What the hell has Christmas come to? The commercials on TV depict happy people out spending their money like they haven't a care in the world. 'Just come to our store, and all your dreams will come true'. What they don't show is people parked on sidewalks and sleeping in tents so they can push and shove their way through a crowd. They don't show how all the prices are marked up before they are 'on sale'. They don't show the person walking by without a dollar in their pocket to buy a fucking sandwich, wishing they had a place to spend the holiday, or a family to spend it with.
Instead, it's, 'Hey moms, come here for the best toys.' Or, 'Hey dad's, diamonds make everything better, buy one for you wife.' Then what happens? The child plays with the box instead of the toy and the jewelry sits in a box until it's once-a-year appearance on your anniversary.
Here's an idea, if you have the money, spend it on the person without. Or better, donate all the stuff you got last year and is currently sitting at the bottom of your closet and spend the holiday with your family instead of out shopping with crowds of strangers.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Journal Week 15
Day 3
Today I accomplished a lot. I feel successful. I textured the walls and got slightly high doing so. At first, I was skeptical about putting texture on the wall, it reminds me of a cheap hotel. I have never seen in anywhere but a commercial building. I didn't really think that was where I wanted to go with this. But since our walls are so shot from nails and anchors well, lets face it, me knowing nothing about mudding and sanding drywall, we decided it was the only option.
So I got up all gung-ho and started spraying. The stuff comes in a spray can, and it comes out web-like, so I kind-of felt like spiderman. It was a childhood dream of mine to have webs at my fingertips, so needless to say, I got the job done quickly. But by the time it was complete, I was more that a little light headed. I didn't even notice the fumes until I escaped them.
After the room aired out, I ended up painting the entire thing, going to Lowes for supplies, and cleaned and showered before Ron even got home. And then I bragged about it. A lot. I guess I am feeling a little high and mighty. Emphasis on the high.
Oh, and it doesn't look like a cheap hotel room, in case you were wondering.
Today I accomplished a lot. I feel successful. I textured the walls and got slightly high doing so. At first, I was skeptical about putting texture on the wall, it reminds me of a cheap hotel. I have never seen in anywhere but a commercial building. I didn't really think that was where I wanted to go with this. But since our walls are so shot from nails and anchors well, lets face it, me knowing nothing about mudding and sanding drywall, we decided it was the only option.
So I got up all gung-ho and started spraying. The stuff comes in a spray can, and it comes out web-like, so I kind-of felt like spiderman. It was a childhood dream of mine to have webs at my fingertips, so needless to say, I got the job done quickly. But by the time it was complete, I was more that a little light headed. I didn't even notice the fumes until I escaped them.
After the room aired out, I ended up painting the entire thing, going to Lowes for supplies, and cleaned and showered before Ron even got home. And then I bragged about it. A lot. I guess I am feeling a little high and mighty. Emphasis on the high.
Oh, and it doesn't look like a cheap hotel room, in case you were wondering.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Journal Week 15
Day 2
My living room looks like a cheap daycare. Everything from the bedroom is squished in a space that is too small for it. There are toys and childrens' furniture from wall to wall, piled on top of each other, underneath and behind couches. One wrong move and it's a Lego avalanche. I wonder if this is what my house would look like if I had three children. Grady is going to have to sleep in the living room while we work. I pray it is only for a few nights, he is completely thrown off if his routine is interrupted. And this is a complete upheaval.
So far, Ron and I have ripped the strapping off the wall, pounded the nails, and started mudding. I didn't realize how time consuming taping and mudding drywall is. This is something Ron does often, and has talked about. But I guess I've never given him enough credit, usually he comes home and says something like, 'Uggh, my day was awful, I was doing drywall all day.'
At this point in the conversation, I am typically thinking how nice it would be to have a break from the kids and do some drywall myself. And I suppose it would be nice once in a while, like I am doing now, for instance. But all day, for a week straight? No thanks.
So, props to you Ron, sorry it's taken me so long to acknowledge this. I guess next time you come home after a day of drywall, I wont throw the kids on you and retreat to the bedroom like I would so love to do. I'll give you at least for an hour or so, then they are all yours.
My living room looks like a cheap daycare. Everything from the bedroom is squished in a space that is too small for it. There are toys and childrens' furniture from wall to wall, piled on top of each other, underneath and behind couches. One wrong move and it's a Lego avalanche. I wonder if this is what my house would look like if I had three children. Grady is going to have to sleep in the living room while we work. I pray it is only for a few nights, he is completely thrown off if his routine is interrupted. And this is a complete upheaval.
So far, Ron and I have ripped the strapping off the wall, pounded the nails, and started mudding. I didn't realize how time consuming taping and mudding drywall is. This is something Ron does often, and has talked about. But I guess I've never given him enough credit, usually he comes home and says something like, 'Uggh, my day was awful, I was doing drywall all day.'
At this point in the conversation, I am typically thinking how nice it would be to have a break from the kids and do some drywall myself. And I suppose it would be nice once in a while, like I am doing now, for instance. But all day, for a week straight? No thanks.
So, props to you Ron, sorry it's taken me so long to acknowledge this. I guess next time you come home after a day of drywall, I wont throw the kids on you and retreat to the bedroom like I would so love to do. I'll give you at least for an hour or so, then they are all yours.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Journal Week 15
Day 1
I've been watching those home improvement shows for weeks. Not only is my TV tuned in, but I have been watching videos online like they are going out of style. I could tell you exactly how to cope a piece of crown molding without skipping a beat. But the videos aren't cutting it. It's like giving candy to a crack addict, I am yearning to do it myself.
Everything is planned, they kids are going to Grammy's and Lowes is less than a mile away. I've been there five or six times just to look. Window shopping heaven. My husband and I typically work quickly together so I'm expecting a quick turn-over. The kid's wont know what hit em. A new room overnight. I. Cannot. Wait. Let's get started right now.
I've been watching those home improvement shows for weeks. Not only is my TV tuned in, but I have been watching videos online like they are going out of style. I could tell you exactly how to cope a piece of crown molding without skipping a beat. But the videos aren't cutting it. It's like giving candy to a crack addict, I am yearning to do it myself.
Everything is planned, they kids are going to Grammy's and Lowes is less than a mile away. I've been there five or six times just to look. Window shopping heaven. My husband and I typically work quickly together so I'm expecting a quick turn-over. The kid's wont know what hit em. A new room overnight. I. Cannot. Wait. Let's get started right now.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Week 14 #1
How many idiots are allowed a driver's license? There should be a limit. Drive down a busy street, it could just be a mile stretch, and here's what you'll most likely find:
1 woman putting on her makeup
15 people talking on their phone
10 people texting
7 people not using their blinkers
1 elderly man riding his breaks
1 person in a junker without any break lights at all
4 people passing on the right
1 person riding your ass
3 people riding other peoples asses
2 teens with their music too loud to hear yourself think
5 people eating
6 people smoking
and at least 1 flip of the bird.
It will be a happy day when car's do the driving for us. Until then, perhaps an IQ test along with the driver's test?
1 woman putting on her makeup
15 people talking on their phone
10 people texting
7 people not using their blinkers
1 elderly man riding his breaks
1 person in a junker without any break lights at all
4 people passing on the right
1 person riding your ass
3 people riding other peoples asses
2 teens with their music too loud to hear yourself think
5 people eating
6 people smoking
and at least 1 flip of the bird.
It will be a happy day when car's do the driving for us. Until then, perhaps an IQ test along with the driver's test?
Week 13 prompts
think about the small and then...work outwards.
62. For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoethe horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the wantof a horseshoe nail.
(This is not an invitation to repeat a nursery rhyme or make up a rigamarole; it is a prompt--it has its meaning and possibly is a springboard for a mini-essay of your own.)
I guess this is my true version of 'If You Give A Mouse A Cookie'.
I bought a new curtain rod for my sons' room the other day. It was nice, a good change from the stupid looking white traditional rod that you can get anywhere. This one was more ornate, as much as curtain rods can be I guess. It was on sale.
So I get the rod home and put it up. It looks great. But then the curtain started looking crappy next to it. Then the paint on the wall looked dull. So I conned my husband into re-painting with me. As we are painting at midnight, all tired and delirious from paint fumes, Ron mentioned how the drywall joints could look better if he mudded and sanded them. Later he admitted his regret regarding this statement, but it was too late.
The next thing you know, all the drywall joints in the house are being mudded and sanded. Then my mother comes over. She comes over often, and notices every little change. I could move a picture an inch to the right and she would comment on what a magnificent change it was. She saw the work we were doing and decided it was time for paint at her house. At this point I was thinking, 'You better not want me to help, I have enough to do already. Friggen curtain rod. Why are you so damn good looking next to everything?' She didn't ask for my help, but she did call to tell me her best friend, Fran, was going to paint her bedroom now. And she asked where I got my 'stunning' curtain rod.
Now I am scared to buy anything I like. Will a new coffee mug turn into new appliances? What if I decide to buy my husband a new shirt and it's to 'ornate' for him? How far can this go? A new house. Car. Family. Not only for me, but it's affected my mom, and further. For all I know, the President is painting the oval office right now. And all because of a curtain rod.
It is pretty though. Maybe I should go back and get them for the rest of the house.
One way of looking at these next prompts is to consider that they (somewhat treacherously) invite you to write about four big things--love or physicality; hate or another kind of physicality; beingness without physicality; and eternity or spirit, another take on unphysicality.
So, can topics this big be brought close to home? That's your job--don't gas on in general, vague terms; instead, figure a way to put yourself in.
66. Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin....
It's funny how love can take years to form, or it can happen in a feverish instant. I think really those who take years are missing out. The lust that comes with 'love at first sight' is unparalleled. Now, I am not suggesting that lust and love are the same thing, quite the opposite. They can exist separately. I love my dog, but I definitely don't lust for her. And there are certainly some things that I lust for, but do not love.
I guess I just feel bad for those who take forever to realize their feelings. Where's the excitement? There is nothing like discovering someone for the first time. I wonder, if couples that have known each other for years before falling in love are like those who have been together for the same amount of time. Is it like being married for years? There is still lust, don't get me wrong, but it's nowhere near those first months. Incomparable.
67. This fist has got pow-pow-POWer!
The things a female body is capable of is phenomenal. It's kind-of alarming to think of all the changes that occur when a woman is pregnant. How is it even possible? From hormone balance (or in-balance) to organs completely re-locating just to make some room. It's a wonder women haven't devised a way to let the men take a turn. But it would probably just be like a million Arnold Schwarzenegger's running around, with a huge belly and no idea what to do with it. Instead they just cater to the prego's and joke about hormones. Which, to be honest, is nothing to joke about. You try to control your temper with crazy hormones, extra blood, fluid, a belly that completely throws off your center of balance, organs shifting around all willie-nillie, and aches in places you didn't know existed.
And on top of all of that, women still do everything they normally would. Go to work, chase their older children, go running.. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. And I'm not even pregnant. Then there's childbirth, which I will not even touch upon. We all know where that baby comes out. Let's just make a point, next time you see a pregnant woman, tell her how great she is. Give her a little respect, she definitely deserves it.
62. For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoethe horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the wantof a horseshoe nail.
(This is not an invitation to repeat a nursery rhyme or make up a rigamarole; it is a prompt--it has its meaning and possibly is a springboard for a mini-essay of your own.)
I guess this is my true version of 'If You Give A Mouse A Cookie'.
I bought a new curtain rod for my sons' room the other day. It was nice, a good change from the stupid looking white traditional rod that you can get anywhere. This one was more ornate, as much as curtain rods can be I guess. It was on sale.
So I get the rod home and put it up. It looks great. But then the curtain started looking crappy next to it. Then the paint on the wall looked dull. So I conned my husband into re-painting with me. As we are painting at midnight, all tired and delirious from paint fumes, Ron mentioned how the drywall joints could look better if he mudded and sanded them. Later he admitted his regret regarding this statement, but it was too late.
The next thing you know, all the drywall joints in the house are being mudded and sanded. Then my mother comes over. She comes over often, and notices every little change. I could move a picture an inch to the right and she would comment on what a magnificent change it was. She saw the work we were doing and decided it was time for paint at her house. At this point I was thinking, 'You better not want me to help, I have enough to do already. Friggen curtain rod. Why are you so damn good looking next to everything?' She didn't ask for my help, but she did call to tell me her best friend, Fran, was going to paint her bedroom now. And she asked where I got my 'stunning' curtain rod.
Now I am scared to buy anything I like. Will a new coffee mug turn into new appliances? What if I decide to buy my husband a new shirt and it's to 'ornate' for him? How far can this go? A new house. Car. Family. Not only for me, but it's affected my mom, and further. For all I know, the President is painting the oval office right now. And all because of a curtain rod.
It is pretty though. Maybe I should go back and get them for the rest of the house.
One way of looking at these next prompts is to consider that they (somewhat treacherously) invite you to write about four big things--love or physicality; hate or another kind of physicality; beingness without physicality; and eternity or spirit, another take on unphysicality.
So, can topics this big be brought close to home? That's your job--don't gas on in general, vague terms; instead, figure a way to put yourself in.
66. Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin....
It's funny how love can take years to form, or it can happen in a feverish instant. I think really those who take years are missing out. The lust that comes with 'love at first sight' is unparalleled. Now, I am not suggesting that lust and love are the same thing, quite the opposite. They can exist separately. I love my dog, but I definitely don't lust for her. And there are certainly some things that I lust for, but do not love.
I guess I just feel bad for those who take forever to realize their feelings. Where's the excitement? There is nothing like discovering someone for the first time. I wonder, if couples that have known each other for years before falling in love are like those who have been together for the same amount of time. Is it like being married for years? There is still lust, don't get me wrong, but it's nowhere near those first months. Incomparable.
67. This fist has got pow-pow-POWer!
The things a female body is capable of is phenomenal. It's kind-of alarming to think of all the changes that occur when a woman is pregnant. How is it even possible? From hormone balance (or in-balance) to organs completely re-locating just to make some room. It's a wonder women haven't devised a way to let the men take a turn. But it would probably just be like a million Arnold Schwarzenegger's running around, with a huge belly and no idea what to do with it. Instead they just cater to the prego's and joke about hormones. Which, to be honest, is nothing to joke about. You try to control your temper with crazy hormones, extra blood, fluid, a belly that completely throws off your center of balance, organs shifting around all willie-nillie, and aches in places you didn't know existed.
And on top of all of that, women still do everything they normally would. Go to work, chase their older children, go running.. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. And I'm not even pregnant. Then there's childbirth, which I will not even touch upon. We all know where that baby comes out. Let's just make a point, next time you see a pregnant woman, tell her how great she is. Give her a little respect, she definitely deserves it.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Week 12 Prompt
Prompts Week 12. Take some risks with your three responses! There are risky topics, risky ways of writing about non-risky topics, and risky ways of writing about risky topics.
59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.
I sit on our Ethan Allen couch. I like to refer to it as such, even though it's eighties floral print doesn't suggest it's high end. It was given to us by some friend-of-a-friend's in-laws or something along those lines. Either way, here I sit on the ol' Ethan, watching TV when I realize, he's been in the other room for a while. I get up and open the door to see what's up and instantly regret doing so.
There he is, sitting at the computer, whacking his peen. He quickly turns off the monitor, then ducks down under the desk headed to the power strip, and to pull up his pants. I have to hand it to him (pun intended), if I hadn't seen the screen, he might have gotten away with it.
At this point I am so dumbstruck, I don't know what to do, do I say something? If so, it would probably start another fight of the century, and I don't really want to stay at my moms again. I decide I'd rather save the embarrassment for both of us and pretend I didn't see anything. That seems like a solid plan.
I sit in the awkward silence with time to process. Did this really just happen? We haven't fooled around in days. Well, I guess maybe this is this why. I think of all the times he has shut himself in our room and start to get queasy. I'm glad I don't use the computer much, who knows what is on those keys. He would he really rather do himself than me?
Now I'm getting angry. After all the crap I have put up with, this is the last straw. I'm out of here. I mean, we obviously have a problem, we haven't fooled around in days. Now I can't even look at him. Molesting himself when I'm in the next room watching cash cab? Who does he think I am? Who does he think he is?
I don't think I will ever tell him I saw. And it's not even to spare his feelings. I would love to embarrass the hell out of him. Honestly, I just don't want to think about it again. But within a week, my stuff will be out, the door slammed and I will never looked back.
61. I am an English teacher. All English teachers lie. But I am telling you the truth.
I am easily the most annoying person in this class. It must be that it's right after lunch. I'm on a sugar high, and the fresh air and socialization has gotten me all wired. So, with all that, how is it possible that I don't get in trouble? The guy next to me could sneeze and get kicked out. I can barely handle myself, how can anybody else handle me?
I admit, I do get intentionally rowdy to see if I can get a reaction out of the teacher. It never works. Everyone says that he's some sort of pedophile, gawking at girls chests. I don't know if I believe that. He is a strange man, but I don't think he's a pervert. Though, every time I test their theory and wear a revealing top, I could get away with murder. I guess the real test would be to wear a turtleneck and be as obnoxious as I can. If I end up in detention, I might just end these shenanigans.
59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.
I sit on our Ethan Allen couch. I like to refer to it as such, even though it's eighties floral print doesn't suggest it's high end. It was given to us by some friend-of-a-friend's in-laws or something along those lines. Either way, here I sit on the ol' Ethan, watching TV when I realize, he's been in the other room for a while. I get up and open the door to see what's up and instantly regret doing so.
There he is, sitting at the computer, whacking his peen. He quickly turns off the monitor, then ducks down under the desk headed to the power strip, and to pull up his pants. I have to hand it to him (pun intended), if I hadn't seen the screen, he might have gotten away with it.
At this point I am so dumbstruck, I don't know what to do, do I say something? If so, it would probably start another fight of the century, and I don't really want to stay at my moms again. I decide I'd rather save the embarrassment for both of us and pretend I didn't see anything. That seems like a solid plan.
I sit in the awkward silence with time to process. Did this really just happen? We haven't fooled around in days. Well, I guess maybe this is this why. I think of all the times he has shut himself in our room and start to get queasy. I'm glad I don't use the computer much, who knows what is on those keys. He would he really rather do himself than me?
