Become Effortless

Families are Forever

2011-05-17T16:10:00.002-06:00

I should be packing. I should be tossing things in the garbage bin. I should be taking a damned nap. I am so hell bent today I am bothering myself. I have eight brothers and sisters. Just last year my third-to-the-oldest brother didn't recognize me in a public venue, though I stood in front of him grinning like a fool for five minutes straight. I tried several times to plan parties to bring at least the sisters together, only one unfailingly showed. I am going to get into a lot of trouble with this note, I am sure. But I am past caring. I lived for many years thousands of miles from my 'kin'. There was a viable excuse then for distance. I heard from them more, if you can believe it. Now I am exactly two hours in any direction of all of them, save one, who is thousands of miles from me. Apparently the roads can be travelled by me just as easily, the phone can be lifted by me as well, emails can be written, people can be contacted, at my behest. I suppose if I want to know my family, it is up to me to make the effort. I do not think any of them are willing. Is this what adulthood does? I remember brothers so tall their heads scraped the ceiling, they would swoop me up over their shoulders like a sack of potatoes and tickle me til I couldn't breathe. I remember sisters so beautiful, I wished with all my heart I could be them. We had pickle eating contests, we bottled vegetables, sticky arm against sticky arm, cutting kernals off of corn, shucking beans and skinning tomatoes. We roamed the confines of our tiny town, discovering hide outs, playing tag, offering help to our neighbors. We crouched in the heat of the sun, weeding the never ending rows of vegetables in the garden. We climbed trees, more often than not, I had to be rescued. We fished.. always munching on licorice and bbq potato chips. Dad taught us how to bait our hooks, how to gut our fish, mom taught us how to chase a fish off the line, right into the water, and grab the things in a flurry of words and splashes, she rose with gasping fish clasped so hard in her hands it was gushing blood. We sang in the car, we entertained one another in church (yes, I attended church quite faithfully for a portion of my life), we brushed and braided one another's hair, and soothed each other when shit hit the fan. We jumped to the defence of one another, unless, of coarse it were the parents that attacked, then we blamed one another. Sometimes we would take the fall for each other. Thank you for that. We beat each other up, spit words into each others faces, and apologized when we made one another cry. We attended events through out our lives to celebrate one another, to celebrate accomplishments, to love one another. To love one another. To love. Which is not what we are doing in our adult lives. Loving one another. There is church. There is work. There are kids. There is life. There is no priority here. We do not love one another. We don't even recognize each other. We don't know a thing about the people we have become. We will definitely come running for a crisis, we will raise funds, we will rescue each other.. thats our duty. But will we celebrate each other? No. We won't even commit to a few hours visit. I am a lost abandoned girl. I have eight brothers and sisters. Two parents. I know nothing of most, save their names.

Something

2010-06-08T12:18:00.000-06:00

I've spent the morning drinking coffee, making the bacon, listening to music online. I checked my email, the status of my friends all over the place, posted some comments, and so now bare with me. I am feeling creative, I want to share. Anything, something. I feel as though I don't want to bother the world with my blather. Because what do people do with their lives in the every day. They work. They bleed. They feel their momentary torturous monotony. I am bored. I don't have work today, but feel like reaching out. Reaching with all my might. But to whom? Do I feel like immersing myself in humanity? No. Do I feel like painting? No. Do I really want to be someone's burden for the day? No. I thought, perhaps I will shop. It's not appealing. So what do people do, when they have nothing else, and they want to be involved, but don't want to pull from a place no one else will really understand? Blog. Will anyone read it? Probably not. But, at least its out there. I should be productive. I should be cleaning out closets. Organizing something. I should be working. But, when there is no work to be had... what else is there? I could read a book, but I don't want to dunk myself in someone else's theology. I could watch a movie.. but again with the living in another's fantasy... I could go for a walk, but it is hot. I don't like the heat. Perhaps a swim, you say? Nah. The pool was clogged by errant children throwing rocks. Its noon. I am whining about boredom with plenty to do. When you crave something extraordinary, there has to be an outlet. Maybe not. I guess I will tackle a closet or two. Rid my house of excess crap. Useless shit that just sits like a reminder... stuff is just stuff. Can't take it with you when you die. Having not seen nor used it in a few years adds testiment to the fact that it belongs in a bin somewhere else. I am disappointed with this adult life. All through childhood, I yearned for more years. In my teen years, I wanted my twenties. In my twenties, I yearned for stability. In stability, I yearn for adventure. Is this human nature? To always want more and more and more? To want something different from what you have? Not just more material things, but wisdom.. experience.. something. Something. As a child, I had the extraordinary circumstance of eight brothers and sisters.. a disease that made all of the hair fall from my head. As a teen, I travelled across the nation, eating hot dogs boiled in stands on street corners. I moved to Alaska, had three children and played in a band. I have worn every imaginable color in the spectrum on my head. I have painted, drawn, sung, danced, served, and feel like I am standing still. Completely frozen in this time. Like life is sort of slipping by while I am held behind glass.. watching it take place. I am not close to my family. I have a handful of friends. I work on occasion, when the opportunity arrives. I am bored. Is it a lack of melodrama? Is it a lack of 'to do'? I want to fill my life with color. With beauty. With uncommon imagery. Something.

A contented sigh interrupting the chaos of this life

2010-05-26T10:32:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I went to a spa in Salt Lake with a couple of co-workers and friends. The first thing that struck me about the place was how un spa like it looked from the outside. Not all things can be judged by their shell. So, with out much trepidation, we enter its soft, mimimalist insides. The place was pristine, linear. There wasn't a speck of dust to be found. Not anywhere. The only flaw I could really detect aesthetically, were the scratches on the floor from heavy furniture being rearranged.

We were given rubber slippers and waffle patterned kimono bath robes. We walked through a papered sliding door, where we are given a small introduction to the spa. We change and make our way to a very well lit, clean relaxation area. They offer a buffet of tea, water with cucumber and lemon slices, water with orange slices, almonds and dried apricots. There are books on a small glass table in the center of the room, large white cushioned chairs surround the table. There are live orchids in a large pot facing us.

We are early, so we decide to enjoy the amenities. There is a black tiled steam room with a beautiful geode on display. It is nearly the only thing descernable about the space, other than the reflected white of our wraps. The steam is eucalyptus infused, and leaves you feeling like you are cleansed, from your core out. After a while we visit the sauna. It is dry in there, and the heat melts our plastic water cups. We talk, a kind of heat induced delirium loosing our tongues.

All of the treatment rooms held representation of the five elements; Fire-candles, water-tub or shower or sounds, earth-orchids or plants of some kind enhabited each space (these were real, not plastic replicas), metal- from the adornments on the walls to the steel basins for bathing, wood- there were wooden chairs tall wooden poles in large pots in corners wooden shelves wood and rice paper doorways.

Each woman had a different experience, I am sure. Mine is one I wish to keep, to savor, but I can say it was nothing short of incredible. The therapists were unassuming, polite, articulate, focused and very skilled. There was a sense of sincere care for the body, the mind, the makeup that is who I am. Which is what I had been needing. So much so that the feeling of wholeness has lingered into today, appealing to me to be healthier, to care for myself and my family better. To be wholesome.

I am truly greatful for this momentary escape. Even though it wasn't an escape to another world, it really felt like it was. A contented sigh interrupting the chaos of this life.

Quiet

2010-02-17T12:09:00.001-07:00

There's just something about the roll and crash of the drum. The sound of a longing voice, singing of love lost and rain. Such joy in the crisp, clean blues scale, reverberating from keys. There is an appreciation for the guitar, but the more subdued version. Who needs ripping riffs of electric discoarse? A deep bass issues lazily, as though it just occured to its strings that its time to sing.

Flowers on the table, perched in a yellow pot painted by small hands. A sprig in the bottle blue, contents long sipped and gone. It is a day of introspection, a day of deep contemplation, a day the clouds threaten to burst. Rather they float along, various shades of white, gray and black. The mountain hides cleverly behind a veil of fog.

Phone calls ignored, the bath is drawn. Too early for champagne and strawberries, though the scene calls for it. A book, perhaps, something new, heavy and strongly written, with just enough left to the imagination, so the reader can relate. A cup of hot hibiscus tea, sent from a faraway land in a package that makes the heart soar.

Quiet. A hunger awakens. Time to lunch.

Coffee at McDonalds

2010-02-17T09:09:00.003-07:00

I don't care what the reputation is. The American Fork McDonald's employees, especially the morning shift are WAY too enthusiastic. The girl that took my order this morning asked me very congenially, or rather the pre-recorded order greeter version of that girl, if I would like to try a hot chocolate topped generously with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I must admit, it did give me pause for thought. That really did sound good. Then, knowing that was a recorded message, I suddenly felt really uncomfortable. Do I politely decline? Will the person on the headset be ready for me? Will they know what I am refusing? I stammered a no. The girl taking my order actually giggled while asking what she could get me. I wondered if she knew of my trepidation. Am I supposed to order the hot cocoa? Did I make a mistake in judgement? I order a mocha coffee. Large. I hate mocha. She all but sang my total to me. Curiosity piqued, I had to see who this very very morning morning person was. When I pulled up, she was there, leaning down against the tiny metal platform that is a window sill. "HI!!! And good morning!" she shouts out to me. As if I am 400 miles away. She has several different neon colored loops decorating the outer curve of her ear. Top to bottem. She is a bit chubby, with perfect teeth. I smile and hand her my money. She makes my change and thrusts it with my receipt into my window. "There you go!!! You have a fantastic day, and ENJOY that mocha!!!" Have I traversed to an alternate universe? I pull to the next window. A handsome latino man pushes my coffee into my hand, leaning his whole upper body out the window (I feared he might fall between the small space of my car and the building) while saying, (all in one fluid motion) "Goodmorningma'amhaveagreatdayenjoyyourcoffee!!" The window slides closed almost as quickly as it had opened.
I am sitting in my car. I am dumbfounded. Perhaps not yet awake. I sip my mocha. The window opens again. "Everythingokay?" Oh. Oh! Yes, yes I'm sorry, I don't know why I am just sitting here. Only I didn't say any of that. I just looked at him funny and threw the car in gear, pulling away. Nothing like being your socially awkward self first thing in the morning. Helps get the blood pumping.

Peace, Love, and Kindness to each other... no I haven't been smoking anything.

2010-02-04T14:54:00.002-07:00

Today, while I was in the bank, listening to their horrendous elevator music and waiting in line.. I had an epiphany. Well. Not so much as an epiphany, but a realization. There were only two tellers, and the line quickly formed through the lobby. Its a smaller branch, and so I was surprised that so many people had converged all at once. I was third in line, but had waited for around ten minutes in total. The two tellers, one on the phone helping a customer, the other busily dealing with another upset customer, were seemingly swamped. There were customers at each of the specialty banking desks, the bank manager trying to sort out a mess or two with them. Behind me a man stood reading an article from a finance magazine he plucked off a table when he arrived, which was five short minutes after I had. Concluding his business with the specialty banker, the manager, half ran to his office, apologizing to the horde of people in the lobby for the wait. The man behind me snidely remarks,"Well, then lets us DO something about it, shall we?" I had a sudden rush of annoyance with this impatient man. The bank manager took up a station, and began completing transactions with great vigor. I was up to the window in seconds. The teller caring for me blushed and apologized for the 'long wait'. I laughed heartily and half turned, "It really, REALLY wasn't that long. You are doing a fantastic job!" . We conducted our business in a matter of moments, the teller was quick and efficient with his duties, and I was impressed. When I turned to leave, I came eye to eye with snide man jackassery... he half snorted as he rushed the teller window. And then it dawned on me. Like a light shining from an ultraviolet bulb... people are too rushed these days, so rushed that they unwittingly, or perhaps very wittingly trample other people because of their sense of self importance.

Recently I have been involved in a battle of sorts, with some people that have the art of jackassery down to a perfected T. Obtusely, they argue their 'side' of things, never really stopping to realize the kind of hurt, and hypocrasy they are spouting. It is important that when accusing one person or another of atrocities, or unatoned sin, that you check your own moral code... to be sure you aren't guilty of commiting those atrocities against the very person being accused. Life is hard. There is nothing in it that is certain or guaranteed.. except perhaps that it will eventually end. People experience a multitude of different things. Maybe the manager of the bank was having a really hard day. Maybe he woke up late, stepped in dog pooh from the neighbor's dog on the way to his car, and walked into work to find two of his employees called in sick with the flu. Maybe the people shouting about the boulders I have dealt with in my life are blissfully unaware of the hurt they are imposing. Maybe not. Maybe they want to inflict pain. Then again, maybe they are having growing pains. Maybe they woke up one day, realized they hadn't chosen to actively participate in their responsibilities of this life, and needed someone to point the finger at.

The point is, that it really doesn't matter. It isn't necessary to be a jackass to someone else, because you perceive in one way or another that that person is your mortal enemy for causing a moment or even a lifetime of uncomfortable grief. There isn't any satisfaction in entering into battle with someone, or imposing yourself on someone for your own gain. How hard is it to just say, "yes, there was a bit of a wait, but its okay.. because I was able to read a really great article in this magazine I found in your lobby." How hard is it to say," yes, I have chosen to negate my obligations in this life, and I am sorry, I would like to rectify that now." Then actively prove that the statement made is true by DOING it.

I don't mean to sound preachy. I have been guilty a time or two of being ugly, of saying brash and rude things to people because I felt they had wronged me in some way or another. I just feel... well, okay, its going to sound ultra cheesy, but this verse has been rolling in my head for days, "Let us all speak kind words to each other..." I feel better when I respond to something I don't like in a positive way. When I open the proverbial can of worms to negativity, I feel like ... shit. For hours I feel bad. For days sometimes. Its worse when I am 'mean' to someone I don't know.. and for what? Because I had to stand in line? There are definately worse things out there. You cause someone to feel bad, and that ripples on through the people in that person's life, then in turn ripples to all the people in the lives of the people in the original person's life... and so on. Pretty soon, a whole community of people are infected by your negative vibe. Lets pass some kindness around. Lets have patience for one another. Everyone has a responsibility in this world... some of that responsibility should be to one another.

*sigh*

Now that THAT is out of my system, I'm going to go lie in a giant field of daisies, and dream of world peace. ;) Love to all.

2010-01-05T09:49:00.000-07:00

So, today is day three nicotine free. I had a half of a thirty two ounce Pepsi on Sunday, and have been able to keep to the guidelines I made for myself. I'm careful about eating, and portion.. which is incredibly hard to do when you quit smoking. Everything smells so good. Everything. I can smell a fresh cut apple from a mile away, no joke. Taste too! Everything, everything everything I eat tastes like its magnified. The citrus is bright and cheery, the spice extra spicy, the meat extra meaty. Maybe I'm crazy, but I feel like a brand new person, learning all over again.

I incorporated a new mouth care routine to my quit smoking campaign. Its obsessive, and a little neurotic, but it works for me. I think because I spend five ten minutes caring for my teeth, gums, tongue .. whatnot, and my mouth is so minty clean, the last thing I want is to dump an ashtray into it. I pre-rinse with a whitening solution, rinse with water, floss, rinse with water, brush, rinse with water, rinse with listerine, rinse with water. It literally takes five ten minutes. Also, I carry around those little pseudo toothbrush things... whisps, that look like tiny plastic toothbrushes and have a little dot of pepperminty gel in them... I chew and chew on that until its right mutilated. Because I am trying to be healthy, tone my body, and watch my weight, I don't want to replace smoking with something edible. So, Whisps it is... I also allow myself four pieces of licorice, and two or three mints a day. And I drink a TON of water.

Yesterday I drank two cups of coffee. That says a lot. I am the girl that will drink three pots a day. No caffeine headache.. that I could discern, but I had WICKED nicotine with drawls. I was really kind of rotten, and felt a little spun. Shaky, cranky, impulsive, jumpy and reactive. Like a volcano. I felt really horrible on and off all day, nauseated, then just mean. I felt like ripping some one's vocal chords from their throat, just because I could. There were a lot of compulsive behaviors. I find myself not really knowing what to do with my hands. So I clean. Whatever I come across.. whether it is clean or not. I made home made wheat bread yesterday afternoon... just beat the hell out of it, to release some of the nonsense aggression I felt.

It is amazing to me, how much time there is to accomplish things. You wouldn't think that would be a big factor.. but when you are stepping outside to smoke fifteen to twenty times a day for ten minutes at a time... your wasting nearly four hours a day. I find myself wanting to go to bed earlier, wanting to wake up earlier, then wondering why... uuuuh. I really can't wait for the obsessive part of this process to be over. I am overcome with thoughts of smoking and food. Ridiculous.

Okay, so yesterday... I also completed thirty minutes of cardiovascular exercise. .. . walked to the store and back, walked halfway home from work, and completed four massages.

Today, I am focusing on my arms. Bicep curls, tricep kick backs, and shoulder presses. I am going to get my manicure and pedicure Nick gave me for Christmas, need to pay the rent and car payments, maybe get some groceries, and ... who knows. My impulse is to fill every second of the day.. but I can't think of a thing to do. My workday is done already.. and now I am afraid I have all the time in the world to think about.. you guessed it, food and smoking. Pah!

A head full of nonsense

2010-01-03T06:38:00.001-07:00

There's nothing quite like waking up at five in the morning, on a Sunday, while your kids are gone for the evening, for no apparent reason. Waking up, completely, no lingering moment of tiredness, no full body stretch, no tingling of the brain. Asleep and dreaming. Awake and aware. The ceiling of my room hasn't changed a bit. My eyes open and swirling in the plaster and paint above me is a Mary Poppins-esq blob of chimney sweeps dancing around. Least, that's what I like to imagine they are.

Of coarse there are the obligatory morning rituals. Get up, go to the bathroom, brush teeth, put on robe, percolate coffee. These are usually sluggish chores. Today.. I don't know. I don't feel like there was an end to yesterday or beginning to today... but I'm not at all tired. In fact, I feel more awake this morning, than I have ... in a very long time.

The coffee did boil over, and all that is left in the cupboard for breakfast is a bag of Crispy Rice that has been opened from the middle. This makes me smile. There are bright red arrows in a large strip of yellow pointing to a perforated strip and it all but BEGS to be opened along that line. There's a resealable opening!, it practically shouts. Not in my house of little men. Nope. It was torn in a jagged forced line, halfway down the middle of the bag, deep into the guts of the bag. Who am I to complain? I half pour half dump (because lets face it, you can't pour any kind of cereal out of the middle of a bag with out some spillage) the contents of the thing into a large Tupperware. Aware that this tiny little act of motheriness is going to make life a tiny bit easier for the boys tomorrow. It is a small and satisfactory bit of hero-ess-ness.

I begin to feel a tiny bit nauseated. I eat some of the Crispy Rice. I take inventory of the fridge. It amazes me how much my little men can eat. That fridge is full one minute and bare bone dry the next. Let's see, half eaten green jello, expired whipped cream, a gallon and a half of milk (no doubt because the boys aren't here this morning), bottled asparagus, bottled jalapenos, two scoops of freshly made salsa, an egg, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup, ranch, mustard, a very small hunk of pepper jack cheese, coffee cream, muenster and swiss, five tomatoes, two limes, and a half chopped onion. I need to go shopping before the guys come home. Freezer? Ice cream and pie crust.. well, and a gel pack for clients (by clients, I mean me.. and Nick).

I sigh and resign myself to my Crispy Rice over computer time. I learn from MSN homepage that I can get spectacular dating tips from the top bartenders across the country. This makes me giggle. When I was in the band in Alaska, we catalogued the cheesy pick up lines we were given or overheard. I still wonder which band mate ended up with that book. Signing in to facebook, I discover many things. There's a lot one can learn about one's self if one appeals to the glory of facebook. Today, in the span of half an hour or so.. because I began writing this at around five thirty, I learned that today will be a good day for me astrologically, and in the sphere of love. I learned that several of my friends gave me hearts, which in turn made my heart beat faster. I learned one friend loved the movie she watched, another is discovering Netflix, another hates cheese, another is thankful for socks, someone enjoys real California sand in her shoes, someone else has a beautiful new hat from Christmas... oh, it goes on and on. I discover that I am going to be married, or standing at the altar in ten years. My personality is green today, meaning I am ready for an adventure.. that may be the coffee taking affect. And today God wants me to know that I can be loved if I let myself be. I love the pictures that my friends have posted of their holiday exploits, everyone looking so happy.

Sigh.

I think my intention was to wear myself out, kill time til Mr. Sandman made me dreamy again. Didn't work. Its unnaturally quiet in this apartment... there are no slamming doors, no neighbor movement... just quiet, except of coarse the clicking of my fingers on keys. I don't want to disturb the peace of it. The television will be too jutting, too intrusive on such a morning, and music doesn't suit, because it will change the mood. It's still dark outside, and cold cold cold, or I might entertain a walk. I crack my knuckles, roll my feet around on my ankles, breathe deep and sit up straight. I wish I had a good book. I wish I could call someone. I feel like socializing. No one is home.

Just me and my head full of nonsense.

December Gives Me Heartburn

2009-11-30T16:44:00.000-07:00

I'm sure everyone else experiences this too. It isn't JUST the rich foods, the tasty desserts, the overload of holiday delight, I'm sure of it. It is the pressure. I love the holidays. I love the ambiance that this time of year brings. But, I hate HATE the commercial pressure.

I'm almost positive that my sons would understand, and be okay with Christmas not being over the top, or just getting one or two things... however, I know that they would secretly hope that isn't the case. Heartburn.

I have the expense of fixing my car, paying my rent, the car payment, the insurance, the utilities, doctors, food, gas, student loans, and three little men that are growing out of their clothes faster than I am capable of replacing them .. heartburn. Now, I have to figure in purchasing Christmas gifts. I am gainfully unemployed. Well, sort of. I am on the payroll of two different independent contracted companies (meaning little miss pays her own taxes), chiropractor and physical therapy. I have heard nothing from the chiropractor this week, and do not start at the physical therapy office until Friday. If you earn over 30% of your unemployment insurance you are denied. There goes the money for this week... because I did work 8 hours last week. *sigh*

Perhaps I am not cut out for this Adult life. Heartburn.

I don't mean to whine. I really have nothing to whine about. My neighbor just below me lost her son three weeks ago. He had Downs Syndrome and went for a valve replacement for his heart. She brought him home, had him here for three days, and ended up taking him to Primary Children's hospital. He passed away from a blood clot. He was 13. I hear her crying on her balcony often. I found myself sitting on her couch at midnight last night, watching home video's of her son. She said she had been doing pretty well, until she went shopping for Christmas. I didn't know what to say. I just brought her head to my shoulder and held her hands and felt horribly guilty for selfishly and secretly being grateful that my sons were alive.

Things seem really hard and really oppressive all over. I know this isn't the happiest post in the world. It is, however, from my heart. Jedidiah had a little best friend that lived nearby. She came over one day to tell him goodbye. She said she and her sisters, baby brother and mother were going to live in their car, they had been evicted. Her momma lost her job. There were six of them. When I spoke to her mother, she said that they were going to live with her boyfriend's mother, but the stipulation was that they had to be gone most of the time. She said they were packed into two very small rooms, but she was happy she wouldn't have to live in her car. I am grateful that somehow, we were blessed with the resources we needed to get by these last few months. I am grateful to know that even if we hadn't been, we would have somewhere to go.

I am sorry I seem melancholy. I am missing my family. It's strange, all those years I didn't see anyone, there were miles and miles of land, stone, water and an entire country to blame. Living in Alaska was really hard. Really lonely. But sometimes I feel more lonely here. I know it works both ways. I guess my excuse now is transportation. The bus only goes so far, and it doesn't go as far south as those southern folks. The northern folks, yes.. but only during certain times of the day, on certain days. Its really hard adjusting yourself to public transportation...

Tomorrow I am interviewing for another position as a chiropractic assistant. I am going to ride the bus from one end of the valley to the other checking on my resumes. I will have my morning ritual of coffee and meditation, and it will be a bright new day. I will take a tablespoon of Pepto and deal with my December heartburn. It was not my intention to bring anyone down. I think maybe having too much time on my hands makes me concentrate on the difficulty of life.

Job Hunting. A Joy.

2009-11-07T19:43:00.002-07:00

Rising early, filling out applications, completing the resume, drinking coffee. Sounds pretty bleak. Also, it isn't really a proper sentence, nor is it a proper opening to a paragraph. But, since when have I ever cared what the rules were. Does anyone even really know what the rules are these days, anyway? I haven't seen nor read proper grammar or punctuation since the birth of text messaging.

Back on point. An arduous ride to the mall, where I am filled in with news of woe. I wondered for a few months at the prospect of changing the boundaries of an already flimsy relationship to one where power is ultimately transferred. So I was glad to hear I was not the chosen one. A friend was renting her home, and chose a different tenant, who was willing to pay more. I was truly happy for her, as it will absolutely relieve some burden she has been shouldering.

I missed the Friday movie date with my friends. Something we only just recently began to do. This time they were going to watch a flick that my boyfriend and I planned to see together. I decided not to go, because I promised him I wouldn't see it without him present. This had happened, regretfully, once before. Unfortunately, it was a movie based on a book that I really loved. Now the mere mention of the title leaves a rustic bitter taste in my mouth.

