education every one's always talking about, the kind that comes with a fancy-printout on high quality paper that says you know more than certain paper-less folks. Why, then I could get a job where people actually want to hear what I have to say, where I collect monetary reimbursement for the time I've put in. My name would be known, because I'd be putting it out there for all to see. Yes, I could be something.
But then I have to wonder what's holding me back. Kids? Money? Motivation? Certainly, being Mom comes first, and always will. Back when time moved slower and I had to choose where my life went, I chose being Mother over college. I'm not sorry. As for money, well there's never any money, but it's never stopped me. There are definitely ways of working around the greenback dilemma, as proven by the historical accounts of hundreds of underdogs. America sure loves the underdog. And then there's motivation...
Ah, yes. What makes me tick? What motivates me? Slap me into the shrink's chair and come back in a few months, because some days I haven't a clue. But I'm willing to bet that if I really wanted a clean house, I'd have one. If I really want stroganoff or chicken salad for dinner, I make it. In all fairness, I have to say that even though I would like to be more involved in my community, I have other commitments that take precedence. What spare time is left after basic cooking, cleaning, diaper changing, busing, shopping, and the loving and tending of my brood is rather precious. As much as I'd like to do it all and be that Super Mom, one: I know it's impossible, so why burn myself into dross trying to prove otherwise? and two: my heart pulls me toward (have you guessed?) writing.
Over the years, my hobbies have hopped between reading, sewing, cross-stitching, exercising, gardening, painting, home remodeling and decorating, and other odd schemes of self-improvement. Some of those projects are tucked away, half done and waiting for that spark of interest to reignite. Perhaps writing is a phase I shall pass through gracefully and move on to better things, but I doubt it. However, if I could see the future, I'd be rich already. Deep in my bones, I feel there's something more challenging about writing than in anything else. Not that I ever conquered gardening, as the state of my yard can attest, but the difficulty of arranging ideas and feelings into words in such a way that others can feel and hear and see what I do, is just so tremendous and thrilling to me that I believe I shall love it forever. It is more than simply telling a story, or making a point, more than falling in love or painting a picture. It is all of this and more, a journey of mind and spirit, an energy that passes from my mind to another through the medium of typed characters arranged on a page. It is Magic.
So, as to my potential and all that crap about greatness, if I can't do it between 8 and 11 with a pen, paper, or computer word program, it will just have to wait. Because I'm busy.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Dear Santa,
I haven't been particularly good this year, but seeing as you like to spoil children who couldn't possibly be any better than poor little me, I figured I still had a shot. First and foremost, I'd like to remind you what I must put up with so that you'll understand my goodness (it's all about perspective, you see).
Number one is approaching sixteen and talks of nothing but driving and dating, with which neither am I entirely comfortable, but I have managed to not lock her in her room or disgrace her in front of her friends. A good deed if ever there was one.
Number two has made excellent progress over the years, even in the face of teen-age hormones. I drive him to school every day and take him to the library on a regular basis (though I must draw the line at letting him live at Borders). I allow him turns on the computer (a big deal, believe you me!), and the fact that he has not turned into a homicidal maniac shows a great deal of effort in the mother department, does it not?
Number three is hyper-active and moody and must be hitting puberty rather early, which is entirely unfair, but do you hear me complaining? Have I beat him senseless? No. This should prove something. He may yet turn out well, but I will hold judgement until after he turns eighteen. There was the incident with the broken dining room table, but I've already apologized for that.
Four has tyrannical tendencies that I've done all in power to squash. She is mostly good, though slightly annoying, and gets very good grades. I know, I had nothing to do with it, but cut me a break, would ya?
Five... well, sure I love him, too. Yes I do. I can still talk, which means I have not screamed myself hoarse in the face of number five. He has not banned me from his room, even though I make him bathe, so that MUST mean he forgives me... you can follow his example and cut me a little slack.
Six is trying to kill me, and himself, I'd wager. The high speed pencil up my nose, if you'll recall, and multiple beatings with pencil-swords, Lego-swords, stick-swords, and other types of swords--balls and other toys thrown at my person, and multiple acts of two-year-old violence have not yet induced more than an occasional growl on my part. While I cannot claim sole responsibility for keeping him alive--the dresser he scaled did not crush him when it fell, the passing driver did not kidnap him as he wandered down the street unsupervised, and the big knife he pulled from the dishwasher to wave around like a (you guessed it,sword!) killed and cut no one--there are countless other disasters I've helped to prevent...
Perhaps, in light of all my goodness, you can overlook my evil tendencies and selfish hiding of the good chocolates. I do keep The Horde in relatively clean condition, fed and watered and moderately well dressed. The winter vermin infestation is not my fault. And if I let the cats play with the mice I catch in the live-trap, is that so bad? What I ask for is a very small miracle, the kind that would not put you out in the least... I've already petitioned God for the big stuff, so maybe you can get this while he finds me fortune and glory... I would really like a quicker way to make those carrot muffin waffles.
P.S.-- Godivas are good, too.
Number one is approaching sixteen and talks of nothing but driving and dating, with which neither am I entirely comfortable, but I have managed to not lock her in her room or disgrace her in front of her friends. A good deed if ever there was one.
Number two has made excellent progress over the years, even in the face of teen-age hormones. I drive him to school every day and take him to the library on a regular basis (though I must draw the line at letting him live at Borders). I allow him turns on the computer (a big deal, believe you me!), and the fact that he has not turned into a homicidal maniac shows a great deal of effort in the mother department, does it not?
Number three is hyper-active and moody and must be hitting puberty rather early, which is entirely unfair, but do you hear me complaining? Have I beat him senseless? No. This should prove something. He may yet turn out well, but I will hold judgement until after he turns eighteen. There was the incident with the broken dining room table, but I've already apologized for that.