Now I'm getting angry. After all the crap I have put up with, this is the last straw. I'm out of here. I mean, we obviously have a problem, we haven't fooled around in days. Now I can't even look at him. Molesting himself when I'm in the next room watching cash cab? Who does he think I am? Who does he think he is?
I don't think I will ever tell him I saw. And it's not even to spare his feelings. I would love to embarrass the hell out of him. Honestly, I just don't want to think about it again. But within a week, my stuff will be out, the door slammed and I will never looked back.
61. I am an English teacher. All English teachers lie. But I am telling you the truth.
I am easily the most annoying person in this class. It must be that it's right after lunch. I'm on a sugar high, and the fresh air and socialization has gotten me all wired. So, with all that, how is it possible that I don't get in trouble? The guy next to me could sneeze and get kicked out. I can barely handle myself, how can anybody else handle me?
I admit, I do get intentionally rowdy to see if I can get a reaction out of the teacher. It never works. Everyone says that he's some sort of pedophile, gawking at girls chests. I don't know if I believe that. He is a strange man, but I don't think he's a pervert. Though, every time I test their theory and wear a revealing top, I could get away with murder. I guess the real test would be to wear a turtleneck and be as obnoxious as I can. If I end up in detention, I might just end these shenanigans.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Week 12 theme
It was a massacre. Shit from carpet to ceiling. I could see the look of horror on the teddy bears face. He was screaming for me to remove him from this hell hole. In this state of shock, my first reaction is to turn around and walk out. Isn't there someone to call to take care of this? I can't possibly be the only option. But I have to keep my composure. One wrong move and I will scar Grady forever.
I walk delicately over the the crib. As I step, avoiding little strays strewn across the floor, I keep finding more and more of it. On the wall, the railing, the mattress, oh god, what has he done? I make it to the crib and take a deep breath. In hindsight, a bad idea. Think now, how do I tell him how utterly disgusting he is without making him feel like an utterly disgusting person? A child's self esteem is a sensitive thing. Or at least that's what I learned in my many child development classes.
When I look him over I am repulsed to the point of gagging. It's like he used it as finger paint. And, wait. Really? It's on his face. Right next to his mouth, did he seriously eat his own shit? Thoughts of crazy online videos people reference flash through my head. I can't even stomach the thought of watching one of those videos, now it is happening right here before me. Is that what I have to look forward to? My son is going to grow up to be another appalling you-tube sensation. I won't have that.
I have to explain to him that this behavior is unacceptable. But he's two. There is no way to portray the magnitude of this abomination.
I leave the room overwhelmed. I have to run him a bath anyway. He will have to soak for at least 24 hours. On the way back into the battlefield, I grab the bleach and a trash bag. I will have to bleach down everything. And throw away his defiled teddy. I'll be doing him a favor, putting him out of his misery because there's no saving him. I carry Grady into the bathroom like he's infected with the plague. My arms out as far as they can stretch, holding under his armpits. I put his clothes in with the teddy, I don't even want to deal with them. I guess he has enough clothes anyway. I drop him in the tub.
While I scrub away the filth, I still can't speak. I'm afraid my raw thoughts will come out. Thoughts that surely would change his life, or at least his vocabulary, dramatically. I decide it is better to say nothing. Later, when I see past this jaded version of my son, I will talk to him about it. For now, I wash away his innocence in a shit filled tub.
I walk delicately over the the crib. As I step, avoiding little strays strewn across the floor, I keep finding more and more of it. On the wall, the railing, the mattress, oh god, what has he done? I make it to the crib and take a deep breath. In hindsight, a bad idea. Think now, how do I tell him how utterly disgusting he is without making him feel like an utterly disgusting person? A child's self esteem is a sensitive thing. Or at least that's what I learned in my many child development classes.
When I look him over I am repulsed to the point of gagging. It's like he used it as finger paint. And, wait. Really? It's on his face. Right next to his mouth, did he seriously eat his own shit? Thoughts of crazy online videos people reference flash through my head. I can't even stomach the thought of watching one of those videos, now it is happening right here before me. Is that what I have to look forward to? My son is going to grow up to be another appalling you-tube sensation. I won't have that.
I have to explain to him that this behavior is unacceptable. But he's two. There is no way to portray the magnitude of this abomination.
I leave the room overwhelmed. I have to run him a bath anyway. He will have to soak for at least 24 hours. On the way back into the battlefield, I grab the bleach and a trash bag. I will have to bleach down everything. And throw away his defiled teddy. I'll be doing him a favor, putting him out of his misery because there's no saving him. I carry Grady into the bathroom like he's infected with the plague. My arms out as far as they can stretch, holding under his armpits. I put his clothes in with the teddy, I don't even want to deal with them. I guess he has enough clothes anyway. I drop him in the tub.
While I scrub away the filth, I still can't speak. I'm afraid my raw thoughts will come out. Thoughts that surely would change his life, or at least his vocabulary, dramatically. I decide it is better to say nothing. Later, when I see past this jaded version of my son, I will talk to him about it. For now, I wash away his innocence in a shit filled tub.
Week 11 Theme
'Of The Blood for 200 please.'
'What is a sibling?'
'Blood 400'
'What is Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia?'
'Four Syllables for 200'
'What is radiation?'
'Syllables 4'
'What is isolation?'
'Character for 200'
'Who is the evil stepmother?'
'Four syllables for 600'
'What is unfortunate'
'Of the blood 600'
'What is next of kin?'
'Blood 800'
'What is a bone marrow transplant?'
'Character 400 please'
'What is noble?'
'Syllables 1,000'
'What is miraculous?'
'Blood 1,000 please'
'What is heart?'
'What is a sibling?'
'Blood 400'
'What is Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia?'
'Four Syllables for 200'
'What is radiation?'
'Syllables 4'
'What is isolation?'
'Character for 200'
'Who is the evil stepmother?'
'Four syllables for 600'
'What is unfortunate'
'Of the blood 600'
'What is next of kin?'
'Blood 800'
'What is a bone marrow transplant?'
'Character 400 please'
'What is noble?'
'Syllables 1,000'
'What is miraculous?'
'Blood 1,000 please'
'What is heart?'
Week 11 prompt
52. There are a dozen stories on every page of Uncle Henry's--tales of divorce, death, wasted money, plans that went nowhere, hopes destroyed only to rise again, dreams deferred and dreams turned into nightmares. And as I read it, I see a million Maine cellars, attics, living rooms, barns, camps, boathouses, garages. Faces, voices, images of people too. You could do worse than Uncle Henry's as a source of writing ideas--how about looking through Uncle Henry's to find a prompt? Find an ad, copy it so we know where you're starting, and speculate on the tale behind it--thinking as you write about meanings beyond the obvious.
Light Blue halter style prom gown size 3 with sequin design top. Paid 250.
Her dad bought it for her, but never saw her in it. She got ready at her mothers, took pictures at the local park and was on her way. She didn't want to carpool, but her friends talked her into it. They all wanted to get drunk before they got there, alcohol wouldn't make it through the doors. They weren't stupid though, they had a DD.
By the time they got there, she already had the spins. Immediately running for the bathroom, she never even saw the dance floor. Amazingly, the dress didn't get a speck on it. She called her mom for a ride and went straight to bed. She didn't ask any questions, but she could smell the booze a mile away.
The next day, the dress went in Uncle Henry's, $20. A $230 loss, but that didn't bother her, it was the evening of memories that she really missed.
53. The things I see as I walk along the street--that's heaven to me. Or is it?
A winter wonderland. The stale air is reason for the chimney smoke from every house. The frozen, lifeless ground is covered in a white layer. A normally windy, yet flat road is transformed into a nightmare for cars. The sky is as blue as ever and the sun beats down on me. I reflects off of the snowy ground and creates a blinding glisten. I start down the driveway and think about the long months ahead.
54. Pick a prompt from http://onemillionfootnotes.blogspot.com/. Tell us what it is and run with it.
3094
He could not wake without sleeping.
He raced as fast as he could down the gloomy streets. His pursuers were gaining on him. Out of breath and nearly out of time, he pinched himself over and over. 'Why can't I wake up', he said out loud. He soon found himself in a dark alley and saw a woman in the shadows.
'Quick, in here.', she whispered.
He was hesitant, but had no other choice. He followed her into a basement. As they walked through the door, he was pleasantly surprised. It was light, and homey, not what he expected at all in an underground hideout.
The woman was kind, she cared for him like a child. Her daughter was small but obviously nourished. She split their tiny amount of food between the three of them, giving herself the smallest portion.
When he was finished eating, his sense of ease lifted. What was the next move?
The woman asked if he would sleep now. He told her it was impossible to sleep, he had to stay alert. She offered him a pill to sleep, and he declined. He wasn't one to take a pill from a stranger. Especially in this circumstance, it seem reckless and stupid. But on the other hand, what would it hurt? He was facing impending doom either way.
Then it hit him, he could not wake without sleeping. He grabbed the pill and swallowed it without water. In a moment he was in a dreamless sleep.
Light Blue halter style prom gown size 3 with sequin design top. Paid 250.
Her dad bought it for her, but never saw her in it. She got ready at her mothers, took pictures at the local park and was on her way. She didn't want to carpool, but her friends talked her into it. They all wanted to get drunk before they got there, alcohol wouldn't make it through the doors. They weren't stupid though, they had a DD.
By the time they got there, she already had the spins. Immediately running for the bathroom, she never even saw the dance floor. Amazingly, the dress didn't get a speck on it. She called her mom for a ride and went straight to bed. She didn't ask any questions, but she could smell the booze a mile away.
The next day, the dress went in Uncle Henry's, $20. A $230 loss, but that didn't bother her, it was the evening of memories that she really missed.
53. The things I see as I walk along the street--that's heaven to me. Or is it?
A winter wonderland. The stale air is reason for the chimney smoke from every house. The frozen, lifeless ground is covered in a white layer. A normally windy, yet flat road is transformed into a nightmare for cars. The sky is as blue as ever and the sun beats down on me. I reflects off of the snowy ground and creates a blinding glisten. I start down the driveway and think about the long months ahead.
54. Pick a prompt from http://onemillionfootnotes.blogspot.com/. Tell us what it is and run with it.
3094
He could not wake without sleeping.
He raced as fast as he could down the gloomy streets. His pursuers were gaining on him. Out of breath and nearly out of time, he pinched himself over and over. 'Why can't I wake up', he said out loud. He soon found himself in a dark alley and saw a woman in the shadows.
'Quick, in here.', she whispered.
He was hesitant, but had no other choice. He followed her into a basement. As they walked through the door, he was pleasantly surprised. It was light, and homey, not what he expected at all in an underground hideout.
The woman was kind, she cared for him like a child. Her daughter was small but obviously nourished. She split their tiny amount of food between the three of them, giving herself the smallest portion.
When he was finished eating, his sense of ease lifted. What was the next move?
The woman asked if he would sleep now. He told her it was impossible to sleep, he had to stay alert. She offered him a pill to sleep, and he declined. He wasn't one to take a pill from a stranger. Especially in this circumstance, it seem reckless and stupid. But on the other hand, what would it hurt? He was facing impending doom either way.
Then it hit him, he could not wake without sleeping. He grabbed the pill and swallowed it without water. In a moment he was in a dreamless sleep.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Week 10 prompt 47
47. Nature red in tooth and claw. The Law of the Jungle. Survival of the Fittest.
I step onto the peak, I've made it. This is the highest point I have ever been. It is certainly an unexpected triumph. Two weeks ago I had no idea what this might feel like. Two weeks ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
***
An announcement comes over the intercom, 'Only one week until the Outing Club leaves for Big Bend!' I am sitting in homeroom and getting excited. This will be the first time I have been past Massachusetts, my first plane ride, and my first hiking trip. It is going to be great. Some of my best friends are going too, we are shopping for hiking gear after school.
***
This is the day, we are finally leaving for Big Bend! I have no idea what to expect, just that it will be so much fun to be on vacation for the first time. I envision hotel rooms and restaurants. A few hours hiking here and there. We take bus to Boston then board a plane. I am ecstatic.
***
It's our first day and we don't waste any time, tents are set up, and we are off for the hike. Our first mountain is only a few miles up. Everyone is talking about it like it will be a walk in the park, literally. I organize my pack and fill my Nalgene bottles. I think I'm ready.
***
When we return from our second day of hiking, everyone is amped up to play soccer. There is a perfect flat area not too far from camp. I am embarrassed to say no, but there is no way I could run with these blisters. I take off my shoes to see the new skin and band-aids I covered them with are at the bottom of my socks. I wonder how long it took for that to happen, 5 minutes? That's how my feet feel. I don't know how I am going to continue this for another 5 days. I am lucky I have been an athlete my whole life of I would never be physically ready for this. Hiking all day in the desert, over 100 degrees everyday, miles away from the comforts I am used to. And to think, blisters are whats holding me back. I have five days to heal these heels before our biggest hike. 16 miles.
***
Today is the day. 16 miles ahead of me. My blisters haven't healed, but I've gotten used to them there. Like dogs have been nipping at my heals to motivate me up the mountains. This is the most exhausted I have been this whole trip. Why did we save the biggest for last? But I am determined. I will make it to the top even if I have to crawl there.
A few hours into climbing, I find myself alone. But there are people just out of view ahead of, and behind me. I'm at a fork in the trail, I continue on the path I have been on. About a half hour later, I can't hear the singing that has been annoying my the whole time. The girl behind me must have fallen back. Maybe she stopped for lunch. I keep going, determined to make it to the peak.
I have been alone for too long now, I think I am lost. I must have chosen the wrong path at the fork I came to. What did I do? I am alone on a mountain and don't know which way to go. I realize the only way to go is down, that's where everyone will end up eventually. But I don't want to give up. I have come to my own fork. Turn back to find my group, or continue on to conquer this mountain on my own?
I decide to push on. This journey is a lot more difficult when you don't have support from another human being. Now it is a personal battle. I have to make it to the top. At this point, it is closer to a rock climb than a hike. The breeze is stronger than before, I must be getting close.
***
I hear voices. Lost on a mountain for a few hours and already I'm going mad. I step up onto a plateau and see most of my classmates gathered at the top of the mountain taking pictures. This is it. I make my way over and wait my turn to climb the tallest point to have my picture taken.
I give my teacher my camera and step onto the peak, I've made it. This is the highest point I have ever been. It is certainly an unexpected triumph. Two weeks ago I had no idea what this might feel like. Two weeks ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But now that I have made it, I wouldn't change a thing.
I step onto the peak, I've made it. This is the highest point I have ever been. It is certainly an unexpected triumph. Two weeks ago I had no idea what this might feel like. Two weeks ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
***
An announcement comes over the intercom, 'Only one week until the Outing Club leaves for Big Bend!' I am sitting in homeroom and getting excited. This will be the first time I have been past Massachusetts, my first plane ride, and my first hiking trip. It is going to be great. Some of my best friends are going too, we are shopping for hiking gear after school.
***
This is the day, we are finally leaving for Big Bend! I have no idea what to expect, just that it will be so much fun to be on vacation for the first time. I envision hotel rooms and restaurants. A few hours hiking here and there. We take bus to Boston then board a plane. I am ecstatic.
***
It's our first day and we don't waste any time, tents are set up, and we are off for the hike. Our first mountain is only a few miles up. Everyone is talking about it like it will be a walk in the park, literally. I organize my pack and fill my Nalgene bottles. I think I'm ready.
***
When we return from our second day of hiking, everyone is amped up to play soccer. There is a perfect flat area not too far from camp. I am embarrassed to say no, but there is no way I could run with these blisters. I take off my shoes to see the new skin and band-aids I covered them with are at the bottom of my socks. I wonder how long it took for that to happen, 5 minutes? That's how my feet feel. I don't know how I am going to continue this for another 5 days. I am lucky I have been an athlete my whole life of I would never be physically ready for this. Hiking all day in the desert, over 100 degrees everyday, miles away from the comforts I am used to. And to think, blisters are whats holding me back. I have five days to heal these heels before our biggest hike. 16 miles.
***
Today is the day. 16 miles ahead of me. My blisters haven't healed, but I've gotten used to them there. Like dogs have been nipping at my heals to motivate me up the mountains. This is the most exhausted I have been this whole trip. Why did we save the biggest for last? But I am determined. I will make it to the top even if I have to crawl there.
A few hours into climbing, I find myself alone. But there are people just out of view ahead of, and behind me. I'm at a fork in the trail, I continue on the path I have been on. About a half hour later, I can't hear the singing that has been annoying my the whole time. The girl behind me must have fallen back. Maybe she stopped for lunch. I keep going, determined to make it to the peak.
I have been alone for too long now, I think I am lost. I must have chosen the wrong path at the fork I came to. What did I do? I am alone on a mountain and don't know which way to go. I realize the only way to go is down, that's where everyone will end up eventually. But I don't want to give up. I have come to my own fork. Turn back to find my group, or continue on to conquer this mountain on my own?
I decide to push on. This journey is a lot more difficult when you don't have support from another human being. Now it is a personal battle. I have to make it to the top. At this point, it is closer to a rock climb than a hike. The breeze is stronger than before, I must be getting close.
***
I hear voices. Lost on a mountain for a few hours and already I'm going mad. I step up onto a plateau and see most of my classmates gathered at the top of the mountain taking pictures. This is it. I make my way over and wait my turn to climb the tallest point to have my picture taken.
I give my teacher my camera and step onto the peak, I've made it. This is the highest point I have ever been. It is certainly an unexpected triumph. Two weeks ago I had no idea what this might feel like. Two weeks ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But now that I have made it, I wouldn't change a thing.
Week 10 prompt 44
44. You write a story which ends with the words, "...and then I woke up and it was only a dream." And then you wake up.
I wake up alert, and my pregnant belly gets out of bed first. This is my third pregnancy, and it feels the same as the first two. Physically it feels the same, mentally, not even close. My sister has been yearning for a child for a long time, and I feel it is my responsibility to help her.
***
Now I am in the hospital, the doctor hands me a newborn, and I immediately give it to my sister. I don't feel the same attachment to this child as I did my own. I suppose it is because I have been preparing myself for this moment. The moment when we part ways.
