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
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
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?
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