Four has tyrannical tendencies that I've done all in power to squash. She is mostly good, though slightly annoying, and gets very good grades. I know, I had nothing to do with it, but cut me a break, would ya?
Five... well, sure I love him, too. Yes I do. I can still talk, which means I have not screamed myself hoarse in the face of number five. He has not banned me from his room, even though I make him bathe, so that MUST mean he forgives me... you can follow his example and cut me a little slack.
Six is trying to kill me, and himself, I'd wager. The high speed pencil up my nose, if you'll recall, and multiple beatings with pencil-swords, Lego-swords, stick-swords, and other types of swords--balls and other toys thrown at my person, and multiple acts of two-year-old violence have not yet induced more than an occasional growl on my part. While I cannot claim sole responsibility for keeping him alive--the dresser he scaled did not crush him when it fell, the passing driver did not kidnap him as he wandered down the street unsupervised, and the big knife he pulled from the dishwasher to wave around like a (you guessed it,sword!) killed and cut no one--there are countless other disasters I've helped to prevent...
Perhaps, in light of all my goodness, you can overlook my evil tendencies and selfish hiding of the good chocolates. I do keep The Horde in relatively clean condition, fed and watered and moderately well dressed. The winter vermin infestation is not my fault. And if I let the cats play with the mice I catch in the live-trap, is that so bad? What I ask for is a very small miracle, the kind that would not put you out in the least... I've already petitioned God for the big stuff, so maybe you can get this while he finds me fortune and glory... I would really like a quicker way to make those carrot muffin waffles.
P.S.-- Godivas are good, too.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thanks
Well, it's been over a week since my last post. Contrary to popular belief, I did not fall off the face of the Earth... only my brain did.
Thanksgiving was a trial, but one that I have survived yet again. I live and breathe to serve out turkey and potatoes another day (hopefully before the turkey turns to rubber, or grows strong enough to leave the refrigerator under its own volition). At the beginning of Thanksgiving week, I had intended to create a long list of all the things I was thankful for, the kind of list that included running water, mouse traps, heat, working lawnmowers, and the like, but as the big day approached, my thoughts pulled farther and farther away from gratitude and my sanity became slicker than a salted slug. --but let's not go there. The past is past, trampled and hashed and still stinking... let it die.
On the same note, considering that tomorrow brings a new month, and the ushering in of the Christmas season (which actually started around the middle of October, according to the retail establishments I frequent), I will also try not to worry too much on the future and the inevitable stress that awaits--disguised as festive goodies wrapped in paper and bows. Perhaps I'll just hide the scale until after Valentine's Day. My tree is up, and that is truly saying something, because I have learned how to make someone else do the work! Someone else is shopping, too, though I don't think old St. Nick will be delivering that heavy-duty-all-purpose-babysitter/cook/housekeeper/disaster management specialist that I've secretly been wishing for. Oh well.
Writing and prayers have buoyed me up once more. Lots of both, and I'm rather pleased with the amount of progress my novel has made in a week's time. I will continue to work on my list, even if it never makes it out on paper. In the meantime, I can definitely say that on this, glorious Monday, with the bulk of my little blessings back in school, I am very much thankful for today.
Thanksgiving was a trial, but one that I have survived yet again. I live and breathe to serve out turkey and potatoes another day (hopefully before the turkey turns to rubber, or grows strong enough to leave the refrigerator under its own volition). At the beginning of Thanksgiving week, I had intended to create a long list of all the things I was thankful for, the kind of list that included running water, mouse traps, heat, working lawnmowers, and the like, but as the big day approached, my thoughts pulled farther and farther away from gratitude and my sanity became slicker than a salted slug. --but let's not go there. The past is past, trampled and hashed and still stinking... let it die.
On the same note, considering that tomorrow brings a new month, and the ushering in of the Christmas season (which actually started around the middle of October, according to the retail establishments I frequent), I will also try not to worry too much on the future and the inevitable stress that awaits--disguised as festive goodies wrapped in paper and bows. Perhaps I'll just hide the scale until after Valentine's Day. My tree is up, and that is truly saying something, because I have learned how to make someone else do the work! Someone else is shopping, too, though I don't think old St. Nick will be delivering that heavy-duty-all-purpose-babysitter/cook/housekeeper/disaster management specialist that I've secretly been wishing for. Oh well.
Writing and prayers have buoyed me up once more. Lots of both, and I'm rather pleased with the amount of progress my novel has made in a week's time. I will continue to work on my list, even if it never makes it out on paper. In the meantime, I can definitely say that on this, glorious Monday, with the bulk of my little blessings back in school, I am very much thankful for today.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Still Loading
There once was an old saying about work that went, "You load sixteen tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt."
Some of you young'ns might be thinking 'What in the hay is that supposed to mean?' Well, I'll tell you... it's all about laundry. Yes, laundry, where the loads might as well be measured in tons according to my joints. It is the never-ending chore that, regardless of how many loads you wash today, there will still be as much to dry and fold and then put away tomorrow or the next day for as long as you are willing to drag it out. And by the time you reach that supposed ending point, when the last pair of socks is matched up and tucked away, but before the latch catches on the laundry room door, you can turn around to find that all the hampers are full and the underwear drawers are empty.
Get to it! Wash, dry, fold, repeat. Depending on the size of a family and each person's individual fondness for clothing (girls), neurotic bathing habits (no one in my house), and gender (I've heard of neat boys, but never met one), you might do anywhere from four (do you live in those?) to ten (average) and well on close to sixteen or more (Mount Saint Smellin) loads a week.
