Laugh
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
The Legacy
Turns out Mom was right. Again. Even from the corner of heaven where children don't talk back. C'mon over to Huffington Post and help me figure out what to do about this legacy. (I'm not going to attempt the Atkins diet, but a gold bar wouldn't hurt.)
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Fascinating Facts
While taking a summer break from blogging, I picked up a few new followers, which tells me something, although I'd rather not think about it. Instead, I'll credit the talent of Lisa Allen for giving folks a tidbit or two to tune in for. Thanks Lisa!
In retribution, I mean thanks, to the new folks, I decided to force you to, er TREAT you to, some tidbits about moi. (As Miss Piggy, no relation, would say.) I decided to call them "Fascinating Facts" because "Facts That Put Us To Sleep" just doesn't have that mysterious quality that draws in new readers. So set your alarm and read on.
Fascinating facts:
1. I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln. My kids think we’re twins. (Abe and Amy. It fits, right?) I told them our mother could only tell us apart because Abe parts his hat on the opposite side from me. And wears his beard is shorter.
2. I’m not good with crafts. My niece gave me a glue gun for Christmas and I glued the bag closed before I could get the gun out. Now I’m required by law to keep the ammunition in a separate location.
4. I like to drive red cars. It’s a mother of two’s way of telling the world there’s more to me than apple juice and gym socks.
5. I like to wear blue jeans everywhere. It’s the white trash version of The Little Black Dress. Reeboks are my pumps. I have a matching wrap. It’s made by Levi Strauss.
6. If my mother weren’t already gone, she would dig her own grave with a grapefruit spoon if she heard me say white trash.
7. I drink Mountain Dew for the taste. That’s like saying I read Playboy for the articles. It’s really all about the rush.
8. I wish I could play the piano. I’d like to hit the ivories at high speed with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and leave steam rising from the keys once before I die.
9. I was inside a church that caught on fire. No one was hurt, but to this day, I can’t roast marshmallows without singing Nearer My God to Thee.
10. My kids think they know everything because they can program the TV, the computer, and the cell phone. But they don’t know that I named the dog the primary beneficiary on my life insurance policy or that he’s in charge of their trust fund.
11. My husband, the Captain of our Love Boat, secretly thinks that I’m bossy, that I like to do everything my own way, and that I’m adverse to change. I think adverse means the opposite of reverse and is one of the gifts and graces mentioned in the Bible.
12. I’ve been married twice. So far.
In retribution, I mean thanks, to the new folks, I decided to force you to, er TREAT you to, some tidbits about moi. (As Miss Piggy, no relation, would say.) I decided to call them "Fascinating Facts" because "Facts That Put Us To Sleep" just doesn't have that mysterious quality that draws in new readers. So set your alarm and read on.
Fascinating facts:
1. I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln. My kids think we’re twins. (Abe and Amy. It fits, right?) I told them our mother could only tell us apart because Abe parts his hat on the opposite side from me. And wears his beard is shorter.
2. I’m not good with crafts. My niece gave me a glue gun for Christmas and I glued the bag closed before I could get the gun out. Now I’m required by law to keep the ammunition in a separate location.
4. I like to drive red cars. It’s a mother of two’s way of telling the world there’s more to me than apple juice and gym socks.
5. I like to wear blue jeans everywhere. It’s the white trash version of The Little Black Dress. Reeboks are my pumps. I have a matching wrap. It’s made by Levi Strauss.
6. If my mother weren’t already gone, she would dig her own grave with a grapefruit spoon if she heard me say white trash.
7. I drink Mountain Dew for the taste. That’s like saying I read Playboy for the articles. It’s really all about the rush.
8. I wish I could play the piano. I’d like to hit the ivories at high speed with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and leave steam rising from the keys once before I die.
9. I was inside a church that caught on fire. No one was hurt, but to this day, I can’t roast marshmallows without singing Nearer My God to Thee.
10. My kids think they know everything because they can program the TV, the computer, and the cell phone. But they don’t know that I named the dog the primary beneficiary on my life insurance policy or that he’s in charge of their trust fund.
11. My husband, the Captain of our Love Boat, secretly thinks that I’m bossy, that I like to do everything my own way, and that I’m adverse to change. I think adverse means the opposite of reverse and is one of the gifts and graces mentioned in the Bible.