I went, instead to the Mall to turn in applications. I was thinking at my age, with my professional-ish back ground, I could land a job in any one of those little shops. I wandered in to one that features and focuses on women's clothing and accessories. I was excited and nervous. I had never worked in retail, and really thought I might find that it was something I would enjoy. The girl fidgeting with a sweater, trying to fold it in that boxy, organized, mall fashion.. lit up like a Christmas tree and welcomed me like I was the long lost sister she never had. Until I told her I was there to apply for work.

Then it was absolutely on. First, they were out of applications. This line was delivered in a sickly sweet dagger to the throat voice that sent chills up my spine. I just smiled, saying I already had an application, and resume, and could I speak to the manager of the store if she is in, please? She all but threw the sweater on the counter as she went into 'the back'. I thought I was going insane. Why on earth would this very seemingly nice normal person behave in such a way to a prospective peer?

Because. I was competition. I had just barely handed my application and resume to the manager, when she sized me up and said she absolutely would love to welcome me to her team. BUT. But, they would only pay minimum wage, hours were only guaranteed by my own will to compete with my co-associates, and it was temporary. Very Temporary. I think perhaps this was her way of intimidating young, floundering applicants that thought, way cool a job at the mall. Then I realized.

This job is so not for me. I need to feed myself and three kids. I could absolutely apply. I could absolutely compete. But I need guarantees. So I gingerly took the application back. Smiled at the vicious, seething, sweater folding lioness, and held my head high as I exited the building.

My head was so full of what to do at that point, I wandered to the transfer station and decided to wait for the bus. I really wasn't sure where I thought I might be going. I knew I wanted to head back north, maybe turn in my resume at some different spa's maybe a chiropractor's office.. I really didn't know. I sat on the concrete slab that resembled a bench and plugged my headphones into my head. There were people there, of coarse, waiting as well.

For some reason, the bus intimidates the hell out of me. I think maybe because when I went from Kindergarten to first grade, I thought I would be riding the early bus home with my siblings, so I ran and boarded it during last recess thinking everyone else was wrong. I didn't really know I had boarded the wrong bus, and couldn't figure out why no one was recognizable.. and big. The bus began pulling out by the time my six year old instinct told me I was on the wrong bus. I was too scared to say anything, because I thought the driver would yell at me. So I sat frozen. My teacher had come out before we could pull out on the highway. Apparently someone had radio'd all of the buses and described me. I was humiliated.

So, when the very first bus pulled up, all I noted was the number on the side. I didn't pay attention to the direction it was running. I had been palming my money with a sweaty hand for nearly fifteen minutes awaiting its arrival. When I stepped into the aisle, something hit my gut like a rotting tomato. I just knew, just knew for some reason, I had boarded the wrong bus. So I sat down. I looked around. Nothing on the inside tells you where you are going. I was alone, and didn't really want to bother the driver. So, I just sat as he pulled out, then began to panic when he turned the wrong direction. Hands shaking, face red as a beet, I pulled the 'rip' cord as soon as I realized. It was maybe a half a block from the mall.

Embarrassment surged, so I chose to walk it off. I called my father and spoke to him. He advised me to write a selling statement at the top of my resume, like an advertisement. He explained that this was a good way to draw interest for the reader, because the reader no doubt, is presented with hundreds of resumes for any given job. I told him about my bus debacle. He laughed. He said he was sure he didn't know anyone in this world that had more fun than me. This lifted my spirits considerably.

I crossed the street then crossed again. My boyfriend called to offer words of encouragement. I text him that I had got on the wrong bus. His bolstering, his understanding, gave me courage to try again. He cautioned me to catch the bus on the east side of the road. He said he loved me, that he didn't think me an idiot for catching the wrong transit.

Feeling loads better, and finally on the right bus, I formulate a plan. I will go to the school and visit with the ladies in career services about job opportunities. Along the way, I ran into my recruiter, who hugged me and told me I looked beautiful. Then I went in and picked up the job listings I had come for. The girls made such a fuss over me, my ego was boosted, and I felt ready to conquer the world. I love visiting my school.

I decide to just take the listings and map out a plan. To write proper cover letters, resumes geared to the job I am seeking, and hit the ground running Monday. I board the bus adding mapping out a bus route to the list.

Job hunting. A joy.

Gaaaaaaaaaarumph! Sigh.

2009-11-04T17:08:00.002-07:00

Gasping and twisting, tearing off her too warm covers.. she dumps herself with a thud off the side of the bed. She finds her knees, peaking up over the side, he still snores. She illuminates her cell phone. "Good Grady, six o'clock." There is a strange loud siren issuing from the kitchen. She half crawls to the door, pulling herself up by the handle. Halfway down the hall she knocks at her son's door.. he pops his head out from under the covers, blinded and swollen eyed."Is that your alarm?" He shuffles out the door to the kitchen. Its his cell phone. She scratches her head, turns and waddles down the hall, pausing to wake up the other two. She crawls back to bed, drifting, drifting, drifting... slipping off to sleep, her words following after. There is a shout outside her door, bringing her upright, and breaking her dreamy thought. She clambers once again (because clambering is what people do when they are in that state of half sleep) through the door and into the hallway. Her younger two boys are engaged in a wrestling match, interrupted, bulging eyes at the beast towering over them. "Sorry, mom," "Sorry." They both jump to resume readying for school. STOMP STOMP STOMP her feet carry her down the hall once again. She prepares coffee with one eye open, then frumpily slumps on the corner of the couch to wait. The boys are ready, they come and hug her about the neck on their merry way to school.

She pours the cream, noting its almost empty, adds a tibbit of sugar.. not much as she isn't big on the sweet, and dumps coffee into her mug. It splashes her robe a bit, but she doesn't take much notice.. a housecoat is a housecoat.. when else will it become dirty if not in the house where it is worn? She settles herself at the computer, checking email, catching up on the news of the weird, wild and furry. Then posts a bit. Information for clientele. Interesting information at that.

She enjoys her coffee while listening to soft bits of violin and piano issue from the speakers. She finds her spirits lifted and emboldened and lifted, thinking to herself how much she love love loves coffee. She pours another cup, contemplating her carpet. No one has vaccuumed in a bit. Apparently the vaccuum is broken. She would see about that vaccuum today. Looking around, its as if she is looking into the world of another being. She sees the big bruise on the lateral dorsal portion of her right foot and wonders.. what happened there... She sees beheaded action figures lying splayed on the couch cushions, the jenga pieces built castle high, the overflowing trash can, the crumbs idle on her countertops. It is all too embarrassing when someone arrives in a strange place to find it filthy and no longer wish to dine or have coffee, but to wake up in that place, realizing it is your own.. strange dose of reality.

She is on her feet, in her bedroom, pulling on brazier, pants, shirt and socks, she is pulling the vaccuum out of the water cupboard. She is unscrewing, unleashing, de-dusting, and emptying the dirtbunnies from its winding tubes, its wheels and cogs. She replaces the belt and washes the collector cup. She replaces its filter, once yellow, now dingy scary gray. She walks to the store picking multi purpose cleaner, coffee creamer, squishy body sponges, body wash and carpet freshener daintily off shelves, humming a bit as she goes. The air is crisp, clean, citrus, fresh cut watermelon. She is bouncing in her shoes. Inspiration upon her. She wants to hand flowers to people at random.. gerber daisies, roses, baby's breath. She wants to smile at the crotchety, the angry, maligned and miserable. It is decidedly beautiful, decidedly wonderful.. and the very air smells of it.

Home she arrives, and he is awake. She makes him coffee, carefully percolates it on the stove. He is in the shower when she delivers the first hot steaming cup. She draws her eyebrows, lines her eyes, moistens her lips and shakes out her hair. She selects an outfit, a little haphazard.. black shirt, blue jeans, hoodie, sneakers.. mismatched socks. One is the color of melon.. the other hot pink. They both say 'no boundaries' in gray across the toe, she assumes this is enough. Taking her wallet, loading her phone with music for the walk, she meets him at the door. They speedwalk to the bus stop. Speed walk for her, slow jaunt for him. They smoke and joke a bit. She is being contradictory, overly bubbly, and he is annoyed but doesnt let it show. They board the bus.

There is a man, so excited about the details of a game. Someone slam dunked over the top of someone else and it was really something when you think of the size of that guy. She sighs and looks out the window. There is a heater vent near her leg blowing hot relentless devils breath into her face. She likes the adventure, but the bus makes her anxious. Along they ride, quiet. Not really conversing so much. She points out some houses that have been up for rent for months. Houses she thinks they could find happiness in. Perhaps. If they dig.

They are at the bus stop. He tells her of the times he has to walk along the dirtpath when it is full of water. She feels upset about this, because she just really wants him to buy some good shoes, but he won't. He never will.

She walks with him all the way to his workplace. They chat. He has to clock in, they hug and kiss, then he is gone. She puts her giant head phones on. She listens to the happy strum of guitar, the sweet words of love, the tapping of the drum and smiles softly. She passes a woman wearing a tie died shirt, saturating the world with patchouli, cough. She sees a bent geriatric woman being gently extracted from a car by a bent geriatric fellow. They are both smiling and giggling. She sees a huge sea bird. A gull? It eats french fries from the parking lot next to Sonic. She shops and walks and walks and shops. There is an unexpected marsh. She has driven through here so many many times.. never having seen it. So she sits in the grass, watches the water sparkle along through the brambles, the weeds, the cat tails, her back to the wall of traffic the wall of humanity.

Her feet take her from shop to shop. There is a nice woman, wanting so badly for her to buy something. The woman suggests little jackets and courderoy pants, the woman suggests large print flower skirts, and shirts that flap funny about the armpit.
She smiles, turns, she wishes she were younger, fairer, richer, something.. something.. something else. Then she goes. She leaves it there, behind her. She doesn't need to compete.

Eventually her feet bring her home. She scrubs, she cleans, alongside her little men. She cooks them pear cinnamon pancakes, eggs and bacon for dinner. She tells them she is going back to work. She tells them she needs to find a job, that they are going to need to be more responsible. They listen seriously, then one begins to cry. He thinks she is going away. That she is not coming home ever again, she feels terrible, not really knowing how he came to such a deduction. She cradles his little bird-like body, cooing and shushing. Its okay little monkey its okay. She explains that her job will be for a certain number of hours a day, that it will mean she will not be home for those hours, but she will be home, she will be home, she will be home... every every day.

They load the dishwasher. They play Jenga. They shower and rest their heads.
She realizes suddenly she forgot about the flowers. She forgot the random people. She blew it off.

Gaaaaaaarumph! Sigh.

Yummy Goodness

2009-09-25T17:15:00.000-06:00

Chocolate cake mix

Vanilla pudding (4 serving package)

Two eggs

1/2 cup sour cream

4 oz. Neufchatel 1/3 less cream cheese (half a pack)

1/4 cup water

1/4 cup oil

Mix all ingredients and bake in greased 13x9 cake pan at 350 degrees until toothpick inserted in middle comes out clean

I liked it warm with coooooold milk. Super yummy goodness.

Yarn

2009-09-23T16:08:00.001-06:00

Oh, the joy of yarn. I love the stuff. I don't have any skill with it, I will never be the masterful creator of scarf, sweater, afghan or beanie... (many have tried to teach me to knit or crochet, and many have failed miserably). I so admire those who have learned to loop, knot, and bring together creations of delight for people like me. I love knit sweaters, booties for big people, booties for little people, blankets, and shawls. I love that someone somewhere was so ingenious, to create yarn, then to pull a ball of it... one long strand, and make something as essential as a covering for the warmth of another. What an incredible thing. Everyone I know uses the skill as a form of stress therapy. Apparently the methodical click clicking of knitting needles, the counting, the sitting for hours watching the growth and development of a creation wrought by your own hands is incredible for the soul. I can just imagine the amount of pride one would feel every time their loved one cuddled under the 'woobie' or donned the sweater, the product of hours of care and devotion they created. I find that I am devoted to the substance because of what it does for me physically. I love the warmth it brings. I love the way it envelopes my body. I love the way it looks. Huge fan of yarn, this one. I love the romance behind it. I picture myself sitting before a big fireplace, a cup of hot coffee in hand, a lovely throw across my knees, a swarthy knit sweater pulled over my body, and a book so intriguing I can't take my eyes from it. I think of cuddling up on the couch with my boys, watching a movie.. toes happy in knit sweater socks.. I think of standing on top of a mountain covered in ice and snow, the full moon glancing and sparkling below, the view of a hundred tiny twinkling lights from windows of houses miles away, a warm knit beanie pulled down across my brow and over my ears, a scarf wrapped around my mouth and face. I love fall for its cool reminder of the beautiful creations stored in boxes, bags and hanging in the back of the closet. This truly is my time of year.

Perfecto!

2009-09-16T16:05:00.000-06:00

Strangely laced

Not at all like the other shoes

Is it that the wearer forgot an eyelet?

No.

All are accounted for

Hm.

Its ill-begotten

Uncomfortable to the uniform eye

Take it out

Start over

Something is still not quite...

What to do?

It isn't right

Can't be fixed

Is it the shoe?

Gotcha!

2009-09-16T15:53:00.000-06:00

They walk around with headphones the size of ear muffs hanging across their necks.

The music issuing so loud it enters the room before they do.

Its fun to pretend, panther-like, walking on the balls of the feet, nary a sound in the movement...

Creep quietly, deftly, pouncing at just the right moment.

They never see it coming.

A loud inspiration- eyes bulge, lips curl, fists fly up ready for battle.

I love being mom.

Arousing affect

2009-08-25T21:35:00.002-06:00

Stepping barefoot outdoors on a blood red shag carpet full of ashes flicked from cigarettes, she inhales deeply, and exhales into her favorite chair. She squints into the sun, her lips grimacing at the brightness of the day. Just over the hump of the nearby mountain she glimpses the dismembered wings of angels, hanging deftly with white puffy clouds against the backdrop of the blue blue sky. She is disappointed that she doesn't feel sorrow or remorse at the sight of their perfect shape. She is aware of the numbness of her soul, it dawns on her that perhaps it isn't numbness, nor apathy, but that she is too lazy to rouse the feelings of her heart. She watches quietly as her wings transform, become serpents, become wisps, become a question mark then nothing. She wonders if they were ever really there. Her reverie is interrupted by the shrieks of a little girl riding a tricycle along the sidewalk. The child's hair blows in her face as she turns to look behind her. A dirt-crusted tiny chubby hand impatiently pushes it from her eyes as she stops her little bike, turns, then completely abandons the thing to join a game of monsters. The woman on the balcony watches peacefully from her chair. She doesn't call out when another little girl takes up the lonely vehicle. She doesn't move at all.

She indulges herself, smelling the kitchens of her neighbors wafting up to her. She imagines pots banging, mothers shouting, children lined up at tables fastidiously studying their pencil lead while daydreaming about being dragon masters and magicians. She sips her coffee and remembers the faces of the people she travelled with on the bus the previous day. The woman whose features were soft under her snores, her neck bent precariously as she dreamed of simpler times, the man with the prosthetic leg, busily reading from documentation dated two years previous, the gentle man with a baby strapped to his belly a little girl holding his pinkie in tow, oh the sounds of that baby's laughter, such joy.

When she rose this morning, the world felt different somehow. But, she is beginning to recognize this deception. For months she has felt something different, something changing. Always in the morning, when the day is new, and she is sipping her coffee while listening to the news. When the day comes to a close, she remembers this manifestation as she closes her eyes to dream, she is reminded, and so again is disappointed. Perhaps the change is slow, perhaps it isn't something to be noticed immediately, perhaps it is a gradual thing. Like the growth of a child. Each day there are very prominent, very different features. The child learns a new word, is able to hold a spoon, can take a few steps, then suddenly one day he is nearly your height and defines words like prosecution at the dinner table.

She finds she is afraid at night. When she hears the muted sounds of the television belonging to the neighbor under her, the opening and closing of the apartment doors across the hall, the shuffling of feet on the concrete stairs outside her door. It is ridiculous. She is a full grown woman after all. But, still. Sometimes a car alarm will go off in the parking lot, ringing for what seems like hours. She always jumps from her bed, parting the blinds briefly to be sure it isn't her own, then scurries back under her covers to pull the blanket over her head. Silly. Sad. True.

She sits on her favorite chair on the balcony of her second story apartment. She watches through the vinyl slats as a man steps from his shiny red car. He carefully lifts a giant fountain cup in one fist as he slowly stands and tucks a book under his preoccupied arm. He teeters a little as he adjusts the waistband of his pants. She watches a hummingbird flit around the lanterns hanging on her eve, a brave one hovers just near her feet a few moments as if to express its annoyance at not finding a meal in their cloth flowers. She giggles.

She observes the sounds of her home. The sigh of the refrigerator door opening, the burble of the coffee pot, the music in the rooms of her children, the creak of the couch cushions as she lowers her body to read. She suddenly realizes that this quiet observation, this poignant simple taste of reality from moment to moment is what she has been missing. It has been reverberating around her all along, but for some reason, she stopped paying attention.

She closes her eyes. She listens intently. She breathes deeply. She places her cheek on the velvety soft pillow of the couch. She observes quietly, recording every tick, step, clang, bang, and aroma. It visits. Happy. Happy.

Nostalgia

2009-07-24T14:16:00.002-06:00

Driving along in my car yesterday, I thought about my boys summer. I wondered what kind of memories they were going to have, reiterate for friends, tell the women they love... I imagine them saying they grew up in a single parent household with their crazy mom that would jump on the furniture and feed them cookies for breakfast. I imagine they would talk about how mom really didn't know everything they did, and the walls they climbed, and the watermelons they sent soaring off the balconies of the neighbors apartments to see them burst upon impact, spilling it's meat and black seeds all over the sidewalk. I wonder if they will exploit their adventures building a shop to overcharge the patrons of the swimming pool for candies you can buy at the local market for twenty five cents. I wonder if they would say mom only had two rules when friends came over, one: you must have fun, and two: you must raid the kitchen when a snack attack is impending. I wonder if they will speak of the long hours of chore doing and laundry folding. I wonder, I wonder.

When I was a little girl there was a big machine gun sort of apparition in the park a half a block from my house. My sister, friends, and I used to walk over there and pretend we were blowing huge holes in cars and trucks as they passed along Main street. We would wave spasmodically at diesels, chucking our arms in the air to be rewarded with long hoots from their horns. There was a little convenience store not far from there where you could refill your 'mug' with soda for ten cents, across the street you could get a brown paper grab bag full of assorted candy and an occasional free popcorn for a quarter. On long summer nights, my brothers and sisters and I would walk to the movie theater, an old beautiful building.. historical I believe, to catch a movie. I loved the way the place smelled, old wood, plaster and butter.. velvet red seats and a floor that wasn't quite even no matter where you were standing. It had a huge velvet curtain that would part when the movie began, to signal everyone to be quiet and pay attention. There was also a stage, but I don't think it was used for anything. Behind our house there was a mound of dirt we claimed for our own. We called it Greenburg Hill. Back then it seemed to be miles away and as big as a mountain. We caught jack rabbits, snakes, lizards.. mostly my brother and I.. then we would chase my sisters with them. That actually makes me giggle. We used to play with skeeters in the irrigation ditch, catching guppies to bring home to an over filled fish tank, climb the pear tree in the horse pasture and eat until we were incredibly sick. There was a rock wall separating our house from the neighbors house that I loved leaning against when it was really hot in the summer, its stone edifice was craggy, but it was always cool, the perfect spot to read. We also had two gigantic trees in the side yard, one was an olive tree, the other birch I think. I loved the olive tree, its bark was kind of loose, so you could peel it off in long strips. One of its branches was really long and sturdy, perfect for a little girl to lay lazy and day dream about being a really important woman some day. Under the shade of that particular tree grew milkweed that was always pregnant with fuzzy caterpillars. We would put them in jars with leaves, feeding them full of all the milkweed they could eat, they would cocoon and transform right before our eyes. My sister shared the miracle of this when I was practically a tot. I remember being worried because the caterpillar disappeared from the jar and all that was left was a big ugly looking sack. Two blocks down the road there was an old house all the neighborhood kids swore was occupied by a witch. The garden of this house always seemed to thrive without attendance, no one ever came or went, there wasn't a car in the drive, and the occupant didn't attend church. One day I schemed to make some money, so I went around knocking doors to see if people would pay me to clean, weed, you know, the stuff people don't like doing, but must be done anyway. I went to her house. She had an impressive collection of glass toppers for electric poles, a couple of pieces of petrified wood, some really cool fossils and yes, a black cat. As far as I could see, she was just a really old, kind of lonely lady. I vacuumed her floor for a quarter.

Now I have small wrinkles appearing at the corners of my eyes and mouth. I have age spots, aches and pains, and a head full of worry. However, I still on occasion, puddle jump when it rains, run fully clothed through the neighbors sprinklers, eat junk and stay up all night telling stories... perhaps the kid residing inside wants to leave an impression for the children the adult in me is responsible for. I hope their fondest memories, most abundant memories are of laughing, dancing, playing, singing and sharing with their mom.

Massage

2009-06-11T14:22:00.000-06:00

I had the weirdest dream.

I was in school, we were setting up to do paraffin wax treatments. Our instructor was telling us that we weren't going to melt the wax completely, just enough that it would have a soft consistancy. She demonstrated, blobbing a giant white chunk on the TA's forehead. Then she pulled out a big black garbage bag and proceeded to pull it over the TA's head, taping it at the neck. She turns to the class, saying we needed to leave the client in this state for fifteen minutes. Looking around the room, everyone wore looks of complacency like this was completely normal.

I spoke up.

"Isn't that going to kill her?"

The instructor looked at me like I was a problem child,"No, actually this treatment is widely recommended, it exfoliates the skin and slows the body's systems down by limiting the amount of oxygen it receives."

I'm apalled.

"Fifteen minutes breathing in a bag is going to kill her!"

I break for the table and pull at the tape around the TA's neck. She struggles with me, batting my hands away. Everyone is gasping and putting their books in front of their faces, they are all laughing at me.

I manage to pull the bag off the TA's face. She is livid, screaming at me. "you idiot!! This is my favorite modality, I have been doing this for twelve years and have yet to have anyone die on my table! You are much too overdramatic!"

The instructor asks me why I came to school in the first place, if not to learn. I tell her its a proven fact that depriving the body of oxygen will kill a person. Everyone in the room is looking back and forth between us. The instructor tells me to leave the room and get a drink of water.

I do.

When I return everyone has completed their treatment. I expected to find a room full of dead people, with my instructor to blame. But, when I walk in, everyone is still alive and all of them have the exact same face. Everyone looks just like the instructor. I only can tell the difference between people by the clothing they wear and the shapes of their bodies. They are all telling me to join them, insisting that I get on the table and complete the treatment.

I ran out of the room, trying to get to the door that exits the building, but it kept moving away from me. It was twenty feet, then zoomed to forty, then was just at my fingertips, but my hands kept going through it like it was never there. Like it was a projection.

When I turned around everyone was singing along with the instructor to a compilation CD. The TA had a guitar and the girl that was sitting at the front desk in the lobby was leaping around throwing confetti in the air.

I woke up laughing.

Weird.

Dah, Dah, Dah dah.

2009-06-08T11:55:00.004-06:00

They are mowing the lawns at my apartment complex. Its raining, cold, and the grass is an incredible green. I wonder at it while I'm sipping my coffee on the balcony in my knit house socks.

I have a red flier for a job posting at my bank sitting under a pile at my desk. I keep thinking I should apply, reading it again and again. It's funny they note that they keep their egos in check and keep a sense of humor in the workplace. When I walk in there, I am always surprised at the music selection. It wafts from the speakers, always some rock tune.

I'm disoriented. I feel like there is some 'should be' that I am to be working on. But, I can't think of anything pending. Maybe it stems from always having some fire or another to put out in this daily life. Come to think of it, all of my days are running together lately.

That is not a bad thing.

I wonder how I would do caring for other people's pets. I wonder if it would be rewarding. The boys have wanted a dog for as long as I can remember. I wonder if they would find happiness in borrowing someone else's for a few hours.

There is a picture on the wall of a cat with a little blue beanie pulled down over it's eyes. When I look at it, I smile. It seems it is smiling from under it's woolen blind fold, completely content with being robbed of its senses. I wish my kids weren't allergic. I might consider a kitten.

What to do today.

There isn't any cereal or eggs. I sent Dylan to pick some up. It amazes me that my child, the eldest, is capable of such a task. I give him a few dollars and tell him to be thrifty. He comes back with change. Again, I am amazed.

Oh, heavens. I guess I should be finding something, anything, to do. Maybe I will pester Nick for awhile.

Mr. Tum Tum Torillo

2009-06-08T11:25:00.002-06:00

We stand at the wash basin, as we often do.

He is washing, and I am trying to prove useful by rinsing..

I turn the water on for each separate dish, then off again after I am done.

I like just standing next to him.

We have just finished off a really beautiful dinner (one of many that he prepared)

My stomach is so full I can't keep it from stretching a bit beneath my skin.

It burbles and grumbles, and I comment on it's unusual size.