It's all well and good, a necessary evil to satisfy one's sense of cleanliness, godliness, or just plain don't-want-to-stink-ness, but beyond the eternal nature of laundry, the really sad part is that no appreciation comes out of accomplishing this task. Thank yous fall like a drop of dew on a shriveled vine; payment comes in the form of forgotten coins out of unemptied pockets, along with pens, important (and now useless) papers, and EW! what was that?
No matter how many urine-soaked sheets you strip off of the same beds, in the same week... no matter how many socks you can miraculously change from mud-brown to white and match again to similarly ill-treated footwear, the only words you will hear concerning this labor is when you have neglected it and the clean supplies of clothing, towels, and sheets run dry (or wet, as the case may be).
Just remember, after you've loaded your sixteen tons, aged a day and earned no pay, it is now time to fulfill the other end of the adage and go shopping. Alone.
Some of you young'ns might be thinking 'What in the hay is that supposed to mean?' Well, I'll tell you... it's all about laundry. Yes, laundry, where the loads might as well be measured in tons according to my joints. It is the never-ending chore that, regardless of how many loads you wash today, there will still be as much to dry and fold and then put away tomorrow or the next day for as long as you are willing to drag it out. And by the time you reach that supposed ending point, when the last pair of socks is matched up and tucked away, but before the latch catches on the laundry room door, you can turn around to find that all the hampers are full and the underwear drawers are empty.
Get to it! Wash, dry, fold, repeat. Depending on the size of a family and each person's individual fondness for clothing (girls), neurotic bathing habits (no one in my house), and gender (I've heard of neat boys, but never met one), you might do anywhere from four (do you live in those?) to ten (average) and well on close to sixteen or more (Mount Saint Smellin) loads a week.
It's all well and good, a necessary evil to satisfy one's sense of cleanliness, godliness, or just plain don't-want-to-stink-ness, but beyond the eternal nature of laundry, the really sad part is that no appreciation comes out of accomplishing this task. Thank yous fall like a drop of dew on a shriveled vine; payment comes in the form of forgotten coins out of unemptied pockets, along with pens, important (and now useless) papers, and EW! what was that?
Those seeking more substantial gratitude or a Christmas bonus must first determine if they are qualified. Have you been married for over twenty years? Have all your children grown up and left home to fend for themselves in the world? Have you died and gone to heaven? Participants must answer yes to all questions in order to qualify. Whether you have or have not trained each member of your troop (including the one close to your age) how to deposit their soiled articles into a bio hazard recycling receptacle has no bearing on the matter--stick to training dogs; it's easier, they remember longer, and it looks better on a resume. Whether you have other duties besides mountain climbing and divining lights from darks has no bearing, the ability to juggle only impresses clowns and elementary-aged children.
No matter how many urine-soaked sheets you strip off of the same beds, in the same week... no matter how many socks you can miraculously change from mud-brown to white and match again to similarly ill-treated footwear, the only words you will hear concerning this labor is when you have neglected it and the clean supplies of clothing, towels, and sheets run dry (or wet, as the case may be).
But don't be discouraged, and don't presume to cease washing, wiping, cooking, vacuuming, or working in general, lest the world as we know it come to a screeching halt. If you want a pat on the back, stretch, bend, and work that elbow. It's good exercise and you've put in another fine day of work.
Just remember, after you've loaded your sixteen tons, aged a day and earned no pay, it is now time to fulfill the other end of the adage and go shopping. Alone.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Homeland Adventure Channel
This week's episode:
Gourmet Cooking for the Destitute
Welcome all you hungry adventurers. We're going to have a great show. Today's menu has been determined by the ingredients already available in the house and by whatever culinary whims have possessed the chef. Nutritional values have been taken into account as well as the caloric needs of each household member to produce a perfectly tailored balance of protein, carbs and fat that will keep those energy levels exactly where they need to be.
Breakfast: oatmeal, toast and juice
Lunch: garden salad, homemade tomato soup
Snack: carrot sticks & dip, cheddar slices & whole wheat crackers
Dinner: cheesy chicken enchilada, beans and rice
Dessert: fresh baked cookies
Keep in mind that every menu must be flexible, allowing for last minute changes and/or substitutions in case of unforeseeable disasters. But first things first-- we must ready our equipment. This adventure will require the largest pot and pan available in your kitchen, matching lids, a two-quart pitcher, several long-handled spoons, cutting board, knives (preferably sharp), first aid kit and easy access to a fire extinguisher (just in case), an empty sink, plenty of dish washing detergent, at least two square feet of cleared counter space, enough plates, bowls, cups and other eating utensils to satisfy your crowd, a large rectangular baking dish, aprons (optional), towels and washcloths, and an operable kitchen.
Be sure that all your appliances are in good repair, ie. reasonably clean with no exposed wires, jagged edges, or broken hinges. Also, for obvious health reasons make sure that all dishes and utensils are clean before use. We wouldn't want the escaped hamster's leavings to spoil any appetites, would we?
Our next step before beginning is to choose a helper and make assignments for crowd control. We all know what happens when there are too many cooks in the kitchen. After the lottery, or straws, or whatever method decides your helper, wash hands and secure aprons.
Every day should begin with a healthy breakfast, and ours is easy. Have your helper retrieve a tube of frozen juice from the freezer. Remove the lid and place in microwave for one minute. Then, assist your helper in figuring out how much oatmeal and salted water is needed to feed everyone. Mix and cook according to directions on package. Empty thawed O.J. into pitcher and add water. Mix. Depending on the age of your helper, they will either want to do everything with reckless abandon, or need to be directed in every move under heavy threat (and do it as sloppily as the enthused) so keep towels handy. If old enough, have your helper make toast while you stir oatmeal. Wow... it's a good thing we used the big pot... it appears to be growing.