12. I’ve been married twice. So far.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
The Legacy
Happy Mother's Day to my mom who is busy weeding Heaven's vegetable garden. Time hasn't helped much. I still miss you, Mom.
As far as legacies go, my tastes lie with something simple, like a check. Or stock. Or heirloom china. Unfortunately Mama wasn’t the heirloom china type. What I got when she departed for the peaceful place where mothers don’t have to cook, clean, or say, “If I told you once, I told you a million times,” was not the inheritance I assumed was my birthright. What she left me was the very thing I was the least qualified to handle. Wisdom.
Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.
Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.
1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.
2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.
3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.
4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.
5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.
6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.
7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.
8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.
9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.
10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.
11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.
But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.
As far as legacies go, my tastes lie with something simple, like a check. Or stock. Or heirloom china. Unfortunately Mama wasn’t the heirloom china type. What I got when she departed for the peaceful place where mothers don’t have to cook, clean, or say, “If I told you once, I told you a million times,” was not the inheritance I assumed was my birthright. What she left me was the very thing I was the least qualified to handle. Wisdom.
Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.
Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.
1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.
2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.
3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.
4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.
5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.
6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.
7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.
8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.
9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.
10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.
11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.
But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.
Monday, October 4, 2010
My Evil Twin is Mother Earth
As a woman who can no longer figure her age without the aid of a scientific calculator, a sheaf of graph paper, and a Number Two pencil, I completely understand the concept of global warming. I've barely hurdled the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is actually forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the little room down the hall where I'll trip over the cat and flush my library book.
I don’t mind the aging process. The popping of my joints lends a lively reggae beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself.
She lost her place and had to start over.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the little room down the hall where I'll trip over the cat and flush my library book.
I don’t mind the aging process. The popping of my joints lends a lively reggae beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself.
She lost her place and had to start over.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Broom Beneath My Wings
Night was a memory, but shadows still lurked in the corners of the kitchen. Silence blanketed the house like, well, a blanket. I blinked in the direction of the newspaper and aimed a watery imitation of coffee toward my mouth.
Through the brain haze, I pondered the best way to use the name Justin Bieber in a blog post to insure maximum search engine potential. Two months ago, nobody had ever heard of this kid. Yesterday my newborn niece was born sporting an “I Love Justin Bieber” tattoo right on her binkie.
Son Two appeared at my side like a spirit. “So, what are your plans for the moth in the bathroom?”
He and I share a common bond. We may disagree on nonessentials like the frequency of bathing or the advantages of using a fork to eat, but when it comes to the inalienable need for a homeland security system to warn against rogue insects, we’ve got our priorities right in line.
I’m fairly certain that in a bid to secure the benefits of a hefty life insurance policy, my husband left the assassin moth behind in the shower this morning. It’s a clever ploy, but my warning system is far ahead of him. Daylight was still a stranger and I was not yet awake enough to know that I had eyes, but my internal sensors had already informed me there was a moth in the bathroom.
I rolled the sports section and nudged Son Two toward the door. “I thought you’d take care of it.”
Right. He’d decorate his first car with pompom fringe and rooftop reindeer before he’d take on an insect assassin with wings of death.
“I’m not going in there. The thing has fangs dripping blood.”
This kid is 19. If he ever marries, I hope it’s to entomologist with a proven catch and release program, or a ninja warrior woman wielding a No Pest Strip in each hand like nunchuks.
Besides, I knew his story was true. Blood-drenched fangs are a natural accessory of rogue moths. It also had the wingspan of a dragon and clutched the wall with spiked talons. Nature’s death machine. And it was probably hungry.
“Well, we could get the broom, wave it around, and see if he’ll fly.”
Son Two looked at me as if I’d suggested we don pink-tasseled thongs and volunteer to lead the cheers at the next Republican rally. To him it was more vampire bat than harmless visitor. “There’s no other door. Where do you think he’s going to fly?”
“The only other choice is to wake up your brother.”
Son One, Rip Van Winkle, hit the snooze button back at the half century mark and still has a five decade siesta to take care of before his eyelids see action. Waking him up before he’s ready is like summoning the Kraken. He rises from the depths, consumes all the groceries, and then resubmerges until suppertime.
Clutching the door frame, Son Two peered around at me. “You go first.”
Who says a child will do anything for a mother that loves him? Well I’m not excited about going all Harry Potter for him, either.