He teases, calling me Miss Tuboguts.

Adopting an English accent, I respond,

"oh, I am Miss Tuboguts. I eat and eat all day, I am Miss Tuboguts, don't take my food away."

He is laughing.

I love it when he laughs.

Eyes sparkle, lips pulled back and teeth bared in an uncommon, beautiful grin.

His head tips back, his Adam's Apple jiggles up and down with each chortle.

I continue, I love the response...

"If I am Miss Tuboguts, your my Tum Tum Torillo."

He is laughing so hard he has to double over and collect his breath.

We make up a story about Miss Tuboguts and Mr. Tum Tum Torillo.

It is fun, light, joyous.

I love this about him, the way we play off each other, the way he can turn any situation of discomfort or sorrow and shine a beam of glorious light on it.

He is immensely beautiful to me.

He frowns and presses his lips together, makes a quick intake of breath, eyes brooding EVERY time he is about to make a point that he is unsure you will or will not accept.

He unerringly shares anyway.

I love that he is bold and strong and unafraid of anything.

I have never met anyone so courageous.

He is smart, handsome, and has every little quality I have ever wanted in a man.

I can't believe he chose me.

Lucky, lucky girl.

Happy Things

2009-05-14T11:35:00.004-06:00

I haven't thought about the little things that make me happy in a while....

Nick's freshly shaven face

Bare feet on shag carpet

Clean, fresh laundry

The first cup of coffee

The sound of my sons' laughter

Full, unexpected, uncontrolled, body stretch

Birds twittering to each other

Sunshine

Rain

My mother's laughter

Humming

Silence

Lists of things that make people happy

Candle wax

Books, the way they smell, creak when opened, the fresh knowledge contained in their pages

The absence of television

Pebbles or leaves crunching under foot falls

The sound of pages turning

Crock pot dinners

Jazz music

Friends

2009-05-01T19:53:00.002-06:00

The door creaks open, knob twisting under her palm, she yanks the key from the hole.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! A beautiful chorus from her three young men.

There is a sign strung above the entry way of the hall.

It's purple, gold, green and blue,

Carefully colored and crafted by six little hands.

Her heart swells to bursting.

They built well wishes with their leggo's, they reverently bring each combination out.

They hug her around the waist and shoulders.

The smaller ones with their faces smashed against her abdomen and back, the eldest with his broad shoulders, nestles his face in the crook of her neck.

Ahhhh.

She breathes in this moment, stores it for forever.

This is her grand reward for her role in their lives.

She is grateful for the honor of being their mother, amazed at the consideration, amazed at the thoughtfulness.

Tears stream from her eyes, she kisses the tops of their heads.

What a beautiful family.

Are you Suuure this is supposed to make a tortilla?!?

2009-01-29T18:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight I decided to stay home and organize my house a bit, get a stock of what I have in my cupboards. As I reorganized my pantry (which is about the size of a very small coat closet) I noted that things were not as bad as I originally thought. I've been struggling a bit to feed my sons. That happens sometimes when your the only bread winner of the house and you expect money that just isn't there.

So, my original thought was that we would just continue to get creative with the ramen noodles.. until I went to find some, and we only had six packages left. I thought, well.. that will feed my boys once.. so I turned to the canned goods. I discovered six bags of dried beans, some canned meat substance, canned tomatoes, tomato soup, tomato paste, a can of enchilada sauce, canned peaches, pears and apricots, a huge bag of wheat flour, a comparable bag of white flour, a tub of crisco, some cake mixes and three small jars of salsa. There were a few other odds and ends, corn, peas, baking goods, and beets (of all things). I assess the situation and decide that this is really a good thing. I found a half a bag of potatoes, there's an onion in my fridge, I have some corn meal, salt, and eggs. There was even a bag of powdered milk.

I can do this. I really have a lot of food here.

In the midst of my maddened determination, I call mom. We're chatting along about a bunch of pretty inconsequential stuff, and I ask her if she knows how to make unleavened bread. Because, lets face it, my mother is a bread genius. In my mind anyway.

She says she's never made it, but,"Oh! Wait! I have a recipe here for tortillas that doesn't call for a lot of ingredients!"

I can hear her rummaging through something.

"Just a minute, I'm sorry, my book is a little unorganized. I gave a lesson on oatmeal, AH! Found it, here it is. Now, just wait a minute, let me ..." her voice trails off.

By now I have stood and wandered into the kitchen because I still have a lot to do.

"Okay, NOW, four cups of flour"

"Wait!" I interrupt."I need to go get my pad of paper, I wandered away from it."

"Okay, now I'm ready."

She reads the recipe to me. At one point it calls for me to knead the dough by hand for five minutes.

"That ought to wear out your hands." she absentmindedly comments.

I giggle a bit, and she finishes the instructions.

We talk for a few minutes more, and say our goodbyes.

I take down the slow cooker and pour in some beans, add some tomatoes, some salsa, some beef broth, some spice, and some canned meat substance.

I find my big plastic pink bowl and put four cups of flour, a cup of warm water, a quarter teaspoon of baking powder, a tablespoon and a half of salt, and some oil in the bowl. I begin to knead. I knead and knead. While I'm kneading I think,'that silly mother, doesn't she know I have worked since August on building up the muscles in my hands and arms massaging people..' The thought makes me giggle out-loud and I decide to call her back.

"Um. Mom? This dough looks just like I took a whole loaf of wheat bread and crumbled it into my bowl."

She laughs.

"And what could you possibly mean by kneading for five minutes will hurt my hands.. Don't you know who I am... "

A heartier laugh.

"Well, honey, put a little bit of water in it, about two tablespoons."

I do, and I continue to knead.

"Did you knead it for five minutes?"

"Well I started at nine o' one and now its nine o' six."

"Did you use white or wheat flour?"

"Wheat?!?"

"Okay, well, you have to really beat wheat flour, really stretch the gluten out."

I feel like I'm in one of my massage lectures.

"You have to really pound it and slap it and just really beat it."

I start to drive my fist into the heart of my rock of dough. The boys observe this and think it looks really fun. They wash their hands and beg me for a turn. I let them pound it for a bit,

"Did you let it sit for ten minutes?"

"No. I was trying to get it to stick together."

"Well let it sit."

"Okay, well the boys want to talk to you before they have to go to bed."

I surrender my phone and stand staring at this lump of dough on my counter. She talks to Dylan, to Ben.. the phone dies, so they call her on the other one.. she finishes her conversation with Ben and talks to Jed.

All the while I stand bent over my creation, considering it, never touching it.. Just allowing it to 'stand' for ten minutes.

They finish up, and the phone is turned over to me.

"Well, daughter, what is your dough doing?"

"It just sat there, It didn't do anything!" I cry

She bursts into laughter.

"Should it have done something?"

She's laughing really hard now.

She chokes out,"Well I'm certainly glad it didn't grow legs and walk right off your counter top!"

Now I know why she is laughing.

"Okay, now you need to split it into balls."

I try to tear my lump. It's like ripping through well weaved cloth. I grunt.

"This... Is... RE-ALLY.... HAARD!"

"Well, honey, just pinch it in half, then in half again, and again and again until you have enough to make 18 little balls!"

"Oh, Pinch it?!? I was just tearing it into pieces.. wow, they look a lot like when you take a whole piece of bread and squish it into a ball... there are these little crevices, almost like cracks..."

My voice trails a little.

"Then add a little water to them."

"I dunno, the recipe says they'll be really dry..." I respond,"Did you say little balls? Because these are about the size and consistency of golf balls.."

Again she breaks out into a hearty laugh. She laughs and laughs and laughs. I can imagine her face turning red, her hands rising up and slapping her legs as she rocks back and forth on her seat.

Its really hard to form the balls, but I finally complete the task.

We talk a little more, because the balls are supposed to sit for another ten minutes.

We are carried away in our conversation.

She asks,"Well, how did they turn out?"

Oh, shoot.

I was making tortillas.

"I haven't rolled them out yet."

"Do you have any PAM or non-stick spray?"

"HECK NO!! That stuff is of the devil. I almost hate it as much as margarine," I chide,"That stuff is one ingredient away from what it's packaged in.. and PAM is mostly alcohol! You may as well just pour a shot of whiskey into your skillet!"

She is laughing really hard now.

She catches her breath,"Pour a little olive oil or canola, or whatever you use onto the counter-top and roll your balls out with that. Just don't use flour."

"Oil?!? Right on my counter-top?!?"

I do as she says, pouring a dollop of olive oil on my counter. I use a paper towel to make my work surface, then grease up my rolling pin. I plop a rock hard ball into the center of the oily spot and try to squish it. Nothing. It doesn't give at all.

I must've been grunting and complaining, because she says,"Pinch it a little, slap it flat, throw it on the counter and hit it until it's flat! Wheat flour is really resistant, you have to work it to make it pliable."

"My kids have gone to bed, I don't want to make too much noise and wake them."

But I do as she says anyway. I roll, it cinches back to its original shape, like a great elastic blob. I roll again, and again, and again. FINALLY. Its somewhat flat, and somewhat thin. I step back and take a look.

"Well. It looks like a great flat blob of excrement. Or, have you ever seen rubber puke.. I would compare it more to that, because its kind of splatted. Its about three inches across, and maybe two hand lengths high, with all these little weird tendrally branches."

I pick off a piece and plop it on my tongue.

"UUUUUGHHHH!!!! It TASTES like PLAYDOUGH! Did you ever eat playdough as a child?!?"

She's laughing so hard she can't really talk.

"Holy cow, you should go to the lady that gave you this recipe and tell her your daughter is pretty robust, tried to make it, and it was really really hard! Tell her its CRAP! No wonder no one makes anything by hand anymore, this is really not worth it!! I can see why the women of old were all muscle and lean, they worked their BUTTS off just making dinner!"

She's still laughing, but manages to say,"Don't try to eat it now, you have to cook it first.. put it in a pan and brown it, then try it."

So I heat up my skillet and carefully place my splat inside.

"Is it bubbling?"

"The edges are curling, I wouldn't call it bubbles, but you can see that air is collecting under it. I wonder what Jed would say about my creation..'OOOH neat! Salty splat shaped tortillas, cooool!!'" I flip the thing over.

"It turned white!"

"It what?!?" "White, its white on the side that was touching the pan!"

She is silent.

"White?"

"Yeah! Completely White!"

She asks if I have some honey or jam or butter to put on it.

"Don't you think I should try it plain before I feed it to my kids?"

"You might want to smother it with something, so you can convince them that its good."

This explains a lot of culinary scenarios in my childhood years.

I pull off a piece. It's really hot on my tongue, and I think for a minute that it might be worth saving the batch.

Then my taste sensors kick in.

"PLEH!! UUUghh... Ohhh man! It started out chewy, but now it just tastes like really HOT playdough! Forget it, I'm not subjecting my kids to this... "

I'm hastily scooping and tossing the remaining, painstakingly created, balls off my counter and into the trash.

She laughs and laughs, then tells me she is going to bed.

"Alright. I think I have enough ingredients to make cornbread, Good Night!"

I stir my bean concoction, thinking to myself... wasn't that what I planned in the first place? Oh well.. It was a fun and rare moment alone with my mom.

Poor me, Poor me, Poor me... Another shot of something..

2009-01-27T12:38:00.000-07:00

She did not say the word "ideally"...

She did not say "perhaps"

There was no inclination of "maybe"

The answer was in-tact.

She said the money was coming today..

She said for sure for sure.

I know because I asked ten million ways...

and she promised, reassured.

I budgeted and planned.

I made arrangements with 'the man'.

I was so very proud

Very proud of me.

Then, I get a dose of reality.

The money did not come today.

"I swear" was not in play.

"The girl is fairly new at this" was the answer of the day.

"I expect that I won't be charged for this, and a discount of services, too.

I trusted your company to do well by me.. and this is how you do?

I understand human error, but asked a million ways.. and all I was given were these six words.. your check will be there Tuesday.."

"I apologize, ma'am, that is all I can say.

Your check will be there by Next Friday."

"I hope you take it under your wing, to advise your new girl of the reality of things"

"Oh, yes, of course, I certainly will.."

I try very hard to keep from sounding shrill..

"You've no idea the pain this has caused, for nothing is worse than financial flaws.. I have promises made, people won't get paid, and three boys are being robbed.

You can bet YOUR pay that this will be the LAST time you hear from ME. My business goes elsewhere, in fact." Authoritatively." I will educate myself next time enough, so that when spindly women that don't know there stuff, offer to help.. I can say no thank you ma'am I did it myself.

I never again will fall for your scam, your quick refund crap can go in the CAN!"

Then as if I had not given such an alarming address..

The man replies simply,"Do call if there's further duress."

I slam the phone down, and put on my coat, I tell my boss grumpily I need to just go.

I walk 'round the block, consider my options.

I walk and consider many concoctions.

I could lie, I could steal, I could beg, I could borrow.

Or I could just wait and deal tomorrow.

I enter my office, and put down my head.

I lift the phone and dial instead.

I call all the companies to which promises were made.

I apologize profusely and explain plans were waylaid.

They thank me kindly and make new arrangements.

I feel really awful for my personal derangement.

So I call the tax man as well,

"I'm sorry I told you and your company to go to hell, I still won't do business with you next year, or the following, I fear. But, I am willing to claim my part of the mess.. and so now I am doing what I think is best.

I am not doing business there again, and rest assured I won't recommend friends. It is not right to blame you for my plight. But, if the woman I conferred with had her information right, I would not be so angry tonight."

Tax man broke free of his silence,"Who might I ask is this, so I can reference this non-compliance?"

I give him my name.

He says I have cause to complain. He agrees if it were his boat sinking, he'd do the same.

And so my friends, if I mentioned to you, your bread will be buttered by my fortitude...

Regress with me briefly, it was a fantasy in the making..

I am not rich, not for the taking.

Why I hate buying necessities..

2009-01-23T17:51:00.000-07:00

The boys and I ventured out among the masses tonight, to file my taxes, and to buy some much needed groceries. (We've been living on Ramen... which, according to some, is what poor people eat... but that isn't why we ate it, actually.. yeah, it was.) Did you know that our society has become soo accustomed to convenience, that you can file your taxes right in the same store you buy your toothpaste and milk from? Hell, you can have your eyes checked, your hair cut, buy presents for anyone of any age, find a wedding ring, an outfit for work, some sensible shoes... all while you 'run in' for ben and jerry's. Don't get me wrong, I love the convenience, I love that a store much like the one I've described here has kept my sister and her children fed, clothed, sheltered, healthy, and for the most part happy. Of course, she had to sell her soul to work there, but her family is well by and large due to the existence of that store. And, I suppose, mine is too.

We shop there not only for convenience, but because they usually have the lowest prices. Believe me, if I were of the fortunate few that had an income that was 80% expendable... I would certainly shop at little local mom and pop places or maybe organic food stores. I would happily support the underdog. But, I am not. And as if I stepped on the tines of a rake, reality pops up and beans me in the face.

So there we are, my sons happily amusing themselves in the toy aisle, and I grudgingly agreeing to astronomical fees for tax preparation (again because of my generational coding that will NOT wait a few weeks... must have money now, now, now.. instant gratification.. blah blah blah) . I text the boys to come back after just a whole gruelling hour for one w-2. Holy Crap, ridiculous.

We alight ourselves to the food block of the store. Does everyone shop on Friday night? Really? This is where the entire population convenes? I had no idea. Living in Utah, with the schedule I have, and the admiration for other humans being, I shop on Sundays. There, I said it. I hate the crowds. Absolutely abhor them. When I step foot in that store on a Sunday, nary a chime from a register will sound. Muted conversations between employees stalking shelves, maybe, but rare is it to find a crowd. On occasion I pop in after class. I like watching the late night crowd. Single people mostly. Sometimes a mother still in her nursing scrubs.. a pile of kids following her, tired and cranky... I notice she forgets to remove her name tag. Her hair is a matted mess, bags under her eyes, she unloads her cart near to tears from telling her kids again and again no.. no.. no.. I always wonder why it is so completely not okay to hug a person when they need it. Even if its a stranger. Why can't I just offer this bedraggled, beautiful person some restitution?

Friday night, Ben is riding the cart between my arms, giving me a place to rest my head. My neck is strained, and aches from holding up my head. Yes, my brain is THAT big. HAHAHA! Dylan is wearing his heelies. He and Jed have decided to make a race of finding the next items on the list and returning them to the cart. Usually I set the rule that they are not to roll or run, and they must be kind and courteous to the other customers. Tonight, I don't really care.

Ben and I weave through the veggies and fruits on our journey to find bread. We stop for a bent and elderly Japanese woman, who slightly nods and wanders the other direction. We make it past the displays of meat, the frozen goods, pause for a few minutes to let an impatient sea hag by. Down the center aisle we wander, Dylan and Jed return with their spoils. They are eager for the next items. I tell them and off they go. Ben and I find the creamer for my coffee, two gallons of milk, some sunny d, and stand staring blankly at the yogurt. Its on sale. Two for a dollar. I remember a time... in all my years... that yogurt was expensive if it was twenty-five cents. We carefully select five flavors, two of each. I am standing there, debating over strawberry kiwi or key lime, when I realize there is someone of my height standing very close behind me. It kind of freaked me out a little, so I turned very suddenly to assess the situation. Having turned so quickly and with no warning, the woman there didn't have time to move, and I elbowed her, hard... in the chest. I hate it when people are so damned impatient that they have to get right up on you to attain their own goals. I didn't apologize. I know I hurt her. She stood there for several seconds with a really un-attractive pained look on her face. I asked if she would survive.. she said she would, so I took a step in her direction, she stepped back, I stepped forward, she stepped back... we continued this little dance until she had backed to the point she should have been in to start with. I returned to find my yogurt, saddled Ben up, and wandered away.

We buy butter, we buy, toilet paper, we buy apple sauce and cereal. There is a couple behind us in line. They are wearing matching sweatshirts. They are white with skulls and little flames on them. They're son is sitting in the belly of the cart. They are completely engulfed in their conversation, their child screaming for this or for that. I don't say anything. My purse is in the part of my basket where small children usually sit. The kid stands up in their cart and makes a reach for it, offsetting the weight, putting the wheels into motion.. and two oblivious parents do nothing. I catch the little brat and control myself enough to not lay a spanking of my own on him. His mother turns around and all but screams,'SIT DOWN, NOW!!'. Okay, I understand now. I slip junior a chocolate kiss as I prepare to leave.

I don't hate people. I love people. I love people of all shapes, sizes, colors, genders, ages and cultures. I absolutely do. It's just difficult to tolerate certain personalities.

Maybe I have some growing to do.

Anyway, that's why I hate buying necessities. The only time I meander into a store of this magnitude, is when I am completely out of everything. Then, I have to go. I have to endure it. Trying to find a parking spot, parking all the way out a mile away from the entrance, walking to the doorway, passing three empty spots up close along the way... waiting for people to finish their conversations, you know, that last fifteen minutes with carts parked side by side in the narrowest of aisles right in front of what you need. People that reach around you, over you, between your legs to attain their own grocery goods. The ankle beaters that run you down for not moving along fast enough. The squeezers of every last apple to find just that perfect one. (Thanks for fondling mine along the way). The store clerks and employees that pretend they don't hear you when you say, 'Excuse Me...?' I really hate chasing them across the store shouting,'Hey, YOU!! Yeah, In the BLUE SHIRT WITH A NAME TAG! YOU!!! MY HELL, STOP RUNNING!!! I JUST NEED TO KNOW WHERE THE DAMNED TAMPAX ARE!!!!!'

My buddies

2009-01-22T22:40:00.002-07:00

My three men!

Ha! Here I am!!

2009-01-21T17:51:00.000-07:00

So, this month has been turbulent already. I over exerted my neck during my Movement class at school. Had an x-ray done at an insta-care. The doctor scared me to death by diagnosing my neck as 'locked' and ordering a ct scan at the hospital to see if I needed surgery. . . ct scan came back normal, emergency room doc (with the bedside manner of a lion that just felled a gazelle) prescribed a muscle relaxer and rest.(ha!) I asked if the medicine would affect my cognitive ability, he said yes, so I elected not to take it. I have been using alternating heat/cold and a massage pillow to relieve the tension in my neck. I returned to work Tuesday, didn't attend school that night, went to work today, and returned to school tonight. BIG MISTAKE. Tonight we had sports massage, a modality that is rambunctious and requires perfect posture. Long story short, the hands on portion sent me running out the door and to my apartment. I embarrassed myself profusely by disrupting the entire class, and am really hesitant to go back now. Oi.

Love my job. It bodes well. I just need to stop second guessing myself, and manage my time better.

Dylan is working diligently on his science fair project. He has a partner that comes over to work on it with him. He is doing really well in school, and is a HUGE help at home.

Jed is creating a diorama of some crazy whale who's exact breed absolutely evades me. He also is making a life sized poster of a book report that he has to present to his class. He has a really stubborn streak that makes me crazy, but he does well when he tries.

Ben has been really good about coming home and getting down to business with his homework and chores. He is always careful to give mom a big hug every time she needs it.

I've said it a million times. I am a lucky lucky woman to have been blessed with three of the most wonderful sons a mother could have.

Alright then. I hope all is well with you and yours.

2009-01-15T17:38:00.002-07:00

It's dark in my room. The only thing here illuminate is the screen of this crappy little laptop. It's only twenty to six, and my kids are waiting for me to come to dinner. They have prepared it themselves. I will not lie, my sons are amazing cooks. They make the best spaghetti ever.

I don't look foreward to class tonight. My muscles ache from last night's enlightening three hours. I can't turn my head, and the thought of sitting in a hard chair for three and a half hours really puts me off.

I'm going though.

I's got repsontsatility... ha.

Spectacular

2009-01-15T00:01:00.002-07:00

I started the third semester in school. We are learning Cranial Sacral Therapy, Movement; Repatterning, Anatomy, and Sports Massage. This semester is much more aggressive, for sure. I am enjoying it, though.

So far, I have learned that Cranial Sacral is considered an energy modality with western values and concepts. I have felt the cranial rythm in my client, and learned how release their abdomen for better respiration and over all health. In Movement, I have learned that the body naturally crumbles, or folds with gravity.. that therapists must battle gravity by re-patterning techniques. We have learned several different excersizes to re-teach proprioreceptors to acknowledge the correct stance for a properly stacked body. Its really cool. Anatomy... we started with the nerves and worked our way to the brain. My favorite subject. I love learning about the brain, about its functions, about the communication through nerves to the rest of the body. Its fascinating. Sports massage is not my favorite in a lot of ways, but love it none the less. Its a lot of loud music, people jumping around and cheering, and the application of a lot of deep, strong, heavy tapotement, pettrissage, and stretching. The therapist gets as much out of it as the client half the time.

I think the best decision I made for my future in relationship to this goal was to change position and location for the company I work for. I really like my hours. It gives me enough time to come home and feed my little men, make sure their homework is done, study a bit, then off to school.

I like my office.

I love that I interact with every single person that walks through the front door. I enjoy speaking to the many different people I speak to on a daily basis. I am learning something new every day. The team I work with is phenomenal. They are each so individually brilliant.

Yep, feeling pretty damned spectacular about life. :)

Rambunctious

2009-01-14T23:51:00.002-07:00

"Mom, I think when kids go to bed, after ten o'clock, the parents get rambunctious."

My son is seven and seems to be just getting his bearing in this world.

"No, not all parents," I tell him,"Mom usually uses the time between ten and midnight on the weekends to tie up all the loose ends. You know, I wash the dishes, pay the bills, fold the laundry, check my email..." My voice trails a little," Sometimes Mommy will go with her friends at night when you are safe and secure to have a little fun, but I wouldn't use the word rambunctious."

"Oh, well," he says "I picked it, you didn't."

To this I can't help but smile, "True that."

Hey, Bob, is that your foot?

2008-09-05T23:40:00.003-06:00

I decided a few months ago that I needed to further my education. The reasons then were simply because I thought that enhancing my knowledge through academic progress would also enhance the numbers in my bank account. A side bar to this ambitious prose was that I would also be able to help people feel good. Something that I have consistently worked toward through out the tenure of my career life.

I chose massage therapy.

I have enrolled and failed to complete my schooling a number of times. I am still paying penance to the tuition Gods for each of those mishaps.

The first enrollment was for certified nursing assistant. But, by the time the classes rolled around, I was already doing all of the work for the same amount of money. I watched a lot of people die. I saw their families weep. I heard the pain and weariness in the voices of those that were in the last leg of their journey on earth. I helped them through times that were demoralizing.. and necessary.

The second enrollment was for medical assisting. I found that I had a knack for words, for the meanings of those words, and I was pretty good at organizing things.. there was the money factor, the fact that this schooling would only take two years, but then came the poking, prodding, and that same loss of dignity and pain infliction that came with being a CNA.

I dropped out, disgracefully at that.

I worked for the government for a while, which was really really boring. I didn't help anyone in particular, and was exposed to some really frightening ideology. My boss was a complete self indulgent prick that thought the only place for a woman in that industry was between his thighs. I wasn't, and am still not, particularly good at kissing any one's ass, so he lovingly gave me the boot. No matter, I was destined for greater things.