Hmm... according to the directions, it cooks in ten minutes. But it seems a bit on the stiff side, so we'll add a tad more water. A little more. More... there, that's better. I wonder if it needs more salt? Anyway, we have five minutes--plenty of time to cut up those carrot sticks for later.
All right, our carrot sticks are ready, but what is that smell? Gah! A great gooey blob is crawling out of the pot! Quick, stab it with a spoon and turn off the stove. Never fear, it did not burn and appears to be edible, though extremely elastic. After cutting out equal portions for each of our guinea pigs... ahhhh, I mean children (none for me thanks, I'm on a new, low slime diet) there appears to be enough left over to last the rest of the week. No matter, I believe oatmeal keeps well in the refrigerator.
With breakfast laid out, we can retrieve chicken from the freezer to thaw for dinner and then get started on the soup--an easy recipe using onions, tomato paste, and milk. Hey, where'd the kids go? That was fast. All the toast is gone, juice too, but... it seems they were too much in a hurry to finish their oatmeal. Not hungry? So they say. No matter. This is where the flexible menu comes into play. Just cross off soup and replace with oatmeal.
Lunch is over. The salad was a huge success, though our helper has resigned. Strangely, the oatmeal supply does not seem to have diminished even though I've left some on the floor for the dog. Hmmm... haven't seen that dog since. It would seem the menu needs to be as flexible as the oatmeal, else we will never again see the bottom of that pot, or the dog.
After trying to push oatmeal off as a dip for carrots and a spread for crackers, the troops are ready to mutiny. The chicken is already cut and the bread is mysteriously vanishing out of the bag. We are running out of time. In the name of all that is nutritious, the oatmeal must be eaten! But remember, the successful miser is a flexible miser! Time to pull out the big guns: brown sugar and butter. With a little flour and some eggs, we can still salvage the situation.
When the diners march in with grumbling bellies and wrinkled noses, suspicion all over their faces, we happily announce that if they eat their chicken and rice, they can have cookies. {ahem... oatmeal cookies, that is}
I win.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Trade-in
I was just looking at that very cute little MG convertable over there... yes, the red one. It's how much? Well, I do have a trade in. Yeah, that teal mini-van. Yes, the one with the faded paint and multiple scratches. Careful with the luggage rack, we lost one of the screws. (An incident involving plywood and bungee cords. You do not want to know.) The year? Oh, it's a '98... no, a '97... I forget. Sorry.
What's wrong with it? Nothing, really. It just keeps going and going. I get the oil changed religiously and take very good care of it. Well, yes, I do have children. No, those are just finger marks, maybe some lip marks, too-- but they wipe right off. And the stickers... any old window scraper will take care of them. That dent is from a rock, it only chipped a little, and the rust is minimal. The dent in the back? Well the trailer came unhitched once, and slammed into the back of the car when we slowed down. Yeah, that's where the gash in the bumper came from. That little groove along the side is from a bike that didn't have any rubber grips left on the handlebars.
This side door sometimes gets stuck. The interior panel is loose since that time my son threw up all over the door. We had to take the whole door apart to clean it out. Never did go back together right. Oh, and the child lock is stuck on. I don't know what happened there. Maybe your mechanics can figure it out. The upholstery is still in good condition. The middle seats come out easily and there are lots of cup holders--except that one. Yeah, it broke off. Paint? No that's... oh, yes. I remember, now. That's the blue nail polish my daughter spilled about seven years ago. You might be able to get it up. I couldn't. And that spot? Um... that was there when I bought the car. I have no idea. Of course I didn't buy it new. Do I look like the type of person who could afford a new car?
Sure, start it right up. --I'm no mechanic, but if you just let the car warm up a bit, it stops doing that. That squealing is only a loose belt, it always does that. A little spray lubricant will stop it. Check engine light? Oh, it's nothing. The sensors are just getting the wrong readings because of the holes in the gas tank. Didn't I? Sorry, it slipped my mind. But they're at the top of the tank. That's not nearly so bad as if they were at the bottom. If you just wait for the gas light to come on, you can refuel with 17.5 gallons (any more than that and it spills out, so be sure to watch the meter).
The windshield wipers are a little old, I guess. Minor maintenance. The wiper fluid sprayer doesn't work on the driver's side... probably just clogged, or disconnected. No big deal. Yes, the cruise control does work. Oh, the visor? Yes, the driver's side visor broke off last year. It shouldn't be hard to get a hold of a replacement. Yeah, the side mirror is cracked, but it won't fall off. It's been like that for nine years. That doohickey is a security device installed by the last dealer. If that little key piece comes out, the car won't start. Yeah, it's happened to me, called a tow truck and everything. THAT was embarrassing.
That's the wiring for a six-disk CD changer we had installed when we bought the car, but it stopped working years ago. It's at home somewhere. You don't want it? Oh. But the radio works. Most of the speakers are good-- enough.
Ah, the rear windows won't open... I think the motors wore out, and the rear blower only works on occasions (but it's not the motor--there's a short in the wiring somewhere between the front control panel and the rear one). Oh, and the driver's side window needs some work as well. Yeah, that's why the panel was removed. We're just waiting for the right time to get that fixed. No, it won't close... I park in the garage. Well, halfway in the garage, on account of the all the junk in my garage. I had to shove it all back to make room. No, it's a really big two-car garage.
That hole in the rear window is where the little window thingy went. You know, that thing that holds open the rear window when you lift it up? Yeah, that. Well, I think my son was swinging from it and it just popped right out. No, I don't have it any more. Sure, there's a spare tire. I only used it once... drove it thirty-five, forty miles... maybe less? It should still be good for a while, don't you think? Oh, and before I forget, that back door doesn't always close up tight. You have to shut it just right, or the door light will come on-- makes me crazy, flicking off and on while I'm driving down the road.