“Okay, give me the broom.”
He hands me the weapon and I embark as stealthily as Rambo on my version of Psycho II: Moth Balls R Us.
As I approached the creature, I realized two things. My son is slamming the bathroom door repeatedly on the heel of my shoe in an attempt to trap me with the monster. Also, if I lose control of bladder functions in the heat of battle, I’ll likely lose the element of surprise, slip through the puddle, and slide into the litterbox like it was home plate.
With one arm in the air like a seasoned fencer, I brandished my broom in the direction of the Moth Monster. “Hello, My name is Inigo. . .” Just then the moth took flight, circling the light fixture and landing on the handle of my broom.
I'm pretty sure it will be easier to remodel the bathroom than just repair the damage. The litter box looks like a strainer and there are spots on the tile that no longer match the rest of the decor.
I decided to name the moth Justin Bieber. It appeared overnight and was kind of cute, but all it did was flutter a little and create pandemonium everywhere it went.
Through the brain haze, I pondered the best way to use the name Justin Bieber in a blog post to insure maximum search engine potential. Two months ago, nobody had ever heard of this kid. Yesterday my newborn niece was born sporting an “I Love Justin Bieber” tattoo right on her binkie.
Son Two appeared at my side like a spirit. “So, what are your plans for the moth in the bathroom?”
He and I share a common bond. We may disagree on nonessentials like the frequency of bathing or the advantages of using a fork to eat, but when it comes to the inalienable need for a homeland security system to warn against rogue insects, we’ve got our priorities right in line.
I’m fairly certain that in a bid to secure the benefits of a hefty life insurance policy, my husband left the assassin moth behind in the shower this morning. It’s a clever ploy, but my warning system is far ahead of him. Daylight was still a stranger and I was not yet awake enough to know that I had eyes, but my internal sensors had already informed me there was a moth in the bathroom.
I rolled the sports section and nudged Son Two toward the door. “I thought you’d take care of it.”
Right. He’d decorate his first car with pompom fringe and rooftop reindeer before he’d take on an insect assassin with wings of death.
“I’m not going in there. The thing has fangs dripping blood.”
This kid is 19. If he ever marries, I hope it’s to entomologist with a proven catch and release program, or a ninja warrior woman wielding a No Pest Strip in each hand like nunchuks.
Besides, I knew his story was true. Blood-drenched fangs are a natural accessory of rogue moths. It also had the wingspan of a dragon and clutched the wall with spiked talons. Nature’s death machine. And it was probably hungry.
“Well, we could get the broom, wave it around, and see if he’ll fly.”
Son Two looked at me as if I’d suggested we don pink-tasseled thongs and volunteer to lead the cheers at the next Republican rally. To him it was more vampire bat than harmless visitor. “There’s no other door. Where do you think he’s going to fly?”
“The only other choice is to wake up your brother.”
Son One, Rip Van Winkle, hit the snooze button back at the half century mark and still has a five decade siesta to take care of before his eyelids see action. Waking him up before he’s ready is like summoning the Kraken. He rises from the depths, consumes all the groceries, and then resubmerges until suppertime.
Clutching the door frame, Son Two peered around at me. “You go first.”
Who says a child will do anything for a mother that loves him? Well I’m not excited about going all Harry Potter for him, either.
“Okay, give me the broom.”
He hands me the weapon and I embark as stealthily as Rambo on my version of Psycho II: Moth Balls R Us.
As I approached the creature, I realized two things. My son is slamming the bathroom door repeatedly on the heel of my shoe in an attempt to trap me with the monster. Also, if I lose control of bladder functions in the heat of battle, I’ll likely lose the element of surprise, slip through the puddle, and slide into the litterbox like it was home plate.
With one arm in the air like a seasoned fencer, I brandished my broom in the direction of the Moth Monster. “Hello, My name is Inigo. . .” Just then the moth took flight, circling the light fixture and landing on the handle of my broom.
I'm pretty sure it will be easier to remodel the bathroom than just repair the damage. The litter box looks like a strainer and there are spots on the tile that no longer match the rest of the decor.
I decided to name the moth Justin Bieber. It appeared overnight and was kind of cute, but all it did was flutter a little and create pandemonium everywhere it went.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Have Gun Will Ravel
I make up for my lack of gardening skills with an amazing ability to annihilate craft projects. You would think the Author of the Universe in his unbounded wisdom would have given me the glue gun talents of a sharpshooter. This is not the case.