***
My eyes open, I'm in my bed. Instantly, my hands move to my stomach, no baby. I wake up Ron unintentionally with my movement. I keep telling him we need a new bed, he could wiggle his big toe and it would wake me up. He rolls over and says, 'Did you have the dream again?' while rubbing his tired eyes.
I answer, 'Yup, I'll never get back to sleep now.' As I lay there, trying to get back to sleep, I think about the day when my sister found out she won't be able to have children. Is this dream a glimpse of the future? Will I be as strong as the dream version of me? The only way to tell is time.
I wake up alert, and my pregnant belly gets out of bed first. This is my third pregnancy, and it feels the same as the first two. Physically it feels the same, mentally, not even close. My sister has been yearning for a child for a long time, and I feel it is my responsibility to help her.
***
Now I am in the hospital, the doctor hands me a newborn, and I immediately give it to my sister. I don't feel the same attachment to this child as I did my own. I suppose it is because I have been preparing myself for this moment. The moment when we part ways.
***
My eyes open, I'm in my bed. Instantly, my hands move to my stomach, no baby. I wake up Ron unintentionally with my movement. I keep telling him we need a new bed, he could wiggle his big toe and it would wake me up. He rolls over and says, 'Did you have the dream again?' while rubbing his tired eyes.
I answer, 'Yup, I'll never get back to sleep now.' As I lay there, trying to get back to sleep, I think about the day when my sister found out she won't be able to have children. Is this dream a glimpse of the future? Will I be as strong as the dream version of me? The only way to tell is time.
Week 10 prompt
3. The pin pricks your skin. You feel nothing.
'It was weird for me to be with a woman in labor who wasn't in any pain. I have never experienced that. She seemed very calm and in control. She even took a nap. It was a relief to be in the room this time though. Last time, she wouldn't let me in and nobody told me what was going on. I was at the hospital from 6 a.m. to 2 a.m. and I only saw her once. It was agonizing being so close to the room and not knowing what was happening. Nobody told me anything. This time was much nicer. I was able to stay with her most of her labor.'
'It was friggen weird having her mother in the room at first. Those silent moments when you don't know what the hell to say. A few times I went to get something to eat and I wasn't hungry. I just had to get out of there. My dad was in the hospital too, he had surgery the next day, so I went to visit a few times. It was way better than last time, she was relaxed and could sleep. She wasn't hellbent on no epidural. If I had to push a human out of me, I would want the drugs.'
'Everything was going well until she was fully dilated and the doctor asked her to push. Nothing happened. The baby wasn't dropping and there was nothing they could do for her. I felt so bad for her, she didn't want to have a c-section. They stopped the drugs to prep for surgery and that's when her pain started. I didn't know what to do with myself. My baby was in pain and I couldn't help. All I could do was try not to cry until they took her away. I wanted to be strong for her.'
'It was fine until about hour 21. She just laid there, her eyes were closed and her knuckles were white. She had a death grip on those railings on the side of the bed. I asked her what I could do, but she didn't say anything. I just kept telling her it would be over soon and he would be here. What the hell else could I do? My job was easy last time, just wet the cloth and put it on her forehead. I couldn't even friggen do that. She was shaking like crazy, I thought she was cold but the nurse said it was from the drugs. I thought she didn't have anymore? Jesus, look at her, it doesn't look like she's got any painkillers! I just wanted to get her the hell in the OR. Get this over with.'
'It was forever until I could see her. I actually saw the baby first. Ron walked him into the nursery and I looked through the glass. I asked Ron how long it would be until we could see her, but he didn't know so I sat in the waiting room. It felt like it did the last time, nobody could tell me anything, and I couldn't see her. The only surgery she's had was her wisdom teeth, and even that was nerve wracking.'
'I had to wait outside the OR for a few minutes before I could go in. That sucked. I didn't want to think about her in so much pain without me. The stuff I had to wear was pretty ridiculous too. When they let me in, I saw her on the table and felt like I was gonna hurl. There she was, still shaking like crazy. She kept telling the nurse she was going to throw up, I don't know if they didn't believe her or what, but she did. I had never seen her so vulnerable before, not even the last time. Last time, she was so strong it blew me away. This time just scared me. Surgery sucks. She couldn't even hold the baby when they brought him over, she was shaking so bad. She told me to go with him, but I didn't want to leave her. I couldn't fight with her though.'
'It was weird for me to be with a woman in labor who wasn't in any pain. I have never experienced that. She seemed very calm and in control. She even took a nap. It was a relief to be in the room this time though. Last time, she wouldn't let me in and nobody told me what was going on. I was at the hospital from 6 a.m. to 2 a.m. and I only saw her once. It was agonizing being so close to the room and not knowing what was happening. Nobody told me anything. This time was much nicer. I was able to stay with her most of her labor.'
'It was friggen weird having her mother in the room at first. Those silent moments when you don't know what the hell to say. A few times I went to get something to eat and I wasn't hungry. I just had to get out of there. My dad was in the hospital too, he had surgery the next day, so I went to visit a few times. It was way better than last time, she was relaxed and could sleep. She wasn't hellbent on no epidural. If I had to push a human out of me, I would want the drugs.'
'Everything was going well until she was fully dilated and the doctor asked her to push. Nothing happened. The baby wasn't dropping and there was nothing they could do for her. I felt so bad for her, she didn't want to have a c-section. They stopped the drugs to prep for surgery and that's when her pain started. I didn't know what to do with myself. My baby was in pain and I couldn't help. All I could do was try not to cry until they took her away. I wanted to be strong for her.'
'It was fine until about hour 21. She just laid there, her eyes were closed and her knuckles were white. She had a death grip on those railings on the side of the bed. I asked her what I could do, but she didn't say anything. I just kept telling her it would be over soon and he would be here. What the hell else could I do? My job was easy last time, just wet the cloth and put it on her forehead. I couldn't even friggen do that. She was shaking like crazy, I thought she was cold but the nurse said it was from the drugs. I thought she didn't have anymore? Jesus, look at her, it doesn't look like she's got any painkillers! I just wanted to get her the hell in the OR. Get this over with.'
'It was forever until I could see her. I actually saw the baby first. Ron walked him into the nursery and I looked through the glass. I asked Ron how long it would be until we could see her, but he didn't know so I sat in the waiting room. It felt like it did the last time, nobody could tell me anything, and I couldn't see her. The only surgery she's had was her wisdom teeth, and even that was nerve wracking.'
'I had to wait outside the OR for a few minutes before I could go in. That sucked. I didn't want to think about her in so much pain without me. The stuff I had to wear was pretty ridiculous too. When they let me in, I saw her on the table and felt like I was gonna hurl. There she was, still shaking like crazy. She kept telling the nurse she was going to throw up, I don't know if they didn't believe her or what, but she did. I had never seen her so vulnerable before, not even the last time. Last time, she was so strong it blew me away. This time just scared me. Surgery sucks. She couldn't even hold the baby when they brought him over, she was shaking so bad. She told me to go with him, but I didn't want to leave her. I couldn't fight with her though.'
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Week 10 theme
I walk into the bar without expectations. There's a seat open, so I take it and place my order. A long island. I have no idea what is in a long island, just that it is mostly booze, which is exactly what I need right now. I look towards the screens lined up behind the bar, but don't watch them. They're filled with sports events that would normally hold my interest, but tonight they're not on the agenda.
I open the bar menu but don't know if I'm actually hungry, or just bored. This 'night life' is new to me, so I'm not sure what to do with myself. I see through the mirrored wall, a man walking through the door. He is handsome, so I wait for his significant other to follow, but nobody comes. He must be meeting someone here. He walks over and asks the bartender for a grateful dead. I remember from somewhere long ago that a grateful dead is similar to a long island. Here's my chance, I have a random fact, and a smile. I think that's all I have to do right? Smile?
Throughout the evening, our conversation flows from current events, to movie preference, but never gets too personal. He is obviously hitting on me. I had forgotten what that was like. It feels nice. My body tells me to reciprocate his advances, but I play hard to get. Guys like the chase. So I've heard.
We get our bills and stay well after we've payed. I don't know what happens next, do I give him my number? Does he ask me to leave with him? At this point, there's no way I can drive, so it would be nice if he offered to give me a ride. Before I can say anything, he asks if I need a ride home. His hand touches my arm and a tingle shoots up my spine. Ahh, now I remember that feeling. We walk out of the bar towards his car and his hand takes mine. The memories rush through me, it feels exactly the same as it did before. The anticipation is driving me mad.
We pull into the drive way and I feel like a teenager again. We sit there for a good 15 minutes just making out until I suggest going inside.
We get through the door and go into the living room to my mother feeding the baby his bottle. I ask how her night was, how the kids did. They were great, she had fun. Grady fell asleep a few hours ago and Jack just woke up hungry. But it's late, and she is ready to go home for the night. I give her a hug and thank her for babysitting. When she leaves, Ron and I put the baby down together and peek in on Grady. Even though it's been only a few hours, we both missed them like crazy.
We brush our teeth, get into our pajamas, and get into bed. It has been a good night.
I open the bar menu but don't know if I'm actually hungry, or just bored. This 'night life' is new to me, so I'm not sure what to do with myself. I see through the mirrored wall, a man walking through the door. He is handsome, so I wait for his significant other to follow, but nobody comes. He must be meeting someone here. He walks over and asks the bartender for a grateful dead. I remember from somewhere long ago that a grateful dead is similar to a long island. Here's my chance, I have a random fact, and a smile. I think that's all I have to do right? Smile?
Throughout the evening, our conversation flows from current events, to movie preference, but never gets too personal. He is obviously hitting on me. I had forgotten what that was like. It feels nice. My body tells me to reciprocate his advances, but I play hard to get. Guys like the chase. So I've heard.
We get our bills and stay well after we've payed. I don't know what happens next, do I give him my number? Does he ask me to leave with him? At this point, there's no way I can drive, so it would be nice if he offered to give me a ride. Before I can say anything, he asks if I need a ride home. His hand touches my arm and a tingle shoots up my spine. Ahh, now I remember that feeling. We walk out of the bar towards his car and his hand takes mine. The memories rush through me, it feels exactly the same as it did before. The anticipation is driving me mad.
We pull into the drive way and I feel like a teenager again. We sit there for a good 15 minutes just making out until I suggest going inside.
We get through the door and go into the living room to my mother feeding the baby his bottle. I ask how her night was, how the kids did. They were great, she had fun. Grady fell asleep a few hours ago and Jack just woke up hungry. But it's late, and she is ready to go home for the night. I give her a hug and thank her for babysitting. When she leaves, Ron and I put the baby down together and peek in on Grady. Even though it's been only a few hours, we both missed them like crazy.
We brush our teeth, get into our pajamas, and get into bed. It has been a good night.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Week 9 Prompts. 40. The best part of this story is the part I can't tell...
She makes her way over to the hill. She feels this uncontrollable desire to sit directly in front of the stage, but can't explain it. Normally a very self-conscious person, she doesn't care about the crowds of people all around. When she finds the perfect spot, she lays her jacket down to sit on. It is a cold October day but she doesn't feel it which is strange because she can feel everything.
***
She moves to the music without effort. She can feel it in her bones, it doesn't just permeate her ears, but her entire body. The notes flow through her so organically, she isn't thinking about anything else. She has never heard this song before, but it feels like she has. She can anticipate the next riff before it even happens. Her hands weave in and out at exactly the right moments. Her body sways as she lets the music overcome her.
***
What seems like minutes must be hours as the sun falls and the moon rises. The man in front of her dances in an impossible way. She thinks to herself, 'How can he move like that?' It is unnatural. She can't bare to look at him, yet can't look away. It seems as if he is going in fast and slow motion at the same time. She decides it must be time to find the tent and lay down and does so, but she doesn't sleep. Lights flash through all sides of the vinyl tent and they fascinate her. She hears the tent zipper but doesn't look away from the zooming neon lights.
***
She moves to the music without effort. She can feel it in her bones, it doesn't just permeate her ears, but her entire body. The notes flow through her so organically, she isn't thinking about anything else. She has never heard this song before, but it feels like she has. She can anticipate the next riff before it even happens. Her hands weave in and out at exactly the right moments. Her body sways as she lets the music overcome her.
***
What seems like minutes must be hours as the sun falls and the moon rises. The man in front of her dances in an impossible way. She thinks to herself, 'How can he move like that?' It is unnatural. She can't bare to look at him, yet can't look away. It seems as if he is going in fast and slow motion at the same time. She decides it must be time to find the tent and lay down and does so, but she doesn't sleep. Lights flash through all sides of the vinyl tent and they fascinate her. She hears the tent zipper but doesn't look away from the zooming neon lights.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Week 9 prompt: 39. I came, I saw, I conquered.
I feel as though a rubber band snapped inside me. It didn't hurt, it's just never happened before. It must be another weird thing my body is doing to me now. I don't open my eyes. Then my leg gets warm. In a second I realize, it's not only warm, but wet. I jump up as fast as my body will let me and run into the bathroom. I'm glad my mother helped me clean or I would never have made it without falling. I can't see a thing. I squint my blurry eyes at the bathroom clock. 6:15. I sit down on the toilet because it seems natural, but nothing happens. Maybe I was mistaken. I stand to return to the bedroom, it must have been a false alarm. Then it's like a flood on my bathroom floor. No warning, just water everywhere. I hop into the shower and stand there for a while. This is really happening. When the water finally goes cold, I get out and start packing. I don't wake him. He deserves a few more hours of peaceful sleep.
***
I am unexpectedly happy. I keep thinking, I can handle this. So far everything is perfect, and I have this overwhelming feeling that it will remain that way. My body is strong.
***
Shit, shit, shit. I can't handle this. Everything is wrong. Nothing is going as planned. And soon it will be over. I should be elated that it will be over, but I'm not. Can't I just hit the rewind button and go back to yesterday? It was like waiting for Christmas morning as a four year old. The wonderful feeling of anticipation. I want that feeling back.
***
I should be sleeping but I'm too hopped up. Ron sleeps next to me, he's never had a problem getting his 8 hours, not matter what's going on. I don't want to leave this place. Everything here is about us. People are ready to wait on us hand and foot, all I have to do is press the little button. I want to stay here forever.
***
I place him on the bed and feel like it's all over. Everything I have been waiting for is over. I lay next to him and close my eyes. When I wake up, he is crying for me and I realize, this is just the beginning.
***
I am unexpectedly happy. I keep thinking, I can handle this. So far everything is perfect, and I have this overwhelming feeling that it will remain that way. My body is strong.
***
Shit, shit, shit. I can't handle this. Everything is wrong. Nothing is going as planned. And soon it will be over. I should be elated that it will be over, but I'm not. Can't I just hit the rewind button and go back to yesterday? It was like waiting for Christmas morning as a four year old. The wonderful feeling of anticipation. I want that feeling back.
***
I should be sleeping but I'm too hopped up. Ron sleeps next to me, he's never had a problem getting his 8 hours, not matter what's going on. I don't want to leave this place. Everything here is about us. People are ready to wait on us hand and foot, all I have to do is press the little button. I want to stay here forever.
***
I place him on the bed and feel like it's all over. Everything I have been waiting for is over. I lay next to him and close my eyes. When I wake up, he is crying for me and I realize, this is just the beginning.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Week 9 prompt: 42. A list of random things about me
1) I eat in bed every night
2) I'm an artist, though I feel like everyone else is too
3) I don't know how to knit
4) I hate vacuuming
5) I name every car I own. Currently I have Candace and Ruby.
6) I find it hard to talk about anything but my children
7) I don't like bananas, but eat them anyway because they're good for me
8) I'm not a good swimmer
9) I will say no to anyone who asks to dance with me with one exception, my two year old
10) I hold my nose when I sneeze
11) I don't like to be the center of attention
12) I have seen the movie Hook over 500 times, by choice
13) I used to have a large half dollar collection until I got desperate one day
14) I cut my own hair
15) I have a insane passion for french fries
16) I love algebra
17) My parents are divorced
18) I can drive a stick
19) I love making lists
20) I am fascinated by extreme couponers
21) I am a groupie for The Blast Addicts (their drummer's dreamy)
22) I lost four close friends in high school to separate car accidents and other tragedies
23) I don't like mustaches, except Magnum P.I.'s
24) I love getting the mail
25) I miss my dog, Rikkah
26) I found out I was pregnant the day before my 21st birthday
27) I like cookie dough better than cookies
28) My favorite number is 28
29) I'm really good at puzzles
30) Sometimes I wear colored contacts
2) I'm an artist, though I feel like everyone else is too
3) I don't know how to knit
4) I hate vacuuming
5) I name every car I own. Currently I have Candace and Ruby.
6) I find it hard to talk about anything but my children
7) I don't like bananas, but eat them anyway because they're good for me
8) I'm not a good swimmer
9) I will say no to anyone who asks to dance with me with one exception, my two year old
10) I hold my nose when I sneeze
11) I don't like to be the center of attention
12) I have seen the movie Hook over 500 times, by choice
13) I used to have a large half dollar collection until I got desperate one day
14) I cut my own hair
15) I have a insane passion for french fries
16) I love algebra
17) My parents are divorced
18) I can drive a stick
19) I love making lists
20) I am fascinated by extreme couponers
21) I am a groupie for The Blast Addicts (their drummer's dreamy)
22) I lost four close friends in high school to separate car accidents and other tragedies
23) I don't like mustaches, except Magnum P.I.'s
24) I love getting the mail
25) I miss my dog, Rikkah
26) I found out I was pregnant the day before my 21st birthday
27) I like cookie dough better than cookies
28) My favorite number is 28
29) I'm really good at puzzles
30) Sometimes I wear colored contacts
Week 9 theme
The phone rings. I don't answer as usual, just let the machine get it. They hang up and I am reminded why I don't pick it up. I go back to my lego tower and the princess in peril. A helicopter swoops in and rescues her just in time. By looking at the joy in his face, you would assume she was in actual danger, not just threatened by a plastic dinosaur. He's the hero once again.
***
I know these roads like the back of my hand. I've been down them everyday for years now so 75 mph is nothing. The car hugs the road as I see every turn, every pothole seconds before it occurs. My little Civic masters the tight corners as I look down at the phone. I know she said not to turn it on, but I know something's wrong. Why can't I just call him and ask? I press the power button as hard as my finger lets me, the anticipation is killing me. I hate it. Just like I hate surprise birthday parties, or not knowing whats for dinner. Just tell me already.