What else? No, there's nothing. Like I said, it's a good car. Oh, the door won't open? Hit the unlock. Try again. There! No, once more. OK, get out, quick! Well, I didn't want to mention that. The locks are possessed. So it's good that the window won't shut. At least the lock ghost can't catch you without your keys (that's happened to me). Why once, I was just finishing loading in the groceries and shut the door, and that darned ghost locked the car up with my keys and groceries and baby all trapped on the inside. What a mess that was! I had to leave my baby out in the parking lot on his own while I fetched security, and they called the fire department (who only came because there was a child involved) and they took their sweet time getting there, too.
No, I'm only looking for a prettier car. You won't take it? Really? Why not?
What's wrong with it? Nothing, really. It just keeps going and going. I get the oil changed religiously and take very good care of it. Well, yes, I do have children. No, those are just finger marks, maybe some lip marks, too-- but they wipe right off. And the stickers... any old window scraper will take care of them. That dent is from a rock, it only chipped a little, and the rust is minimal. The dent in the back? Well the trailer came unhitched once, and slammed into the back of the car when we slowed down. Yeah, that's where the gash in the bumper came from. That little groove along the side is from a bike that didn't have any rubber grips left on the handlebars.
This side door sometimes gets stuck. The interior panel is loose since that time my son threw up all over the door. We had to take the whole door apart to clean it out. Never did go back together right. Oh, and the child lock is stuck on. I don't know what happened there. Maybe your mechanics can figure it out. The upholstery is still in good condition. The middle seats come out easily and there are lots of cup holders--except that one. Yeah, it broke off. Paint? No that's... oh, yes. I remember, now. That's the blue nail polish my daughter spilled about seven years ago. You might be able to get it up. I couldn't. And that spot? Um... that was there when I bought the car. I have no idea. Of course I didn't buy it new. Do I look like the type of person who could afford a new car?
Sure, start it right up. --I'm no mechanic, but if you just let the car warm up a bit, it stops doing that. That squealing is only a loose belt, it always does that. A little spray lubricant will stop it. Check engine light? Oh, it's nothing. The sensors are just getting the wrong readings because of the holes in the gas tank. Didn't I? Sorry, it slipped my mind. But they're at the top of the tank. That's not nearly so bad as if they were at the bottom. If you just wait for the gas light to come on, you can refuel with 17.5 gallons (any more than that and it spills out, so be sure to watch the meter).
The windshield wipers are a little old, I guess. Minor maintenance. The wiper fluid sprayer doesn't work on the driver's side... probably just clogged, or disconnected. No big deal. Yes, the cruise control does work. Oh, the visor? Yes, the driver's side visor broke off last year. It shouldn't be hard to get a hold of a replacement. Yeah, the side mirror is cracked, but it won't fall off. It's been like that for nine years. That doohickey is a security device installed by the last dealer. If that little key piece comes out, the car won't start. Yeah, it's happened to me, called a tow truck and everything. THAT was embarrassing.
That's the wiring for a six-disk CD changer we had installed when we bought the car, but it stopped working years ago. It's at home somewhere. You don't want it? Oh. But the radio works. Most of the speakers are good-- enough.
Ah, the rear windows won't open... I think the motors wore out, and the rear blower only works on occasions (but it's not the motor--there's a short in the wiring somewhere between the front control panel and the rear one). Oh, and the driver's side window needs some work as well. Yeah, that's why the panel was removed. We're just waiting for the right time to get that fixed. No, it won't close... I park in the garage. Well, halfway in the garage, on account of the all the junk in my garage. I had to shove it all back to make room. No, it's a really big two-car garage.
That hole in the rear window is where the little window thingy went. You know, that thing that holds open the rear window when you lift it up? Yeah, that. Well, I think my son was swinging from it and it just popped right out. No, I don't have it any more. Sure, there's a spare tire. I only used it once... drove it thirty-five, forty miles... maybe less? It should still be good for a while, don't you think? Oh, and before I forget, that back door doesn't always close up tight. You have to shut it just right, or the door light will come on-- makes me crazy, flicking off and on while I'm driving down the road.
What else? No, there's nothing. Like I said, it's a good car. Oh, the door won't open? Hit the unlock. Try again. There! No, once more. OK, get out, quick! Well, I didn't want to mention that. The locks are possessed. So it's good that the window won't shut. At least the lock ghost can't catch you without your keys (that's happened to me). Why once, I was just finishing loading in the groceries and shut the door, and that darned ghost locked the car up with my keys and groceries and baby all trapped on the inside. What a mess that was! I had to leave my baby out in the parking lot on his own while I fetched security, and they called the fire department (who only came because there was a child involved) and they took their sweet time getting there, too.
No, I'm only looking for a prettier car. You won't take it? Really? Why not?
Friday, November 6, 2009
The Demon
As promised, I've prepared this little poem for my demon. Yes, ANOTHER poem. So I like poetry; it keeps my brain limber. Some people like opera. Whatever.
As I pick up my notes and assemble my thoughts for novel #3, I will try to keep my beloved blog afloat with amusing nonsense and whatever leftovers I can't squeeze into saleable literature. This space is something of a reader's meatloaf. Just add ketchup and we're good.
From the edge of the road, I watched as he passed.
A specter, too dark to be real.
The daylight slipped quickly into something else
and empty was all I could feel
His image burned blackness straight into my heart,
through eyes that reflected like glass.
The folded up wings harbored terror and dreams,
heartache and panic so brash.
The demon is watching. He is out there.
I must hide or he's going to see.
The demon is moving, gets closer.
He is here. He is coming for me.
An angel of darkness consumes me
with a hunger I cannot evade;
a gnawing, tight clawing that eats up
what shelter of peace I have made.