One sister tried to teach me to crochet. She said she never saw anybody crochet backwards.
My other sister tried to help me make a banner for Son One’s soccer team. I sewed the thing to the leg of my pants. Gold craft felt stitched into the inseam of extra-large stretchy pants in a series of festive darts and puckers is not a desirable fashion statement.
When I was in high school, my mother took pity on me (GOOD LORD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!) and finished my home economics project. Who would have thought zippers would be so hard to install? I had more trouble than a presidential candidate trying to get the thing to stay closed.
My niece has a businesses creating hand-painted jewelry that people pay actual money for. I painted the South Carolina crescent and palmetto tree on a pendant. It looked like a banana bush.
My relatives began to meet secretly to have crafting parties. I happened to visit one Friday evening, and at my knock heard muffled voices and the sound of heavy furniture being shoved in front of the door.
“Hello?!”
The blinds shifted slightly. Whispering followed.
“I know you’re in there!”
The door opened a crack. “We can’t come out. We’re quarantined.”
“I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”
“Could you leave a pizza by the door?”
“What sort of disease do you have that you’re quarantined but want pizza?”
Silence. Then, “Acrophobia?”
“You’re in quarantine because you’re afraid of heights?”
“Leave the pizza down low.”
“You people are making crafts in there, aren’t you? Let me in or I’m coming back armed with tacky glue and pinking shears!”
Furtive dialing.
“And no calling 9-1-1!”
I went around to the back door, entered through the kitchen and came up behind a group of my closest friends and relatives wielding cotton balls and tiny paintbrushes like they were heavy artillery.
“Can I at least water your plants?”
A mad scramble ensued leading to a tangle of arms, legs, and cotton balls. It looked like an Easter Bunny gangland rumble. A glitter haze filled the air and a paintbrush stuck through my sister's pony tail like a hairpin.
The good news is that the plants are going to be fine. But the crafting group cemented themselves into a freeform sculpture. They’ll be okay once we find an antidote for Gorilla Glue.
Meanwhile I’ve taken up scrapbooking. Has anybody got a nail gun I can borrow?
One sister tried to teach me to crochet. She said she never saw anybody crochet backwards.
My other sister tried to help me make a banner for Son One’s soccer team. I sewed the thing to the leg of my pants. Gold craft felt stitched into the inseam of extra-large stretchy pants in a series of festive darts and puckers is not a desirable fashion statement.
When I was in high school, my mother took pity on me (GOOD LORD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!) and finished my home economics project. Who would have thought zippers would be so hard to install? I had more trouble than a presidential candidate trying to get the thing to stay closed.
My niece has a businesses creating hand-painted jewelry that people pay actual money for. I painted the South Carolina crescent and palmetto tree on a pendant. It looked like a banana bush.
My relatives began to meet secretly to have crafting parties. I happened to visit one Friday evening, and at my knock heard muffled voices and the sound of heavy furniture being shoved in front of the door.
“Hello?!”
The blinds shifted slightly. Whispering followed.
“I know you’re in there!”
The door opened a crack. “We can’t come out. We’re quarantined.”
“I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”
“Could you leave a pizza by the door?”
“What sort of disease do you have that you’re quarantined but want pizza?”
Silence. Then, “Acrophobia?”
“You’re in quarantine because you’re afraid of heights?”
“Leave the pizza down low.”
“You people are making crafts in there, aren’t you? Let me in or I’m coming back armed with tacky glue and pinking shears!”
Furtive dialing.
“And no calling 9-1-1!”
I went around to the back door, entered through the kitchen and came up behind a group of my closest friends and relatives wielding cotton balls and tiny paintbrushes like they were heavy artillery.
“Can I at least water your plants?”
A mad scramble ensued leading to a tangle of arms, legs, and cotton balls. It looked like an Easter Bunny gangland rumble. A glitter haze filled the air and a paintbrush stuck through my sister's pony tail like a hairpin.
The good news is that the plants are going to be fine. But the crafting group cemented themselves into a freeform sculpture. They’ll be okay once we find an antidote for Gorilla Glue.
Meanwhile I’ve taken up scrapbooking. Has anybody got a nail gun I can borrow?
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
A-Mused
A Valentine’s Poem for my Muse
Lead me not to rhyme that’s tired,
Hackneyed, clichéd, uninspired.