I worked in hospice for awhile. Again, watching people writhe in pain and die slowly. Not really a happy go lucky job. But, I still felt that I was giving back to the world. Like I was doing right by humanity. It became too much for me when my favorite client passed away. He was a painter. He taught me a lot.

I went into customer services. If anyone knows the industrial sub-culture for Utah, they know that customer services is code for telemarketing. Well, most of the time.

I sold checks. I sold check book accessories. I did check re-orders.

After my second divorce, while I was with John, I realized that I was really tired of dealing with disgruntled people on the phone. Tired of dealing with the ill and terminally ill. Tired of watching people die.

So I didn't work. I didn't further my education. I sat home and took care of my kids, and John.

I painted, reupholstered chairs, decorated, baked, made things from scratch... and was completely malcontent.

I went back to work in a care facility. This time for the administration. It was a good decision. I felt incredibly important, and well liked. It stuck. I was put into a new position three months after I began, and here I sit.

John left me just before then, though. I had been talking about starting school, and one day, out of the blue, I enrolled at the Utah College of Massage Therapy. When I went home to tell the family, they were all very supportive. John especially. But he left before I began my program.

Two months into school, we are scheduled for anatomy lab. This means we are going to the University where the real students are, and we are going to look at the fruits of their labors. Cadavers. We are coached during class at our own campus. There isn't any blood, so don't worry about that. The room is well ventilated, so don't worry about that. You won't have to see faces, so don't worry about that. The skin, tissue, muscles.. will be colored differently because they are pickled.. so to speak. You know, the basic warnings any lay person would receive prior to visiting a cadaver lab.

So then we went.

I was so nervous the whole ride up, I couldn't hold still. For some reason, I couldn't force my head to wrap around the idea that I was headed to see dead people.. cut up dead people. That's some pretty heavy shit! I kept telling myself, "These are people that donated their bodies to science.. it's necessary to health research.. especially necessary for practitioners and people that intend to help others help themselves to heal." So the coaching went on and on in my head.

We arrive.

All of the buildings look the same. Tall. Old. Pristine. Intimidating. I have no clue where this lab could be. It blows my mind that in one of these crumbling structures, deep in the belly of it, under the ground, lies the basement room of a lab where students regularly meet to dissect people.

I shudder.

I nearly turn around to catch a bus back home.

Instead I doggedly follow my classmates down a twisting, turning sidewalk. There is a drum circle practicing their beats on trash cans, lids, plastic buckets... I want to stop and listen, but I continue on.

We enter the building. The rest of the class is there, waiting. Everyone has an incredible energy. It's almost palpable. Our instructor reminds us to follow the rules of the campus, tells us that it takes years and years of hard work to dissect a cadaver. So if we decide to touch it, we need to be mindful that we are touching the work of another, and we need to be gentle. My stomach roiled.

He leads us through a creaking door, down concrete stairs that are scuffed and worn, into a hallway with low ceilings. The light bulbs have cages around them, they hang down ominously from their low perches. Everything so far is so reminiscent of a horror film, I am beginning to get nauseated. There is a distinct smell..

We walk into the classroom. There are tables in rows. On the tables are trays that contain pieces of people wrapped in plastic bags and towels. You can't see through the bags, so your left to your own devices and imagination. The smell is grueling. My knees start to wobble.

I train my eyes to the floor thinking that if I don't look right at the objects on the tables, I might get over this feeling of light-headedness. I hurry up the first aisle to sit at the front table. It doesn't have a tray, or a piece of someone on it. My journey is interrupted when I feel something hit my thigh. I look. I have just run into a foot.. the foot is attached to a leg, the leg is severed at the hip.. at least that's what the shape seems to be on the table. I somewhat see the toes. My knees give out, and I slump into a chair. Thank goodness they have wheels. My classmate wheels me around the .. leg .. and pushes me into the table at the front of the room. I pull myself into it so that it pushes against my diaphragm, I feel comforted.

The teacher's assistant is sitting in front of me. He puts his hand on my leg, which will not stop shaking. He hands me a package of mints and encourages me to eat them all. I pop one into my mouth and try to focus on the lecture.

We label and color different bones.

Our instructor is ready to call break, he tells us to go for longer than usual. He says they are going to prepare four different areas for us to examine the bones and attachments we had just discussed.

I practically run outside. I smoke. I smoke. I smoke. My cigarettes taste like that... smell.

When it's time to go back, my classmate holds my hand. She guides me down the stairs and braces my shoulders as we walk back into the classroom. The smell is more intense, almost rubbery. I am led back to my desk where I pop a handful of mints into my mouth.

The instructor splits us into four groups. He then assigns each group to a different area of the room. There are students from the university there to teach us about the parts they are showcasing. For the love... I was assigned to the first station.

Let me explain. The first station had three cuts of .. someone. The first was a leg severed from the thigh. The second was a horizontal chunk of someones chest, just below the shoulder and above the armpit. The third was a horizontal cut of the thigh.

The student conducting the lecture was spraying the pieces with some kind of fluid. The fluid was the smell. That... smell. I stood at the head of the table. My classmates were splayed around the side and other end of the table. By now, I was beginning to spin. Really spin.

The student picked up the leg, bent the knee, pointed out the flexors of the foot, and showcased his work. He had dissected through layers of this leg so you could see the different parts that make up the leg. The three layers of skin, the layers of muscle the tendons, vessels, bone... yep, they were all there. The skin was a strange yellow color... for reasons unbeknownst to me, I thought the hairs would fall out of the skin... nope. Still there. I don't know why that bothered me. That and the toenails. The toenails were really bothersome. I could tell this was the leg of a man. The foot was large, the toenails large, the hair abundant in the places that weren't cut away.

The student glanced in my direction and gave some spiel about sitting down if you felt faint. My ass happily landed in a chair. My head landed in my hands, and my brain coached my lungs to breathe deeply. The student had picked up the leg piece. He was holding it in one hand. He kept moving his fingers under the piece of flesh. Suddenly I could think of nothing but rancid meat. That's what it looked like to me. A rancid steak. I thought of where this piece of flesh originated and nearly threw up.

I popped five mints in my mouth.

When the chest piece was uncovered, I had nearly regained my composure. The student pointed out where the lungs, heart, ribs, spine, esophagus and trachea were. I wanted to see, so I scooted up to the table. I arrived just in time to see my classmate stick her gloved pinkie into the esophagus. I watched as the fleshy tube seemed to suckle her little finger. The room spun around me. I was afraid to stand, equally afraid to throw up. I bent in half and cradled my head between my knees.

Over and over in my head came the phrase,"Hey, Bob, is that your foot?".

A warm hand was on my shoulder, my back. I felt an arm snake around my waist. I hear my instructor speaking gently in my ear. He is trying to get me to stand and walk out to the restroom. I can't. I lean against him for a second, then find my voice.

"I will be okay, just assure me that that leg," I say, pointing,"did not belong to someone named Bob."

My Moment

2008-07-21T21:07:00.001-06:00

Creativity surging through my veins, like venom from an exotic creature..

It asks me to bring beauty to ordinary days.

I imagine a sculpture of perfectly fitted candy, spiraling toward the heavens.

I dream of breaking tiles with a rubber mallet, piecing the shards one with another on a bed of grout.

In this peaceful artistic state, I envision the ark of a welder, breathing behind a tinted-glass helmet.. sweat dripping into my eyes.

I pretend my hands are filled with great lumps of clay, my fingers dancing in pools of paint, my pencil shading spheres of gray, breaking or blowing glass gently and patient.

I love such media so completely I am endeared to their propriety.

I MUST CREATE.

Sunshine May-May

2008-07-13T11:02:00.003-06:00

"I love having you here." she smiled as she patted the last hamburger patty flat.
"I love being here." I responded almost too quickly.
There is an uncanny bond between my sister and I. I am not really sure where it began, but it is definitely stronger than your average sisterly bond. When we are together there is a certain buzz to the air, an energy that is light-hearted and contagious. Fun. Genuine fun. We almost never really DO anything spectacular. We just do our normal thing, our normal daily life thing. We don't interrupt the regularity of one or an other's livelihood at all. There is a natural fit, a compliment, to the presence of one or the other of us appearing out of the blue. We hardly ever plan for the coming together of our time. It just happens, and when it does, it is almost always perfect timing.
This time I dropped in on her. We spent the afternoon wandering around her home town, sidewalk shopping and laughing with each other. She picked up a blue shoe at the same time I pick up a leather one of the same style. The only difference being the material they are made of. This is a normal occurrence. We both shrug and move along. She likes bold bright contrasting colors. I like more subdued, natural colors.
We talk about our kids, about our future plans. She talks about her love a lot. I am okay with that, he really spoils her rotten, and she absolutely deserves it. We wander to the market. She buys eggs, sausage, ice cream, and a few other essentials. I buy allergy medication for my son. As we are heading out the door to my car, she turns the wrong direction. I call her a blond and remind her that we parked on the other side of the parking lot. "I want a drink." she says. "Okay, lets go get a fountain soda." I respond. She whines, "I want a drink RIGHT NOW!" I can't help but laugh. She sounds like an impatient ten year old. So i scold her like one. "Your man really has to stop spoiling you. You sound like a little brat!" She protests in a good natured way as she plops her money in the coin slot of the soda machine.
Sometimes I miss this camaraderie. I wish we didn't live so far away. Sometimes I think it a necessary evil, we are so much alike, yet different enough that if we were right under one another all the time, we would end up being sick of each other.

So it was a nice visit. As it usually is.

I love Friday the 13th

2008-06-13T15:12:00.000-06:00

Today I decided to initiate the power of me. I put in for another promotion at work, found living arrangements, and called that oh-so-delectable man of interest and invited him to do 'something'. The tornado that has been my life for the past week has finally lifted.

The problems are still there, but they are dwindling in size as I chip away at solutions. I discovered that I am okay being alone, and that I can function fully well unabated by the direction of a significant other. These are good points, because I havent always been so sure.

I have a plan. A good plan. I am going to stick with it. I make goals on a daily basis, and each time something is achieved, I give myself a little mental high five.

I spoke with John's son today. Apparently he hadn't heard that his father has left me. I offered him words of comfort, as he is going through a pretty trying season in his life as well. I told him that if there were anything I could do to ease his situation (beyond finances) that I would be glad to do so.

The long and short of it is, I finally feel a sense of freedom that I haven't before. I am able to look myself in the mirror and see a beautiful young woman, rather than a scared and shaking child. I attribute that to being able to accomplish that which I set out to do, support from my friends and family, and good old fashioned decisions.

Yay me!

Dear John

2008-06-07T15:58:00.001-06:00

I go to the diner where we used to eat- sit in the booth completely alone, Ever had that?

People are all around- talking, clanging silverware against plates, banging the cash register door closed- it is a roar in my ears.

I tried to read the paper.
Let the words flood my brain-
trying to squelch the impeding silence.

I am so aware of my lonliness.
I wonder if I wear it on my face.

There's a blue levi jacket hanging on the coat rack.
I wonder if it is yours.
Then I imagine it is-
I pretend your in the bathroom or playing pool.

A man walks in, catches my eye.
I look away.
I am uncomfortable.

I remember you are gone & you aren't coming back...
it makes it impossible to breathe.

Suddenly the roar of people around me is too much.
Yet I know, at home, the silence would kill me.

I am a stranger in my own skin.

A visitor in this town.

I belong to no-one and no-one belongs to me.

I have been orphaned.. an ugly duckling left to my own devices.

I see you everywhere I go.

I hear you whisper my name, feel your breath tickle my ear.

I am rudely awakened every day.. by the emptiness of my bed.. the hole you left in my chest.

I want to believe your demons drove you to this.

I want to believe you abandoned me out of love, because you thought I would be better off.

The phone rings- I jump a mile- even if it isn't my own.

As I pray myself to sleep each night, I listen for your footfalls, listen for your heavy breathing, wait for your arms to wind around me.

It's a rude reality.

I know you want me to hate you for this.. I simply can't.

Strength

2008-06-03T16:16:00.002-06:00

My boyfriend left me today.

He isn't coming back.

We lived like an old married couple.

We shared toothbrushes.

We ate off each other's plates.

I slept curled around his muscular frame last night, knowing that it was the last time.

He didn't tell me.

He didn't have to.

I have felt it coming.

I brought him coffee in the morning.

I showered alone, staying in the bathroom as long as I could.

I heard him in the backyard telling his nephew that I was shit.

The assessment of my lesser qualities hurt me deeply.

I listened for as long as I could take it.

Then I put my purse on my shoulder and went to say goodbye.

He asked if I was going to work.

I smiled a little and said I had to.

He went to my car to get his paperwork out of the dash.

I followed a bit slowly, taking it all in.

The sun was shining through the leaves on the aspen tree.

They were so green.

They rustled in the breeze.

I saw an empty carton of beer jutting out of the trashbin.

I meandered to the car, where he had just stood up.

His hair flowed down his back, stubble on a determined, angry face.

He held me fiercly, saying he loved me, that I was a good good woman.

He kissed my face then walked away.

My voice had caught in my throat, my insides trembling like a plate of jello on top of a powerful speaker.

I received the call mid afternoon.

His nephew saying that he'd helped him pack his belongings.

Said he left him at the gas station, told him not to watch which direction he went.

Then he was gone.

He didn't say goodbye to my sons.

I guess, in a way, he did say goodbye to me.

He left me a mess.

He left me.

He's gone.

I'm glad.

Gentle Giant

2008-04-28T15:07:00.003-06:00

Being a single mother for any amount of time will jade and embitter even the sweetest of women. A certain part of her heart has to become hard and inaccessible. She becomes accustomed to fighting the battles of her children, disciplining, playing, providing for, and comforting them on her own. So it is, when a man comes into her life wanting to play the father role to her children, who have none, a difficult thing for her to swallow.

Unless of course he is a gentle giant. He brings home little things for them that he crafts with his own hands. Something she can't help but admire. Bicycles, wooden trains, game boards, huge barrels.. always peppering his kindness for her sons with a flower or small token of love and appreciation for her. He never raises his voice to them, but teaches them small necessary life lessons with a kind tongue, never scolding or threatening.. but allowing them to choose to take his advice or leave it. Their punishment is the natural consequence of their decision.. but they respond so well, usually the natural consequence is a positive thing.

His mark on their life is so great that the hardened heart of the single mother has become pliable, soft and relenting. She has come to depend on his gentle fortitude, and is grateful for the help he provides. He helps her build a life of great wonder, where her children are more independent, learning to become men in a hard and cold world. He shows her how much simpler things can be when worked at as a team. He loves her with his whole heart, and she does the same. Until eventually, she can't remember what life was like with out her gentle giant.

Ordinary Day

2008-04-21T16:15:00.001-06:00

I woke up this morning feeling blissful, so blissful I didn't want to get up. I stretched a good back-bending stretch that included everything from my fingertips to my toes. It was such a good stretch, I can not help but find myself reflecting on it through out this day, with a small appreciative smile. It was one of those sprawling stretches, that if viewed by anyone else, would end in the pair of you doubled over in a giggle that would no doubt include a few snorts and sighs.

I wander out of my room on a mission for coffee, pausing in the bathroom briefly. Along the way I glanced in on my little men, sleeping soundly in their respective beds. Dylan with his hand hanging down nearly to the floor, Jed lying straight with the blanket pulled to his neck, Ben curled in an impossible ball. I am struck with a feeling of deep gratitude..

In my head I wonder what I should wear, what I should make for dinner tonight, what I should do about my bills. I wash my face, sip my coffee, put on my makeup, get dressed, comb my long scraggly hair.. kiss my oldest two on their way out the door for school, make a lunch for the little guy, and find myself just sitting. Sitting on the edge of the bed feeling both happy and miserable all at once.

I miss my guy. I am alone and I hate it. But, I am also really happy. My life is for once in order.

So goes this ordinary day. One in a million Ordinary days. I go to work, push paper, order and pick up lunch, talk to my co-workers, and outline tomorrow's schedule. I talked to an old friend from high school. I smoked, ate lunch, drank a coke and sat feeling sort of useless. I conducted two interviews, turning one person away and inviting another to a secondary interview.

When I return to my house I know I am going to find that my children have cleaned the common areas and done their laundry. Tonight is date-night for us. We always do something on Mondays, if their chores are completed. I am going to cook dinner and we will talk about the accomplishments and enlightened moments in our days. The children will shower, we will pray together, and they will sleep. I will lie wide awake staring at the ceiling for three hours before I finally give up and read until rest finally comes.

And so ensues tomorrow.. which no doubt.. will be another Ordinary Day.

Boots

2008-03-27T15:49:00.003-06:00

She walks along, her boots keeping the loud wretched clip clop clip clop sing song horselike sound of her pace.. one sounding more hollow than the other.

She stops and picks up her foot, bending precariously.. balancing on one leg to look at the bottom of the empty sounding heel of her boot.

"Damn."

Somehow she has lost the little strangely shaped cover that fits perfectly over the platform of her heel.

She considers.

"damn," she whispers softly.

She loves those pointy ol' boots, even though she rarely wears them, and when she does they squish her toes together just enough to create an ache that endures deep into the following day.

They are black with silver butterflies outlined in stitching on the toe, the body of which is composed of silver beads.

The toe butterfly has a twin stitched to the body of the boot that houses the calf.

'Ah well, shootz. Can't take them with me when I die.'

She strips the boots off and drops them in the trashbin, revelling in the glory of her quiet pad pad padding feet on warm concrete.

She wears a soft smile on her lips, as she hums along.

Day Dreamer.

2008-03-21T15:04:00.001-06:00

I am distracted.

The sun’s rays are making their way past the wooden slate blinds in my office, capturing the lint and dust dancing and floating on the air, just above my desk.

I slump against my chair, looking outside.

Wal-Mart’s parking lot is bustling as usual... Jiffy Lube seems to have a constant stream of business, the mountains majestic against a baby blue sky full of puffy white clouds...

I want to pluck one of those clouds from the sky, put it in my mouth, enjoy it’s sugary goodness melting on my tongue like cotton candy.

Time is molasses today.

Holy Monday!!

2008-03-11T14:58:00.001-06:00

Holy Monday!!

I started a new job last week. I am really enjoying it, everyone is very friendly and welcoming. But, for some reason, I am over-analyzing, making things much harder than they need to be.

So, this morning, I come into work, clock in, then head over to the main office which is housed in a different building. Along the wall outside there is a spigot that is located about hip high, that I had never noticed. I was just telling my co-worker, who is training me, that I didn't have the proper caffeine intake for the morning and will be requiring large amounts of coffee, when my hand inadvertantly hit the spigot.. turning the water on full blast, filling my right shoe entirely with water.

Oh, but that's not all. No that isn't the end to the malicious Monday blues.. We get inside and find that I have an interview to do, not a big deal. I brew a cup of coffee and settle in with the interviewee's paperwork. As I am talking to my cohort, I tip my coffee up for a drink, about an inch from my face.. effectively pouring the tepid brown liquid down my shirt. Shit!

I order lunch for the meeting of the Heads, drive fifteen minutes to pick it up, only to discover I have forgotten to have the checked signed. Head back to the office for signatures, back to the restaurant for food, forgetting to attain a receipt. That comes to me later in the day while I am filing paperwork. Nice. I drive back to the restaurant with my head hanging low. Returning to the office, I realize as I enter the building that I have left my car running, and my headlights on, mid-day.

I realize, probably a little too late, that I'm leaving a pretty poor impression.

At least I didn't burn the popcorn.

Going for a Walk.

2008-02-16T11:44:00.003-07:00

Walking along
concrete is a vast gray sky under my feet
occasionally met with puffy white snow.
My shoes squeak as flakes are kicked from their toes

I could go on like this forever.
Music blasting my ears,
shaking the grey matter in my skull.

Making my own pace
I wander wherever I want to go.

No concept of time,
no worries, mind comfortably blank.

I realise I'm tired. Not physically, but mentally.. exhausted.

There is one other time I feel blissful like this, when I am sleeping.

People suggest prozac. Interesting that mood altering drugs are so frowned upon
by my culture, until a doctor prescribes them.

I thank you no. I have experimented with drugs, I don't need someone with an education to tell me their benefits and pitfalls.

I am a two time divorcee with three kids and a relationship with an alcoholic, who I love very much, but know I can't fix.

I am not educated, do not have many skills to speak of, and make nine dollars an hour working for a company I hate.

My first ex-husband is a deadbeat dad that only occasionally pays his child support, so it can not be relied upon.

I am just tired.

The sun spills orange, red, gold across the horizon.
Mountains are a formidable contrast to such beauty.
I stop. I am breathless. Shaken.

Its good to feel again.

Why I may never marry again

2008-02-12T12:17:00.000-07:00

Just recently, I was divorced for the second time. It was seemingly painless at first, as there wasn't a really strong foundation in the marriage, and there were a lot of problems associated with the relationship.

The only thing that really hurt was the loss of my stepchildren. The man I was married to spent a lot of time telling me how terrible I was, saying things like, 'I would never father a child with you.' or 'Is it too much for a man to expect his wife to be smaller than he is?' He criticized me for every move I made. I couldn't clean well enough, discipline my kids correctly, my personal hygeine was questionable, not to mention that I was fat, ugly, and very lucky that he would consider taking me under his wing.

I cheated.

Not once, but twice.

I refused to take over payments for a vehicle he decided to purchase, even though we couldn't afford it. That, to him, is STICKING him with a car he didn't want, because he was buying it .. for me. HA. That's why it sits in his drive way, has his name on the title, and was not drive-worthy for me when he was angry with me.

I also refuse to pay for the wedding ring he gave me.. and refuse to give it back. He feels I have no right to believe it to be a gift.. because of its financial magnitude and stress it put on his pocketbook.

Recently, he sent me an email saying that he was going to tell his daughter, the one I bonded with most closely, the gory details of my trespasses. Something I would never do, and cannot fathom, as it seems manipulative, deceitful, and does nothing to enhance the quality of being this child might grow to be. Granted, I should never have cheated on him, even though we were separated, having two addresses.. and barely speaking to one another. However, I don't feel this man, who has done similar things should be throwing stones.

It dis-heartens me. I love those children, and to think that they are going to go through their lives believing me to be a harlot and liar tears me apart. The stand by comfort I keep hearing from others that love me and are true to me is 'I have seen you weather much more serious problems, Kat, You are the strongest woman I know because of that.. this too shall pass, wait and see'.

I almost feel like his slimy desire is to pressure me into giving back a ring that symbolizes nothing but pain for me, in trade for a relationship with his children. This is not the first of his ploys. He started out by trying to convince me to move back in with him. Then he wanted to date. Then he said he got an attorney. Then he wanted to take me to small claims court. Now this.

I have information that I could blackmail him with.. but, that isn't really my style. I don't really wish bad things for the guy. I just don't care for him at all.. he has shown me his colors, they are not attractive to me. I wish I could just continue my friendship hewn with his children, and not have anything to do with him. It doesn't look like that's likely. I guess when a web tangled is weaved, the best you can do is just cut yourself completely out..

Love

2008-01-31T12:25:00.000-07:00

"I love you, Kat."
The words hang earnestly in the dark.
I am filled with empathy.
My hand reaches out, fumbling for the source of this profession.
Angular cheekbones and sandpaper whiskered chin,
My fingers caught up in his, he presses them softly to his lips.

"I love you, too."
I squeak, a little too loudly.
I don't understand my reaction.
He gathers me on cue.
Strong arms encircle, legs intertwine.

He prods a little.
Questions my mood stream.
Questions my thoughts.
He is the one I cannot lie to.
He always knows.

"I have a pre-conceived sadness at hurting you."
"You haven't hurt me, you fill me with joy and wonder, Daily!"
"I will. I am already sorry."

He caresses my face,
pushes strands of hair off my shoulders,
sighs deeply.

"I am a grown man, I don't want you to hurt me, but IF you do.. I pre-forgive you."

I love being in love.

Its the principle of the matter

2008-01-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah
She is shouting in my ear, no longer making any sense.
'YOUR COMPANY OWES ME FORTY NINE DOLLARS AND NINETY NINE CENTS!'
I try to explain, quietly with much reserve,
'Ma'am this is abuse to my brain, not something I deserve.'
I hate that I am abandoned to disdain.
No tools are given me, and people don't refrain.
'YOUR AN IDIOT, YOU FOOL, TRANSFER ME TO SOMEONE ELSE, MY QUESTIONS ARE NOT ANSWERED
AND SO I AM GOING TO PELT... YOU WITH INSULTS, YOU SNOT NOSED LITTLE BRAT!!!'
I take a deep breath, and inwardly sigh.
'Ma'am I do apologize, I have told you all that..'
'DON'T PATRONIZE ME, I WANT YOUR SUPERVISOR...'
'I can request one to call you in 24-72 hours..?'
And then the true DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM pseudo personality appears..
'I HAVE BEEN A L-LOYAL C-C-CUSTOMER TO A-A-AT-T-T-N-N-AAAN-D-T-T-T FOR MANY YEARS!'
I have made her so mad she is stuttering.
She spits and she spews, colorful words she is uttering.
I repeat the status of her account three times.
I give my name and extension and another number to which she can call and whine.
I ask if there is anything more I can do..
she says, 'I AM NOT FINISHED TALKING TO YOU!'
I calmly inform that my obligation is met.
I thank her for calling and hit my phone's reset.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and sigh.
That is the second person, I have made cry.
Then I hit my phone's button marked ready..
and think while I speak to another angry person,
'this must make them feel heady...'
Call after call I answer stock questions.
I make people angry and leave poor impressions.
I am ready for change, and I am only one week in.
Someone please save me from this horrible din.
I wish I had a dollar for every time I hear,
"It's the principle of the matter, dear."
I would be rich, and not needing this job.
I could be the one calling shouting, 'cut me a check you filthy slob!'
Instead here I sit, saying again and again.. 'yes ma'am or sir.. I DO understand.'
Meh, such is life, couldn't get much worse,
and then again, in the future..
I may say, 'I miss being coerced.'