***
I open the door to my mother sitting at the table with nothing in front of her. No newspaper, no food. This is serious, I must be in trouble or something. My mind searches for excuses to all the miss-behaviors I may have had in the last month or so. But I don't panic, I know I can talk my way out of anything. But that's the problem, what am I talking my way out of? I sit down hesitantly and wait for the accusal. When I look up, I notice her face is not angry. It's not disappointed. It's sad. Like she doesn't want to be having this conversation. What is happening right now?
***
I have called everyone in my contact list. Where is he? Why would he choose now to disappear off the face of the planet? I slam the phone on the seat in anger. I am still driving too fast, which seems like the worst possible thing to do in this situation, but I can't help it. My foot feels too heavy to let up on the gas. I am strangely calmed as the engine tacks higher and higher to match my heartbeat. If everything else is going as fast as my mind, I might feel sane again. Maybe for a second, until I lose myself again. My mind goes back and forth. One second I'm frantically searching for the one person who doesn't know. The one person who HAS to know, and doesn't. The next second I'm picturing the scene. My mother's words run through my mind over and over as I watch it happen. Both sanity and insanity.
***
I'm one of the only people here not wearing black. I don't think it's really appropriate I guess, or maybe my subconscious wont let me. I see him standing at the front of the room and make my way over. There are so many people, most of them don't know me. I finally have found him. He hugs me and I whisper, 'I love you so much' in his ear.
He squeezes tighter then slowly releases. Both of his hands hold my shoulders and he says 'I love you too.' He's looking straight in my eyes but I'm not strong enough to look back. I just turn and walk away.
***
I know these roads like the back of my hand. I've been down them everyday for years now so 75 mph is nothing. The car hugs the road as I see every turn, every pothole seconds before it occurs. My little Civic masters the tight corners as I look down at the phone. I know she said not to turn it on, but I know something's wrong. Why can't I just call him and ask? I press the power button as hard as my finger lets me, the anticipation is killing me. I hate it. Just like I hate surprise birthday parties, or not knowing whats for dinner. Just tell me already.
***
I open the door to my mother sitting at the table with nothing in front of her. No newspaper, no food. This is serious, I must be in trouble or something. My mind searches for excuses to all the miss-behaviors I may have had in the last month or so. But I don't panic, I know I can talk my way out of anything. But that's the problem, what am I talking my way out of? I sit down hesitantly and wait for the accusal. When I look up, I notice her face is not angry. It's not disappointed. It's sad. Like she doesn't want to be having this conversation. What is happening right now?
***
I have called everyone in my contact list. Where is he? Why would he choose now to disappear off the face of the planet? I slam the phone on the seat in anger. I am still driving too fast, which seems like the worst possible thing to do in this situation, but I can't help it. My foot feels too heavy to let up on the gas. I am strangely calmed as the engine tacks higher and higher to match my heartbeat. If everything else is going as fast as my mind, I might feel sane again. Maybe for a second, until I lose myself again. My mind goes back and forth. One second I'm frantically searching for the one person who doesn't know. The one person who HAS to know, and doesn't. The next second I'm picturing the scene. My mother's words run through my mind over and over as I watch it happen. Both sanity and insanity.
***
I'm one of the only people here not wearing black. I don't think it's really appropriate I guess, or maybe my subconscious wont let me. I see him standing at the front of the room and make my way over. There are so many people, most of them don't know me. I finally have found him. He hugs me and I whisper, 'I love you so much' in his ear.
He squeezes tighter then slowly releases. Both of his hands hold my shoulders and he says 'I love you too.' He's looking straight in my eyes but I'm not strong enough to look back. I just turn and walk away.
Week 8 Theme
Julia calls me in the next room, she is leaving. She tells me she has to go to her parents for the night, that she can't stay here with him. Which means, I can't stay here either. This presents a problem, I'm drunk. I can't think of anyone to call and I don't want to go to my parents, even though it's only a few miles away. I start to pack my things in the purple duffel bag I got freshman year for the varsity soccer team. I quit the next year, but kept the bag as consolation. I look around the apartment for any strays I left behind, but I'm unable to find any. It's hard to find anything in this place, there is clutter everywhere. A constant morning after look.
As I try to think of a place to stay that doesn't include my mother's nagging questions about what my plan is. Only one person comes to mind. I keep pushing the thought out of my head. He's probably busy anyway, it is Saturday night. I don't want to be rude. I call anyway.
'Hello?' He's at a bar, I can tell immediately. The background noise makes it impossible to hear him.
'Hey, this is Felicia, Caitlin's friend. Sorry to bother you, but I'm in a situation and was hoping you could help.'
'Sure, whatever you need.' He sounded sincere. The noise in the background slowly faded, he was going outside or to the bathroom. This got my hopes up, he wanted to talk at least.
'Well I've been drinking and need a ride.' Oh man I sound desperate. I guess I am though, I hope he doesn't get the wrong impression. Or is it the right impression?
'Yeah, I'll be right there. Umm, where are you?'
'Well that's the thing, I'm in Bucksport. And I need a place to stay. If your busy that's fine, really. Just say so.'
'No, no, I'll meet you at the hardware store in an hour.'
Thank god I don't have to call my mother. I wait in my car in the dark parking lot. Jack Johnson's mellow voice may be a bad choice right now because I find myself drifting off to sleep. I take the keys out of the ignition, you can never be too careful. I once heard of a guy that got an OUI sleeping in his car. He had no intentions of driving, just was tired and had a few drinks. He was being responsible. But he had the keys in the ignition. A cop came along wondering what he was up to and the next thing he know he was getting hauled off to jail. That would be just what I need right now.
I'm blinded by headlights as his car pulls in and I'm instantly more sober than 30 seconds ago. I try to discretely check my makeup in the visor mirror but the light comes on and I know he's looking. So I grab my bag from the passengers seat and lock my doors behind me. I open his door and am overtaken by nerves. My stomach is in knots and it is not the alcohol. When we start driving he explains that it is his friends birthday and they are all out celebrating. I tell him I'll stay at his house without them, I don't want him to miss out since I'm not 21.
We get to his house and I sit on his bright red couch. I can't imagine him at the store picking this thing out, it must be his roomates'. He gives me the remote and tells me if I smoke, I need to go out back. Then he leaves. I feel weird alone in his house. I barely know him, and haven't even met one of his roomates. I go out back and have a smoke and then fall asleep on the red couch.
As I try to think of a place to stay that doesn't include my mother's nagging questions about what my plan is. Only one person comes to mind. I keep pushing the thought out of my head. He's probably busy anyway, it is Saturday night. I don't want to be rude. I call anyway.
'Hello?' He's at a bar, I can tell immediately. The background noise makes it impossible to hear him.
'Hey, this is Felicia, Caitlin's friend. Sorry to bother you, but I'm in a situation and was hoping you could help.'
'Sure, whatever you need.' He sounded sincere. The noise in the background slowly faded, he was going outside or to the bathroom. This got my hopes up, he wanted to talk at least.
'Well I've been drinking and need a ride.' Oh man I sound desperate. I guess I am though, I hope he doesn't get the wrong impression. Or is it the right impression?
'Yeah, I'll be right there. Umm, where are you?'
'Well that's the thing, I'm in Bucksport. And I need a place to stay. If your busy that's fine, really. Just say so.'
'No, no, I'll meet you at the hardware store in an hour.'
Thank god I don't have to call my mother. I wait in my car in the dark parking lot. Jack Johnson's mellow voice may be a bad choice right now because I find myself drifting off to sleep. I take the keys out of the ignition, you can never be too careful. I once heard of a guy that got an OUI sleeping in his car. He had no intentions of driving, just was tired and had a few drinks. He was being responsible. But he had the keys in the ignition. A cop came along wondering what he was up to and the next thing he know he was getting hauled off to jail. That would be just what I need right now.
I'm blinded by headlights as his car pulls in and I'm instantly more sober than 30 seconds ago. I try to discretely check my makeup in the visor mirror but the light comes on and I know he's looking. So I grab my bag from the passengers seat and lock my doors behind me. I open his door and am overtaken by nerves. My stomach is in knots and it is not the alcohol. When we start driving he explains that it is his friends birthday and they are all out celebrating. I tell him I'll stay at his house without them, I don't want him to miss out since I'm not 21.
We get to his house and I sit on his bright red couch. I can't imagine him at the store picking this thing out, it must be his roomates'. He gives me the remote and tells me if I smoke, I need to go out back. Then he leaves. I feel weird alone in his house. I barely know him, and haven't even met one of his roomates. I go out back and have a smoke and then fall asleep on the red couch.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Week 8 Prompts
30. Just a passing face on the street. Oh lord, just a passing face....
I spot her at the end of the isle. I stop like a deer in the headlights. Crap, did she see me? I pretend to be looking at the shelf to my side. Tampons, perfect, that makes me look better. I picture the conversation, she asks what I'm up to. I respond, 'Oh you know, just shopping for tampons.' Sweet. Plan B, make a run for the next isle. But I realize, eventually, she will be in the next isle too. And the next, and the next. Why did I pick today to go to the store in my pajamas? I don't even have the kids with me. Usually I am fearless with the kids. I can direct the conversation and attention to them and away from myself. Not today. Here I stand, makeup-less, hair disheveled. Maybe she won't recognize me in this crude state. I'll just be another passing face. Oh lord, just a passing face...
35. Three of them sitting there in complete silence.
Ron and the kids sit on the couch watching TV. It's like he's holding two miniature versions of himself, one on each knee. I'm not sure why they chose the love seat instead of the big couch. If they were on the big one they wouldn't have to be squished in like pickles in a jar. I guess I'm glad they didn't though, it makes for a good cuddle session.
Not only do they look alike, but they behave the same as well. I'm always cleaning up after them, I have to ask a question three times before it really registers. I bet if I walked over there and waved my hand in front of their face, they wouldn't even notice. Ron and Grady do this thing where they pretend I'm not standing right in front of them. If the TV is on, they are fully engaged.
I walk over to the couch and ask, 'What do you want for dinner?'. Simultaneously they lean slowly to one side and peer their lifeless TV eyes around me as if it would pain them to look away for one milisecond. I ask again, 'Dinner? Any ideas? How about you Grady, what do you want to eat?' Nothing. Not so much as a blink. I actually have to turn off the television to snap them out of their trance. As soon as my finger hits the button, they both give me a look of terror. I feel like I have committed a murder or something. Maybe Grady does this because he only watches TV when his dad is home. He has learned the obsession from Ron's superb modeling.
38. The bluebird of happiness flies over the battlefield and lands on a boot left behind.
Grady marches across the lawn. Or tries to. Every step his foot sinks into the soupy soil and it takes much more effort than usual to lift it. But he presses on, determined to make it to the magnificent puddle ahead. He decides running may be a better bet than marching. But he was wrong. The first few steps went according to plan, but the next his boot is held captive by the mud. My first impulse is to run over and rescue the fallen soldier. But I don't. I've played the controlling role too much lately, he needs to be a little boy. Running through the wet lawn and splashing in puddles is what a kid is supposed to do, one boot or two.
He finally makes it to the puddle after much hard work and immediately sits down right in the middle. I encourage him, 'Splash!'
He raises both hands and slaps them against the water, gasping as it hits his face. 'Woah', he says in awe. He continues to splash around until standing up to stomp his feet. The same effect. The same response, 'Woah'. He spots another puddle not too far away and starts walking towards it. The dog barks in the background so I turn around to see what mischief she has gotten into this time. I turn back to see Grady face first in the mud and instantly panic, is he okay?. Before I can even get the words out of my mouth, he looks at me and says, 'Oops, I okay.' He knew the question before I could even say it. Yeah, I really need to back off a bit. He's not made of glass, he's a little boy. I take off my shoes and make my way over to the puddle. For the next half hour we splash and roll around in the water and for the next half hour, I am two years old as well.
I spot her at the end of the isle. I stop like a deer in the headlights. Crap, did she see me? I pretend to be looking at the shelf to my side. Tampons, perfect, that makes me look better. I picture the conversation, she asks what I'm up to. I respond, 'Oh you know, just shopping for tampons.' Sweet. Plan B, make a run for the next isle. But I realize, eventually, she will be in the next isle too. And the next, and the next. Why did I pick today to go to the store in my pajamas? I don't even have the kids with me. Usually I am fearless with the kids. I can direct the conversation and attention to them and away from myself. Not today. Here I stand, makeup-less, hair disheveled. Maybe she won't recognize me in this crude state. I'll just be another passing face. Oh lord, just a passing face...
35. Three of them sitting there in complete silence.
Ron and the kids sit on the couch watching TV. It's like he's holding two miniature versions of himself, one on each knee. I'm not sure why they chose the love seat instead of the big couch. If they were on the big one they wouldn't have to be squished in like pickles in a jar. I guess I'm glad they didn't though, it makes for a good cuddle session.
Not only do they look alike, but they behave the same as well. I'm always cleaning up after them, I have to ask a question three times before it really registers. I bet if I walked over there and waved my hand in front of their face, they wouldn't even notice. Ron and Grady do this thing where they pretend I'm not standing right in front of them. If the TV is on, they are fully engaged.
I walk over to the couch and ask, 'What do you want for dinner?'. Simultaneously they lean slowly to one side and peer their lifeless TV eyes around me as if it would pain them to look away for one milisecond. I ask again, 'Dinner? Any ideas? How about you Grady, what do you want to eat?' Nothing. Not so much as a blink. I actually have to turn off the television to snap them out of their trance. As soon as my finger hits the button, they both give me a look of terror. I feel like I have committed a murder or something. Maybe Grady does this because he only watches TV when his dad is home. He has learned the obsession from Ron's superb modeling.
38. The bluebird of happiness flies over the battlefield and lands on a boot left behind.
Grady marches across the lawn. Or tries to. Every step his foot sinks into the soupy soil and it takes much more effort than usual to lift it. But he presses on, determined to make it to the magnificent puddle ahead. He decides running may be a better bet than marching. But he was wrong. The first few steps went according to plan, but the next his boot is held captive by the mud. My first impulse is to run over and rescue the fallen soldier. But I don't. I've played the controlling role too much lately, he needs to be a little boy. Running through the wet lawn and splashing in puddles is what a kid is supposed to do, one boot or two.
He finally makes it to the puddle after much hard work and immediately sits down right in the middle. I encourage him, 'Splash!'
He raises both hands and slaps them against the water, gasping as it hits his face. 'Woah', he says in awe. He continues to splash around until standing up to stomp his feet. The same effect. The same response, 'Woah'. He spots another puddle not too far away and starts walking towards it. The dog barks in the background so I turn around to see what mischief she has gotten into this time. I turn back to see Grady face first in the mud and instantly panic, is he okay?. Before I can even get the words out of my mouth, he looks at me and says, 'Oops, I okay.' He knew the question before I could even say it. Yeah, I really need to back off a bit. He's not made of glass, he's a little boy. I take off my shoes and make my way over to the puddle. For the next half hour we splash and roll around in the water and for the next half hour, I am two years old as well.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Week 7 Prompts
30. Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?
I look at the photos on the wall. It took me forever to hang them. A jumble of a-symmetric, different sized frames that are placed so strategically, they look symmetric. I hope we never move. My eyes move from frame to frame until I come across a photo of my son, Jack. It is one of the only colored photos on the wall. This allows for full appreciation of his vibrantly red hair. The only one in the family to have it, though you wouldn't be able to tell from the black and whites that surround him. You can however, define his fair Irish skin. Again, the only one in the family to have it. I wonder if he will have freckles as well.
I see the smile that lights up the room. This smile really is indicative of his personality. He doesn't have a care in the world. He almost never cries, and when he does, he is soothed easily. Recently I tried eliminating one of his feeding times during the night. I attempted this with my older son, but he just cried until I gave in. But Jack, he's a saint. The first night, he awoke ready to eat, and it took a mere five minutes to convince him he was tired instead of hungry. His face was saying, 'Okay mom, I suppose I will sleep now, but when I wake up again, you'd better be ready to feed me. Is that okay?' As his eyes were at half-mast, slowly closing as he fell asleep.
The photo was taken when his eyes were completely blue, but now they are changing. They now have specks of hazel around the pupil. I wonder if they will change completely. Even without the hazel they aren't the same eyes that look up at me now. They are missing something here. In fact, I have never seen him look at anyone else the way he looks at me. It's the bond between us that is unrivaled. I can just tell that I am the apple of his eye. This probably is due to the fact that nobody else can feed him but me. I'm his lifeline. But that will soon change, so for now, I'm drinking it in. You can't capture that on film.
31. Who's the first person you remember?
My mother has the craziest curly hair. They're not really even curls, just a pile of frizz on top of her head. Many of my childhood memories include looking at that frizzy hair from the back seat. She always sang to me in the car on the way to preschool. She was a preschool teacher and brought me along everyday. I was in preschool for like 5 years. Anyway, she would sing in the car songs like 'You are my sunshine', 'Wheels on the bus', 'Itsy Bitsy Spider'. She doesn't have a great voice, but that doesn't bother her. And it didn't bother me. If she tried singing to me now we may have a problem.
My favorite of all was 'Take me out to the ball game.' I would make her sing it over and over. Enough to drive a person crazy. But not her. Patience is her thing. Working with children, it has to be. But her's surpasses anyone I've met. I worked with her once a few years ago and a toddler came up and smacked her right across the face with a book. No warning, just really wanted to read I guess. My mom didn't even skip a beat. She said 'Oh, 'Child' (I forgot his name now), would you like to read? You need to hand me the book gently and say, 'read please'. Why don't you try it again.'
Her endearing tone instantly changed the toddlers face from a scowl to a smile and he handed her the book, and said in his little toddler voice, 'Read me please'.
I'm sure other people with a book slapped across their face may react differently. I might have too in the past, but now I have my own children and I find myself reflecting my mother's patience and nurturing quality everyday. When my son is faced with a conflict, I try to give him a balance of guidance and independence as she did with me.
34. Check out Carolyn See Locator of Lost Persons --those short, very evocative, mysterious, and poetic grafs. Try a few of those!