Writing poems is for the wise,
Thoughtful pen and depth of eyes
Don’t let my pen leak violets blue
Or illustrate with I HEART you
Send me images as fresh
As fruit in stalls at Marakesh
Hair like moonbeams, skin like silk
Odious scenes of mother’s milk
Won’t tweak the senses, light the eyes
Or make the breaths turn into sighs
Important now that Cupid’s near
So his bow shoots heart, not rear
I’ll write now or pass my bonnet
And turn my Lim’rick into sonnet.
Lead me not to rhyme that’s tired,
Hackneyed, clichéd, uninspired.
Writing poems is for the wise,
Thoughtful pen and depth of eyes
Don’t let my pen leak violets blue
Or illustrate with I HEART you
Send me images as fresh
As fruit in stalls at Marakesh
Hair like moonbeams, skin like silk
Odious scenes of mother’s milk
Won’t tweak the senses, light the eyes
Or make the breaths turn into sighs
Important now that Cupid’s near
So his bow shoots heart, not rear
I’ll write now or pass my bonnet
And turn my Lim’rick into sonnet.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Polar Caps to Cold Feet
As a woman who can no longer figure her age without the aid of a scientific calculator, a sheaf of graph paper, and a Number Two pencil, I completely understand the concept of global warming.
I've just hit the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from her fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom.
It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t really mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself.
She lost her place and had to start over.
I've just hit the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from her fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom.
It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t really mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself.
She lost her place and had to start over.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Feed a Fever, Starve a Wallet
According to my experience, the only things children share without being threatened are asparagus, blame for painting the refrigerator, and the chicken pox.
I think my kids plan their sick days at the beginning of the school year according to when major projects and compositions are due or when there is a day I’ll have a schedule that’s tight enough to be shrink wrapped. On awards day, they tally up their doctor visits and the one who has the most sick days gets to hang on the refrigerator door and ask what’s for supper every ten seconds until I get that thumpy vein in my neck and we all go out for pizza.
My kids are so adept at trips to the doctor, the Olympic committee is considering accepting flu-spreading as a winter sport. Their record is six office visits in a week, but that takes conditioning and discipline, so they can’t do it every time. Besides, my two boys aim for less conventional fare than mere strains of bacteria can provide. The Adventure of the Invisible Glass Sliver and the Mistaken X-Ray comes to mind. When that doctor finally fished the dainty dagger of glass out of the swollen, bloody foot (no I can’t make him wear shoes in the house, not for all the Frosted Flakes in Battle Creek), the best part was being able to say “I Told You So” to a man whose car costs more than the yearly junk food bill for my teenagers. Twelve months of Twinkies and Yoo Hoos can add up.
I know a mother with three young daughters who runs a regular route to the doctor every Friday at closing time. She figures if nobody’s sick at that particular moment, strep throat will set in just as the clock strikes five and the doctor loads his briefcase full of communicable diseases into the Lexus sports car for the trip home. This same Mom qualified for the Employee of the Month parking spot at the doctor’s office and is in line for a punch card that will give her a free visit after ten minor emergencies. With her record, she’ll be cashing in a full ticket before grocery day rolls around. She’s wondering if she will qualify for a retirement package once her kids are grown.
And why can’t a family of children all come down with the flu or a nice case of mumps at the same time? Instead, they carefully plan a timeline of late nights and weekends at least two days apart. It’s not that they’re not all sick at the same time. At any given point during the winter months at least 50% of the kids in my carpool (with an incidence rate that escalates to 85% the day before a science project is due) are suffering from various forms of diseases that gives them an intestinal discrepancy, runny nose, and makes them sneeze on the baby.
But they don’t start out that way. By prearranged plan, they space out the onset of their illnesses over two day increments, thereby increasing the trips to the doctor and the chance to see Mommy make the “co-payment” face. I’m convinced the children have a betting pool with all wagered candy bars going to the kid that gets the best noises out of Mommy when they wander into the kitchen, teddy bear in tow, and announce forlornly “My tummy hurts.” They probably get bonus points if Mommy’s face changes color, she makes audible strangled retching sounds, or Daddy has to administer cold packs and CPR.