So hide, run away
move faster, do not stay.
Flee, step aside,
hasten, you must fly
for the demon is coming,
is coming,
the demon inside.
The pavement beat hot on my footsteps across;
escape on atonements of wax.
A candle is lit, but Hell's gates opened wide
as I ran and I fell, far and fast.
He was lurking and leaning and hungering for me,
poison-strung words he did spew.
Needles of teeth sought a vein he could steal,
in a place where he killed what was true.
Destruction he brings on each wingtip
spreading wide as they crowd out the sky.
Fight. I must win against blackness
a battle from which I can't hide.
Rage feeds the evil that dooms me,
quietly turning my heart.
Stone is the cold I'm becoming
when the stillness in nothing departs.
So stand, make him pay
he can't win in the day
If you fight and decide
that the demon is a lie.
When the demon is living,
is living,
the demon inside.
As I pick up my notes and assemble my thoughts for novel #3, I will try to keep my beloved blog afloat with amusing nonsense and whatever leftovers I can't squeeze into saleable literature. This space is something of a reader's meatloaf. Just add ketchup and we're good.
From the edge of the road, I watched as he passed.
A specter, too dark to be real.
The daylight slipped quickly into something else
and empty was all I could feel
His image burned blackness straight into my heart,
through eyes that reflected like glass.
The folded up wings harbored terror and dreams,
heartache and panic so brash.
The demon is watching. He is out there.
I must hide or he's going to see.
The demon is moving, gets closer.
He is here. He is coming for me.
An angel of darkness consumes me
with a hunger I cannot evade;
a gnawing, tight clawing that eats up
what shelter of peace I have made.
So hide, run away
move faster, do not stay.
Flee, step aside,
hasten, you must fly
for the demon is coming,
is coming,
the demon inside.
The pavement beat hot on my footsteps across;
escape on atonements of wax.
A candle is lit, but Hell's gates opened wide
as I ran and I fell, far and fast.
He was lurking and leaning and hungering for me,
poison-strung words he did spew.
Needles of teeth sought a vein he could steal,
in a place where he killed what was true.
Destruction he brings on each wingtip
spreading wide as they crowd out the sky.
Fight. I must win against blackness
a battle from which I can't hide.
Rage feeds the evil that dooms me,
quietly turning my heart.
Stone is the cold I'm becoming
when the stillness in nothing departs.
So stand, make him pay
he can't win in the day
If you fight and decide
that the demon is a lie.
When the demon is living,
is living,
the demon inside.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Unchanged Melody
I've been reluctant to post anything lately. Perhaps because I am uninspired, or because nothing new and exciting has occurred. Maybe I am suffering from pre-holiday stress (it only gets worse). Anyway, I have the same old rejections showing up in my mail, the same old car breaking down in my driveway, the same old bills (steadily increasing in amounts as the months roll by). Oh, sigh. It's enough to make one want to go shopping.
Then there's the demon. Ever skirting my periphery and at the edge of my thoughts, he keeps coming by to haunt me. The sacrificial poem for the demon isn't ready yet. Another thing to work on. Until then, keep running, says I. Demons are slow---Wow, that reminds me of the tortoise and the hare. Except that would make me the hare, and we all know what happened to the hare... Never mind. I will rewrite THAT story as well. Just put it on my to-do list. Right under 'pull weeds and clean out flowerbeds.'
But, Halloween is over, the queen is gone, and I promised that I'd get back to writing. The voices are ever chanting in my head of what needs to be portrayed. The vision is bright; the plot is twisted, but clear. All I need to do is put the pen to the page and write.... right after I finish reading the latest Vampire Academy.
Then there's the demon. Ever skirting my periphery and at the edge of my thoughts, he keeps coming by to haunt me. The sacrificial poem for the demon isn't ready yet. Another thing to work on. Until then, keep running, says I. Demons are slow---Wow, that reminds me of the tortoise and the hare. Except that would make me the hare, and we all know what happened to the hare... Never mind. I will rewrite THAT story as well. Just put it on my to-do list. Right under 'pull weeds and clean out flowerbeds.'
But, Halloween is over, the queen is gone, and I promised that I'd get back to writing. The voices are ever chanting in my head of what needs to be portrayed. The vision is bright; the plot is twisted, but clear. All I need to do is put the pen to the page and write.... right after I finish reading the latest Vampire Academy.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Homeland Adventure Channel
WELCOME
Today's episode: Spelunking for Amateurs.
We will explore the deep and dark domain of the homosaphieus-teen, an immature breed of the biped species rarely seen during the daylight hours.
Before we set out on our grand adventure, we must make necessary preparations. Collect and inspect your gear before each excursion, you never know when it may save your life. Today we will require several laundry baskets and garbage bags (be sure they are empty!), a vacuum cleaner, an unused bottle of disinfectant spray and new roll of paper towels, cattle prod (just in case), elbow-length rubber gloves, flashlight and, most important, a commercial grade breathing mask. Cameras are optional, but be sure yours has a working flash.
And we're off! From our beginning place in the living room, we search through hallways and stairwells for signs of our specimen... Oh, we're in luck, a trail of discarded clothing! Picking up each piece leads us to a closed door. Making sure our mask is in place and gloves are on, we spray the handle and wipe it down. Slowly turning the handle, so as not to startle the specimen(s) inside, we find that the door only opens two feet.
Not to worry, we are prepared. Using the cattle prod, we reach around the blocked entrance to chip away at the debris piled up behind the door. After twenty minutes of arduous labor, the door swings free and we can enter. The scene is amazing! Shedded heaps of laundry cover every surface, overdue library books and school papers mixed in. Towels are hung over the closed drapes to keep out the dreaded sun and empty bottles and cans line the bookshelf. Somewhere, there is a closet... we must keep an eye out for it.