Goodbye

2008-01-05T13:12:00.000-07:00

There it was.

Crescent moon and its silver light, smiling down on me.

Oh, this day.

Muddled, befuddled, and feeling a bit ruthless.

I haven't spoken to him in weeks.

How do you divorce a situation?

Is it possible to forget?

He hurt me.

I still love him.

What does that say for my mind?

I do not want to be his wife.

Poison for my soul.

I do wish there could be friendship.

Too late for that.

It is true that I found and lost love with someone else.

Does that make me bad?

Pain inflicted one to another.

It isn't fair.

So part relieved, part saddened, I move along.

I do miss little moments, but don't miss the whole.

I wish the very best for him.

I hope he comes to understand, in order to deserve something, you must work for it.

So tender and bruised, add this scar to old territory.

Papers went off today, the end of one chapter, bleeds into the beginning of another.

Ciao, sir, and thank you for your time.

Broken Glass

2008-01-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

Cold and Lonely

Partially Deranged

I Write Bad Poetry

I Draw Nonsensical Images

I Pray For Forgiveness

I Pray For Healing

I Need Help.

I Ask a Moment Of Your Time

Am I So Unworthy?

Beautiful, Smart, Classy

Words Chosen For Me By You

I Am Changed

Selfish, Uncaring, Thoughtless

Also My Labels From You

you ask me why i cry

ask where this stream of hot tears spring...

moments after you crush me.

Something You'd Said You Wouldn't Do!

AM I SO FRAGILE?!?

don't pick up my shards, they aren't worth cradling in your hands, their sharpness may cut, may make you bleed, may make you hurt

Heaven Forbid, as this world is meant to turn for you. Pardon my broken heart, the inconvenience of it must really cramp your style.

Wait

2008-01-05T13:05:00.000-07:00

A SUDDEN BURST OF ANGER

THE SIGHT UN ENTHRALLING

YOU SLAM THE DOOR AS YOU LEAVE

A PROMISE OF DISGUST ON YOUR LIPS

AND SO I SIT.

I'M WAITING WAITING WAITING

WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME?

A RUSH OF DISAPPOINTMENT

A HEART IN DISARRAY

WHERE COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE?

WE WITH ALL OUR VICES

A BARRIER OF UGLY JEALOUSY THERE

MY HEART CRIES OUT TO YOURS

WHERE COULD YOU BE?

I'M SITTING, SADNESS & SORROW ON MY MIND

WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME?

I'M WAITING WAITING WAITING

MINUTES LIKE YEARS

I'M COUNTING SECONDS AS THEY PASS

HOURS GO BY...

YOUR STILL NOT HERE

IS THIS HOW LOVE IS TO BE?

A MIXTURE OF HEARTACHE AND HAPPINESS?

ALONE ONE IS LONELY

TOGETHER ARE YOU TO FEEL THE SAME?

I CAN TELL YOU NOTHING

YET, EVERYTHING IS KNOWN.

I'M AMAZED AT YOUR CLAIRVOYANCE

SEEING LIFE SO CLEARLY MUST BE A DIFFICULT TASK

MUST BE VERY FRUSTRATING TO NOT ALWAYS CONVINCE ONE

SUCH AS I

TO BLINDLY FOLLOW ON YOUR PATH.

ITS BEEN HOURS SINCE YOU STORMED OUT

AND I, WITHOUT A CHANCE TO EXPLAIN.

AND SO I WAIT AND WAIT AND WAIT

HEART IN THROAT, HANDS CLAMMY-

EACH PASSING VEHICLE A PROSPECT FOR YOUR ARRIVAL

BUT THEY DON'T STOP.

MIND REELING, ASSUMPTIONS PESSIMISTIC

WE BOTH HAVE MUCH AT STAKE

ALL I CAN DO IS WAIT.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE

HAVE NO CLUE WHERE TO LOOK

THE CHILDREN ARE ALL SLEEPING.

SO ON A BED OF EGGSHELLS I WAIT.

The Grinch, Scrooge, Lie Detectors, and Judge Judy, OH MY!

2007-12-11T07:11:00.000-07:00

I walk my son to school everyday.. even on the frigid days. School is only a block away, and I can afford the exercise.

As I was walking home yesterday, I noticed a neighbor had put a cut-out of the Grinch and his little dog on their roof. Ever-so-Clever, they had strung some Christmas lights coming out of their chimney, into the Grinch's paws and around his little dogs 'antlers. My first impression was, "Oh, how cute." But, then I really started thinking...

Why is it human nature to focus on scandalous behavior? No, this isn't a recent revelation, this is something that has been prevalent my entire life beginning at birth. I mean, The Grinch went through a lifetime of hurt, he was teased, he was unwanted, shucked by society. It is understandable for his heart to be hard, cold, for his behavior to be ruthless. However, the point of the story was not supposed to be about his rotten behavior. The focus should be on his wonderful ascent to goodliness. You never really see cutouts of The Grinch with a loving smile on his face, his Santa suit on, GIVING to his community. In fact, when the Grinch is mentioned, it is understood that whomever he is being compared to is selfish and mean. The same goes for Scrooge. The man was awful. Really, he was. But, he becomes a great contributor. Yet, in our society to be a Scrooge is to be someone that pinches pennies and never gives back.

I was watching America's Most Wanted a few nights ago, when an advertisement came on about the latest craze in game shows..."To Tell the Truth". Contestants agree to strap themselves to a polygraph, and to speak the truth.. the catch is that they are being asked extraordinarily inappropriate questions that could potentially destroy their lives. When I saw the preview, I was disgusted. I think mostly because there are just things that are private, and should stay that way. Its like our society has an overwhelming need to see pain. To view another person in the hot seat, to wriggle about feeling uncomfortable about their own lives. Every person on the planet in one way or another, in some form or another, becomes involved in scandalous behavior. I don't see the necessity for televising it. Another great example of this would be the show about catching cheaters in the act of cheating. OK. It's wrong. It shouldn't be done. We all know this. Yet, indulging in viewing other people discovering and confronting their significant other is fascinating to a lot of people. Why is that kind of simple minded animosity something people find entertaining?

Remember when growing up meant inevitably having to deal with bullies? At some point in adulthood, is it not inevitable to have to grow up? Are we a society built up of people so insecure about the who inside themselves that stooping to certain levels is acceptable?

Right then. Having made it back to the comfort of my own home, I settle in with a cup of hot coffee and my remote control. Judge Judy is on, today she is to decide whether a woman that had been jailed for domestic violence has to pay the bail bondsman she had called to haul her out, back for having rendered service to her.. despite her having paid him with her body. I sigh. I turn off the television and mop the kitchen floor.

Random

2007-12-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

Lying in bed last night, words unwritten came floating to my mind. I was too tired and too sick to get up and put them on paper. I regret this. It happens to me often, when words come unbidden, and I am not wise enough to snatch their melodic verse from the colorful fuzz that is my brain.

I spent this morning sipping coffee and staring listlessly into the pouring rain. I cleaned out half the clothes from my closet to sell to a second hand store. I tore apart and remade my bed. I scrubbed paint off the white tiles of my kitchen table. I smoked and complained to my roommate, because that is what we do.

My energy is gone. I am attributing this to barometric pressure. My anti-social tendencies? Definately due to poor weather. My desire to sleep all day? Its the snow. Depression brought on by winter, darkness settles sooner, coldness uninviting.

I am not accustomed to having free reign over my own destiny, my own paradise. I read once about birds that had been raised in a cage, suddenly set free and not knowing how to make their wings fly, they wouldn't extend them fully.

Sometimes that's how I feel. Guilt ridden on days that I could have done something and didn't. Expecting someone, anyone, to be angry with me for having not lost weight, for having not cleaned the house, for having allowed the laundry and dishes to pile up, for having continued to smoke, or having laid around reading or writing or painting all day long. For just being unproductive. I don't know how to react when those that could be upset, aren't.

And so, this that I am living is a beautiful life. A new learning experience. What do you do with yourself when the thing you want most is suddenly readily available? I have always wanted a relationship with a man that would have me as his friend and partner, his equal, his love.. and here it is.. I never wanted to be defined by my relationship with such a man.. and I am encouraged to be as individual as my little heart desires. He loves my eccentricities. Very confusing. I don't have to fight him, contradict him, rebel. There is nothing to fight, contradict, or rebel against. It's Crazy.

And so here it is. My fresh start. My next lesson. I am grateful.

IF

2007-10-16T21:09:00.000-06:00

It is the most meaningful word in the English Language.

The counter point to any issue.

IF I would have

IF I could have

IF I do

IF I did

IF I said

IF I didn't tell

IF

So much responsibility for two little letters.

So much weight for such a silly sounding word.

Say it. Out loud, I mean.

IHHFFFFFF.

The particular way you have to hold your mouth to say such a word,
it really is quite .. UN-becoming? distasteful?

The mouth is open, the uvula contracts and the vocal chords vibrate a hard EI sound.

The lips move forward over the teeth, the tongue lies flat.

Air pushes through the gap left behind.

What a dumb sound.

PH.

F.

Rather Ironic. I think.

Wild Berry Jam

2007-10-13T21:02:00.000-06:00

We used to pick them in my backyard, along the railroad tracks.

We would venture with little wooden weaved baskets lined with paper towels.

We would pick and sing, laugh, tell stories.

We rinsed them in glacier water.

Our fingers stained purple and red with the juice of berries.

They don't remember anymore.

They were but small boys.

But, they love the stories.

We venture along boardwalks framed by bushes.

We witness the splashing otter eating his lunch.

We eat our own lunches on blankets beneath the shade of a great pine tree.

Upon a cliff we can see far across the horizon, flat with ocean.

We hear the spouting of whales, and watch as they leave prints of their passing.

The air is crisp and clean.

Our baskets full, we wander home.

They don't remember now.

Only the stories.

Journey Man

2007-10-03T19:36:00.000-06:00

He leans over her, pulling her seat belt across, clipping it into its holster at her hip. She can smell his freshly laundered shirt, soap, deodorant. He cut himself shaving, she picks the tiny blood-soaked square off his jaw. She displays it for him, answering his puzzled look. The Volkswagen sputters and jumps as he revs the engine. She steals a glance into the back at her sleeping baby, "Are you sure we are going to make it?" He reassures her.

Over a year ago he convinced her that she was destined to follow him. They had been experimenting with LSD. He had dropped it in her eyes. "Do you trust me with your life?" She remembered having said yes. Then her universe became foggy. Things she knew were real looked as though they were made in a toy factory. Houses constructed of Popsicle sticks. Her own body made of rubber. She could not make out their words, but was sure they were conspiring in their language to hurt her. Yet, she wasn't afraid. He was there. He had led her to this point.

She said she was scared, quite loudly, in fact. They all looked at her conspicuously. One had rusted nails in her ears, hanging there, as though they were meant to pierce the flesh. She intimidated her, made her antsy. She believed she could shrink, in her mind's eye she did. But then, she couldn't make herself stop. She told him to make it stop. He told her she was okay, he fed her a banana and some milk. He took her tongue piercing out for her safety. She began to sweat. He led her away, to their own nest. He made love to her, stirred her, brought her back home. She dubbed him her Journey Man.

So long ago, she mused. When she found out she was pregnant the drugs became obsolete. She wanted to bring a healthy child into the world. She had to be responsible. Suddenly he was scared. He was with out answers. He wanted to run. Run they did.

Thousands of miles from where they began, her journey man etched a new kind of life. He purchased an old pop-up Volkswagen bus they named Bernard. He worked two jobs, stocking shelves for the market, and organizing the warehouse for a large tour boat company. She just became more and more swollen with the coming of their first son.

They lived with his mother in a hostel ten miles out of town. The hostel owner had a pot-bellied pig that weighed three hundred pounds. It made the girl sick, and it didn't like her a bit. She feared it. It liked to rut against the shins of unsuspecting victim's legs. It's 'litter box' was next to the kitchenette where they stored and cooked their food. They slept on the second floor of the hostel. There was one bathroom on the bottom level. The hostel owner gave the girl a five gallon bucket to relieve herself in, so she wouldn't have to climb the stairs and contend with the pig. She didn't mind the hardship, her man would take care of her.

They all moved into a condo at the end of the road. By now she and the boy were married. His mother tried relentlessly to convince him that this thing growing inside his wife was not his creation. She tried relentlessly to convince him that his wife had continued to poison herself and the child with drugs. She was not in support of taking the wife to the doctor. She said all first born babies need to be ushered into the world as naturally as possible. The Journey man took his wife to the doctor in secret. His mother gave her dogs big bags of marijuana leaf that she claimed belonged to his wife. She called his wife's mother in the middle of the night and tried to conspire with her, for custody of their unborn grandchild that was shamefully not even a blood relation to her.

The journey man decided to uproot his little family. He and his wife packed their things away slowly into their bus. They left in the middle of the night. They embarked on their own adventure. They lived quietly in RV parks, at the edge of the ocean, deep in the forest. They drove Bernard into places he should never have braved. She hauled water, she bathed in icy streams, she cooked over a fire, she chopped wood. She did everything she could for Him.

However, right now, in the middle of this snow storm she is doubting him. She is frightened for her child. Bernard's tires are bald. There is a thick blanket of snow on top of the frozen road. They are in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness with no means for communication. No one knows they are here. No one knows. We are going to die here in this pop-up bus. The heater doesn't work, the engine is clanging and sputtering. He has dug us out twice. The wheels are spinning, black smoke and the smell of burnt rubber.

There's someone out there. There's a truck pulling up! With out a word two men hook Bernard's axle with chains, their wives exchange places with the girl and the baby in the frozen bus, ushering them into the heated cab of the truck. They tow the little family to the next town, accepting only heart felt thanks. The garage allows the family to stay inside the bus overnight within the heated confines of their shop. Repairs are made. Morning arrives. She blindly takes her seat as he navigates their journey, pulling her seat belt around her, she inhales him deeply, and wonders if he truly is her Journey man.

Close

2007-09-27T16:46:00.001-06:00

She plunges her body into the basin, air bubbles cling to her nose. She puffs out her cheeks as she holds her breath. She likes the way they feel when they are big and full of air. Her hair floats up around her. Long beautiful ebony strands caress her face and shoulders. She kicks her feet, turning and turning her body, slowly, weightless. She bursts through the surface and draws a loud gasping breath. Delight comes at the crispness of it. She pulls herself up and out, her grey t-shirt clings to her now, her hair stuck under her armpit. Her jeans are heavy with liquid. She drips on the wood of the floor, laughing aloud at her moment of madness. Who does this? Who fills the hot tub with water and flops like a fish in it fully dressed?

The urge to run is upon her. This is not her house. This is not her hot tub. She doesn't belong here. She has climbed the fence on a whim. If she is caught, she doesn't know what will happen. Heart pounding, hands cold, knees week, she sneaks to the side of the house. She dashes into the next yard. Its really cold now. She can see her own breath as she stands stiff at the corner. She sees headlights in the dark, a small utterance emits from her face. A dog barks.

She runs part of the way across the front lawn. There is a car turning on the road, so she lays flat on the grass. Silly child. Scrambling to her feet, her legs pump beneath her. Home, home, home. Only four houses to go. The car has turned around, just keep running. She ditches into her neighbors side yard, dives over the fence, entering her home through the back door. She runs to the front window. The car has stopped in her drive. She hurriedly peels off her freezing, wet clothes. Running to the bedroom, she pulls on her robe, slides into her slippers, and answers the door as she throws a towel on her head.

'We saw someone jump your fence, just wondered if everything was alright.' She nervously looks from face to face. They are so serious, so concerned. She smiles. 'I was just getting out of the shower. If you'd like a look around, feel free. But, I'm sure there isn't anyone out there'. They look into the tiny yard. Nothing. As they pull away from her home, she giggles. Close.

Leave It Alone

2007-09-23T13:11:00.000-06:00

The boy is curious about that wood stove in the corner. His mother has told him a billion times to stay away because it's hot. He wonders why they are constantly putting wood in its great iron belly. He can't fathom why his father springs back when the shining orange bits spew from its mouth. He can't figure out the mechanism that holds the gate surrounding the giant stove together. So he waits. He does not know what hot means. He does not understand its concept. He should listen to his mother, she may yell or make him sit perfectly still on the red chair by the wall. He doesn't want that to happen. So its waiting and watching, hoping one day the gate can be conquered. His father is hauling in the wood, mother is chopping it in the yard. He moves a chair stealthily to the stove. No one knows because they are out doors. He climbs the chair, hopping off to the tiles surrounding the beast. He feels the warmth of a thousand quilts on his face. Like when he was sick and the water poured out of his hair and down his back and made his hands slippery. He sees something bright and orange licking the insides of the stove. He reaches up, wanting to open the great iron door to peer inside a little better. His chubby fingers wrap around the metal handle, a sizzling sound, a scream and pain like he has never felt in his life. Oh! His mother is there, his father too. He is lifted into the kitchen, his hand dunked in ice water. Mother is frowning, tears stream down her cheeks. Father is angry, slamming cabinet doors, stomping and shouting at mother. He is scared. He is hurting. He should have listened to his mother. He understands now why mother said not to go near the wood stove. He understands the concept of hot. He learned the hard way. He had to practice his individuality in order to fully understand. Unfortunately he will carry a scar and painful memory his whole life because of that lesson, but it won't be the last. There will be many many more. His mother and father will warn him, they will teach him, they will guide him. In the end, he has to learn the lessons he is here to learn for himself. Mother will blame herself, she will shed tears and wish she could take away his pain, his scars. Father will feel helpless and frustrated, he will kick things, shout and stomp. One thing they will never do is turn their backs and no longer love. What a lucky boy.

Strike

2007-09-21T18:19:00.000-06:00

CRACK! The ball has slipped from her fingertips behind her to the floor. Her face flushes crimson as she tries to get her traction less shoes to propel her toward the runaway thing. It rolls of its own accord, twelve pounds of whatever bowling balls are made of can move rather quickly if given the chance. Scrambling about, looking like she swallowed a canary, she snatches the thing out from under an other's legs. Barely a glance in their direction, she glowers as she wiggle-shuffles her way back to the lane. Wildly she tosses the ball onto the wood, CRACK! It gutters and rolls past the tall standing pins. Her frustration mounting, shoulders hunched, she hurriedly pinches up another ball. This time she swings it between her legs. The movement wipes her feet off the polished floor and into the air. She lies on her back. Once again, a crimson face. A silent prayer is uttered as an unkown gentleman offers a hand. Sensing her disgrace, he holds the ball for her as she struggles to her feet. Very patiently, he lines the ball up with his nose and eyes, then mock shots it .. to teach her form. She mutters a thanx and accepts the errant ball. Feeling obligated she mirrors his actions. She isn't really sure what he was looking at, and so aims at the first pin in the middle. She swings her arm back and releases at the knee, CRACK! The ball hits the lane.. she is standing bent and bull legged, but does not care. The ball beelines, hitting the foremost pins, they immediately fall like stacked dominoes! All but one, in the right corner, it's teetering, teetering.. she lets out a little yelp, and as though reacting to her emotional emittance, it falls to its side. STRIKE!! She nearly passes out. But, rather she finds herself jumping, and shouting, and grasping the sides of her head. She does not believe it! It seems the world has turned on it's axis a moment and she glances about. Everyone is looking at her. Again with the crimson face, she saunters to her chair, sighs and drinks the last of her beer. Off come the shoes. She squares her shoulders, straightens her shirt and returns them to a baffled attendant that informs her that she could play the game out.. to this she refuses. 'I just wanted to feel what it's like to make a strike.' and she strides out of the building with her head held high.

Bafoon

2007-09-19T19:13:00.000-06:00

I am.

Simple as that.

That's all I should ever have to be.

People keep saying, "One day, you will meet someone that will love you inside and out just as you are."

I am beginning to doubt that.

Highly.

I have mood swings. Sometimes I am really happy for no reason. Sometimes I am really mad. Sometimes I am sad. Lately more sad than anything.

I don't maintain a perfect house. At the end of the day, I am more worried about my kids going to bed, snug, clean, read to, fed, and feeling loved.. than I am about the dishes having been washed.

I like to kick cans.

I like to walk and dance in the rain.

I like to sing karoake at the local beer joint with people I have just met.

I like crowds.

I love coffee shops.

I like to wander around and look at wares with out buying anything.

I like street vendors and fairs.

I enjoy watching fire dancers, belly dancers, circus acts, art shows, and listening to poetry.

I like rock concerts.

I love caffiene.

Nothing astounds me more than the human mind in every form.

I am a cheerleader for the underdog.

I love meeting and being with people that most would exclude from most social venues.

I miss my friends.

I had a friend once that passed out roses with me on the city streets to sad people at random. She went with me to dances, to bars, to events. We would laugh so hard our sides would split, or cry so hard we shuddered. We sang together, had deep enchanting conversations for hours, danced together, and helped each other when we were in need.

I had a lot of friends like that.

Where have they all gone?

And so loneliness creeps.

I feel like a bafoon.

Ever get tired of yourself?

Yup.

Thats me.

I am.

Been a bad day.

2007-09-11T22:24:00.001-06:00

Today was rough.

It really was.

I woke up a bit late.

Out of coffee creamer..

Not a good sign.

Drop off kids.

Forgot medication.

I broke a nail at the convenience store.

Discovered I errantly mailed my paycheck to my parents in Califonia.

Off to work.

The boss is angry.

A co-worker is late.

We need to gas our monstrous vehicles.

Make it to the movie theatre forty five miles away.

We have half an hour.

On our way.

One of the people I work with starts channel surfing the radio..

turning it up.. turning it down..

rolling down the window and screaming into the wind.

I sigh and chew gum.

Everyone wants to go to a different show.

One doesn't want to see any.

The majority go.

I, The Rogue, and a co-worker sit around for two hours playing video games, walking aimlessly and prank calling the cingular store.

Movie is over.

Out come the rest of the bunch, all but one, but we don't notice that, no we get into our perspective vehicles and drive drive away.

The Rogue starts screaming, laughing for no reason, switching the radio, rolling the window down and up and up and down.

Suddenly she is tired.

Suddenly she grows quiet.

We are back.

I drop everyone off at home.

I am back at the office, locked out.

I wait for a half an hour.

Here comes a fellow that needs help with his job.

I am at a loss.

We wait outside.

Boss shows up looking as frazzled as I am feeling.

I am cleaning compulsively.

I do that when I am stressed.

She doesn't care.

We smoke, and I am released.

I go to the local watering hole.

Its like 'Cheers'.

I come in and a man I barely know jumps out of his stool and bear hugs me like we are long lost relatives.

I laugh.

Beer never tasted better.

I talk about my husband.

About his moving away.

Its sad, so I load the juke box with quarters, pick my favorites.

Johnny Cash.

Norah Jones.

Social Distortion.

Rolling Stones.

The Doors.

Guns N Roses.

I am feeling better.

Getting loose at the mouth, though.

I leave.

My boss calls with the news of our lost person.

I want to cry.

She acts as though I should know.

Its not like forgetting to ask for fry sauce when your picking up food for someone else!

I feel horrible.

The Lost can not speak.

He can not sign.

He has no means for communication.

I am worried sick.

Pick up the kids.

To the house, where my stepkids are all waiting.

My estranged husband called twice to ask if I wanted to see them.

Of course.

I cook dinner.

Phone rings.

My boss's boss.

She wants answers.

The Lost was found and placed into custody in Salt Lake City County Jail.

The Lost's father is quite upset.

I tell her what happened on my end.

I am waiting for her to fire me.

She doesn't.

Says to go to work as per usual.

We will meet on Thursday.

Estranged husband has been here.

We eat.

We talk.

We laugh.

We fight.

'Bars are for single people and bar flies'

Wonder which one I am.

The stepkids are interrupted from their quest for grapes growing hot on the vine in the backyard.

He takes them home.

I smoke.

I blog.

Ode to Me

2007-09-09T22:58:00.001-06:00

Rake in all of your choices, pull the decisions from not so long ago.

Look at them carefully, scrutinize, critically, as though with your last breath.

Figure a way to make things right.

Figure a way to ammend the mistakes.

Clean up the mess that you have made of your life.

One can't live in a constant state of regret, remorse and sorrow.

It will stultify your soul.

Laziness abounds.

Any who function here would that they could exsist with out all the hassle.