Now that it’s fall and sinus infections are just around the speed dial, Saturday mornings will inevitably find me with a thermometer in someone’s ear, dialing the doctor’s office during weekend emergency hours while checking furtively for swollen lymph nodes. Faster than you can say “Refinance the mortgage” his neck swells up like a jumbo marshmallow over an open flame, and the lining of his throat boasts enough spots for a dice game.
But I’m not a new face in the fever fighting lineup. I know that with time, tender care, and terrific insurance we’ll all make it through the flu season.
Just in time to start treating spring allergies.
These cold & flu germs first found a home in the Sept./Oct. issue of The Wham Magazine.
I think my kids plan their sick days at the beginning of the school year according to when major projects and compositions are due or when there is a day I’ll have a schedule that’s tight enough to be shrink wrapped. On awards day, they tally up their doctor visits and the one who has the most sick days gets to hang on the refrigerator door and ask what’s for supper every ten seconds until I get that thumpy vein in my neck and we all go out for pizza.
My kids are so adept at trips to the doctor, the Olympic committee is considering accepting flu-spreading as a winter sport. Their record is six office visits in a week, but that takes conditioning and discipline, so they can’t do it every time. Besides, my two boys aim for less conventional fare than mere strains of bacteria can provide. The Adventure of the Invisible Glass Sliver and the Mistaken X-Ray comes to mind. When that doctor finally fished the dainty dagger of glass out of the swollen, bloody foot (no I can’t make him wear shoes in the house, not for all the Frosted Flakes in Battle Creek), the best part was being able to say “I Told You So” to a man whose car costs more than the yearly junk food bill for my teenagers. Twelve months of Twinkies and Yoo Hoos can add up.
I know a mother with three young daughters who runs a regular route to the doctor every Friday at closing time. She figures if nobody’s sick at that particular moment, strep throat will set in just as the clock strikes five and the doctor loads his briefcase full of communicable diseases into the Lexus sports car for the trip home. This same Mom qualified for the Employee of the Month parking spot at the doctor’s office and is in line for a punch card that will give her a free visit after ten minor emergencies. With her record, she’ll be cashing in a full ticket before grocery day rolls around. She’s wondering if she will qualify for a retirement package once her kids are grown.
And why can’t a family of children all come down with the flu or a nice case of mumps at the same time? Instead, they carefully plan a timeline of late nights and weekends at least two days apart. It’s not that they’re not all sick at the same time. At any given point during the winter months at least 50% of the kids in my carpool (with an incidence rate that escalates to 85% the day before a science project is due) are suffering from various forms of diseases that gives them an intestinal discrepancy, runny nose, and makes them sneeze on the baby.
But they don’t start out that way. By prearranged plan, they space out the onset of their illnesses over two day increments, thereby increasing the trips to the doctor and the chance to see Mommy make the “co-payment” face. I’m convinced the children have a betting pool with all wagered candy bars going to the kid that gets the best noises out of Mommy when they wander into the kitchen, teddy bear in tow, and announce forlornly “My tummy hurts.” They probably get bonus points if Mommy’s face changes color, she makes audible strangled retching sounds, or Daddy has to administer cold packs and CPR.
Now that it’s fall and sinus infections are just around the speed dial, Saturday mornings will inevitably find me with a thermometer in someone’s ear, dialing the doctor’s office during weekend emergency hours while checking furtively for swollen lymph nodes. Faster than you can say “Refinance the mortgage” his neck swells up like a jumbo marshmallow over an open flame, and the lining of his throat boasts enough spots for a dice game.
But I’m not a new face in the fever fighting lineup. I know that with time, tender care, and terrific insurance we’ll all make it through the flu season.
Just in time to start treating spring allergies.
These cold & flu germs first found a home in the Sept./Oct. issue of The Wham Magazine.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Plum Crazy
I recently attempted to purchase two plums at a local grocery store. It would have been easier to get elected head of the Happy Hollow chapter of Hell’s Angels than it was to buy those two plums.
“What’s this?” The cashier, who is approximately the same age as my knee replacement, held up a plastic baggie that contained two small purplish globes. The look on her face asked the obvious question. “Where did the crazy woman get the body parts and how do I alert store security without having to deal with bloodstains on my scanner?”
I remember when it took all their concentration to ask “paper or plastic?”