As we begin stuffing our baskets and bags, we come across several treasures long forgotten. So that's where my $140 cashmere sweater disappeared to. Ugh. A stapler, three cups, a plate, spoon and fork, two dozen pens and pencils, a whole ream of copy paper (ruined), the coat that nobody could find so I had to go out and buy another one, and... oh, please no! It's Bitsy, my last surviving doll from childhood--her body is missing.
It takes several hours of clearing away clothes and garbage, empty snack wrappers, dried out glue bottles and sticky lollipop sticks, before we find the specimen's sleep nest. Every spare pillow and blanket not already claimed (and some that were) lay heaped upon the surface. As we peel back the layers (cattle prod at the ready), we are relieved to find no bodies, living or dead. However, the final layer before reaching the mattress is a sheet worn so thin with heat and body oils, drool and whatnot, that it only comes off in pieces. We are careful to remove every bit before dousing the mattress with Lysol.
Bed cleared, we now have access to the heavily shrouded windows, and waste no time in throwing back the curtains. Sunlight streams into the cave, lighting up the dark shadows in the corners. A hiss comes from the far side of the room. Stand back!
A three-foot mound on the floor begins pulsating. With the cattle prod in one hand and Lysol in the other, we wait. A hand emerges, followed by a head and more hissing. The creature rises, angry and squinting...
"Mom! What are you doing?"
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Certifiable
I am certifiable
I’ve never been reliable
so it should come as no surprise
to have this paper meet my eyes
that states in letters bold and blue
the thing that I already knew,
that I am certifiable,
certified a loon.
My memory is just so-so
’cause I don’t think I really know
what test I took so they could tell
that I belong in cuckoo hell,
though questioning it isn't fair
the proof’s in how I fix my hair…
Yes, I am certified a boor,
I cannot be your friend no more
the boys in coats will come for me
they’ll lock me up and eat the key
to keep all safe who wander near,
unknowing of the danger here
’cause I am certifiable,
a loco from the moon.
The paper’s stamped and very clear,
I’ve had it nearly half a year
it took a while to tell you this
they say that ignorance is bliss
but you should know the mess I’m in
I’m headed for the loony bin—
the dishes in the sink need washed,
the laundry’s done, but someone’s lost
the stack of bills (all overdue)
that I had organized for you.
My schedule’s posted in the hall,
the bathroom leaks, the school just called,
we’re out of diapers, call the vet
the dog is sick… and your upset…
I’m sorry, but you understand
the situation’s out of hand
and I belong in Nutleyville
the state will surely foot the bill
’cause papers don’t come every day
that plainly state that you should stay
within a padded quiet room
away from worldly thoughts of doom.
Virginia Institute of Health
Department of the Commonwealth—
I’ve got it here, you see this line?
“This Institute does hereby find
that after testing we declare
your mental state beyond compare.”
The rest, you ask? If you must know,
I haven’t really read it, so…
ummm… “Please come back so we can test
the status of your… genius?
Wait—
I’ve never been reliable
so it should come as no surprise
to have this paper meet my eyes
that states in letters bold and blue
the thing that I already knew,
that I am certifiable,
certified a loon.
My memory is just so-so
’cause I don’t think I really know
what test I took so they could tell
that I belong in cuckoo hell,
though questioning it isn't fair
the proof’s in how I fix my hair…
Yes, I am certified a boor,
I cannot be your friend no more
the boys in coats will come for me
they’ll lock me up and eat the key
to keep all safe who wander near,
unknowing of the danger here
’cause I am certifiable,
a loco from the moon.
The paper’s stamped and very clear,
I’ve had it nearly half a year
it took a while to tell you this
they say that ignorance is bliss
but you should know the mess I’m in
I’m headed for the loony bin—
the dishes in the sink need washed,
the laundry’s done, but someone’s lost
the stack of bills (all overdue)
that I had organized for you.
My schedule’s posted in the hall,
the bathroom leaks, the school just called,
we’re out of diapers, call the vet
the dog is sick… and your upset…
I’m sorry, but you understand
the situation’s out of hand
and I belong in Nutleyville
the state will surely foot the bill
’cause papers don’t come every day
that plainly state that you should stay
within a padded quiet room
away from worldly thoughts of doom.
Virginia Institute of Health
Department of the Commonwealth—
I’ve got it here, you see this line?
“This Institute does hereby find
that after testing we declare
your mental state beyond compare.”
The rest, you ask? If you must know,
I haven’t really read it, so…
ummm… “Please come back so we can test
the status of your… genius?
Wait—
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Factory
Welcome to Putman House
Makers of beautiful babies since 1994
While we specialize in little boys, we have also been known to make an occasional girl. All children come with a limited warranty and are guaranteed to cost more than you will ever make. Presently, we are out of every color of eyes except blue-grey. Hair colors will vary according to age, but will eventually darken/lighten to a solid brown. Infants come with heads comparable to watermelons in only two sizes: medium and large. All babies over 9 1/2 lbs. will be refused. There is a nine month waiting list on all deliveries and an extra 2-3 weeks baking time for lazy and stubborn children. Please note: all deliveries are final. There are no exchanges or refunds.
We pride ourselves in producing children whose IQ levels exceed that of their parents, to constantly confound and amaze their teachers and keep everyone on their toes. Our inquisitive little angels will defy every lock, reach every cookie, and never stop asking for more, become a joy to your life while simultaneously making you feel like a crap parent at least once a week. They will expertly find your last nerve and constantly test its working condition, run you ragged with necessary activities and appointments, and bore you to tears with mindless games and videos. You will laugh, cry, and wish for the ease of blue-collar work. Undoubtedly, you will be loved, hated, and abused. You will be spit on, drooled on, puked on, bit, pinched, hit, peed and pooped on. Do not despair, these things are normal and do not constitute defects.