Surely there is a place to escape where food presents itself for the taking with no work involved.

Surely there is the possibility of lying around in fields of flowers under arched color with out a care.

Is there no sovereign where one can be with out wreaking havoc on another?

Bad decisions in the life of a mother affects all of her children, be they blood born or not.

Bad decisions in the life of a wife affect the husband, his work, his functionality.

Bad decisions in the life of a woman will affect the palpatations of a loving heart.

If in fact a heart presides in that great heaving chest.

The decisions have been made, ground work laid.

One can't help but wonder if one is a glutton for punishment, or if one just enjoys nursing the hot searing pain associated with a broken world.

Its all torrential.

Rotten to the core.

But then, this is something that has been well versed.

This is a page visited once before.

Time to haul your baggage to the curb, realizing it is yours to deal with.

Time for restitution, indemnification, repentance.

You may not be able to fix it.

You may not be able to wave a magic wand.

But, you can pay.

You can always pay.

So Tired.

2007-09-01T23:09:00.000-06:00

It hangs heavy over the mountain tops, huge, golden predictable.

It makes a slow ascent, only a half disc tonight, like a button partially pulled through the silk of the navy nights sky.

A spark of the lighter, crickets chirping so loud one can't collect her thoughts.

I should be sad.

I should be angry.

I should be broken.

I am disjointed, torn, tattered.

How does one pull the pieces together? Where does one find the nails, bolts, plaster, cloth, thread to patch the damage that has been done?

I am flat.

Steadily the golden hue becomes clean, white, bright as an angels wings.

It is oblivious to laughter, to pain, to the beating of a billion hearts.

It feels no fear, has never experienced rejection, does not know sorrow.

Sometimes I would like to pull the button through.

Sometimes I want to fix the incompleteness of its closure.

Sometimes I want to be nestled in the craters and dark spots of that great disc, with out the cares of this world.

A glance over the shoulder, a gentle salute to the lifeless orb.

Goodnight.

Golden Tinkle

2007-08-30T07:58:00.000-06:00

She's rushing about, trying to drink her coffee, put on an earring, tie this ones shoe, and usher that one out of the shower.

Ten minutes til drop off.

She butters toast with one hand and pours milk with the other.

Phone rings, answering machine. He is calling already.

She rolls her eyes and checks backpacks for homework.

Shoving a book into one, she unzips the other, then the third.

All seems well.

She writes down back to school night, soccer at six and seven, dentist at two.

She spies movement out the back door and her heart leaps.

What the hell is that?

She stands and rushes to the glass.

A golden stream arches up, over and to the bottem of the stairs.

He is peeing out the back door.

She stifles a laugh, opens the door and tells him to do it in one of the two toilets!

The stairs are not your personal piss pot.

Get the hose and spray it off!

He does.

His father would be so proud.

Perfect Ending

2007-07-23T17:43:00.000-06:00

Wretched! Filthy! Mud-laden! I roll up in my new car expecting them to be ready. Expecting the shouts of joy and thrill emitting from their underdeveloped vocal chords. I expect our routine of 'look what I learned to do in the pool today'. Rather, two greatly disturbing orphan children run at me from a puddle of mud the size of a lake! They are doused from head to toe! The smaller of the mudmonsters cries out, MOM MOM MOM!!! Come see the mud village! I am in shock! Mud village? And you are? Oh, of course I take their mudcaked hands into my own and traverse the land of the many grasses around the sea of muddy waters, and find a whole architecturally sound city creatively erected by buckets and plastic shovels. I can't hide the fact that I'm impressed. How did you shape the little windows? Where did you get the idea to braid grass to connect the 'buildings' like telephone lines? Where did you get your inspiration? I am invited to 'swim' in the great muddy waters. To this I shrug. I may be an old mom just getting home from work, I may be dressed in business slacks and heels, but I'm not above indulging my five and seven year old sons. I slip off my heels and surprise them all by jumping feet first into the slop. Uch. I didn't realize how deep it would be. I'm up to my knees in cool mud. Everyone is laughing and guffawing. That's all right. I play it off by grabbing up a handful and making a pie that I subsequently lob at my eldest. Hey! He shouts. He clambers into the mud, using all of his ten year old bulk to topple me. It works. He is a very strong young man. Defeated, I pat the mud around me. In come the other two boys. We laugh and splash and play for a few moments. Then comes a nagging inside my head. That adult bothersome voice residing in my temporal lobe. Home, it calls, home, you need to make dinner.. I remember the new car. Its leather seats. I remember how upset my husband was when I spilled the tiniest amount of coffe into the cupholder, the little splashed drops that had landed unnoticed on the passenger side, marring the beautiful grey leather. Suddenly I'm worried. How do I get the four of us home and NOT muck up the car? I hear myself ordering the boys out of the puddle. I hear myself telling them to put on their sandals. We trudge to the car, I nudge the kids past. We'll walk this day, I say. But, MOM, we're all wet and dirty. I'm sorry.. next time we will have to remember an extra set of clothes. Luckily the babysitter only lives a half block away. We rush home and rinse ourselves with the hose in the front yard. Passersby stare in awe as our pink flesh emerges. We strip in the foryer, the boys go get in the shower one by one, I put on fresh clothes and fetch the car. I giggle when my husband asks how my day was. I sigh, perfect, I say.

Non-conforming Bastard

2007-04-11T19:00:00.000-06:00

Okay, never have I admitted, nor am I now admitting my ability to conform to mainstream social standard. However, when it comes to that which is legal, I am kind of a stickler. I grew up in a very conservative atmosphere, where all things republican reigned, sleeved shirts were a must, shorts had to be no shorter than an inch above the knee, ink belonged on paper, and needles only pierced the skin when there was a medical need. You paid attention to your parents rules, attended church functions, and always did your homework on time. Or you would pay the consequence of delinquent behavior. Which, in my case never really happened until I was already of legal age. My mother frequently touts that fact, citing great changes beginning with my coming of age. She still believes I am the alien replica of my former, more congenial self. It's okay, ma, I know you love me any way that I am, and you have learned to accept my strangely erratic behavior, just keep telling yourself that something came to me on the eve of my eighteenth and laid eggs in my brain.

Now that THAT has been established...

I am really not very conservative in this day and age. I have pierced my flesh in various places, and tattoos decorate my freckled skin. I am not a frequent church goer, I do not vote republican. I often wear clothing that is suggestive, however never in the presence of my parents. I have the mouth of a sailor, but would never swear, hurt or disrespect someone that is my elder. I have strange ideas about cosmic design, sure, but don't we all? I am just more willing, I think to stand up and say my innermost thoughts out loud when pressed for detail.

But...

Give me a parking ticket and it will be paid in a week. Let it be ruled in a court of law that I MUST keep insurance for my children, and I will accept a job at Burger King if they have benefits. If I hit your car in traffic, or in the parking lot, I will stand there and wait for your arrival so we can talk about how I'm going to pay for the damages. If someone at the store drops a hundred dollar bill on the floor and mindlessly walks away from it, I will undoubtedly scoop it up and chase them out the door to return it.. and would so even if its a penny.

Three years ago a judge ruled that my children were going to be in my sole custody, legally and physically. That the only time they were to see their father would be under supervised visitation, and even then at my discretion. He ruled that the Ex was to keep insurance for them, pay half their medical bills, and pay monthly child support. He ruled that said Ex was going to have to attend anger management, drug rehabilitation, and have a clean bill of health from a psychologist in order to amend the visitation and custody rulings.

The ex continued to do drugs for three years. He didn't pay his child support, running up a bill so astronomical its frightening. He didn't contact or attempt to see his children saying that we lived too far from one another. (I moved from Alaska to Utah to be closer to my family) He continued with his melodramatic ways that kept landing him in and out of jail.

So why is it that I am willing to let this delinquent ass walk all over me, you say? Out of the blue he begins paying little bits of his thousands of dollars debt. Little by little he begins calling. Bit by bit he starts asking for more and more conditional changes and acceptions to our divorce decree. He wants me to allow him to see the kids unsupervised. He wants them to be excused from school so he can visit them, and why shouldn't I be expected to comply, he hasn't seen them in three years....

This narcissistic asshole had the nerve to tell me that I was the great barrier to his having a relationship with his children. That I was the reason that their lives have been inflicted with pain and self doubt. That HE needed THEM in HIS life now more than ever. Can't I understand for one moment, can't I have compassion for one moment for what HE has been through for the past three years?!?

I can tell you what he HASN'T been through. He didn't go through the pains of toilet training three boys. He didn't nurse them when they were sick, chase the boogey man out of their closets when they were scared, work three and four jobs a day to ensure their stomachs were full. He didn't fret over where their next stitch of clothing would come from, or how much damage was being done because they didn't have a male role model. He didn't have to dry their tears when they were sobbing at the absence of their father. He has never spent more than one consecutive week with these amazing little men. He has never known the feeling of frustration you get when they don't listen to you, or the ball that swells in the back of your throat when they do something incredible. He missed their birthdays, holidays, first haircuts, lost teeth, boy scout meetings, camping trips, little outbursts of joy when some simple problem was miraculously and meticulously drawn out. He has never seen the look of determination that furrows the brow of his youngest son while he ties his shoes.. something that his father wasn't there to teach him. He has never heard the silly tunes that his middle son effortlessly hums while completing his math assignments.. And sadly, he wasn't there the first time his oldest son was awarded his first medal for scholastics.

Yet, I should be compassionate because for three years he was a drunken bum that couldn't or wouldn't pay his dues and ask for the right to help raise his kids, due to post traumatic stress.. according to him.

I'm not carrying on to be considered a sob story, I don't want people to see me as a saint or heroine, it is not my goal to seem holier than thou. . .

I just need to vent my frustration with a person that expects more than he is due. A little effort goes a long way. Sometimes conforming is the only way.. especially when dealing with an non-conforming Bastard

slave to the man

2007-03-27T14:32:00.000-06:00

I am entertaining the notion of a second job. See, I have been trying like hell for the past month or two to buy a second car for the commute to work. My credit score won't support a loan. Any loan. It's been beaten and scarred, carrying the battle wounds of divorce. The man I married isn't much higher on the credit totem pole. Second marriage is truly a hundred times harder than the first. Especially because of all of the imbittered thoughts and ideas that are unfortunately pounded into every cell of your being. You can't help but mistrust, question, worry about the intentions of another. You can't help but wonder at the validity of love. I mean, WARS have been fought because of the notion of love. Countries have fallen, blah blah blah, all that crap.

I had a teacher in middle school that used to do something we called 'birdwalking'. She would begin to talk about one thing, which led to another, then another, then another, into oblivion. Sometimes she would walk herself into a circle back to the original subject, but more often than not, she would just forget all together what it was she set out to say. I loved this woman. She was hillarious. Sometimes we would try to lead her into her stories so that she would just keep talking through the period. She had the most interesting stories. I learned a lot about life in her class.

I guess as I age I do a fair amount of bird walking. But, my friends, peers, kids, family still seem to like me. They at least act somewhat interested in the things I have to say. Recently, I started a sales job taking calls in an inbound call center. I remember when I was a teenager, my father used to jab me a bit saying that if I could have a quarter for every minute I tied up his phone line I would be a millionaire. He must be proud that at such a tender age I found, harnessed and nurtured such a talent. The vocation is truly bringing me a living. I talk to people from all over the world. We discuss gardening, kids, bugs, sports, even very personal things like divorce. Just recently a customer called upset because her deceased husband's name appeared on her new checks. (That's what I do.. help people reorder checks) She was crying and inconsolable. I felt terrible because we aren't to take names or address changes from customers over the phone. After I had called to get verification from her bank and followed through, she and I had a long discussion about her love gone past. She said she was eighty seven years old, he was ninety something. She said they both knew eventually one of them would die, but that he always wanted it to be her, because he feared she wouldn't carry on with out him. She said she never learned to drive, never brought an income to the family, never balanced the books, she didn't have to. She said she had a loving and decent husband, that he did all of that for her. She'd said before he passed they would go to the park on little outings and feed the birds. He always took care to hold her hand and lead her through. She was such a lovely person. Her story touched my soul. At the end of our conversation she told me how they first met, bringing a smile back into her voice. She said that it was nice to talk to someone outside her little box of a world, so that she could bring light to a terrible situation.

Ach... if only I had her sunny disposition.

That's right! I was saying I wanted to get a second job, probably waiting tables, if I can figure how to arrange my kids. I think it will be a good thing, we can pay our bills, save a bit, and get ready to buy ourselves a nice home to live in. Hopefully the process won't break us. What's an additional five hours on an eight hour day?

Someone has to be the slave to the man. May as well be me.

The Haircut

2006-12-14T10:03:00.000-07:00

She woke up early on a bright summer's day, excited because her mother promised today was her turn to get a haircut. She carefully selected her favorite Strawberry the Shortcake sweater and a pair of Rustler jeans for the blessed event. Her teenage sisters had all chosen to sport the new 'layered' affect, and that was her goal.

At nine years old, her sisters were placed on a special shelf in her heart, right up there with the Disney Princesses, Paula Abdul, and all things cool or elite. They encouraged her adoration. Spent time with her. Allowed her to witness the glories of being an age that you aren't constantly told your too small for everything. They patiently tolerated her mundane silly questions about the wonders of leg shaving, makeup, and boys.

Her sisters were both popular, near in age, and looked astonishingly alike. They were mistaken one for the other their entire childhood, pre-pubescent, and juvenile lives. Oh, they were beautiful, talented creatures! She often wondered why she had to be so ordinary. In her nine year old mind, she resolved that her sisters took all the good genes, and that was their ONLY fault. They didnt leave any for her. Tall for her age, thin with sinewy muscles, she was flat as a board, pocked with freckles, and had a gap between her front teeth. The only thing she liked about herself was the azure blue of her eyes, and her long chocolate colored silky hair. Her mother insisted on washing it with some crazy concoction including beer, mayonaise and raw eggs... sounds terrible, and it was, but it made the hair of your head so illustrious, it was unreal.

She skipped down the hall, pausing briefly to pound on the bathroom door. Family tradition, it was the only room in the house that was always occupied, the only room you could lock yourself into for a little privacy. She pours herself a bowl of cornflakes. She's humming as she pours the milk and cuts the banana into her cereal. Her brother comes in from outdoors, pushes her shoulder, asking why she was so happy. She sticks her tongue out at him, ignores his question, and takes her first bite. He tells her there was a snake in the garden that morning, which brings him to remind her of her two rows of corn overgrown with weeds. She looks up, asking him who died and made him the chore monitor. In turn, he bonks her head with the cereal box, she gets up and runs crying to her mother... who is snoring happily in her bed. Dad had to work that day, and mom worked the night before. Both were absolutely exhausted, what with six kids to feed and dress, a mortgage, car note, utility bills, not to mention having three more adult children, grandchildren, extra expenses, health problems, incessant worry, careers, and church obligations.. neither seemed to ever really rest.

Bursting into her mothers room, seeing her sleeping peacefully, she choked off her cries in wonder. It was a sight she had rarely seen, so she crept up to the bed and just stood there, watching her. She marvelled at how soft and young her mother's face was, how much she resembled an angel, despite the stream of drool pooling on her pillow. Mother's keen sense of awareness must have edged itself into her dreams, because quite suddenly she bolted upright, knocking the very life breath and feet out from under her daughter. "Wha's 'sa matter?" queries a sleepy, dream laden woman with bed head. Her daughter recovers, throwing her arms around her very own angel from heaven, she forgets about her brother assaulting her. Good Mornings are exchanged and mother asks daughter if she's ready for her first real haircut.

The woman hired to lop the hair off said child's head lived across the street in a white brick house. She had children of her own about the same age as the girl. They had waited at the same bus stop for the entire four years of her schooling career, gone to church together, and even played together once and awhile. It was a safe assumption that the lot of them were friends. Mother called across the road via telephone, then sent daughter over to get the deed done.

The stylist's children were playing about the room noisily when she entered, only pausing briefly to say hello. She quietly climbed into the barber's chair, folding her hands in her lap, she found she was suddenly nervous. The stylist shakes out a plastic biblike sheet over her and buttons it tightly about her neck. Irrevrently the woman begins to spray the child's hair with a bottle of water, combing, picking the knots out with a fury. She pauses momentarily when she sees the young girl's face twisted in agony, asking if it hurts. She switches to spritzing detangler. She pulls from her drawer a tiny pair of black handled scissors that fit into her hand as though they were a detatchable part of her anatomy, like a transformer. She's asking the little girl how she wants the cut, to which the child shyly replies,

"Layered, please."

"Like your sisters?"

"Yes, please."

The stylist smiles knowingly and begins to snip away. She instructs the girl to turn her head this way and that, helplessly the child watches as more and more of her precious hair falls to the floor. Meanwhile, the stylist asks question upon question about family and school, friends and church activities. The girl just wants her to be quiet and pay attention to her work. A mistake from this woman could completely destroy her social life.

Mid-cut a small "huh" emits from the stylists lips. She had been talking about her daughter's project for church. A thread of black dread began weaving in the young girl's chest. The woman instructs her to sit forward a moment, to lean her head so that her hair falls into her face. The girl feels the cool of the stylist's fingers on bare flesh where thousands of hairs should be stalking proudly from follicles gone dormant. "What is that?" they each ask the other in unison. Abruptly the woman pulls the girl's shoulders back. She begins to say that there's a quarter sized bald spot in the middle of the back of the child's head, hesitating, she asks new questions.

"Did you pull a rubber band out of your hair without unwinding it from your ponytail?"

"No."

"Has someone pulled your hair?"

"No."

"Did you shave it?"

"Of course Not."

The woman, baffled, falls silent. She finishes the young lady's haircut, accepts the check scrawled hurriedly by her neighbor, gently hugs the girl and turns her chair toward the mirror. Removing the plastic sheet, she smiles a bright fake smile, asking what the child thinks. As the girl brushes bits of itching hair off her shoulders, admiring her new cut in the mirror, the stylist dials the phone across the road. The girl didn't want to take up more time than she absolutely had to, and was excited to show off her new style to EVERYONE she knew, so she hurriedly thanked her friend's mother and went home to her own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Midas Touch

2006-12-12T11:12:00.000-07:00

Garbage.

2006-11-20T09:48:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up with a sense of true purpose for the day. I have a billion things I want to get done, from chores and errands to pleasurable goals. I need to take the dog to get groomed, pay some bills, send out my folks' mail, drop off my stepchildrens' things left behind this weekend, clean my house, bake a delectable chocolate cherry cake, mend a fence, look for a new mailbox, get a new trash can for the house, clean up the yard, make a corned beef brisket, do the laundry, read the end of my Chiam Potok novel (so I can begin reading the other two brand new books laying in wait), watch my favorite tv show (heroes), and my favorite movie (Chocolat), help the kids with their homework, AND have a nice hot bath. Holy Cow!! You might shout... really, if you look at it again, that isn't all that much. Most 'busy backsons' do twice as much in a twenty four hour period. When was the last time you listed every menial task on your to do list? You would sound really busy and overworked too... lol. I mean, half of this stuff can be done while waiting for the other half to work itself out. Oh, it is a beautiful day, the clouds are out, yes, there is moisture in the air, yes, it is very cold, yes.. a bunch of animals tore the garbage all over the road this morning, true, and where normally I would say there is soo much doom and gloom... I am thinking, What a beautiful day. I am loved, and while the day might be outwardly gray and dismal.. there is sunshine in my soul.

alphalpha eating contest

2006-11-15T15:21:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that subconciously my sons and I have been making note of the progression of a certain llama and it's fold of puffy white sheep. They call a field near my middle son's Elementary school home. Until just recently that field has been full of lush green alphalpha, so tall only the backs and heads of these soft looking animals could be seen. My boys are, of course absolutely fascinated by these beasts, and all of their neighboring beasts as well. When we walk instead of driving, the focus is on the lone cow across the road, who has two unlikely goat fieldmates. We occasionally see a very large dog on this property, loafing indignantly in the sunlight.

Once, the feeder of the beasts asked if we'd like to pet the cow. On cue the brown wet-eyed adorable animal set its tongue out to moisten its nose. The farmer was given a very thankful and humble no thank you. We did, however, compliment his glorious three foot rooster that had every color of the rainbow reflecting and blinding us from his feathers. The chickens were equally impressive, but not as impressive (or as cute) as my husband's rendition of 'the sleeping hen'.

Today there were two llamas residing in the field, one brown, one white with large brown patches. We noted that there were a considerably larger amount of sheep aswell, one of which was very small and brown. Also, the alphalpha has turned a lime green color. The field across the road is empty. No hair nor hyde of goat nor cow could be seen. We did, however, notice the apple tree that must've been there all along.

It's interesting the clarity, the boldness of color, shape and form of the world when your right there in it.

We've collectively decided that one farmer brought his llama and its fold of sheep to visit the other, so that they might have a great alphalpha eating party. The little brown sheep is the record keeper and judge of which sheep in which fold ate the most, and which sheep in which fold digested the fasted. Because thats the way of little boys, always with the digestive system. Now it is three something in the afternoon, and the lot of us want to go discover more wonderous indigenous animals to make stories about, to you I say, adieu.

Group Hug

2006-11-15T11:13:00.000-07:00

I love it when you find that people you have already decided something about turn out to be contradictive to your judgement. I've felt ousted by someone before because of preconcieved notions. Just the same, I have probably ousted others as well. I guess the proper justification is, well hell, we're only human. Though the lesson is hard one to learn, and the behavior required is also difficult to employ, treating our fellow man with kindness at the rate of wreckless abandon might save ourselves the embarrassment of unpleasant preconcieved notions. Though, true to form, it also may set us up for some disappointment, overall I think it makes for better relations and more pleasant personality.. creating a positive atmosphere for even the most indifferent apathetic man. What an idealistic notion. I believe whole heartedly that the acquisition of meaningful relationships are SO much more important than acquiring posessions. Why not look that very intimidating person in the eye and wish them a happy day? Why not smile genuinely at the darkened looking young person with blue hair and a nose piercing? Why not kindly offer your arm to the elderly person hobbling across the ice? True to form, people are people. When stripped of materialistic things, be they rags or be they riches, we are made of the same clay. Why not be kind to one another? When did life stop being about connectivity and begin being a race to the top? Why is it so important to categorize one another? So this person over here has a brand new shirt made by so and so and it costs sooo much money because so and so is a true visionary... blah blah blah... best snub nameless over there because his body is housed in threadbare clothing too large AND too small... Ironically snubbed nameless is usually true visionary's subject of inspiration. How did I come to stand on this soapbox?

It happens.

Once and awhile.

I can't help but find myself disgusted by the indifference of the human race.

Myself included.

Blogging Boredom

2006-11-13T14:12:00.000-07:00

She yawns and sips her coffee. For hours she's sat at this desk, reading email, obsessively contacting her friends and family. She's bored. Her life feels reduced to near nothingness... she did the laundry, washed the dishes, swept and mopped the floor. She hauled out the chicken for thawing and even prepared some dinner rolls. She played with her son, drew some pictures, made his lunch and breakfast. She tickled his tummy, watched his cartoons, made her bed and read a book. Its cold outdoors, or she would go for a walk. She wrote to her brother, offering advise on potty training, her other siblings regarding a family party, she spoke to old friends on the phone, vacuumed the living room floor. She sat on a stool in the kitchen listening to the poodle on the deck harmonizing with the sirens of a passing entourage of police cars, ambulance and firetruck. She cleaned out the fridge, emptying plastic bins of food gone bad weeks ago, washed the containers, carefully stacked and put them away. She rubbed her cold fingers together, nervously bouncing her foot, she itches her eye.. coming away with fingers blackened by mascara and eyeliner. She curses under her breath, looks at her raccoon eye in the mirror and imagines she should probably fix that. She looks through her things, finding false eyelashes, glue, components for a makeover. She washes her face, applies moisturizer, foundation, powder.. she puts the glue in a thin line on the false lefty, then dabs it onto her eyelid... she blinks, giggles, blinks again. Then to the right, she makes the same movements, blink, giggle, blink.. looook. They're crooked. Not even. The hairs on the left one are poking at a funny angle in the corner, the right is inset too far... she tears them away. Carefully replacing them on their card, she draws eyebrows, lines hairless eyelids, glosses lips. "What's the point of falsies anyway, I'm not going anywhere!" Another short ironic laugh. She wanders aimless, room to room.. silently becoming mad in her own right. Ach! This boredom! Ach! Need to do something productive...

And so she writes this blog.

Something profound

2006-11-01T15:00:00.000-07:00

Haha.. Just kidding. I have nothing profound to say. Nothing at all. Just thought, today is Nov. 1. I need to blog something. So, there you go. "Something" has finally been blogged. As I recently wrote to a good friend, I have descended upon you like an inkblot from a broken pen.. Ruining your newly starched white shirt. I hope you can find it in yourself to not think of me as a sad sorry broken girl, but to find it in yourself to think nothing at all. Just change your shirt and throw away your broken pen.