The trouble with parents today is that they don’t let kids peel potatoes. Back in the good old days, kids spent quality time in the kitchen, slicing and dicing and cleaning out the gunk in the drain. Kids today are too busy taking Advanced Placement classes and computing their GPR to do chores. That’s why none of them can tell the difference between a kumquat and a kiwi so that they can hold down a decent job at the Piggly Wiggly. Sure the modern kid can program a cell phone to intercept messages of national security from spy satellites, but when it comes to real life his grocery cart has a loose wheel.
“They’re fruit!” I shouted in the tone of voice I usually reserve for children who are engaged in enthusiastic games of lawn darts in populated areas.
The cashier looked at me as if contemplating a dress code change to include full body armor, and held up my helpless plums beside a picture of an eggplant in her secret cashier code book.
“Are they like apples?” she asked leafing through the pages.
“Yeah, the same way Richard Simmons is like Robert Redford.”
“Who?”
“He looks a lot like Brad Pitt.”
“Oh, that old guy from the movies.”
“Yes. Robert Redford.”
“Not him. I meant Brad Pitt.”
“Look, I’m not trying to give you brain freeze. I just want to buy plums.”
She flipped the “assistance needed” light over her cash register. This simple flashing light initiated immediate changes in shopper-to-shopper interface. A mother of two behind me ceased counting the piggies on the dimpled bundle in her buggy and fixed me with an evil eye. Her older daughter, a charming toddler dressed in pink, gave up begging for gummy bears and launched a barrage of peanut M&M’s at my shoe. Behind the Partridge turned Munster family, a balding man in Bermuda shorts dialed 911 on his cell phone and a Goth-style teenager drew a tear in her white makeup with a spiky black fingernail.
As the light pulsed on and off, a tense stillness settled over the surrounding area. In the sudden lull, the cashier’s voice came loud and clear over the microphone. “FRUIT AT REGISTER SIX!”
I can understand the feelings of the people waiting in line, but it was downright rude of them to shout AMEN!
“What’s this?” The cashier, who is approximately the same age as my knee replacement, held up a plastic baggie that contained two small purplish globes. The look on her face asked the obvious question. “Where did the crazy woman get the body parts and how do I alert store security without having to deal with bloodstains on my scanner?”
I remember when it took all their concentration to ask “paper or plastic?”
The trouble with parents today is that they don’t let kids peel potatoes. Back in the good old days, kids spent quality time in the kitchen, slicing and dicing and cleaning out the gunk in the drain. Kids today are too busy taking Advanced Placement classes and computing their GPR to do chores. That’s why none of them can tell the difference between a kumquat and a kiwi so that they can hold down a decent job at the Piggly Wiggly. Sure the modern kid can program a cell phone to intercept messages of national security from spy satellites, but when it comes to real life his grocery cart has a loose wheel.
“They’re fruit!” I shouted in the tone of voice I usually reserve for children who are engaged in enthusiastic games of lawn darts in populated areas.
The cashier looked at me as if contemplating a dress code change to include full body armor, and held up my helpless plums beside a picture of an eggplant in her secret cashier code book.
“Are they like apples?” she asked leafing through the pages.
“Yeah, the same way Richard Simmons is like Robert Redford.”
“Who?”
“He looks a lot like Brad Pitt.”
“Oh, that old guy from the movies.”
“Yes. Robert Redford.”
“Not him. I meant Brad Pitt.”
“Look, I’m not trying to give you brain freeze. I just want to buy plums.”
She flipped the “assistance needed” light over her cash register. This simple flashing light initiated immediate changes in shopper-to-shopper interface. A mother of two behind me ceased counting the piggies on the dimpled bundle in her buggy and fixed me with an evil eye. Her older daughter, a charming toddler dressed in pink, gave up begging for gummy bears and launched a barrage of peanut M&M’s at my shoe. Behind the Partridge turned Munster family, a balding man in Bermuda shorts dialed 911 on his cell phone and a Goth-style teenager drew a tear in her white makeup with a spiky black fingernail.
As the light pulsed on and off, a tense stillness settled over the surrounding area. In the sudden lull, the cashier’s voice came loud and clear over the microphone. “FRUIT AT REGISTER SIX!”