Predictable flaws: One in six of our children will require glasses, but all will need braces. Be sure to take your child to the dentist regularly for about one half of them will inherit weak teeth and need extensive dental work. They are generally healthy, but check your insurance. Whatever is not covered is sure to be what ails them. In homes with multiple angels, they will either get sick one at a time, or all together (whichever is least convenient to you). Behavioral problems will require a professional. Always know where the gas and water shut-off valves are located and keep fire extinguishers in handy locations on EVERY level of your home. Should a situation arise for which you are unprepared to handle alone, have local emergency numbers programmed into your phone and get to know God. (Knee pads are highly recommended.)
Special note: Despite the guaranteed brilliance of all our children, we cannot promise that he/she won't become another 'gifted under-achiever'. --it's in the genes.
We're sorry, due to failing economic times, and for reasons of sanity,
Putman House baby factory is
CLOSED.
Friday, October 16, 2009
A slice of Time
Ah, time. A concept created by those who are obsessed with it. With the turning of those vindictive hands, our lives are run by the unseeing face of a clock. It is something we all have and never appreciate, never stop complaining about... too much, too little, too fast, too slow. Time is money, yet no amount of money will buy more of it. It doesn't keep, save, rollover, or wait. The river of time is flowing, ever flowing, and where do we fit in? I'd like to imagine myself leisurly floating along on my solitary innertube (yes, it's summer in the vision), but reality has me in an over-loaded life raft watching the fast approaching falls. Ha ha, women and children first, you say. But where else would I be if not in the churning pit of turmoil?
Sitting on the bank, watching, does not appeal. I can't even enjoy watching sports. Itchy fingers must work, must do!!! Call me ADD if you like, but I'm weird like that. My days are defined by my accomplishments, and even those are hard to recall by the time my head is hitting the hay. Gah! the first sign of aging! What next?
Because I have more than a ticking crocodile chasing after me and (consequently) my time, I'll leave off with a poem I wrote a while back. It fits the subject.
Tick, tock, clock; the rhythm of life never stops.
The journey unceasing, the hands
ever reaching,
the circular motions, likes waves of
the ocean,
are going around till the chime
finally sounds.
Tick, tock, clock; like water that’s spilling,
the hourglass filling,
the cup’s never brimming,
the tired hands spinning,
‘round a face full of wrinkles
and I s with a twinkle.
Tick, tock, clock; the whirling and winding
and spinning is blinding.
The gears are all rusting,
the springs are near busting,
you wind it too tight
and it doesn’t work right.
Tick… tock… stop. A tired antique finally makes
a retreat.
The hands at last quit, the clock
isn’t fit
to give one more chime. It’s all out
of time.
Hope you've enjoyed... Like the white rabbit, I've no time, no time at all.
Sitting on the bank, watching, does not appeal. I can't even enjoy watching sports. Itchy fingers must work, must do!!! Call me ADD if you like, but I'm weird like that. My days are defined by my accomplishments, and even those are hard to recall by the time my head is hitting the hay. Gah! the first sign of aging! What next?
Because I have more than a ticking crocodile chasing after me and (consequently) my time, I'll leave off with a poem I wrote a while back. It fits the subject.
Tick, tock, clock; the rhythm of life never stops.
The journey unceasing, the hands
ever reaching,
the circular motions, likes waves of
the ocean,
are going around till the chime
finally sounds.
Tick, tock, clock; like water that’s spilling,
the hourglass filling,
the cup’s never brimming,
the tired hands spinning,
‘round a face full of wrinkles
and I s with a twinkle.
Tick, tock, clock; the whirling and winding
and spinning is blinding.
The gears are all rusting,
the springs are near busting,
you wind it too tight
and it doesn’t work right.
Tick… tock… stop. A tired antique finally makes
a retreat.
The hands at last quit, the clock
isn’t fit
to give one more chime. It’s all out
of time.
Hope you've enjoyed... Like the white rabbit, I've no time, no time at all.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The ONE the ONLY!!
ME!
My name is Michal, resurrected from the biblical text (second daughter of Saul, wife of David) so I guess that makes me royal. [ahem]Quiet from the peanut galleries! Anyway, I'm an aspiring writer of young-adult novels, mother, artist, and all-purpose slave. I cook, I clean, I sew, I taxi--but only when I'm not writing, and only when I'm forced. Gardens excite me, shopping's a thrill, but playing God trumps them all. My literary worlds are without end: romance, action, adventure and mystery, fantasy upon fantasy, and plot bunnies multiplying under the bed.
I have two novels under my belt, a half-dozen beginnings to more, and an insistent sequel riding my thoughts. In between my dreams of reality and the nightmare that is, I decide who lives or dies and, let me assure any of my worried fans, none of my children (imagined or otherwise) is being needlessly neglected. All are fed and watered and given their necessary supplements, medications, sedatives, etc... The sequel is being written, the re-writes are on schedule, and dinner, um... I'll have to get back to you on that.
Until later,
MAP
My name is Michal, resurrected from the biblical text (second daughter of Saul, wife of David) so I guess that makes me royal. [ahem]
I have two novels under my belt, a half-dozen beginnings to more, and an insistent sequel riding my thoughts. In between my dreams of reality and the nightmare that is, I decide who lives or dies and, let me assure any of my worried fans, none of my children (imagined or otherwise) is being needlessly neglected. All are fed and watered and given their necessary supplements, medications, sedatives, etc... The sequel is being written, the re-writes are on schedule, and dinner, um... I'll have to get back to you on that.
Until later,
MAP
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