The best Halloween story ever

2006-10-30T16:51:00.000-07:00

THE TELL-TALE HEART
by Edgar Allen Poe

TRUE! - nervous - very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses - not destroyed - not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily - how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture - a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees - very gradually - I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded - with what caution - with what foresight - with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it - oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly - very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! - would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously - oh, so cautiously - cautiously (for the hinges creaked) - I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights - every night just at midnight - but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers - of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back - but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out - "Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; - just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief - oh, no! - it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself - "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney - it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel - although he neither saw nor heard - to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little - a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it - you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily - until, at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the-crevice [[the crevice]] and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open - wide, wide open - and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness - all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? - now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! - do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me - the sound would be heard by a neighbor!

The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once - once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye - not even his - could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out - no stain of any kind - no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all - ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock - still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, - for what had I now to fear?

There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, - for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search - search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.

But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: - it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness - until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; - but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased - and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound - much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath - and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly - more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men - but the noise steadily increased.

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed - I raved - I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder - louder - louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

Almighty God! - no, no! They heard! - they suspected! - they knew! - they were making a mockery of my horror! - this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! - and now - again! - hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! - tear up the planks! - here, here! - it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Angry Inch

2006-10-26T09:42:00.000-06:00

So deep seeded my irritation
So aggravated my indignation
I don't want to see you
I don't want to know you
I don't really love you.

So fully cultivated my resentment
So extreme my self loathing
You have made me escape myself
You have reintroduced my pain
You created this beast.

So complete my dispassionate repose
You mistake my apathy for sadness.

So entire my distaste for your moral faux pas
You mistake my disgust for morbid attraction.

You spit your expectations at me, venomous requirements.
You mistake my silence for submission.

Your suppression makes my strength in rebellion rear its ugly head.
Though I mechanically move through the day...
completing your ridiculous tasks
doing as you would have me do
making your life easier
The more you shake the already explosive contents of my soul....

Its likely you will end up weeping over this one too.

Then again, the drama, your personal victimization,
the way the world continuously slaps you in the face..
through no fault of your own, of course..

Will reignite your purpose.
Will give you a new reason to punish.
Will amend your self proclaimed right to abuse.

Makes me sick.

memories

2006-10-23T11:44:00.000-06:00

My son crawls into bed with me at three in the morning, laying right on top of me, before I am barely awake he sputters excuses for his untimely visit. "I had scary dreams," he whimpers," my room is changed, I'm scared to go back in there." Winding my arms around him, I kiss his forehead. He feels clammy. His skin smells of the kind of sweat that only little boys produce, a little milky, musty, not entirely bad. I hug him tight, and we drift back into our own seperate dreams.

I am remembering my mother's soft flabby arms when I used to crawl into her bed at three in the morning. My father would snort loudly and offer a quick, "HUH!!" My mom reached across in the dark and patted his shoulder, "its only Kathy, go back to sleep." She would cuddle me under the blanket and tickle my face for what seemed like hours.

I remember watching my hair float up under water in the tub. There was the soft tickle of air clinging to my nose, and always a muffled pounding of knuckle on wood, a brother or sister needing to use the toilet. Time floated then, stood still, if only briefly.

There was the scent of hot tomatoes being boiled for canning. The bustle of family getting ready for Sunday school. On conference weekends, prophetic voices boomed from every medium in our home, radio, tv.. whatever. We picked weeds, cleaned house, harvested veggies for bottling. My mother taught me patiently how to snap beans, my sisters on either side of me, telling jokes.

My father would come in after surveying the garden, disappointed in the damage the jack rabbits had done to his pride and joy. I remember his irrigation system. I remember wondering how he ever came up with such an ingenious plan for watering our dinner.

We used to load our sun warmed veggies into baskets, plastic bags, boxes, we would share them with friends and neighbors.

There were the quilting frames holding tacked down cloth, almost too big for our living room. The girls sat knotting yarn through the layers, chatting or watching television. I hid underneath with my next oldest sister and our friends. We ate buttered popcorn from the air popper, tying our sisters' and mother's shoe laces together.

I remember finding my father's coat covering my entire body when I woke from a nap on the couch, not knowing who draped it over me, but revelling in the smell of Old Spice.. knowing somewhere deep inside of me that that moment would not last forever.. knowing I needed to lock it away inside my heart.

Ha ha.. then there was Paula Abdul playing in the 'ghetto blaster'. Making up dances with my friends in the long stretch of lawn next to our house. Scavaging the fields and hills surrounding our little plot of land. I brought home injured wild animals, nursed them back to life.. until one fateful time I found a nest of baby bunnies, ravaged by some kind of predator. There was one little baby left alive, its mother dead in the brush nearby. Its face was bitten, its breath coming in short gasps. I took off my shoe and wrapped it in a sock, running home as fast as I could. My mother looked at me helpless, she told me onestly that it would not live. I begged her to let me try to make it better.. she agreed. It died within hours. My first brush with death. I cried for days.

My first kiss came at ten. It was awful. The boy was Navajo, he had long hair, beautiful eyes and skin. We were under the vast night sky of southern Utah. Stars were out, a crescent moon overhead. He leant down and we eagerly slobbered all over each other's faces. He awkwardly tried to show me how, I was too nervous to learn.

Before then there were long days climbing trees, playing with snakes, watching ribbon float on the breeze. We made forts in the mud, channeling water into puddles and moats around castles of rock and dirt. We snacked on hot berries, straight off the bush, soft and tangy in our mouths.

I wake in the morning, remembering how beautiful life is. I am filled with the purpose of remembering these simple moments, how effortlessly these treasures came, how to remain in such a state.

I want to remember how to just be.

Spoons

2006-10-17T17:47:00.000-06:00

I just came to the realization that all of my favorite foods (comfort or otherwise) are ingested with the aid of bowl and spoon.. or just spoon. Also the first utensils I played with on the earth. Think there's any correlation?

Beautiful Story

2006-10-17T16:01:00.000-06:00

My sister sent this story to me in an email, damn near made me cry:

The Pea Story

Babs Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.

I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the
ragged boy next to me.

"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. Sure look good."

"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."

"Would you like to take some home?"

"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."

"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

"All I got's my prize marble here."

"Is that right? Let me see it."

"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."

"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"

"Not zackley. but almost."

"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."

"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."

I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering.

Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.

Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts ... all very professional looking.

They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.

Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.

"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size....they came to pay their debt."

"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho ."

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.

Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.

Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.

Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles....A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself. An unexpected phone call from an old friend. Green stoplights on your way to work. The fastest line at the grocery store. A good sing-along song on the radio Your keys right where you left them.

Send this to the people you'll never forget.

Clean Home

2006-10-17T10:17:00.000-06:00

The dishes are done, dry and put away.
The towels folded neatly in a drawer.
Beds are made, floors vacuumed, dust removed.

Everything has its place. Everything is in its place.

The house feels empty. It smells of cleaning product and vanilla.
I keep telling myself if I bake something, simmer a chowder, create something fantastic and edible....
maybe then it won't be so lonely.

Its cold outside, the leaves are mounting in the grass.
My boy doesn't want to play.

I guess I could do laundry. I guess I could catch some talk shows, soap operas, read a book, do my workout video.

I guess I could be a little more thankful for the bliss of being home.

My sons went to school with the smell of cucumber melon shampoo in their hair, bubblegum toothpaste wafting out on their breath. They ate big bowls of oatmeal with toast, brown sugar to boot. They pulled on their cotton knit gloves, their clean white socks, sneakers, gathered books, papers.. I can smell the lead of their pencils they so neatly stow in the various pockets of their backpacks.

I try not to feel hollow as they kiss my nose, cheeks, hug my shoulders tightly. I try to convince myself that they haven't the strength to shatter me.

I pull on one of my husband's sweaters. Its big, comfortable, the sleeves end at my fingertips, its knit with shades of navy and cream. I marvel that it's a man's sweater. Its so... feminine. Maybe it just seems as such when draped over female attributes.

Its raining again. There's nothing to do. . . yet so much to be done.. and I am ignoring everything.

Lucky Noam

2006-10-16T11:56:00.000-06:00

I sit here listening to the splashing pattering of Monday morning rain..
My thoughts have not been with you for years,
Just when I think I am over loving, losing, and all of our pain,
You reappear.

Do you remember painting by candlelight?
Do you remember huddling together, while you read to me from your Hebrew Journals?
Do you remember spending so much time picking out old movies, then cuddling up and watching them from that old brown flowered couch?
Do you remember Henry the Moose? I still have him.
Do you remember our early morning coffee stints and soup in the bread bowl?
Do you remember cooking steak for me, making a beautiful salad?
Remember when we partied with that cop my best friend was dating, then making love standing in my bedroom?

You were my best friend. You were my knight. You gave me solace, comfort, confidence. You loved me and I failed to notice.
And I loved you too.
I miss you so much. I miss the easy way we spent our time together. I miss the perpetual five o clock shadow, the curl of your hair, the shape of your head, your large ears, friendly eyes, your goofy grin, your laugh lines, I even miss your pigeon chest. I loved how I could feed you forever and you never gained any weight. I loved how you wouldn't buy yourself anything new, because you didnt want it to be stolen from you. I loved how you wore clothes from thrift stores, because what was fashion but vanity... and you believed clothes were to perform the function of covering your body. I loved how you would cringe every time the test sirens came on at lunchtime, bringing back horrific memories that you would share from your childhood. I loved how your face would light when you saw me, how you would ask when you were going to see me again, how you would gently wrap your fingers around my wrist and tell me you missed me. I loved that there were no expectations, I loved that we never spoke of what we had. But now I regret it, because now I live with out you.
For years I have wondered where you have been.
Then out of the blue, on a rainy Monday morning, I hear from you.
My lucky Noam.
And though it was a simple thing you sent to me.. a 'getting to know you email' that was sent to everyone on an email list I have yet to update...
It was enough to tear open a gaping hole in my soul, a place reserved for you.

Thursday

2006-10-05T12:27:00.000-06:00

Okay, so tonight I have a date. . with my husband and his fantasy, one of my friends. She has great big fake boobs, flawless skin, and size four hips. Needless to say, for me, its a love hate relationship. My hubby would NEVER admit his attraction to her.. but its obvious. The man scrambles.. I mean, SCRAMBLES to assist her with the slightest menial thing. As do most men we know. She is the kind of girl that could pose for playboy. At any stage of her life.. pregnancy, post pregnancy, pre pregnancy... blah! And for that I am jealous, and for that I am petty and mean. She asks if I'm going to a show, sure, I tell her... 'would you get me a ticket?' Sure I say... 'but, I expect you to pay for the ticket, the service charge and my gas to and from the ticket booth.' I am such a bitch.
I know what she will be wearing to the show. Its always the same... black halter top khaki postage stamp sized skirt and knee high boots. No bra, no panties. Then she will go out to the mosh pit after guzzling two pitchers of beer and two shots of jaeger. She will be mauled, she will nearly lose her clothing, then she will come back wet with sweat from head to toe, invigorated and shining. I will have to stand and listen to her hillarious tales of strange men and women fondling her, as I watch my husband drool out the side of his mouth. Sexy.
If it weren't for the fact that my hubby really isn't a punker, I would just go to the show with him, but he doesnt understand the rules of the game, and he becomes.. like an eight year old. My girlfriend keeps his maturity level in check. So, I guess in a way, she is my secret weapon, as sad as it is to admit. I'd hit the show alone.. but, he would NEVER allow that. Her stories make him not trust her, so he isn't about to let me go only with her. Its a catch twenty two. I think I will just get incredibly piss drunk, then I wont really give a shit. For two days I have obsessed about what to wear. I am almost to the stage of pajama bottoms and a huge tee shirt. My husband asserts that not trying to be sexy is sexy...
So, I'm settling with a sheer white button shirt under a blue halter top, jeans, cordouroy page boy hat and pig tails. I will smoke out my eye makeup and wear nude lipstick. I will smile at everyone and enjoy the show. I will. If it kills me, I will.
They are my favorite punk band dammit!!!

Wednesday

2006-10-04T11:41:00.000-06:00

Happy HumpDay!!! My boy and I started off with creamy peachy oatmeal, hot from scratch... it was so good. I drank my wulong tea, cleaned the house a bit, then he and I excersized. Turbo Jam... definately not for the athletically impaired. That's the point though, I guess... soon I will be athletic. That is, if I can convince myself that the effort is worth the pain.. I need to thrill and delight in this pain. Who knew middle aged would be so.... bleh? Except for this generation has made middle age the new beginning age, the new climax.. where in which you aren't supposed to feel old and run down or obsessed over every little bulge here there and everywhere. You know, I hate Madonna. Why can't the woman just grow old gracefully... Why can't she just get fat and wrinkled just like everyone else?!? Damn her and her freaking leotard. I'd like to just start a revolution against not aging. I mean, shit, we are all born to die. We all have to go through most of the same steps.. Dammit!! Why not embrace bulges and wrinkles and skin spots and bloating and the inevitable tug of gravity on our bossoms? Its gonna happen eventually anyway, might as well just accept it!!! Even Madonna will have to HAVE to get old eventually. I can't wait til she loses her faculties and can no longer pee on her own. That's not really true. Not completely anyway. I'm happy for the woman. She was able to make it in the world. She assured that she would be a legend through the ages... and her reward is the ability to pay for millions of dollars in surgery and top of the line beauty products. Yay for Madonna. Bitch.
So, I decided today that I was going to go round with as little makeup on as I can possibly stand. Mascara and eyebrow pencil.. a little lip gloss. Its weird. I look tired. I discovered not to long ago that I do indeed have eyelashes.. that are invisible to the naked eye... but if I wave my mascara wand close enough to my eye lid, all these black lines appear right out of the blue. Its kind of neat in a way.
I have suffered from alopecia universalis for almost twenty years now. Its strange to think that in that twenty years I am still uncomfortable with it. When I take off my 'hair' (dont call it a wig, because for some reason the word makes my heart jump and I'm instantly offended), and wash away my makeup.. there isnt a trace of visible hair anywhere on my head or face. When I see myself that way I feel... ugly. Unattractive. Sick. But I'm not sick. I dont think I'm ugly with my illusionary tools in place.. why would I feel so all natural? I blame society. Society did it to me. Society is my biggest thorn. That is why I rebel against it in every form possible. Thats why the battle against not aging. Thats why I rebuke religion and politics. Thats why I say fuck authority. (sorry mom) Thats why I scornfully smoke under signs that say no smoking. Thats why I laugh in the faces of girls with a need for propriety. It goes on forever. Really it does. But, in the same token, I would never be publicly seen without my hair.. or my makeup.. because I wouldnt want anyone to think me a freak, or embarrass my offspring with my garish freakiness. I dont want them to have to answer the questions I have been asked over the course of the past nineteen years. . . I am not dying. Men do find me attractive. I am not completely hairless.. I do have to shave. blah blah blah.

I dont think I should have drunk that entire pot of coffee with my wulong tea. It made me spicy... and full of shit.

Tuesday

2006-10-03T16:51:00.000-06:00

I slept in. Shit! I slept in!! The boys were up and dressed and ready for the day, Thank Heaven. I still didnt accomplish much. I drank my wulong tea. Made sure everyone ate well... ehhh... yeah. I drove into the big city retrieved and deposited my husbands money. Thats an accomplishment. Oh the rigors of housewifedom. Maybe I should take up scrapbooking... or some kind of crafty hobby. I love to paint and draw and write, but for some reason I would rather wallow in my boredom than do anything constructive. Is this how the average housewife feels? Shootz!! Give me my damn job back!

Monday

2006-10-02T15:46:00.000-06:00

ugh. Bleh, even. My get up and go must've got up and went. I woke up pretty early. Four out of six residents of this household complained to me of headache. Perhaps its time for a carbon monoxide detector. My son let the dogs into my housemates room... when I discovered them, they had already chewed through a few candybars they discovered in a bag. The boy and I were playing hide and seek... as we were both bored. I guess I'm to blame, I didnt tell him which rooms to avoid. My bad. So after thoroughly punishing the poodle and cleaning up his mess... I started another batch of laundry and text messaged my husband regarding the joys of domestication. My children have all come home, and though I feel I have accomplished much today.. I also feel as though I have done nothing. I started my wulong tea time.. washed dishes.. did laundry.. lets see, set everyone off for school.. okay, okay.. I havent done shit. Oh well. Who gives a rat's fart. Monday's suck. I would rather stay busy on a Tuesday. There's my excuse.

2006-09-25T11:54:00.000-06:00

Saint Theresa's prayer: May today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

What the Hell

2006-09-25T11:14:00.000-06:00

Why would anyone be like this?

~~I just wanted to say congratulations. I heard the news today. You two look so good together NOT
maybe if you were 100 lbs less in FAT... Pretty hard up I must say!!!!!! I give it a year tops. (LOL) Maybe you can pretend you are not BI for mommy and daddy. Take is easy, flip me off again when you see me.

DSCLFADB Try to figure out what these all stand for. they are all you The C stands for Crotch.... Take it from there BITCH............... ~~

~~Hey fat ass nice pictures, you look like a giant compared to him. Do you eat all of the dinner from the table and make him starve to death? I would be so embarrassed if my husband was half the size of me and I was as young as you elephant......... I bet he couldn't carry you across the thresh hold....
LOL you are so groce and pathetic. I think you were just hard up............... ~~

These two messages were sent to me by my husband's ex-fiance. She is thirty six years old. Her myspace account is simply RJ. She created it with the specific intent to antagonize and hurt me. . . to hurt my relationship with my husband. They were together for three years. She broke up with him. She has been with another man since then, and is currently involved with someone else.
She calls or emails my husband daily. I have asked him to stop speaking to her... but he still does. He says she gets under his skin, and he fights with her. She used to call and text me too. I told her I would get a restraining order if it didn't stop. Then we changed our numbers. I have not responded to these messages.. and though they shouldn't bother me.. they do.. as well as his communication with her. What do I do? I dont understand this kind of woman. Old enough to know better.. but too stupid to care.

Bells didn't ring on my Wedding Day. We were blessed with thunder.

2006-09-19T07:45:00.000-06:00

We started out flustered. So many things to be done, so little of ourselves to give. We both fervently wished there were two of ourselves so that our other halves could lighten the load a bit. Saving time is not his forte... who am I to talk? I can't remember the last time I was punctual.. for anything, let alone early.
We eventually reached our destination after hours of trying on shoes, dress shirts, jackets, pants, accessories for the hair, can't forget jewelry, shoot we have to drive forty miles to get the kids, while we're there lets get you some shoes, oh and dont forget we have to back track three hundred miles, then back again to where we need to be!
Our cozy little room was such a welcome sight. He ordered champagne in the car on our way, had it sent to our quarters. We were welcomed with homemade fudge and hand sewn bedspreads. Our room had double beds, two. His and Hers. I was looking through our goody bag of toiletries when I noticed them.
Flowers.
A huge bouqet.
My favorite flowers.
In amongst dozens of daisies, stood two very large, fresh, long stem roses. I thought, how fitting. I wonder who told him I loved this combination. I opened and read the card, as he feigned ignorance as to the origination of such lovely thoughtfulness. Mom. Dad. Wow. She used to tell me I was unique, a rose amongst the daisies.. and now I found my perfect match.
We stayed up most of the night drinking champagne, eating fudge, giggling. We were so loud our neighbors beat on the wall... so we pulled the covers and sheets off his bed and made a little tent on the floor. We shared kisses, hopes, dreams, then fell asleep curled there on the floor.
He's an early riser. I am absolutely not. My disposition first thing in the morning is, well, it leaves a lot to be desired. He brought me a cup of coffee, ran me a bath, then left for a morning stroll. I drank my coffee thankfully, while soaking in the tub. I dressed, threw on a smidge of makeup and met him at the door to go to breakfast.
We dined by a pond full of ducks. He was particularly taken by one with a great poof of down on the top of its head. It surprised me immensely because I always assumed this man to be the type that picked uniform over individuality. Strength first. This duck had a limp, wasn't the prettiest in the pond, but he liked it. He fed it his english muffin.
Afterward we browsed the gift shop. We decided it appropriate to give our friends, witnesses in this case, a little gift of appreciation. I bought her a picture frame. We bought them fudge.
All of a sudden time started to go so quickly, friends showed up. Then we were in the room getting ready. The bishop appears. My folks are on speakerphone via cell. My knees are shaking. What did he just say? His hands are clammy. Her eyes are full of tears. I can't breathe. I hear my name. I'm supposed to say something here. "I d-o,oo" I squeak. Its done. Five minutes I bet. Not even that. My best friend is there, firing away with her camera. She pictures our first kiss as man and wife, our first hugs, smiles on our lips. His become a nice cherry color, the remnants of my lipstick.
We have lunch in our wedding attire. Champagne and strawberries. She toasts our union. Her companion a pillar of strength for us both through it all. It started to rain. Big fat drops, the sun still shining through. How beautiful. How fitting. I sat back in my chair and let the drops wash my face, sting my bare shoulders, bring delight to my soul. We all laughed. What a beautiful wedding.

Blissful Dreaming

2006-09-04T21:11:00.000-06:00

When I entered the room she was dozing quietly, her left arm folded over her chest her right hand holding her chin up. He was leaning heavily toward her on the couch, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he watched her fading in and out of sleep. He didn't speak to her. His eyes were full of a love thats endured longer than most. So great was his adoration, so palpable, you could nearly taste it on the air. Blissfully unaware of his gaze, a soft gurgling of breath escapes her open mouth, and she stirs ever so slightly to wipe her lips. I felt as I was, an intruder on one of the most simple, beautiful moments that make love addictive. My rude interruption was not noticed, he did not take heed of my morbid presence, he merely sat continuing his vigil. With each sigh his gaze grew fonder. For forty-five minutes this continued. Sadly I had to be the one to break the spell, temperatures needed to be taken, blood pressures gauged, we must check your pulses and count your respirations. It is imperative that you eat now, it's in the schedule, and to that we must adhere.
I have seen him slightly nip her elbow. I have seen the look that is passed between them. When she speaks of her husband, she stands ever so slightly taller, prouder. She has but to ask and he is there, he has but to mention and she attends his needs. No, they aren't twenty anymore. No, they are no longer concerned with conception. No, she isn't trying to impress him with her cooking. No, he isn't trying to prove his manly worth by bringing home a steady paycheck.
They are ninety years old. They were twenty once. They have burned for one another. They have fought their battles, had their strife, raised their children and grandchildren. They have been to countless social functions, have had countless nights sleeping on couches and not speaking to one another. At the end of their lives, they choose to keep the company of one another. They sleep with each other in one bed. Where one wanders, the other is sure to follow. When they can not, they wander listlessly, pointlessly, lost.
And when they dream, it is blissful in nature. A head bobs, a sigh is born. While one angel rests, the other keeps watch, admiring her dreams from afar.

Things I Observed Today

2006-07-13T19:10:00.000-06:00

Young woman walking down the street, face bruised and swollen, eye puffed closed, shoulders hunched, staggering gait. Big man following after.

A man resembling a past lover.

The striking eyes of the woman at the deli counter.

A ball shaped man with too-pink facial features.

A toddler cautiously feeding ducks near a pond.

A seagull with a red rimmed beak.

A motorcycle officer hurriedly pulling up to and parking on the walk in front of the public restrooms at the park. He practically ran inside! Only to return much relieved.

The persperation of twenty-four eggs baking in the back seat of my scorching hot car, Phoebe.

The smile of an old man when I made a present of a snickers bar.

The vericose vein on my co-workers leg.

A bump on my forearm.

The irritation in my dear friends voice when she discovered my latest text to be mostly fabrication.

The twinkle in an elderly woman's eye at my return.

The relief of air conditioning.

Smudged mascara on the man's face in the car next door.

A beautiful woman I exptected a French accent from- disappointed by her New York slang.

A handsome polynesian man on a red motorcycle.

Several greasy spots on my car.

Good looking neighbor, smoking and drinking orange tang in the shade of his trees.

The concern in my client's son's voice.

A green hummingbird.

My mother's dip and return to enthusiasm as she speaks about important then whimsical matters on the phone.

My purple pen.

My dried out cracking cuticles.

The paint chipping from my toenails.

A green blade of grass stuck in a spider's web.

The smell of chicken everywhere I go- and peppercorns.

The sudden exhaustion of an over abundant imagination.

Dylan Number Nine

2006-07-13T18:44:00.000-06:00

The day before yesterday was Dylan's Birthday. He turned nine. He woke up early, came directly to my room where I woke to find him next to my bed, asking if he could open his present from Grandma Greenburg. I hugged and kissed him, wishing him a happy birthday- and almost in the same breath- immediately apologizing because I could not afford presents or a party for him. He tried to shield his disappointment, poor baby.

Later, I ran to the grocery store for the ingredients to make a cake... leaving him in charge. When I returned, I gave him the Leatherman my boyfriend bought for his day. His eyes were huge and filled with delight, the shiny new utility tool his new best friend. I also handed him a library card I attained for him the day before. Again, he shields his disappointment.

We have a tradition, my sons and I. On the designated boy's birthday, he is given the option of helping bake and decorate the cake. Dylan nearly baked his entirely on his own this year. I almost cried. So grown up, he almost doesn't need me to do anything for him anymore.