Julia Cooper. *Jables*. Are you still living above that convenience store? Are you still with that same ol' guy? The last time I saw you, we were playing a video game online with some teenage boy in Tennessee. We had cheesy names that we thought were clever. You were so kind to let me stay at your house. Are you still playing? I miss you. -MiSs*G*vIoUs
Amber Baird. It's been too long. Last I heard, you were in Germany. Traveling was always on your life list of things to do. Have you crossed off anything else on your list? You used to drive that light blue Honda Civic, it was a hatchback. We spent many nights sleeping in it with the seats folded down with a fire and Sublime music somewhere in the background.
Cynthia Meade. We used to drink Grey Goose and go on mysterious four-wheeler rides. You were always there for me, though I wasn't always there for you. I remember hanging out at 'The Shack'. You were always wearing Carhartt and work boots with a dirty baseball hat. The same dirty Red Sox baseball hat. Where are you now?
I look at the photos on the wall. It took me forever to hang them. A jumble of a-symmetric, different sized frames that are placed so strategically, they look symmetric. I hope we never move. My eyes move from frame to frame until I come across a photo of my son, Jack. It is one of the only colored photos on the wall. This allows for full appreciation of his vibrantly red hair. The only one in the family to have it, though you wouldn't be able to tell from the black and whites that surround him. You can however, define his fair Irish skin. Again, the only one in the family to have it. I wonder if he will have freckles as well.
I see the smile that lights up the room. This smile really is indicative of his personality. He doesn't have a care in the world. He almost never cries, and when he does, he is soothed easily. Recently I tried eliminating one of his feeding times during the night. I attempted this with my older son, but he just cried until I gave in. But Jack, he's a saint. The first night, he awoke ready to eat, and it took a mere five minutes to convince him he was tired instead of hungry. His face was saying, 'Okay mom, I suppose I will sleep now, but when I wake up again, you'd better be ready to feed me. Is that okay?' As his eyes were at half-mast, slowly closing as he fell asleep.
The photo was taken when his eyes were completely blue, but now they are changing. They now have specks of hazel around the pupil. I wonder if they will change completely. Even without the hazel they aren't the same eyes that look up at me now. They are missing something here. In fact, I have never seen him look at anyone else the way he looks at me. It's the bond between us that is unrivaled. I can just tell that I am the apple of his eye. This probably is due to the fact that nobody else can feed him but me. I'm his lifeline. But that will soon change, so for now, I'm drinking it in. You can't capture that on film.
31. Who's the first person you remember?
My mother has the craziest curly hair. They're not really even curls, just a pile of frizz on top of her head. Many of my childhood memories include looking at that frizzy hair from the back seat. She always sang to me in the car on the way to preschool. She was a preschool teacher and brought me along everyday. I was in preschool for like 5 years. Anyway, she would sing in the car songs like 'You are my sunshine', 'Wheels on the bus', 'Itsy Bitsy Spider'. She doesn't have a great voice, but that doesn't bother her. And it didn't bother me. If she tried singing to me now we may have a problem.
My favorite of all was 'Take me out to the ball game.' I would make her sing it over and over. Enough to drive a person crazy. But not her. Patience is her thing. Working with children, it has to be. But her's surpasses anyone I've met. I worked with her once a few years ago and a toddler came up and smacked her right across the face with a book. No warning, just really wanted to read I guess. My mom didn't even skip a beat. She said 'Oh, 'Child' (I forgot his name now), would you like to read? You need to hand me the book gently and say, 'read please'. Why don't you try it again.'
Her endearing tone instantly changed the toddlers face from a scowl to a smile and he handed her the book, and said in his little toddler voice, 'Read me please'.
I'm sure other people with a book slapped across their face may react differently. I might have too in the past, but now I have my own children and I find myself reflecting my mother's patience and nurturing quality everyday. When my son is faced with a conflict, I try to give him a balance of guidance and independence as she did with me.
34. Check out Carolyn See Locator of Lost Persons --those short, very evocative, mysterious, and poetic grafs. Try a few of those!
Julia Cooper. *Jables*. Are you still living above that convenience store? Are you still with that same ol' guy? The last time I saw you, we were playing a video game online with some teenage boy in Tennessee. We had cheesy names that we thought were clever. You were so kind to let me stay at your house. Are you still playing? I miss you. -MiSs*G*vIoUs
Amber Baird. It's been too long. Last I heard, you were in Germany. Traveling was always on your life list of things to do. Have you crossed off anything else on your list? You used to drive that light blue Honda Civic, it was a hatchback. We spent many nights sleeping in it with the seats folded down with a fire and Sublime music somewhere in the background.
Cynthia Meade. We used to drink Grey Goose and go on mysterious four-wheeler rides. You were always there for me, though I wasn't always there for you. I remember hanging out at 'The Shack'. You were always wearing Carhartt and work boots with a dirty baseball hat. The same dirty Red Sox baseball hat. Where are you now?
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Theme Week 7
They call her 'Momma'. They meaning everyone I have ever met that knows her. It's weird, it's not really an enduring title, though she is loved by many. It's more of a title of respect. The kind of momma you are intimidated by but drawn to at the same time. Or maybe it is an all-knowing type of vibe that defines her. A motherly wisdom. Regardless of why, the name fits.
She is the absolute only person I know that can pull of a muumuu. I mean, I've see people on tv and such do it, but they usually have rockin bodies and personality doesnt matter. But her 50 year old body is definitely not rockin, its her that pulls it off, her being. Her chi if you will. She even embellishes with a wrist full of bangles and the scent of pachuli. I don't think I have ever seen her wear make-up, or do her hair, but she always have time to put on some pachuli. Or maybe it's her natural scent, it wouldn't surprise me if thats what her sweat glands produced instead of the foul odor of most.
Everytime I enter Momma's house, it smells of a different food. But it's not like when you go to a food court, and all the smells of different restaurants meld together into a gross blend of chinamexamerican. It's always wonderful. I step out of the car and it's like the cartoons when you see the smell in a whistful cloud above the characters head. Then they start floating along following it to it's origin. And there it is, a pie sitting on a windowsill. She does have a family of five, so cooking is a must, but the amounts of food this woman makes could feed an army. And she does. I have never been to her house without at least five other guests there at the same time, and she feeds them all like it's her job. An obligation to eliminate hunger across the entire town. But she does that job sooo well.
My favorite thing about momma is that she doesn't care what anyone thinks of her and she isn't afraid to speak her mind. Now, I have heard many people claim to possess these characteristics, but none like her. She is the type of person who you can hear, at the grocery store, three isles over dropping f bombs and laughing hysterically. You can just picture her hands waiving in a frenzy of excitement as she talks to someone she probably just met, like she's known them for years.
One time, I was a freshman and she came into our high school with a tray full of candies. She gave me two or three then said, 'Oh, I'de better get these fuckers to the office'. It turns out, they were filled with alcohol. As I walked away, I felt the booze warm my belly and heard her cussing up a storm in the school office, rehashing the latest drama with the secretaries. To be honest, as a freshman in high school I did think that underaged drinking was pretty bad ass. But that is not what made this act so great. It wasn't her swearing in a school, or feeding teachers alcohol (which perhaps explained some of my narrow escapes with the principle). It was the fact that if anyone else tried the same business, they would be kicked out with no remorse. But Momma, she can do anything, say anything. As long as it is followed by her hysterical laugh, nobody would think twice. They would just laugh along side her, pretend they were 'in' and not actually terrified of her, and she would walts right back out. She's like a tornado. A tornado of gossip, innapropriateness, and patchuli.
She is the absolute only person I know that can pull of a muumuu. I mean, I've see people on tv and such do it, but they usually have rockin bodies and personality doesnt matter. But her 50 year old body is definitely not rockin, its her that pulls it off, her being. Her chi if you will. She even embellishes with a wrist full of bangles and the scent of pachuli. I don't think I have ever seen her wear make-up, or do her hair, but she always have time to put on some pachuli. Or maybe it's her natural scent, it wouldn't surprise me if thats what her sweat glands produced instead of the foul odor of most.
Everytime I enter Momma's house, it smells of a different food. But it's not like when you go to a food court, and all the smells of different restaurants meld together into a gross blend of chinamexamerican. It's always wonderful. I step out of the car and it's like the cartoons when you see the smell in a whistful cloud above the characters head. Then they start floating along following it to it's origin. And there it is, a pie sitting on a windowsill. She does have a family of five, so cooking is a must, but the amounts of food this woman makes could feed an army. And she does. I have never been to her house without at least five other guests there at the same time, and she feeds them all like it's her job. An obligation to eliminate hunger across the entire town. But she does that job sooo well.
My favorite thing about momma is that she doesn't care what anyone thinks of her and she isn't afraid to speak her mind. Now, I have heard many people claim to possess these characteristics, but none like her. She is the type of person who you can hear, at the grocery store, three isles over dropping f bombs and laughing hysterically. You can just picture her hands waiving in a frenzy of excitement as she talks to someone she probably just met, like she's known them for years.
One time, I was a freshman and she came into our high school with a tray full of candies. She gave me two or three then said, 'Oh, I'de better get these fuckers to the office'. It turns out, they were filled with alcohol. As I walked away, I felt the booze warm my belly and heard her cussing up a storm in the school office, rehashing the latest drama with the secretaries. To be honest, as a freshman in high school I did think that underaged drinking was pretty bad ass. But that is not what made this act so great. It wasn't her swearing in a school, or feeding teachers alcohol (which perhaps explained some of my narrow escapes with the principle). It was the fact that if anyone else tried the same business, they would be kicked out with no remorse. But Momma, she can do anything, say anything. As long as it is followed by her hysterical laugh, nobody would think twice. They would just laugh along side her, pretend they were 'in' and not actually terrified of her, and she would walts right back out. She's like a tornado. A tornado of gossip, innapropriateness, and patchuli.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Week 6 Prompts
26. You haven't been there since you were little. Now you go back....
I walk past the jungle gym, with the un-cut grass underneath, the name fits. When I arrive at the end of the yard, I search for the path. I know where it is supposed to be, but it's overgrown and invisible now. I still walk where it once was, my feet remembering every step like I was there yesterday. When I arrive in the clearing, a pile of wood is sitting in the spot where the fort used it be. I can make out the words, 'He Man Woman Haters' written in green paint on one of the boards. It reminds me of how naive I was when I was young.
My brothers conned me into helping build it. It was awesome. We made it out of scrap wood laying around the yard. It was about four feet tall, with a working door and lock. In hindsight the lock probably wasn't the best idea. It had a loft inside and the walls were filled with graffiti that I didn't understand. The floor was made of pine needles that we piled up creating our beds. We also made pathways out of them all through the surrounding woods to make a little town. When it was all finished, we made countless trips to and from the house hauling army men, sleeping bags, lanterns, magazines, and other necessities. Then at long last, it was complete, and they wouldn't let me in. They said I had to be a general. I was but a private.
28. A picture postcard view and you hate it, because postcards belong to anyone with the money to buy one. If the tourists ever got past the obvious, they'd see what you see....
I've driven past it so many times I don't even notice it anymore. From anywhere on main street you can look across the river and see one of the most beautiful bridges in Maine. About 50 feet beyond it is the one they built to replace it. People come from miles around to drive across the new cabled bridge, or go to the top of the observatory. I have to admit, it is modern and sleek but there is no emotion behind it. It is cold and lifeless, which completely contradicts the natural beauty that surrounds it. On either side, Maine foliage warms the atmosphere. Underneath, a body of water that rivals most. The old bridge used to compliment nature, not contrast it. It was a green, classic suspension bridge with as much character as bugs bunny. It seemed to melt into the background while still maintaining it's charm. Now it's a disintegrating side note the the massive eyesore.
29. When you finally arrived, it was nothing like you imagined....
Who goes to disney without children? I guess I do. I'm expecting to be surrounded by cheesy songs, and screaming children everywhere. I imagine being served juice boxes and carrot sticks. Everyone is always raving about how 'magical' it is, but I don't really expect it to be. More like sickeningly upbeat.
On the way to our resort, we are forced to watch a video about checking in and out that features happy-go-lucky cartoon characters. There is already a crying baby in the seat next to me. Here we go.
Then we arrive at the resort. It is far from the giant bouncy castle I expected. More like a sophisticated lodge that reminds me of camps back in maine, but much more expensive. The front desk attendant tells us to keep a look out for mickey mouse heads around and to keep count. When I start to spot them, they are astonishingly un-cartoony. I thought it would be easy to find them. Giant shiny mickeys staring you in the face at every turn. When in reality, they are well hidden and incorperated in unsuspecting places. In the bedspread and carpet, carved into the intricate wooden bedframe.
From the balcony of our room you can see out across the lake, which has a deceivingly ocean-like beach front. I will be down there by the end of the day in my bikini pretending it's the Bahamas. The pool is directly below and it is filled with children as I expected, but there is also pool-side bar that is more my style. I pick up the pamphlet on the bedside stand and see that there is a 4 star restaurant downstairs along with two others that don't look that bad either.
So much for carrot sticks and juice boxes.
I walk past the jungle gym, with the un-cut grass underneath, the name fits. When I arrive at the end of the yard, I search for the path. I know where it is supposed to be, but it's overgrown and invisible now. I still walk where it once was, my feet remembering every step like I was there yesterday. When I arrive in the clearing, a pile of wood is sitting in the spot where the fort used it be. I can make out the words, 'He Man Woman Haters' written in green paint on one of the boards. It reminds me of how naive I was when I was young.
My brothers conned me into helping build it. It was awesome. We made it out of scrap wood laying around the yard. It was about four feet tall, with a working door and lock. In hindsight the lock probably wasn't the best idea. It had a loft inside and the walls were filled with graffiti that I didn't understand. The floor was made of pine needles that we piled up creating our beds. We also made pathways out of them all through the surrounding woods to make a little town. When it was all finished, we made countless trips to and from the house hauling army men, sleeping bags, lanterns, magazines, and other necessities. Then at long last, it was complete, and they wouldn't let me in. They said I had to be a general. I was but a private.
28. A picture postcard view and you hate it, because postcards belong to anyone with the money to buy one. If the tourists ever got past the obvious, they'd see what you see....
I've driven past it so many times I don't even notice it anymore. From anywhere on main street you can look across the river and see one of the most beautiful bridges in Maine. About 50 feet beyond it is the one they built to replace it. People come from miles around to drive across the new cabled bridge, or go to the top of the observatory. I have to admit, it is modern and sleek but there is no emotion behind it. It is cold and lifeless, which completely contradicts the natural beauty that surrounds it. On either side, Maine foliage warms the atmosphere. Underneath, a body of water that rivals most. The old bridge used to compliment nature, not contrast it. It was a green, classic suspension bridge with as much character as bugs bunny. It seemed to melt into the background while still maintaining it's charm. Now it's a disintegrating side note the the massive eyesore.
29. When you finally arrived, it was nothing like you imagined....
Who goes to disney without children? I guess I do. I'm expecting to be surrounded by cheesy songs, and screaming children everywhere. I imagine being served juice boxes and carrot sticks. Everyone is always raving about how 'magical' it is, but I don't really expect it to be. More like sickeningly upbeat.
On the way to our resort, we are forced to watch a video about checking in and out that features happy-go-lucky cartoon characters. There is already a crying baby in the seat next to me. Here we go.
Then we arrive at the resort. It is far from the giant bouncy castle I expected. More like a sophisticated lodge that reminds me of camps back in maine, but much more expensive. The front desk attendant tells us to keep a look out for mickey mouse heads around and to keep count. When I start to spot them, they are astonishingly un-cartoony. I thought it would be easy to find them. Giant shiny mickeys staring you in the face at every turn. When in reality, they are well hidden and incorperated in unsuspecting places. In the bedspread and carpet, carved into the intricate wooden bedframe.
From the balcony of our room you can see out across the lake, which has a deceivingly ocean-like beach front. I will be down there by the end of the day in my bikini pretending it's the Bahamas. The pool is directly below and it is filled with children as I expected, but there is also pool-side bar that is more my style. I pick up the pamphlet on the bedside stand and see that there is a 4 star restaurant downstairs along with two others that don't look that bad either.
So much for carrot sticks and juice boxes.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Theme week 6
Place
I awoke before him and walked into the living room. Beautiful wood panels covered the walls. Not like the wood panels I remember from the trailer I lived in when I was young, those were obviously fake. You could tell because the 'wood grain' was repeated every few panels. It also had black, grout, I guess you would call it, in between each 'board'. This was nothing like the fake trailer paneling. This was real, individual, wooden boards. They are lined up without a predictable pattern, with no fake grout holding them together. They are joined together with without it, tongue and groove I think it's called. I could be wrong, I don't really remember my one year in woodshop.
The wooden walls make me wonder what the floor looks like, but I can't tell because the room is a furniture graveyard. I am overwhelmed trying to sort through it in my head. But it all looks like it could belong in my home, or it had been in my home at one point. It's a strange feeling. It's all familiar. I scan through the oddly un-foreign furniture for a seat. I need to contemplate my relationship and potential new family I have just met.
I see an oversized armchair in the corner. It is completely buried, but looks like a great spot if I can make my way over to it. It faces one of the two huge picture windows making up the front of the house. I plot my route and climb over an old computer in a box it doesn't fit in. The next obstacle is an end table with a spot to put magazines. It looks like someone abandoned it in a mad dash to clear a room, magazines and all. I finally arrive in the corner of the room where the armchair sits. I move a box of nursing text books out of the seat. It is not really heavy but takes a lot of energy due to my morning, no-muscle-tone. But it is worth it in the end.
I sit cross-legged and turn my head to the most breathtaking view I have seen in my life. It is the dead of winter and the ground is covered with snow. Not the sticky, dense kind, but the light and fluffy kind. I can tell because the dog has made a series of trails all through the yard. Also, the tree branches are not sagging with the weight of heavy snow. The sun has just come up though I can't see it, just it's orange glow across the sky. About 100 feet in front of me is a partially frozen river. Near the banks are plates of ice that look like they will break off any time and float away. The center of the river is constantly moving with tiny white-caps.
My eyes are drawn to a small movement across the river. A doe and her three fawns step cautiously to the edge of the river. Every few seconds the doe pauses, raises her head to look around, and then continues on. Her fawns follow her exact footsteps and pause every time she does. Growing up next to a field, I have seen many deer in my lifetime. But somehow these deer seem more majestic. Maybe it's the beauty that surrounds them that enhances their own.