I can understand the feelings of the people waiting in line, but it was downright rude of them to shout AMEN!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
From Polar Caps to Cold Feet
As a woman who can no longer figure her age without the aid of a scientific calculator, a sheaf of graph paper, and a Number Two pencil, I completely understand the concept of global warming. I haven’t even hit the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from her fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom. It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself. She lost her place and had to start over.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom. It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself. She lost her place and had to start over.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Roast Rage
Contrary to the biased opinion of teenaged boys in the 17-19 age bracket who crash into my kitchen at an hour past minute rice, shedding sweaty soccer gear, band instruments, and rented video games, My name is not What’s For Supper. Likewise, I am not the seating hostess at Denny’s, nor am I the Sample Girl at the food court.
Now I understand my mother better. She used to stare longingly out the window while mashing potatoes and mutter, “If the world were to end today, I would have to serve biscuits to the four horsemen of the Apocalypse before I could go to glory.” I thought she was batty. Really it was roast rage.
Pondering the matter while I munched on the crunchy brown parts of the chicken crust last night, I decided that there are some actions that could tend to make me snippy in the kitchen. So I have thoughtfully prepared a menu of activities for potential combatants to avoid when I’m engaged in actual food preparation. Break one of these rules and I can’t guarantee what will happen with the potato masher.
* Don’t kiss me when I’m making gravy. Gravy is a narcissistic beast and fully capable of expressing jealousy in the form of oddly shaped lumps and unappealing consistency. (This one is directed more toward the head of household who is filled with joy and the love of life whenever he smells food in the final stages of preparation. I don’t see much of a problem where the teenaged boys are concerned.)
* Don’t tell me the potatoes have lumps, but you like them that way. The potatoes won’t be the only thing that’s served up with a few extra bumps that evening.
* If your main objective is to stand in front of the stove and steal samples from the chicken plate, don’t offer to help me in the kitchen. If you want to be of assistance, save me the trouble and stick your bottom lip in the cheese grater.
* Anyone apprehended peeking into pots boiling merrily away on the stovetop and making the same sound I make when I step in something gooshy will come away with a better understanding of the term "cauliflower ear. "
* Sampling the meatloaf and saying, “You know what would make this good?” is grounds for assault with a meat mallet.
* Don’t report the fun everyone else is having in the living room, scream for me to come watch the new Geico commercial, or exclaim “Oh, you missed it!” while I’m carefully browning the crescent rolls. Pillsbury didn’t spend all that time packing dough in that little can for me to let it go up in smoke while I’m dashing into the next room to watch a lizard talk.
For those of you who can't remember the rules, feel free to ask questions. I'll be in the kitchen. Sharpening my potato peeler.
Now I understand my mother better. She used to stare longingly out the window while mashing potatoes and mutter, “If the world were to end today, I would have to serve biscuits to the four horsemen of the Apocalypse before I could go to glory.” I thought she was batty. Really it was roast rage.
Pondering the matter while I munched on the crunchy brown parts of the chicken crust last night, I decided that there are some actions that could tend to make me snippy in the kitchen. So I have thoughtfully prepared a menu of activities for potential combatants to avoid when I’m engaged in actual food preparation. Break one of these rules and I can’t guarantee what will happen with the potato masher.
* Don’t kiss me when I’m making gravy. Gravy is a narcissistic beast and fully capable of expressing jealousy in the form of oddly shaped lumps and unappealing consistency. (This one is directed more toward the head of household who is filled with joy and the love of life whenever he smells food in the final stages of preparation. I don’t see much of a problem where the teenaged boys are concerned.)
* Don’t tell me the potatoes have lumps, but you like them that way. The potatoes won’t be the only thing that’s served up with a few extra bumps that evening.
* If your main objective is to stand in front of the stove and steal samples from the chicken plate, don’t offer to help me in the kitchen. If you want to be of assistance, save me the trouble and stick your bottom lip in the cheese grater.
* Anyone apprehended peeking into pots boiling merrily away on the stovetop and making the same sound I make when I step in something gooshy will come away with a better understanding of the term "cauliflower ear. "
* Sampling the meatloaf and saying, “You know what would make this good?” is grounds for assault with a meat mallet.
* Don’t report the fun everyone else is having in the living room, scream for me to come watch the new Geico commercial, or exclaim “Oh, you missed it!” while I’m carefully browning the crescent rolls. Pillsbury didn’t spend all that time packing dough in that little can for me to let it go up in smoke while I’m dashing into the next room to watch a lizard talk.
For those of you who can't remember the rules, feel free to ask questions. I'll be in the kitchen. Sharpening my potato peeler.
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