When I made lunch, I lifted all eigty-one pounds of him onto the counter the way I did when he was little. I made him peanut butter toast, then carried him to his chair. Along the way a nearly inaudable, "Oooh." crossed his lips. So endearingly. I swallowed my tears again. It may be silly, but I already miss my son's childhood.

My mother gave him a beautiful set of scriptures with his name inscribed in gold lettering on the cover. They came in a matching case that she and my father painstakingly embroidered with his name aswell. He took them to bed with him that night, he's spent every moment of free time pouring over them.

When his father called to wish him a happy birthday, he told the man he'd gotten all he wanted for his birthday. In lieu of gifts he asked his dad to send his mom money, his brothers clothes and toys. For a moment I was outraged, and incredibly embarrassed. Then sad. Sad because my little man thinks of such things.

I will make it up. I am always making it up. Forever in debt to my children for a normal life.

2006-07-04T18:25:00.000-06:00

What is it about the sound of rain? I am failing my best friend right now, she would be livid to find me on my ass in front of the computer knowing full well that its a warm summer downpour outdoors. This is our favorite kind of weather. Perfect, because the air is warm and the raindrops cool. Awe, who am I kidding? I cant sit here and type this. I owe it to my soul to have a dance in the rain.

White Balloon

2006-06-15T16:51:00.000-06:00

It floats high above the windless city-
jigging and waving at the rooftops below.
A solitary white balloon.

She can't help but wonder from whence it came.

Is it a prayer or wish sent up by a mid-day mourner..
or one with little hope?
Are the children gathering round the ice cream truck purchasing their creamy sticks of delight,
spending the coins of a daytime television addict that is compensating for their loss of helium filled joy?
Perhaps it disentangled itself from a sign advertising a yard sale...

She watches its lazy ascent,
her eyes squinting against the burning sun's reflection off puffy white clouds.

It drifts upward, against a sea of blue, occasionally camouflaged, but ever present.

She wonders if she might borrow that balloon,
sending with it her own misery and pain.
She concentrates- pushing her anguish at the pinprick apparition in the sky.

For a moment she feels the weight of her burden;
feels it lifting and lazily floating on the breeze.

A door slams!

A cheer rises up from the nearby park.

A clock chimes four.

She snaps back to her tiny corner of the world.

She crushes a sugar ant under her cigarette butt, cursing because she should have the willpower to be finished with their poison.
She thanks the heavens her death will not be antagonizing burning hot like his was...
then considers her habit.

Balancing on her high heals, she heads back to the grind.

Beau RED

2006-05-10T22:45:00.000-06:00

My little man is sick. He's feverish and generally pissed off about it. Every time he gets up, to eat, pee or just bug me, he bursts into tears. This is a five year old boy that rarely cries about anything. He has a cheerful attitude about life.
Its two in the afternoon and I havent done a damn thing. I'm at my boyfriends house, because its generally more comfortable than mine, and my sons and I left it a huge mess when last we visited. I told him I would clean it up, because I was so fortunate to get an impromptu day off. So here I sit at his computer, trying to think of clever things to write for you to read.

I got nothin'.

Nothing.

I do not have anything.

I am with out words.

Creativity-less.

Bored.

If I am prized with another son I am naming him Beau Red. I know, mean. Maybe if I get a dog. I can see myself on the porch of a house with blue shutters, white picket fence and greener than green lawn... wearing a pretty little halter sundress with bright yellow flowers on, hollering out Beau RED!!!!! Here Dog!!!! Perfectly applied red lipstick, hair coifed, wedge shoes, cake baking in the oven, dinner planned and ready, a pile of crafty 'projects' laying in wait, sun tea jar reflecting against the sun...
Holy hell, dilusional. I need to find a thermometer, maybe I caught what little man is fighting. Maybe I have watched one too many old sitcoms. My coffee is cold, sandwich stale. I hate being home during the daytime. You got it, I would prefer to wash, wipe, cook and clean for the old and infirm than sit on my butt all damn day... least I am busy without temptation for writing lame assed blogs like this one.

California

2006-05-01T13:13:00.000-06:00

You know, when I went to California, I said I was going to write about it. In fact, I have been meaning to. But, sometimes things happen and you want what you write to be perfect, defined, to give a sense of what your experience truly meant to you. Some things are indescribable. Sometimes you write, then read it over, and realize you gave off the wrong impression. I dont really like sharing things that are under lock and key within my heart. Sometimes I like to keep these things for personal reflection, like a treasure you take from a drawer and look at every now and again. So for my dear psuedo mam, understand please, while I want to write what you mean to me, I find myself at a loss for words. Because words are rendered meaningless when there is so much behind them. The passion cancels them out. You taught me a lot about absolutely living with complete resolve. Realizing your goals, and MAKING them happen... I love you lady, and miss you dearly.

Punk Rock

2006-04-23T11:02:00.001-06:00

As we approach the building, excitement mounts. There are a ton of people here. Stepping into the back of an incredible line that snakes from the door, down the block, and around again, I feel momentary anxiety creep in.
Its brief.
Across the street sits the X96 'Incident Management' vehicle, and the Scion they are giving away. Radio promotions... I shake my head.
There are liberty spikes as far as the eye can see, conductor's caps, worn straw cowboy hats with skull and crossbones sitting on the front as a warning that the wearer below is poison... old worn tee-shirts from bands dating back to the seventies, others with product logos practically shouting 'twinkie, cheerio's, crush'. One young lady was sporting a six inch mowhawk, gauged ears, pierced nose, cheeks, eyebrows, tatsleeves, and a shirt with strawberry shortcake on it. Intresting conglomeration. I like the contradiction.
Oi! It's freezing!
People are bouncing on toes, breathing into hands, there's a group ahead playing hacky-sak and smoking cigarettes. Almost everyone is pierced, wearing black, jackets with patches held on by safety pins. These are the misbegotten youth, the misunderstood, the rebels with a cause.. These are the children that stand in protest against commercialism, bureaucracy, they fight for originality... and they all look so very much alike.
They seperate us, boys from girls-the men are patted down-remove their hats-the ladies empty pockets and grin sheepishly. Bouncers shine flashlights on tickets and ID's, shouting for the next person. Everyone wants to befriend the mammoth bouncer, his head shaved, ears gauged, a cold hard stare permanently etched on his face.
Inside it's warm, too warm. Bodies are practically piled one atop the other- already a phenomenal line to the restroom.
We present ID's, again, and are stamped on the hands with special seemingly invisible ink...
Next we're stopped at the entrance to an area fenced in from ceiling to floor, for the 'adult' crowd. The man shines a handheld blacklight at the skin of the back of my hand, then half usher, half pushes me through... I feel like a herded sheep.
After all this, I really just want a beer. There are just as many people pushing, shoving, piling up in front of the bar.. as there are people doing the same at the foot of the stage.
The first band comes on, the members acting crazy, kicking over microphone stands, strutting about angrily, breaking stuff, spitting water at the crowd, which consequently stand in mock boredom, not really listening, not really caring.
The band is thankful for the opportunity to play with such a reputable band.
Next on comes a band with a certain kind of prowess. They play vintage instruments, dress like the stepped right out of an advertisement or movie from the fifties. They have shaggy-emo haircuts, their flesh white in pallor. They make me think of 'Grease', the musical. The crowd is more reactive, the music better delivered.
There's an intermission of sorts. The soundmen break down instruments and reset the stage. There's a light check, sound check, microphone check... the security person in charge of banging drums, strumming guitars is doing it with proficiancy, as though he is the only person in the world professional enough, experienced enough, to perform such a duty. He is NOT expendable.
He smiles at the insults and shouts coming from the crowd, he very coolly flips us the bird. I am undually impressed.
A chant rises up. Everyone stomps their feet. A girl on the balcony spills her drink on the crowd below, too innebriated to care, she plants an open hand on the chest of the man closest to her, pushing him toward the bar.
The place is rumbling with anticipation. I half expect the walls to start caving in.
In darkness the musical masters step into position. Guitarists shoulder their instruments, the drummer is poised and ready. With swaggering confidence our rock superstar takes up his mike,"How's Salt Lake City tonight,"he gives momentary pause,"The kittens are out tonight, eh, Fellas?" tipping the bent brim of his cap, he winks, "Hey, kitten." The motion went to a skantily clad woman with blue hair perched on the shoulders of a great mass of muscle. She rewards the rockstar by lifting her shirt and showing her ample chest. For the second time tonight, I find myself shaking my head.
The music starts, a viscious circle of rabid men is monitored carefully by security. They kick and stomp one another, smashing bodies against each other, throwing fists and knocking elbows. Gutteral cries issue forth, they are even more frantic.
The people take up the chorus. They sing verse to verse, some trying to look uninterested. Others raise fists and shout. Many raise forefinger and pinky, bending their elbows they 'throw the horns'. I even see some tears in the crowd, kids that can't believe their hero is standing just before them.
A lady has mounted the table in front of us, girating she tries to catch his attention. She's in the darkest part of the club, against the chain link fence. A beer hurdles out of no where, hitting her shoulder. She turns toward its path to no avail, there's a sea of apathetic faces staring back. Humbled, she crawls from her perch.
The music is fast, hard, pulsing, alive. It's an intimate performance, the venue small. There are no big obnoxious lights, no stage theatrics. Just men beating drums, fingers picking at strings, one bent to the crowd- veins protruding at the neck, muscles tense, sweat dripping, face reddening. He crouches low, making himself small, then pouncing he bounds around showing us how much larger than life he can really be.
Its over too soon.
Everyone screams for an encore.
We chant his name, we chant the band name, people shout out names of songs yet to be played.
The star apologizes, its the pumpkin hour, city law prohibits a certain decibal at a certain hour. We are exceeding that.
He begins his descent, changes his mind, taking up his personal accoustic guitar that just happened to be set and ready for use at the foot of the stage. He entertains us for another five minutes.
We cheer profusely.
Nothing like a rebel.
We get it.
Point taken.
Can't wait for the next show.
Job well done.
We writhe involuntarily as the crowd shifts toward the door impatiently. For the second time tonight, I feel like a herded sheep. Outdoors I take a deep breath and enjoy my moment of nostalgia.
Can't wait for the next show.

Lonely

2006-04-20T20:28:00.000-06:00

I'm boiling yams, kneading dough to cut for biscuits, shucking peas, while I wait for the oven to heat.
He sits, watching and waiting - glancing o'er his shoulder, out the window, across at the clock, "Last time they took her it was four o' clock 'fore they ever got her home!"
Then he curls his fingers, rapping their knuckles against the table top. I push a curl out of my eyes, run a hand across my brow, "Yeah? She's been gone a little while," I agree.
Then blanching the yams, putting the biscuits into the hot oven, begin boiling water for the peas, I offer him a coke.
"Anything interesting in the paper?" I shout to his good ear.
"Some idiots stole some books from the Mormons," he disgustedly folds the paper and tosses it to his feet.
"No kidding?"
"Yeowp." he sighs.
"You know, last time they took her it was four o'clock 'fore she ever got home! Took her earlier to set her hair. Its ridiculous!" His face flushes.
"Didn't she want her hair done?" I ask, trying to keep it light.
"I don't care if she gets her hair done, I just hate that they do this to her. She's getting older. These parties all day wear her out!" He's at a fevered pitch.
I take the biscuits, steaming, from the oven. I put one on a plate, smothering it with butter and strawberry preserves I gently lay it at his elbow. "There ya are."
He nervously picks at it. He sniffs, fiddles with the arm of his glasses over his left ear.
"Yeowp," he says.
"Did you grow up here?" I ask. I know he's worried, but it's only been an hour since she left.
I wash my hands, peel and cut the yams.
He tells me about his childhood of growing up on the mountain. He elaborates about the time he rode his bicycle through a plate glass window, shows me the scar still white on his forearm. He says they took in a stray dog with a lead bullet in its side, said you could feel it through the animal's hyde. He said "Old Charlie", the horseman shot the dog because he hated strays. He said that dog was sooo smart. She'd wander three blocks down and sit outside the butchershop. He said the man always came out and gave her a soup bone. She'd saunter home with her proud new prize. He said the paperman hated her because she was "Fierce Protective" of her family, and would snarl and bark when he came around. He threw her a package of tainted meat one day. He continued soberly, "A man shoulda given that boy a punch in the mouth. But, my dad was a gentle sort, kind, naturally cheerful. He didn't have it in him to hurt a body."
He suddenly grows quiet. His eyes are trained toward the blossoms on the tree outdoors, but he's not looking at them. I don't disturb his silent reverie.
Instead I crumble brown sugar on the yams, covering them with marshmallows, stir the peas and turn the hamsteak.
He shifts, bright and awake,"I wonder why it takes a body three hours to see the doctor?" He complains, "Last time they took her, she wasn't back before four o'clock! She just can't take this kind of excitement anymore!" His knuckles rap the table top again.
I arrange his supper on a plate. The ham steak in thick slices, peas, candied yams, and steaming biscuit don't appeal.
"Make her a plate for the icebox," he says. As I obey, he continues, " make yourself a plate, too." He's never offered before, customarily I eat after they do, a cold lunch from home, but he's earnest. I can see he doesn't want to eat alone.
"Alright, thank you."
We talk about the weather and the war. We talk about happy times with the children in our lives, mine being sons, his being granddaughters. He recounts times he courted his wife, his eyes dewy. He misses her, feels the void she left behind. Though, she only just went to get her hair set, then off to see the doctor, she's been gone all day.. they have spent over sixty years together, it seems he realizes now how little time they have left. He grows impatient, sorrowful with each tick of the clock. I stay with him after supper's long gone, dishes washed and placed in their respective places. The food is stored in small containers in the icebox. We chat some. Four o'clock comes, then goes. I pray she's home soon. He carries on awhile about mining, then stops abruptly, asking where I'm from, where my kids are, then says, "Well dear, I've bent your ear long enough. You've had a very long day, worked hard today. I 'spect you have to go home and start all over again." He looks out the window,"Reckon I should let you to it. Haven't talked this much in years, my voice needs a rest."
I smile and rise, patting his arm, " She'll be back soon."
He smiles,"See you tomorrow, young lady."

Dawn of a New Day

2006-04-20T19:58:00.000-06:00

It's the end of the day.
Her hands aren't busy,
Her mind reels..

She thinks of ways to fill them.
Her day to day scene is a constant whirlwind of action, when it ends its so abrupt.
Her head is always full of "things to do".
It seems her hands can't keep up...

Then comes the evening,
Her subjects laid to rest,
So sudden...

She's left with uncomfortable silence,
The feeling that something was left undone.

Quietly she bends- kneels-
She interlocks her fingers so tightly the knuckles are white with bloodloss.
She prays for forgiveness.
Strength for a new day.

Her mind clears,
the restless itch disappears,

She thanks the heavens for the relief and calm instilled,
For the wonderful blessing of knowing she has a whole new day.

So, softly she kisses her babes.
She lays her weary bones in the solitude of her mattress
Finally
Finally
Finally
Sleep...

Her dreams once held in childhood return.
She's able to frolick and play,
Bask in the sunlight,
Pick flowers for her mother.

She wakes with anticipation for This is her New Day.

Pervert.

2006-04-15T01:09:00.000-06:00

Went on a date tonight, with a boy I met on an online dating site. I'm really beginning to lose faith in the whole craze. I have yet to encounter one good experience from meeting boys online. Not ONE!
We were supposed to meet at seven, but I got off work at four and was just a few blocks from his place, so I called in the morning and asked if I could just come early. He was stoked, "Sure! yeah, come by, I'm really excited to see you."
Bullshit.
I get to his house at a quarter after, get lost on the way there, couldnt find his building, and was pretty frustrated when I finally did. I ring the bell with my heart in my throat. I baked him cookies at work, orange crisps, they were delicious. He answers covered from head to toe in grease.. he's not bad looking per se, has dark hair, nice eyes, but is absolutely skeletal. His features are sallow, his skin pale. I thrust the cookies at him as he compliments the way I look. "Hey thanx" was all I could muster. He invites me in and hugs me in exchange for the treats.
It was awkward.
He is apologetic from the onslaught, looking extremely nervous. I take a deep breath and decide to give it a chance. He was so wonderful in his emails. He says he has to get ready, he has been working on his truck all day. So, I make myself comfortable in his sparsely furnished living room. He disappears. I hear water running. I look round, two worn leather couches with tears in the cushions, an old recliner that I believe was white at some time, a small table that looks displaced, a television on the floor, the entertainment system standing empty, a queen sized bed still in plastic leaning against the kitchen island, a bicycle, grease all over the floor, fingerprints on both sides of the doors as though someone had just lifted them onto their hinges, its too quiet here. It smells like a garage. There are curtains made of some heavy fabric that are incredibly out of place. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The shower has stopped. He's coming.
All black.
The shirt is silk, the pants are pleated and dressy. He spiked his hair and put on cologne. He looked skeletal and pale before, this outfit enhances the affect.
Giving it a chance.
I ask what he would like to do... he isnt sure. He says he is flat broke, so maybe we could just kick back and watch movies.
Erm, sure, I guess.
We go to rent some, he offers his arm, so I take it. He's really tall, and bony. He guides me over to the movies and scans the titles. He takes my hand and we walk the store. He picks a couple and pays with a hundred dollar bill.
I'm thinking, 'what the ....?' He said he was flat broke. Hmmm..
On the way back he says he isnt hungry, though as we were leaving he said he was starving, so we just go back 'home'. He leads me to a back room.. his room, where (he says) the only functioning television is. There is a twin sized bed in one corner, a television on a dresser opposite, a tv table with a laptop on it, and two cats in the room.
He fidgets at first, lying on the bed with his head pointed in my direction. I'm sitting on the edge. 'Lets lay down sideways, might give us more room, be more comfortable.'
I (being a complete numbskull) agree.
So there we are, complete strangers, snuggled on a twin sized bed.
I'm fighting the nausea.
He throws his arm over me five minutes into the flick, grabs my boob with the excuse that he was groping for my hand.
Newsflash: MY HANDS ARE NOT ATTATCHED TO MY CHEST!
I gently remove his hand, sit up and hug my knees.
He apologizes, for the second time.
We commence watching the film. Next thing I know he's rubbing my leg, then flies in for a kiss. Whoa, buster! We havent even exchanged ten sentences, I'm not swapping spit.
'Your killin' me,' I exclaim. 'Not yet, sweetheart, that comes later,' he says... laughing, but looking quite serious.
Okay, enough is enough, I'm officially freaked out. I move to the end of the bed, trying to consider how to get out of this.
I am ushered out when the mister realizes I am not about to have sex with him. I wont even entertain the notion. He is unimpressed with my old fashioned principles.
So, I skip in the rain to my car and head to a coffee shop. My parents are watching my children.. and I dont want it to be in vain.
When I walk into the place its nearly empty. There's a sign saying to wait for seating... and I do. Ten minutes of watching the waitresses chatter with each other about the foul weather. Finally one comes across, 'are you being helped'... uhhh... no.... can I have a seat?
She places me in direct eye contact with an older man sitting by himself. He is facing north, I am facing east. . . His booth is positioned east/west. He keeps looking at me, so I pull out my writing notebook and busy myself. He shifts, I see the movement and look up.
Nothing like inadvertantly glancing at someone over a cup of coffee and glimpsing his package hanging out of his shorts. Ugh. I look away, totally disgusted. What the hell is UP today?
He is looking at me. He puts his legs under his table, thankfully. I continue to write. The waitress comes by and refills my cup, I thank her, add my cream and sugar and inadvertantly glance at the man again. He hurriedly puts a leg up on the booth, exposing himself again. Now I KNOW this is some sick perverted way to express his exhibitionism. I shake my head and look down, putting my notebook in my purse, I interlace my keys with the fingers of my right hand. My strong arm. I throw my money on the table, grip my pen like a knife and head out the door. He doesnt follow. There are waitresses on the walk smoking with their manager. I tell her that someone should politely inform the man that his stuff hangs outta his drawers when his leg is up on the booth. She laughs.
I give up. I just give up.

Todays Horoscope... this is hillarious:
Saturday, April 15, 2006 TAURUS: Love at first sight happens so rarely. You might be able to discern that the chemistry you have today with someone special is not exactly love. But it is close enough to love to be an emotional transformation.

Which perv could it be?

Studies

2006-04-06T18:44:00.000-06:00

He sits at the table in quiet concentration,
His brow is furrowed.
He impatiently taps the eraser of his pencil on his notebook.
A frustrated sigh escapes through clenched teeth.
"I just don't KNOW!" he laments,
finally allowing his rage to explode from his little frame.
The poor kid.
He reads a bit, flipping back and forth from page to page.
I set a bottle of juice and a cookie next to his mess of papers.
"Take a break"
He sighs,
"I love you, Mom."

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head

2006-04-06T18:32:00.000-06:00

"Boy that rain's comin'' down real hard, and the winds just a-blowin''! Its dancin'' a dance out there on the road... Well, everywhere, I guess," He says as I melt the bitter baker's chocolate.
The sun moves to the edge of the clouds-peaking about to watch the raindrops dance.
They glisten on the branches of trees, clinging to leaves and pink blossoms, ''til they grow heavy and can no longer hold.
Fall Fall Fall Wee Raindrop!
There's an oily rainbow on the asphalt, the air smells of sweet sage, clean, wet, desert.
There are construction workers bent under the storm.
Their yellow parkas shine with precipitation.
I bring them hot cocoa.
They're grateful.
I lean back, my own cup of guilty chocolate pleasure steaming in my hands.
I watch them work awhile, inhaling the scent of rain steaming off hot tar, engine grease, and earth.
When I feel I am properly soaked, chilled to the bone, I head back.
The cocoa long gone, the workers pre-occupied.
I smile to myself, singing aloud, "Raindrops keep fallin'' on my head!"

Clean Laundry

2006-04-02T11:08:00.000-06:00

There is definately some unconcious connection between happy moments in childhood and the smell of clean laundry, but only if your wash is completed in your parent's washer and drier. It doesnt matter if you use the same soap as anywhere else, something is different. I like to spend the weekends at my parent's house. I always forget my pajama's and sleep in one of my father's broken in warm sets. My mother always has sugary cereal and a jar full of cookies for surprize guests. They are phenomenal, mom and dad.. they raised nine children, always managing to keep the cupboards full and the cheer invariably set in place within our home.
Mom was a nurse, followed in the footsteps of her mother. I wonder often if the art of healing is perpetually passed from mother to daughter in our family lineage. My grandmother was a wonderful healer, mom used to tell me stories of her mother going out to tend to the neighbors. My mother holds the same pedastal in my eyes. She has worked in every imaginable category of nursing, her whole life dedicated to healing. Even now she is a pillar of support. My sister Julie was the fortunate daughter that inherited mom's drive for helping ailing individuals. I thought at one point it was me. Mom used to tell me I had a real talent for observation, and I am working as a home health aide, but I havent anywhere near the talent that Julie has.
Dad is a mechanic, the best in my eyes. This man can fix anything. While searching for the man of my dreams, I looked for someone that was similar to my father, tall, energetic, quietly humorous, sense of adventure, large hands, warm smile, intimidating when he wants to be, with a knack for fixing things... never found him. At least I havent yet. I always joke that they broke the mold after dad was born... men just arent made with his old fashioned sense of family and work.
My mom and dad wanted thirteen kids. Their doctor made them stop after me, number nine. He feared another pregnancy might seriously damage my mother's health, or even kill her. They are both retired now, galavanting across the country in their RV. Mom has a quilting business that she and dad seldomly operate. Their basement is absolutely filled to the brim with sewing paraphanalia, material and the like.
They left this weekend, asking me to come feed the cat and the fish. My apartment is only nine miles away, but my sons and I stayed here anyway. I slept in my father's broken in pajamas, my sons wore his old t-shirts to bed. One of my best friends from childhood came over and we had coffee, watched movies, grew nostalgic. Home still feels like home, even when mom and dad arent in it. When I took my clothes from the drier this morning I was instantly reminded of the happiest times I shared with my family in this life, almost as quickly as the blink of an eye. I remembered everything at once, filling my heart with joy and I actually giggled out loud.

Astrology

2006-04-01T13:13:00.000-07:00

Saturday, April 15, 2006
Love at first sight happens so rarely. You might be able to discern that the chemistry you have today with someone special is not exactly love. But it is close enough to love to be an emotional transformation.
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Just what I need. No, really, I mean that.
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TAURUS
Saturday, April 1, 2006
(Tomorrow)
Something chaotic has disrupted your plans. You need not face the present crisis alone today. Talking to a partner will be the best way to feel better about a situation. His or her objectivity about things is priceless.
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Damn, I wish I had a partner. . . So far so good, no impending doom revealed as of yet.
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TAURUS
Sunday, April 2, 2006
(Today)
Your luck is greatly improved today. Look to make a move in any relationship or love matter that has not been going your way. A friend or close relative has some key information.
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Ooooh! I love these ones!I cant WAIT for tomorrow... who's got the goods? Where's my key information.. do I have to wait?!?
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TAURUS
Monday, April 3, 2006
(Today)
You will have an opportunity to take a short journey today. This could lead to many wonderful opportunities. Fate is your best friend tonight. Use a casual afternoon sojourn to prepare for a serious adventure.
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hmm.. just what I need.. a SERIOUS adventure
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