I hear my boyfriend moving around in the bedroom and soon he emerges. We say nothing. He finds the same path as I did over to the arm chair and squeezes in next to me. We sit in silence and watch the deer. I think about how strange it is to be so comfortable here. I feel as if I have been here before. Not like deja vu, but just a sense of belonging. Like the furniture, a tumult of items thrown together, we were brought together in chaos. But even through the craziness, it fits. It doesn't feel chaotic in the least, it is calming, familiar, beautiful.
I awoke before him and walked into the living room. Beautiful wood panels covered the walls. Not like the wood panels I remember from the trailer I lived in when I was young, those were obviously fake. You could tell because the 'wood grain' was repeated every few panels. It also had black, grout, I guess you would call it, in between each 'board'. This was nothing like the fake trailer paneling. This was real, individual, wooden boards. They are lined up without a predictable pattern, with no fake grout holding them together. They are joined together with without it, tongue and groove I think it's called. I could be wrong, I don't really remember my one year in woodshop.
The wooden walls make me wonder what the floor looks like, but I can't tell because the room is a furniture graveyard. I am overwhelmed trying to sort through it in my head. But it all looks like it could belong in my home, or it had been in my home at one point. It's a strange feeling. It's all familiar. I scan through the oddly un-foreign furniture for a seat. I need to contemplate my relationship and potential new family I have just met.
I see an oversized armchair in the corner. It is completely buried, but looks like a great spot if I can make my way over to it. It faces one of the two huge picture windows making up the front of the house. I plot my route and climb over an old computer in a box it doesn't fit in. The next obstacle is an end table with a spot to put magazines. It looks like someone abandoned it in a mad dash to clear a room, magazines and all. I finally arrive in the corner of the room where the armchair sits. I move a box of nursing text books out of the seat. It is not really heavy but takes a lot of energy due to my morning, no-muscle-tone. But it is worth it in the end.
I sit cross-legged and turn my head to the most breathtaking view I have seen in my life. It is the dead of winter and the ground is covered with snow. Not the sticky, dense kind, but the light and fluffy kind. I can tell because the dog has made a series of trails all through the yard. Also, the tree branches are not sagging with the weight of heavy snow. The sun has just come up though I can't see it, just it's orange glow across the sky. About 100 feet in front of me is a partially frozen river. Near the banks are plates of ice that look like they will break off any time and float away. The center of the river is constantly moving with tiny white-caps.
My eyes are drawn to a small movement across the river. A doe and her three fawns step cautiously to the edge of the river. Every few seconds the doe pauses, raises her head to look around, and then continues on. Her fawns follow her exact footsteps and pause every time she does. Growing up next to a field, I have seen many deer in my lifetime. But somehow these deer seem more majestic. Maybe it's the beauty that surrounds them that enhances their own.
I hear my boyfriend moving around in the bedroom and soon he emerges. We say nothing. He finds the same path as I did over to the arm chair and squeezes in next to me. We sit in silence and watch the deer. I think about how strange it is to be so comfortable here. I feel as if I have been here before. Not like deja vu, but just a sense of belonging. Like the furniture, a tumult of items thrown together, we were brought together in chaos. But even through the craziness, it fits. It doesn't feel chaotic in the least, it is calming, familiar, beautiful.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Week 5 prompts
7. You’ve lost It! Where is It?
My husband's phone is always MIA. Which is weird because most of the time he is obsessing over it. It is like his little pet, always within arms reach. But, apparently, even something close enough to bite you, can be lost. Under the couch cushion, a book, or even a cake. Yes, he has lost his phone underneath a sheet cake. Don't ask me how he does it, it is as if he has suffered an injury eliminating his short-term memory. I guess that is why if I am talking to him, and I ask him what I just said, he cannot answer.
His irresponsibility towards his phone also extends to it's maintenance. Currently, his phone has two types of industrial tape (duct and electrical) holding it together. It is also decorated with spray paint, grout, and some sort of undefined substance accumulated at work. Given all the physical issues with the phone, the most annoying part is that it is NEVER charged. Constantly, it calls out to me. 'Beep, beep' I'm sure is what it sounds like to everyone else but to my ears it is, 'Please, help me. Save me from this neglectful tyrant'.
The other day, surprise! He lost his phone. And again, surprise! It is dying. We can hear it beeping from the unknown, taunting us. Before he so much as lifts a finger he asks the question I hear approximately ten times a day, 'Babe, can you call my phone?'
Instead of surrendering to his laziness, I decide to fight. 'No, this one is on you.' I say.
He starts looking. First, he sweeps the area by sight before giving up. 'Seriously, can you call it?'
'Nope.'
His search extends to lifting up a blanket. He looks at me with angry eyes. I smile back with my phone clutched tight in my grasp. A look of shock tears across his face. 'I forgot to order my tux for the wedding! I have to do it in the next..' He looks at the clock and his eyes widen. 4:55. '5 minutes! Okay, give me your phone and I will call it.'
I give in. I guess he has a legitimate excuse this time. But next time, I will break him of his bad habit. I hit the green call button twice. His number is almost always the last one I have called, so I don't even look. We wait in silence for music. He has a ring tone of some rock song that I have heard a thousand times but still don't know the name of. It never rings. I check my phone to make sure I called the right number. It says 'Ron', like always. But this time I notice it has gone straight to voice-mail. It is dead. Really? Lost and dead, double whammy.
Where is it? Now I am freaking out too. We both begin to throw things in urgency. We must have looked in the same place as the other five times. I lift a pillow, he is right behind me lifting the same pillow. As if my eyes don't work as well as his. Every thirty seconds we look at the clock, then at each other with an 'oh shit' expression on our faces. 4:57, 58, 59. We are frantic now. My husband lifts up the couch off the floor. This reminds me of a story I heard about 6 year old lifting a fourwheeler off his dad in a crazy adrenaline rush. Only this adrenaline rush is a 25 year old's love of his cellphone.
Then it hits me. Why didn't I think of it before? He can just use my phone to call about his tux. I throw my head back partially relieved, but mostly in guilt for being so stupid. I exclaim, 'Use my phone!' He rolls his eyes, the stupidity again.
I hand him the phone and he makes a quick call to order the tux. He gives his measurements, thanks the woman on the other end, and hangs up. I put my hand out, a gesture asking for my phone back and that's when I see it. A small, rectangular shape in his breast pocket. His phone! 'Are you kidding me?' I thought, and apparantly said outloud without knowing it because Ron answered.
'I know, were so dumb. We could have used your phone the whole time.'
I didn't tell him about his phone. Just gave up the search and watched him look for about 20 more minutes until he made the same discovery. Only he pretended he found it behind the couch to save himself the embarrassment. And his ego was saved. Until he reads this post.
18. The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again
I was the luckiest 15 year old to ever grace my high school. Or at least that's what I thought when I got my restricted license. Nobody could touch me. I was the only freshman to be cool enough to drive, not only that, have my own car. It was a 1990 Chevrolet Beretta. A kind-of ugly shade of gray, but not a speck of rust. The interior was perfect except that the fabric on the back seat was torn and sagging down. So, I threw one of my many tapestries from Mexicali Blues on and called it good. I probably would have put one on there anyway.
In school, I was asked many times how I could have my license at 15. I would reply, 'I have connections', something else mysterious like that. I never explained that with a restriced license, you could only drive to school and work. You could not have anyone in the car with you, and you couldn't drive after 8. Minor details.
Despite the rules, of course I drove all my friends around. Places other than work or school. Or if I was going to either, I would always take the longest route possible. One day, driving to my sister's in Orono with my friend Miranda (neither work or school) I wanted to see just how fast the car could go. So, on the stretch of interstate between Orono and Old Town, let the Beretta loose. It went exactly 128 miles per hour. It felt like the car was going to collapse beneath us. The entire car shook, and to be honest, I was a little scared for my life. Though I would have never admitted it at the time.
Then, in front of us I spotted a black Chevy Impala. It was the new model, the one I had been obsessing about for the last month. Miranda didn't even know what an Impala was. I decided at that moment, it was my duty to introduce them. I sped up to about 90 and passed the beauty. I said, 'Now do you know what I am talking about?' She didn't even see it. So I slowed and let the car pass us. This time Miranda said, 'Oh yeah, that's cool.' She was unimpressed. I am not sure exactly who the next look was for, but I passed the car one last time.
Then I heard the siren. Not the kind that goes on and on until the point when you think to yourself, 'Enough already, I heard you a mile ago'. But two quick little chirps. They came from the beauty. At first I didn't believe it. Had I really been passing a cop and not even known? Where was the radar in the front window? Where was the weird extra side mirror they always have. It didn't even have government plate. It couldn't be.
The car, still on the right of us since I passed it for the third time, pulled up parallel to my car. In the front seats were two men, dressed in black suits. The man driving looked over through our window. I nearly peed myself. Excuses ran through my head, but I couldn't come up with an emergency that would warrant my speed, passenger and location all in one. I looked over at the man driving. He slowly raised his hand (or at least it seemed slow at the time, as if time had stopped) horizontally and moved it up and down. A motion saying, 'slow it down'. I looked at his face expecting a stern expression, but to my surprise I didn't find it. He was smirking, almost amused at my irresponsible actions. I let out a sigh of relief and continued on to the next exit.
Later, when we arrived at our destination, Miranda and I went over and over the details of the incident. We couldn't figure out why we weren't pulled over. Maybe they were off duty? On the way to a much bigger call, so they didn't have time to pull over a couple teenagers goofing off? In the end, we decided they must have thought we were too gorgeous to arrest, and that's what we told people.
The next day, on my way home from Orono. I had to leave early to get to work while everyone else went out to breakfast. I had made it all the way to my parking spot when, BAM, I hit the car next to me. Luckily, I was on my way to work, it wasn't after 8 p.m., and I did not have a passenger. However, I did ruin the entire driver's side of my Beretta, lost my restricted license, and my mother made me pay the difference in the insurance bill.
Over the next year, I was in three more accidents, all of them minor. Even if I combined them all, piled up all the emotion and fear I felt from each, they still wouldn't compare to the day I could have, potentially, might have, gone to jail. But they did send the Beretta to the car-morgue. Where ever that is. And after saving for an entire summer, my next car was a brand new, black, Chevrolet Impala. Just kidding, it was a Civic. Which I also crashed.
24. We name the guilty man!
I stand up from the table as I finish my dinner. Grady has been done for a few minutes and I already brought him to the sink to wash and brush. The normal meal-time routine. I take care of my plate and fork and make my way over to the counter that holds my beloved desert. A cupcake. In fact, the last cupcake. I called dibs on it yesterday, so I know my husband wouldn't dare touch it. I go to lift the tinfoil that shelters my beloved and disappointment washes over me. It is gone.
My dissapointment takes a quick turn towards anger. I look at my husband and say, 'What the hell?' while holding up the tinfoil.
He looks surprisingly innocent. Almost like he had forgotten the crime he committed all together. 'What?'
'My cupcake! You ate it and I called dibs. Babe, I was so looking forward to that cupcake. Look, it's even on my agenda for the evening.' I take out a piece of paper, and point, 'Look, Dinner, cupcake, bath, bed.'
I even wrote it on my list, that is serious. I am always making lists, it's sort-of an ocd thing. One time, my husband came into the bedroom and there I was, laying in bed making a list for the next day, as usual. He looked at the notepad, it's the kind that says 'To Do' on the top and has a magnet for the refridgerator, and he realized I was actually making a list of lists I needed to make the next day. I was 'cut-off' as he put it from the notepad for a few days after that.
'I didn't eat your cupcake Felicia.'
I don't know if it is my brutal accusation or his guilt that makes him say 'Felicia'. He only calls me that when he means business. All other times it is babe, hun, those types of things.
'Well, it didn't just get up and walk away! This sucks, my whole night is ruined.'
'Really? Because of a cupcake? Wow, you need to have this baby soon.'
This statement sends me to a whole other level. He always blames things on the pregnancy. So, maybe I was a little hormonal, but then why the hell would he eat my cupcake? He must enjoy the rage it has sent me in. I go into the bathroom and start the bath. 'This will calm me down', I think to myself. 'But it is no cupcake.' I climb in the bathtub, belly not included. It looks like a giant island protruding from the bathwater. I start to think about my devil's food chocolate cupcake with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. The I hear the front door shut. I finish up in the bath, which takes about twice as long being 9 months pregnant, and get my P.J.'s on. When I am finally done, I come into the living room to find a huge bag of Dysart's cookies on the table. He does love me.
I stop Ron on his way to the nursery to put Grady to bed. 'I'm sorry. I guess I am a tiny bit emotional.'
'It's okay' he says, and kisses my forehead.
I sit on the couch with my bag of cookies when I hear. 'Babe, come hear quick!'
Panic comes over me. Grady is in there, is he okay? Did I leave any choking hazards lying around by mistake? Maybe he fell and hit his head on something, he has been really quiet tonight. I waddle as fast as I can to his room. My eyes catch him, and scan over his entire body for injury. 'What? Is he okay? What's the matter?'
Ron points under Grady's crib and I see it. My cupcake. Or at least what used to be my cupcake. It has been mangled almost beyond recognition, reduced to crumbs and white frosting smears. Both Ron and I start laughing uncontrollably. Grady looks where Ron is pointing, sticks his finger in a glob of frosting. 'Mmm' he says with his finger in his mouth.
My husband's phone is always MIA. Which is weird because most of the time he is obsessing over it. It is like his little pet, always within arms reach. But, apparently, even something close enough to bite you, can be lost. Under the couch cushion, a book, or even a cake. Yes, he has lost his phone underneath a sheet cake. Don't ask me how he does it, it is as if he has suffered an injury eliminating his short-term memory. I guess that is why if I am talking to him, and I ask him what I just said, he cannot answer.
His irresponsibility towards his phone also extends to it's maintenance. Currently, his phone has two types of industrial tape (duct and electrical) holding it together. It is also decorated with spray paint, grout, and some sort of undefined substance accumulated at work. Given all the physical issues with the phone, the most annoying part is that it is NEVER charged. Constantly, it calls out to me. 'Beep, beep' I'm sure is what it sounds like to everyone else but to my ears it is, 'Please, help me. Save me from this neglectful tyrant'.
The other day, surprise! He lost his phone. And again, surprise! It is dying. We can hear it beeping from the unknown, taunting us. Before he so much as lifts a finger he asks the question I hear approximately ten times a day, 'Babe, can you call my phone?'
Instead of surrendering to his laziness, I decide to fight. 'No, this one is on you.' I say.
He starts looking. First, he sweeps the area by sight before giving up. 'Seriously, can you call it?'
'Nope.'
His search extends to lifting up a blanket. He looks at me with angry eyes. I smile back with my phone clutched tight in my grasp. A look of shock tears across his face. 'I forgot to order my tux for the wedding! I have to do it in the next..' He looks at the clock and his eyes widen. 4:55. '5 minutes! Okay, give me your phone and I will call it.'
I give in. I guess he has a legitimate excuse this time. But next time, I will break him of his bad habit. I hit the green call button twice. His number is almost always the last one I have called, so I don't even look. We wait in silence for music. He has a ring tone of some rock song that I have heard a thousand times but still don't know the name of. It never rings. I check my phone to make sure I called the right number. It says 'Ron', like always. But this time I notice it has gone straight to voice-mail. It is dead. Really? Lost and dead, double whammy.
Where is it? Now I am freaking out too. We both begin to throw things in urgency. We must have looked in the same place as the other five times. I lift a pillow, he is right behind me lifting the same pillow. As if my eyes don't work as well as his. Every thirty seconds we look at the clock, then at each other with an 'oh shit' expression on our faces. 4:57, 58, 59. We are frantic now. My husband lifts up the couch off the floor. This reminds me of a story I heard about 6 year old lifting a fourwheeler off his dad in a crazy adrenaline rush. Only this adrenaline rush is a 25 year old's love of his cellphone.
Then it hits me. Why didn't I think of it before? He can just use my phone to call about his tux. I throw my head back partially relieved, but mostly in guilt for being so stupid. I exclaim, 'Use my phone!' He rolls his eyes, the stupidity again.
I hand him the phone and he makes a quick call to order the tux. He gives his measurements, thanks the woman on the other end, and hangs up. I put my hand out, a gesture asking for my phone back and that's when I see it. A small, rectangular shape in his breast pocket. His phone! 'Are you kidding me?' I thought, and apparantly said outloud without knowing it because Ron answered.
'I know, were so dumb. We could have used your phone the whole time.'
I didn't tell him about his phone. Just gave up the search and watched him look for about 20 more minutes until he made the same discovery. Only he pretended he found it behind the couch to save himself the embarrassment. And his ego was saved. Until he reads this post.
18. The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again
I was the luckiest 15 year old to ever grace my high school. Or at least that's what I thought when I got my restricted license. Nobody could touch me. I was the only freshman to be cool enough to drive, not only that, have my own car. It was a 1990 Chevrolet Beretta. A kind-of ugly shade of gray, but not a speck of rust. The interior was perfect except that the fabric on the back seat was torn and sagging down. So, I threw one of my many tapestries from Mexicali Blues on and called it good. I probably would have put one on there anyway.
In school, I was asked many times how I could have my license at 15. I would reply, 'I have connections', something else mysterious like that. I never explained that with a restriced license, you could only drive to school and work. You could not have anyone in the car with you, and you couldn't drive after 8. Minor details.
Despite the rules, of course I drove all my friends around. Places other than work or school. Or if I was going to either, I would always take the longest route possible. One day, driving to my sister's in Orono with my friend Miranda (neither work or school) I wanted to see just how fast the car could go. So, on the stretch of interstate between Orono and Old Town, let the Beretta loose. It went exactly 128 miles per hour. It felt like the car was going to collapse beneath us. The entire car shook, and to be honest, I was a little scared for my life. Though I would have never admitted it at the time.
Then, in front of us I spotted a black Chevy Impala. It was the new model, the one I had been obsessing about for the last month. Miranda didn't even know what an Impala was. I decided at that moment, it was my duty to introduce them. I sped up to about 90 and passed the beauty. I said, 'Now do you know what I am talking about?' She didn't even see it. So I slowed and let the car pass us. This time Miranda said, 'Oh yeah, that's cool.' She was unimpressed. I am not sure exactly who the next look was for, but I passed the car one last time.
Then I heard the siren. Not the kind that goes on and on until the point when you think to yourself, 'Enough already, I heard you a mile ago'. But two quick little chirps. They came from the beauty. At first I didn't believe it. Had I really been passing a cop and not even known? Where was the radar in the front window? Where was the weird extra side mirror they always have. It didn't even have government plate. It couldn't be.
The car, still on the right of us since I passed it for the third time, pulled up parallel to my car. In the front seats were two men, dressed in black suits. The man driving looked over through our window. I nearly peed myself. Excuses ran through my head, but I couldn't come up with an emergency that would warrant my speed, passenger and location all in one. I looked over at the man driving. He slowly raised his hand (or at least it seemed slow at the time, as if time had stopped) horizontally and moved it up and down. A motion saying, 'slow it down'. I looked at his face expecting a stern expression, but to my surprise I didn't find it. He was smirking, almost amused at my irresponsible actions. I let out a sigh of relief and continued on to the next exit.
Later, when we arrived at our destination, Miranda and I went over and over the details of the incident. We couldn't figure out why we weren't pulled over. Maybe they were off duty? On the way to a much bigger call, so they didn't have time to pull over a couple teenagers goofing off? In the end, we decided they must have thought we were too gorgeous to arrest, and that's what we told people.
The next day, on my way home from Orono. I had to leave early to get to work while everyone else went out to breakfast. I had made it all the way to my parking spot when, BAM, I hit the car next to me. Luckily, I was on my way to work, it wasn't after 8 p.m., and I did not have a passenger. However, I did ruin the entire driver's side of my Beretta, lost my restricted license, and my mother made me pay the difference in the insurance bill.
Over the next year, I was in three more accidents, all of them minor. Even if I combined them all, piled up all the emotion and fear I felt from each, they still wouldn't compare to the day I could have, potentially, might have, gone to jail. But they did send the Beretta to the car-morgue. Where ever that is. And after saving for an entire summer, my next car was a brand new, black, Chevrolet Impala. Just kidding, it was a Civic. Which I also crashed.
24. We name the guilty man!
I stand up from the table as I finish my dinner. Grady has been done for a few minutes and I already brought him to the sink to wash and brush. The normal meal-time routine. I take care of my plate and fork and make my way over to the counter that holds my beloved desert. A cupcake. In fact, the last cupcake. I called dibs on it yesterday, so I know my husband wouldn't dare touch it. I go to lift the tinfoil that shelters my beloved and disappointment washes over me. It is gone.
My dissapointment takes a quick turn towards anger. I look at my husband and say, 'What the hell?' while holding up the tinfoil.
He looks surprisingly innocent. Almost like he had forgotten the crime he committed all together. 'What?'
'My cupcake! You ate it and I called dibs. Babe, I was so looking forward to that cupcake. Look, it's even on my agenda for the evening.' I take out a piece of paper, and point, 'Look, Dinner, cupcake, bath, bed.'
I even wrote it on my list, that is serious. I am always making lists, it's sort-of an ocd thing. One time, my husband came into the bedroom and there I was, laying in bed making a list for the next day, as usual. He looked at the notepad, it's the kind that says 'To Do' on the top and has a magnet for the refridgerator, and he realized I was actually making a list of lists I needed to make the next day. I was 'cut-off' as he put it from the notepad for a few days after that.
'I didn't eat your cupcake Felicia.'
I don't know if it is my brutal accusation or his guilt that makes him say 'Felicia'. He only calls me that when he means business. All other times it is babe, hun, those types of things.
'Well, it didn't just get up and walk away! This sucks, my whole night is ruined.'
'Really? Because of a cupcake? Wow, you need to have this baby soon.'
This statement sends me to a whole other level. He always blames things on the pregnancy. So, maybe I was a little hormonal, but then why the hell would he eat my cupcake? He must enjoy the rage it has sent me in. I go into the bathroom and start the bath. 'This will calm me down', I think to myself. 'But it is no cupcake.' I climb in the bathtub, belly not included. It looks like a giant island protruding from the bathwater. I start to think about my devil's food chocolate cupcake with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. The I hear the front door shut. I finish up in the bath, which takes about twice as long being 9 months pregnant, and get my P.J.'s on. When I am finally done, I come into the living room to find a huge bag of Dysart's cookies on the table. He does love me.
I stop Ron on his way to the nursery to put Grady to bed. 'I'm sorry. I guess I am a tiny bit emotional.'
'It's okay' he says, and kisses my forehead.
I sit on the couch with my bag of cookies when I hear. 'Babe, come hear quick!'
Panic comes over me. Grady is in there, is he okay? Did I leave any choking hazards lying around by mistake? Maybe he fell and hit his head on something, he has been really quiet tonight. I waddle as fast as I can to his room. My eyes catch him, and scan over his entire body for injury. 'What? Is he okay? What's the matter?'
Ron points under Grady's crib and I see it. My cupcake. Or at least what used to be my cupcake. It has been mangled almost beyond recognition, reduced to crumbs and white frosting smears. Both Ron and I start laughing uncontrollably. Grady looks where Ron is pointing, sticks his finger in a glob of frosting. 'Mmm' he says with his finger in his mouth.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Theme week 4
1. Write about it as close to black and white, just the facts as you possibly can.
I am wearing a black dress that does not hide my pregnant belly. Nerves overcome me and I can barely look at my soon to be husband. We don't even have rings. The woman from the town office forgets this fact and still asks us to exchange them. I don't correct her, just gently shake my head. She says the words I have been waiting for all my life, 'You may kiss your bride'. And a shiver shoots down my spine. We kissed and I hoped it would never end. I am a married woman with a son on the way.
2. Then write about it so that the basic facts are there, unchanged, but you throw in a little fancy stuff to improve the story--you make the girl a blonde instead of a brunette, you add a few horsepower to the engine, you buy a few more dollars worth of clothes than you actually could afford--all this done, not to lie, but to make the truth sharper and, if you will, even truer.
I stand at the alter, my pregnant skin radiant. My dress accentuates my every curve, and my fiance notices. We don't have our rings yet, but it makes no difference to us. The woman marrying us (I don't even know her name) works at our town hall. She agreed to meet us outside at 5:00 when she got out of work to conduct the ceremony. She said her fee was 5 dollars, we are going to give her 10. The woman asks me if I will take this man, I reply 'I will'. This makes my heart race. I don't hear anything else she says until, 'You may kiss your bride.' Finally, the moment I have waited for all my life. My husband takes me in his arms and we share a passionate kiss.
3. Finally, start with the same material but let it off its leash. It originates in fact, but winds up as fiction. Now the details aren't changed to tell the truth in a new way--they're just pure fiction.
I look around to see the brilliant flowers placed perfectly around the gazebo. Each rafter is entwined with twinkling white lights, illuminating our beautiful ceremony. I look down at my exquisite dress and think it is nothing compared to my fiance's attire. He looks amazing in his tuxedo and I can't stop looking at him. Mary, the woman marrying us, clears her throat to indicate the start of the ceremony. She eloquently goes through our vows and then says the words I have been anticipating. 'You may kiss the bride.' My heart skips a beat and my new husband takes me in his arms. I feel his hand at the small of my back as he dips me back. We share the most amazing kiss I have ever experienced and the fireworks go off.
I am wearing a black dress that does not hide my pregnant belly. Nerves overcome me and I can barely look at my soon to be husband. We don't even have rings. The woman from the town office forgets this fact and still asks us to exchange them. I don't correct her, just gently shake my head. She says the words I have been waiting for all my life, 'You may kiss your bride'. And a shiver shoots down my spine. We kissed and I hoped it would never end. I am a married woman with a son on the way.
2. Then write about it so that the basic facts are there, unchanged, but you throw in a little fancy stuff to improve the story--you make the girl a blonde instead of a brunette, you add a few horsepower to the engine, you buy a few more dollars worth of clothes than you actually could afford--all this done, not to lie, but to make the truth sharper and, if you will, even truer.
I stand at the alter, my pregnant skin radiant. My dress accentuates my every curve, and my fiance notices. We don't have our rings yet, but it makes no difference to us. The woman marrying us (I don't even know her name) works at our town hall. She agreed to meet us outside at 5:00 when she got out of work to conduct the ceremony. She said her fee was 5 dollars, we are going to give her 10. The woman asks me if I will take this man, I reply 'I will'. This makes my heart race. I don't hear anything else she says until, 'You may kiss your bride.' Finally, the moment I have waited for all my life. My husband takes me in his arms and we share a passionate kiss.
3. Finally, start with the same material but let it off its leash. It originates in fact, but winds up as fiction. Now the details aren't changed to tell the truth in a new way--they're just pure fiction.
I look around to see the brilliant flowers placed perfectly around the gazebo. Each rafter is entwined with twinkling white lights, illuminating our beautiful ceremony. I look down at my exquisite dress and think it is nothing compared to my fiance's attire. He looks amazing in his tuxedo and I can't stop looking at him. Mary, the woman marrying us, clears her throat to indicate the start of the ceremony. She eloquently goes through our vows and then says the words I have been anticipating. 'You may kiss the bride.' My heart skips a beat and my new husband takes me in his arms. I feel his hand at the small of my back as he dips me back. We share the most amazing kiss I have ever experienced and the fireworks go off.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Week 4 prompts
13. I just googled the phrase 'if these could talk.' Wow, if these walls could talk, sure, but also if these hips could talk, if these cars could talk, if these pots could talk, if these dolls could talk, if these old keys could talk, if these stones could talk, if your boss could talk, if these trees could talk, if these quasars could talk--well, there are 7 or 8 million more entries to hunt through.... You've just spent a week writing about stuff in a journal, thinking about the walled-in room where you're working. What inanimate thing do you wish could talk?
I intensely wish my son's crib could talk. Since he started sleeping in his own room, I am not allowed to set foot in there when he wants to sleep. He absolutely needs to be alone, door shut, lights off to fall asleep. And I am banned to the living room. Every once in a while I will hear him talking to himself, laughing at some joke I'm sure is hilarious. I wish I knew what he was talking about, who he is talking to. What could be so funny in a dark room all alone? I guess in this hypothetical, his crib would also read minds.
14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?
Singing. In both I have my own voice, nobody else has one like me. Although I do steal some inspiration from others, those who have had success, my voice is still my own. Both allow for expression. I can sing or write LOUD, quiet, simple, fancy. I can use lots of extra notes, words, or tones, but in the end, they are all mine. Each come from somewhere deep inside and nobody could ever replicate them.
16. Somebody just offered me the chance to get paid for gassing on about one of my favorite topics: dogs. What would you like to be paid to talk about?
No doubt, I would talk about childcare and parenting techniques. Well actually the difference between the two, the middle ground. Many mothers look to the latest childcare techniques to raise their children by. I encourage this, don't get me wrong, but there are definitely hypothetical ways to deal with situations, and actual ways. For example, when you are feeding the baby and your toddler throws a tantrum, it is OKAY to turn cartoons on for 10 minutes to distract him while you take care of the baby. In a childcare setting, you have help, as a parent, you have to help yourself. I would still impress the importance of both, but explain the reality of parenting without sugar coating it. I would LOVE to get paid to talk about this. Any takers? Anyone?
I intensely wish my son's crib could talk. Since he started sleeping in his own room, I am not allowed to set foot in there when he wants to sleep. He absolutely needs to be alone, door shut, lights off to fall asleep. And I am banned to the living room. Every once in a while I will hear him talking to himself, laughing at some joke I'm sure is hilarious. I wish I knew what he was talking about, who he is talking to. What could be so funny in a dark room all alone? I guess in this hypothetical, his crib would also read minds.
14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?
Singing. In both I have my own voice, nobody else has one like me. Although I do steal some inspiration from others, those who have had success, my voice is still my own. Both allow for expression. I can sing or write LOUD, quiet, simple, fancy. I can use lots of extra notes, words, or tones, but in the end, they are all mine. Each come from somewhere deep inside and nobody could ever replicate them.
16. Somebody just offered me the chance to get paid for gassing on about one of my favorite topics: dogs. What would you like to be paid to talk about?
No doubt, I would talk about childcare and parenting techniques. Well actually the difference between the two, the middle ground. Many mothers look to the latest childcare techniques to raise their children by. I encourage this, don't get me wrong, but there are definitely hypothetical ways to deal with situations, and actual ways. For example, when you are feeding the baby and your toddler throws a tantrum, it is OKAY to turn cartoons on for 10 minutes to distract him while you take care of the baby. In a childcare setting, you have help, as a parent, you have to help yourself. I would still impress the importance of both, but explain the reality of parenting without sugar coating it. I would LOVE to get paid to talk about this. Any takers? Anyone?
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Theme week 3
Sitting at the computer, I look around my living room. The electric fireplace is going even though it's 65 degrees outside. There is no heat, just a fake blue and orange flame that somehow makes me feel cozy. The baby is on the floor, trying with all his might to grab that illusive toy dangling over his head. Grady is keeping himself busy with the second shelf of the bookshelf. It is just his height, perfect for taking all the 'Harry Potter' books off. He lines them up on the floor, and walks across them like a bridge. He runs over to me as if he is going to burst with anticipation.
'buhgret teme sew sew mama?' His eyebrows are furled, head cocked to one side, and his shoulders are up to his chin. It must be a very important question to require such body language and gibberish.
'Yeah Grady, of course.' I say, assuming he is not asking to run with scissors. He returns to his Potter bridge and says to himself,
'two, four, fiye, sits, seyin, eight, mama, twelve.' His ascew counting coorilates with his wobbly steps to the next book in line.
'Grady, are you counting?'
'Yesh'
I decide to try and help him get past that difficult 'mama', which I can never figure out if it is ten or eleven. I guess if I were to be a number, it would be nice to be a ten. I prompt, 'One...'
Before I can finish he yells, 'Two' at the top of his lungs.
'Three..'
'Four'
'Five...'
'Sits'
At this point his hips sway with every number. A sort of counting dance that he does when he's really in the groove. 'Seven..'
'Eight'
'Nine..'
'Mama'
A smile creeps across my face. So I am a ten. I continue to see just how far this groove will take him, 'Eleven.."
'Twelve'
'Thirteen...'
He cocks his head to the side with a defying look on his face, 'Twelve'
I guess he is done with this counting business. I end our little lesson with a 'YAY, great job Grady!' Per usual, but by this time he is already distracted by Harry.
'buhgret teme sew sew mama?' His eyebrows are furled, head cocked to one side, and his shoulders are up to his chin. It must be a very important question to require such body language and gibberish.
'Yeah Grady, of course.' I say, assuming he is not asking to run with scissors. He returns to his Potter bridge and says to himself,
'two, four, fiye, sits, seyin, eight, mama, twelve.' His ascew counting coorilates with his wobbly steps to the next book in line.
'Grady, are you counting?'
'Yesh'
I decide to try and help him get past that difficult 'mama', which I can never figure out if it is ten or eleven. I guess if I were to be a number, it would be nice to be a ten. I prompt, 'One...'
Before I can finish he yells, 'Two' at the top of his lungs.
'Three..'
'Four'
'Five...'
'Sits'
At this point his hips sway with every number. A sort of counting dance that he does when he's really in the groove. 'Seven..'
'Eight'
'Nine..'
'Mama'
A smile creeps across my face. So I am a ten. I continue to see just how far this groove will take him, 'Eleven.."
'Twelve'
'Thirteen...'
He cocks his head to the side with a defying look on his face, 'Twelve'
I guess he is done with this counting business. I end our little lesson with a 'YAY, great job Grady!' Per usual, but by this time he is already distracted by Harry.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Week 3 Prompts
9. Writers have to listen to themselves; writers ought to always be talking to themselves. Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.
"This is quite the dilemma."
"No, actually, it is not. It is simple. Do it and get it over with, lazy."
"I'm not lazy, just reserving energy. Let's go about this logically. Pros and cons."
"Okay, pros. You will feel an incredible amount of relief. You will be able to sleep, at least for a few hours of the night. You mind and body will be comforted knowing that you have done it and will not have to do it again for a while."
"Alright. Valid points, but not good enough. Cons. My immediate comfort and security will be forever torn from me. I do believe that is the only argument I need. Although, there is also the fact that I could be interrupting my child's well being."
"I'm not even sure why I am trying to persuade you. It's going to happen eventually. Maybe when you are least expecting it. How do you plan on explaining that one to your husband?"
"Okay, you win. Did you have to bring out the big guns?"
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now, get up and go pee. Then you can go back to sleep."
10. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog (he said--, she said--)
I sit at the restaurant with my husband and children. I am surrounded by tables that look like they are on their lunch break, or are having meetings. Especially this one table nearby. Their two rough voices are using words like 'agenda, schedule and inventory'. It wasn't until I listened closer that I realized that they were not talking business, at least not in the traditional sense.
The deeper of the two voices, "Well we definitely need some sort of penis shape."
"Yes, of course. But how can we achieve that? A mold? Or just cut it out?"
He quickly replies, "We can hire someone to do that for us. What about other novelty items? Penis necklaces, ice cubes?"
"Oh, speaking of penis ice cubes. A friend of mine has a mold for a penis ice sculpture."
"This is going to be a good night." He says excitedly
12. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.
I look around the restaurant. It is bustling. Unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. I wish restaurants were as busy when I was a waitress, but that's neither here nor there. Our waitress is short, wearing all black, which only makes her look shorter. Her hair is pulled back in a fury of curls and her face is as red as our menu. Her expression makes me want to tell her she can take a cigarette break, it wouldn't bother me to wait a few minutes. But she is good. Frazzled, yet on top of her game. The plates are like an extension of her hands as she weaves between chairs and tables. Gravity makes me believe one will fall, but it never does, it's like an optical illusion.
The tables she so eliquently manuevers around are filled with people in business attire. Each one with a more serious face than the last. I can just tell they are talking about their work day. If it were me, I would be enjoying my break rather than squandering it with talk of work.
"This is quite the dilemma."
"No, actually, it is not. It is simple. Do it and get it over with, lazy."
"I'm not lazy, just reserving energy. Let's go about this logically. Pros and cons."
"Okay, pros. You will feel an incredible amount of relief. You will be able to sleep, at least for a few hours of the night. You mind and body will be comforted knowing that you have done it and will not have to do it again for a while."
"Alright. Valid points, but not good enough. Cons. My immediate comfort and security will be forever torn from me. I do believe that is the only argument I need. Although, there is also the fact that I could be interrupting my child's well being."
"I'm not even sure why I am trying to persuade you. It's going to happen eventually. Maybe when you are least expecting it. How do you plan on explaining that one to your husband?"
"Okay, you win. Did you have to bring out the big guns?"
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now, get up and go pee. Then you can go back to sleep."
10. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog (he said--, she said--)
I sit at the restaurant with my husband and children. I am surrounded by tables that look like they are on their lunch break, or are having meetings. Especially this one table nearby. Their two rough voices are using words like 'agenda, schedule and inventory'. It wasn't until I listened closer that I realized that they were not talking business, at least not in the traditional sense.
The deeper of the two voices, "Well we definitely need some sort of penis shape."
"Yes, of course. But how can we achieve that? A mold? Or just cut it out?"
He quickly replies, "We can hire someone to do that for us. What about other novelty items? Penis necklaces, ice cubes?"
"Oh, speaking of penis ice cubes. A friend of mine has a mold for a penis ice sculpture."
"This is going to be a good night." He says excitedly
12. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.
I look around the restaurant. It is bustling. Unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. I wish restaurants were as busy when I was a waitress, but that's neither here nor there. Our waitress is short, wearing all black, which only makes her look shorter. Her hair is pulled back in a fury of curls and her face is as red as our menu. Her expression makes me want to tell her she can take a cigarette break, it wouldn't bother me to wait a few minutes. But she is good. Frazzled, yet on top of her game. The plates are like an extension of her hands as she weaves between chairs and tables. Gravity makes me believe one will fall, but it never does, it's like an optical illusion.
The tables she so eliquently manuevers around are filled with people in business attire. Each one with a more serious face than the last. I can just tell they are talking about their work day. If it were me, I would be enjoying my break rather than squandering it with talk of work.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Week 2 Prompts
6. The stuff I've collected over the years in my little box/bureau drawer/keepsake chest marks every step of my way.
Not too long ago I was cleaning out the back of my closet. This is the place my inner hoarder comes out. All of the things that I should have thrown away, but held on to live there. Anyway, I was 'cleaning' it out (taking items out, contemplating for a few seconds, then replacing them in a more organized fashion) when I came across a box with a tag saying 'Ex-Files' on it. I don't remember where I go the title, I think I saw it on a movie once or something and thought it was clever. It contains memories from old boyfriends, notes and dried flower pedals and such. Next to it was a box filled with things from my relationship with my husband (I couldn't think of a clever title for this one I guess).
I opened them to compare and was surprised to find the contents very similar. I imagined the new box would contain grown-up things. I don't really know what grown up things are, but the concept seemed fitting. It too was also filled with little notes, flower pedals, photos of our dating days, a bottle cap that says 'your kind of a big deal' on the inside, he gave it to me on our first date. It all seemed rather juvenile, and I thought, does this define our relationship? Are the similarities between these two boxes also true when comparing relationships?
Then I started reading some of the notes. Again, very similar. The difference being, when I read notes from my husband, my heart started to flutter. I found myself holding my breath until the very last word. That's when I realized, the mementos from each are similar in form, but the meaning, the feelings I get from them, is exponentially more significant when they came from the man I love.
7. Looking in that photo album, I see--
My son, Grady. I'm witnessing all of his milestones through images. When he first rolled over, his first steps, the big first birthday, etc. Then, the cycle starts again, with my youngest son, Jack. If a someone were to view these pictures in black and white, they may think they are the same child. The only difference being that Jack has red hair. It baffles me that the one person in three generations to have red hair is him. It's so weird because it completely fits him. I think he would be a completely different person with brown hair. Or at least, I would perceive him differently. It's strange how our attributes help to define us as people. Who would I be with red hair?
8. It was the first, but not the best--or was it?
My first apartment with my husband was basically a hallway. I bet if I checked into it, it would be illegal for a person to live in that minuscule amount of living space. We squished as much furniture as possible in the oddly chopped up rooms. And there we were. Just us and an 80 lb dog named Rikkah. We had absolutely no way to escape each other. We could be sitting at either end of the apartment and still hear each other breathing. But we didn't have to escape each other. So fantastically smitten, we could spend infinite amounts of time together.
Ever since that apartments, our living spaces have been larger with each move and eventually we purchased our own home. This milestone gave us freedom from landlords. Which I thought would be a relief, but quickly realized the opposite. We have nobody to call to fix the sink, or worse, when we have septic troubles. Being your own landlord is a lot of responsibility. It makes me miss our tiny, hallway apartment.
Not too long ago I was cleaning out the back of my closet. This is the place my inner hoarder comes out. All of the things that I should have thrown away, but held on to live there. Anyway, I was 'cleaning' it out (taking items out, contemplating for a few seconds, then replacing them in a more organized fashion) when I came across a box with a tag saying 'Ex-Files' on it. I don't remember where I go the title, I think I saw it on a movie once or something and thought it was clever. It contains memories from old boyfriends, notes and dried flower pedals and such. Next to it was a box filled with things from my relationship with my husband (I couldn't think of a clever title for this one I guess).
I opened them to compare and was surprised to find the contents very similar. I imagined the new box would contain grown-up things. I don't really know what grown up things are, but the concept seemed fitting. It too was also filled with little notes, flower pedals, photos of our dating days, a bottle cap that says 'your kind of a big deal' on the inside, he gave it to me on our first date. It all seemed rather juvenile, and I thought, does this define our relationship? Are the similarities between these two boxes also true when comparing relationships?
Then I started reading some of the notes. Again, very similar. The difference being, when I read notes from my husband, my heart started to flutter. I found myself holding my breath until the very last word. That's when I realized, the mementos from each are similar in form, but the meaning, the feelings I get from them, is exponentially more significant when they came from the man I love.
7. Looking in that photo album, I see--
My son, Grady. I'm witnessing all of his milestones through images. When he first rolled over, his first steps, the big first birthday, etc. Then, the cycle starts again, with my youngest son, Jack. If a someone were to view these pictures in black and white, they may think they are the same child. The only difference being that Jack has red hair. It baffles me that the one person in three generations to have red hair is him. It's so weird because it completely fits him. I think he would be a completely different person with brown hair. Or at least, I would perceive him differently. It's strange how our attributes help to define us as people. Who would I be with red hair?
8. It was the first, but not the best--or was it?
My first apartment with my husband was basically a hallway. I bet if I checked into it, it would be illegal for a person to live in that minuscule amount of living space. We squished as much furniture as possible in the oddly chopped up rooms. And there we were. Just us and an 80 lb dog named Rikkah. We had absolutely no way to escape each other. We could be sitting at either end of the apartment and still hear each other breathing. But we didn't have to escape each other. So fantastically smitten, we could spend infinite amounts of time together.
Ever since that apartments, our living spaces have been larger with each move and eventually we purchased our own home. This milestone gave us freedom from landlords. Which I thought would be a relief, but quickly realized the opposite. We have nobody to call to fix the sink, or worse, when we have septic troubles. Being your own landlord is a lot of responsibility. It makes me miss our tiny, hallway apartment.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Theme Week 2
1620, Provincetown, Massachusetts. Aboard the Mayflower, the first child was born into the new world. His name was Peregrine White. Who know that after centuries, one branch of the 'White' name would end with me. Of course the genes are still the same. I will still be passing my, and Peregrine's characteristics on, but they will now be labeled Douglass.
It makes me wonder how long it will take for the 'White' name to dissipate completely.
Thinking about my ancestors historical significance, I try to recall important happenings during my existence. Where I was when they occurred? I suppose some great things have happened during my 23 years of existence, but none of them compare to Peregrine's.
When Bill Clinton was elected, my kindergarten class did a mock election. I don't remember who I voted for. Then he was impeached. I didn't know what that meant.
The ice storm of '98 stole electricity from an unprecedented number of homes, including mine. My siblings were devastated that they could not watch TV or play on our new 'cutting edge' personal computer. I pretended I was living in the colonial days and wrote in my journal by candlelight.
Then came the turn of the century. My family and I hiked to the top of a near-by mountain. Our intentions were to witness the moment that Y2K wiped out power to surrounding towns. It never happened.
September 11th, 2001 I was sitting in my 7th grade social studies class when our school's Athletic Director came in and said, 'The twin towers have been hit by a plane.' I remember thinking, 'Okay, thanks for sharing'. I didn't even know what the twin towers were. It wasn't until I got home from school and turned on the TV to get my daily MTV fix that I realized the gravity of what had happened.
Many epic moments have happened during my life, but overall, I am just a speck in the long line of Peregrine White descendants. Similar to being just another passing car on the highway, or just another customer at the grocery store.
But I am no speck to the child I helped to learn their colors. I am no speck to the grandmother who commissioned me to sketch her grandson. No, everytime she looks at that sketch, she will think of the artist. Maybe she will even pass it on to the subject and them to their children and so on. Or maybe they will love it so much, they will in turn get sketches of their own children. Perhaps one day a descendant of mine will be bragging about how their related to the great Felicia Douglass. Or maybe they will just discover their relation to Peregrine like I did.
It makes me wonder how long it will take for the 'White' name to dissipate completely.
Thinking about my ancestors historical significance, I try to recall important happenings during my existence. Where I was when they occurred? I suppose some great things have happened during my 23 years of existence, but none of them compare to Peregrine's.
When Bill Clinton was elected, my kindergarten class did a mock election. I don't remember who I voted for. Then he was impeached. I didn't know what that meant.
The ice storm of '98 stole electricity from an unprecedented number of homes, including mine. My siblings were devastated that they could not watch TV or play on our new 'cutting edge' personal computer. I pretended I was living in the colonial days and wrote in my journal by candlelight.
Then came the turn of the century. My family and I hiked to the top of a near-by mountain. Our intentions were to witness the moment that Y2K wiped out power to surrounding towns. It never happened.
September 11th, 2001 I was sitting in my 7th grade social studies class when our school's Athletic Director came in and said, 'The twin towers have been hit by a plane.' I remember thinking, 'Okay, thanks for sharing'. I didn't even know what the twin towers were. It wasn't until I got home from school and turned on the TV to get my daily MTV fix that I realized the gravity of what had happened.
Many epic moments have happened during my life, but overall, I am just a speck in the long line of Peregrine White descendants. Similar to being just another passing car on the highway, or just another customer at the grocery store.
But I am no speck to the child I helped to learn their colors. I am no speck to the grandmother who commissioned me to sketch her grandson. No, everytime she looks at that sketch, she will think of the artist. Maybe she will even pass it on to the subject and them to their children and so on. Or maybe they will love it so much, they will in turn get sketches of their own children. Perhaps one day a descendant of mine will be bragging about how their related to the great Felicia Douglass. Or maybe they will just discover their relation to Peregrine like I did.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Autobiography of the writer as a writer
1st Person
I used to be able to sit down and write for hours. I wonder what happened over the past years that has removed my ability to write so passionately. Or maybe it is not a loss of ability at all, perhaps it is purely opportunity. There is also the matter of having a subject. But that can't be it either, I have plenty of things occurring around me everyday. I know, it is the lack of teenage hormones coursing through my body. Before, every little event was life-changing. I could cry at the drop of a hat (and did), and love was a new astonishing concept that enveloped my every thought. Now, I have to wait a few years in between life-changing events, it takes a lot to get me to cry, and love is a constant. Although this love is ever-changing, I am not slipping in and out of it like when I was young. I'm in it for life. So there it is, I have uncovered the mystery. A little bit of my surroundings, a smidge of priority, and a TON of hormones.
2nd Person
Where has your passion gone? You used to sit and write three pages about what you had for lunch. Writing came naturally and you used it as an expression for every emotion. Now look at you. You can't even write a paragraph about anything unless it's prompted. What has happened to you over the years that has you stripped of creativity? Your life is beautiful and fulfilling, can't you write about that? Do you even have the time to sit down for five minutes? You are the same person, just missing a piece. It must be your age. Yes, you have matured your way out of leisure writing.
3rd Person
She seemed like a typical high school girl. Part of the social scene, dating, good grades. However, she possessed a skill like no other girl her age. She could write. She could write about anything, love, hate, her fantasies, or even just about walking her dog. And it was all beautiful. Her talent came from deep within herself. A sort of chemical balance that made all of her colors more vivid than ever before. But over the years, she lost that harmony and grew older, more mature. She became a wife and a mother. She had a wonderful life, but lost the ability to translate thoughts into words as she once could. The frenzy of emotions had passed and she was left without her talent. Though she missed it, she was not saddened by this fact. She embraced her new self and simply imagined what it would be like to have that mindset once again.
I used to be able to sit down and write for hours. I wonder what happened over the past years that has removed my ability to write so passionately. Or maybe it is not a loss of ability at all, perhaps it is purely opportunity. There is also the matter of having a subject. But that can't be it either, I have plenty of things occurring around me everyday. I know, it is the lack of teenage hormones coursing through my body. Before, every little event was life-changing. I could cry at the drop of a hat (and did), and love was a new astonishing concept that enveloped my every thought. Now, I have to wait a few years in between life-changing events, it takes a lot to get me to cry, and love is a constant. Although this love is ever-changing, I am not slipping in and out of it like when I was young. I'm in it for life. So there it is, I have uncovered the mystery. A little bit of my surroundings, a smidge of priority, and a TON of hormones.
2nd Person
Where has your passion gone? You used to sit and write three pages about what you had for lunch. Writing came naturally and you used it as an expression for every emotion. Now look at you. You can't even write a paragraph about anything unless it's prompted. What has happened to you over the years that has you stripped of creativity? Your life is beautiful and fulfilling, can't you write about that? Do you even have the time to sit down for five minutes? You are the same person, just missing a piece. It must be your age. Yes, you have matured your way out of leisure writing.
3rd Person
She seemed like a typical high school girl. Part of the social scene, dating, good grades. However, she possessed a skill like no other girl her age. She could write. She could write about anything, love, hate, her fantasies, or even just about walking her dog. And it was all beautiful. Her talent came from deep within herself. A sort of chemical balance that made all of her colors more vivid than ever before. But over the years, she lost that harmony and grew older, more mature. She became a wife and a mother. She had a wonderful life, but lost the ability to translate thoughts into words as she once could. The frenzy of emotions had passed and she was left without her talent. Though she missed it, she was not saddened by this fact. She embraced her new self and simply imagined what it would be like to have that mindset once again.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Journal 7
Fatigue has overtaken me and I have never anticipated nap time as much as I do right now. Last night was a battle between a three month old infant and myself. The infant won. I would be on the verge of sleep, caught between reality and the dream world, when BAM a prosecuting cry of hunger chose reality for me. A puppet version of myself would first tend to the needs of my pint-sized puppeteer, then attempt to sleep once more. Then the list from yesterday makes it's appearance. You know, the Everest-sized one. And suddenly the dishes are holding the strings.
Journal 6
Sitting at the table, surveying the disaster zone that once was my home, completely sucks the ambition out of me. That is why vacation is so fantastic, you don't have to trouble yourself with minute everyday tasks. Then you arrive at home and a week's worth of burden is staring you in the face. Separately, these chores would seem much more insignificant. Unfortunately, I cannot get the big picture out of my head. Everything piles on and soon I have a list the size of Everest. It looks like 'make coffee' is the next thing to add.
Journal 5
I watch my sister pull out of the driveway and speed off. She still drives too fast. I thought as you age and mature, so does your driving. Maybe it's due to her new Mini and the ridiculously fast speed limits on the Audubon. She says she 'still drives fast, but not as stupid' I think the two are the same. Maybe it is only me that has changed. I sometimes find myself (with my 'baby on board' sticker) going the speed limit on the interstate and thinking, past Felicia would be passing me and shouting obscenities right now.
She stayed for almost three weeks this visit, which is an improvement, but the visits are getting few and far in between. It had been a whole year since I saw her last. Too long. When she lived in the states, I saw her everyday. She was my best friend. It hurts to write the word 'was' and know it is not an error.
She stayed for almost three weeks this visit, which is an improvement, but the visits are getting few and far in between. It had been a whole year since I saw her last. Too long. When she lived in the states, I saw her everyday. She was my best friend. It hurts to write the word 'was' and know it is not an error.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Journal 4
Of all places to read about a friend passing away, I find out on Facebook. My mind instantly converts to age 17. During that year I lost three of my close friends. I am assaulted by my own grief and feel as if again, I am that other person I once became. A Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde effect. It took an eternity to overcome the pain caused by their deaths and here it is again, punching me in the face. My body shuts down as I imagine the scene over and again. Interchanging flashes of car crashes, funerals and obituaries speed through my mind, which has now eclipsed all other functions, including the ability to hold back tears. My husband enters the room and speaks but I can't understand a word he is saying. I can't even look away from the computer screen. I frantically search for words to describe what has happened, but am at a loss. I silently scroll up on the screen to a headline, 'Orland Man Killed...' I can't make it passed these three words. Man? I can't imagine him as a man. Isn't he still that kid that was a grade below me? I file through my images of him and realize the last time I saw him was over two years ago. Now that I really wrap my head around it, I suppose he was a man, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. I tear my eyes away from the screen for a split second and see the look on my husbands face. He is really concerned now, but I still can't force anything out of my mouth. I point to the headline, he takes a moment to read it, then starts with the questions. I am almost offended. Doesn't he know that I am paralyzed with heartache? Can't he understand that I am not myself and the person I have become does not have time for his petty questions? I have become bigger than anything he could possibly bring to the table right now. So he sits down next to me, but I still can't even look at him. Then he hugs me. At first I am adverse to this gesture of comfort, but soon I accept it and melt into his arms. His embrace is like the antidote. It jump starts my body and I am no longer impaired. It baffles me that a mere touch can be as life-changing. It's as though he has lifted this monumental weight off of my chest and I can breathe again. My thoughts are still of this tragedy, but I can now make sense of it. I am back in reality and begin to answer his questions.
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