Zane is my son, my child, my three year old muse. Because he is a child, he can say whatever pops into his head, and it is okay. Sometimes it's pretty funny.
Case in point: On Easter, Zane came down the stairs and saw his Easter basket, full of little presents and chocolate.
"Sayyyyyyyyyyyyyy...the Easter Bunny had a good night!" was my son's response. And yes, he did draw the word 'say' out just like that.
On Wednesday, my husband and Zane were playing 'basketball' in the backyard.
"I love you, Zane," his father tells him.
"I know, Daddy," comes Zane's reply.
Occasionally Zane's statements are a bit strange:
Zane and I are in the bathroom, where he has just finished doing his 'business'.
"Mom, we don't eat poop!"
"Okay son," was all I could choke out. I was caught between horrified and giggling like as if this was a Beavis and Butthead episode.
I just know that he picked that phrase up at daycare.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
You Never Know
NOTE: This week, for Red Writing Hood, we want fightin' words. Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions? Show us. Use emotion. Description. If it's a fist fight, what did it feel like to hit someone - or be hit? This can be fiction or non-fiction. This is a fictionalized account of every fight I've ever been in.
You really never know when you will need to use what you learn. At fifteen, I stood in the middle of a ring of girls and sized up my opponent. The girls surrounding me were egging Tasha on like good little bystanders. Some of them were a bit overzealous in their efforts, and pushed at me. They needn't have bothered; I wasn't going anywhere.
Tasha used to be my friend. At some point during tenth grade, she stopped being my friend. But Tasha wasn't done; she and several of her friends began to follow me around, insulting me, taunting me, threatening to beat me up, etc. Bullying. The three girls would follow me from the bus stop. Sometimes there would be more than three, when the sharks smelled blood in the water. This went on for a couple of months, and I mostly ignored them all. Until the day that someone behind me picked up a rock and threw it at the back of my head. It struck a glancing blow right above my ear, and it hurt. When I put my hand up to my head I felt the sticky wetness that is blood. I was instantly furious, but calm at the same time.
I turned around to face the crowd. I didn't say anything. I put my purse and my books down. Then I took my watch off my wrist and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I also put my rings in my pocket, because when you hit someone with a fist, your fingers sometimes swell.
"What are you doing?" Tasha smirked at me, then looked around at the crowd to make sure all eyes were on her. I tried to keep my face as impassive as possible, although inside I was seething.
"We are going to fight," I said. My statement was met with eagerness by the Peanut Gallery, but Tasha became uncertain.
"What?"
She was a few deputies short of a posse, I decided. I moved closer, invading Tasha's space, and I lowered my voice.
"We are going to fight," I repeated. "We are going to fight, and then you are going to leave me alone, because I am tired of this shit."
Tasha was about to respond to my direct challenge. The noises of the crowd fell away and I was surrounded with silence. My right fist struck her like a snake striking. I really hadn't meant to hit her as hard as I did, but adrenaline and anger put a lot more power behind my punch than expected. I felt the punch in slow motion; the knuckles of my right hand compressing with the impact, telegraphing up my arm to my elbow and then my shoulder as I followed through as I had been taught. I felt, rather than heard, a cracking sound. My brain registered intense pain radiating up my arm.
Blood spurted from Tasha's upper lip where it had split, and spatters of it showered the front of me and several bystanders. My hand was throbbing now, and vaguely I thought that I might have fractured something. The days spent preparing for fights when I was ten and the New Kid yet again had paid off, however. I said a quick mental thank you to the older boy who had taken pity and taught a nerdy girl how to correctly throw a punch.
I was still standing, and Tasha was not. I turned away from her, picked up my stuff, moved through the shocked crowd, and walked the rest of the way home.
You really never know when you will need to use what you learn. At fifteen, I stood in the middle of a ring of girls and sized up my opponent. The girls surrounding me were egging Tasha on like good little bystanders. Some of them were a bit overzealous in their efforts, and pushed at me. They needn't have bothered; I wasn't going anywhere.
Tasha used to be my friend. At some point during tenth grade, she stopped being my friend. But Tasha wasn't done; she and several of her friends began to follow me around, insulting me, taunting me, threatening to beat me up, etc. Bullying. The three girls would follow me from the bus stop. Sometimes there would be more than three, when the sharks smelled blood in the water. This went on for a couple of months, and I mostly ignored them all. Until the day that someone behind me picked up a rock and threw it at the back of my head. It struck a glancing blow right above my ear, and it hurt. When I put my hand up to my head I felt the sticky wetness that is blood. I was instantly furious, but calm at the same time.
I turned around to face the crowd. I didn't say anything. I put my purse and my books down. Then I took my watch off my wrist and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I also put my rings in my pocket, because when you hit someone with a fist, your fingers sometimes swell.
"What are you doing?" Tasha smirked at me, then looked around at the crowd to make sure all eyes were on her. I tried to keep my face as impassive as possible, although inside I was seething.
"We are going to fight," I said. My statement was met with eagerness by the Peanut Gallery, but Tasha became uncertain.
"What?"
She was a few deputies short of a posse, I decided. I moved closer, invading Tasha's space, and I lowered my voice.
"We are going to fight," I repeated. "We are going to fight, and then you are going to leave me alone, because I am tired of this shit."
Tasha was about to respond to my direct challenge. The noises of the crowd fell away and I was surrounded with silence. My right fist struck her like a snake striking. I really hadn't meant to hit her as hard as I did, but adrenaline and anger put a lot more power behind my punch than expected. I felt the punch in slow motion; the knuckles of my right hand compressing with the impact, telegraphing up my arm to my elbow and then my shoulder as I followed through as I had been taught. I felt, rather than heard, a cracking sound. My brain registered intense pain radiating up my arm.
Blood spurted from Tasha's upper lip where it had split, and spatters of it showered the front of me and several bystanders. My hand was throbbing now, and vaguely I thought that I might have fractured something. The days spent preparing for fights when I was ten and the New Kid yet again had paid off, however. I said a quick mental thank you to the older boy who had taken pity and taught a nerdy girl how to correctly throw a punch.
I was still standing, and Tasha was not. I turned away from her, picked up my stuff, moved through the shocked crowd, and walked the rest of the way home.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
X Marks A Spot
X was how some people, those who couldn't write, used to sign their name. The county I live in, Bexar, has an X in the middle of it, reportedly because the man, Bear, would put an X for his name, and someone else would write out the rest of his name for him. I suppose at the time there were quite a few people signing their names with an X and they needed to differentiate on important documents like property deeds and so forth. Turned out that was a smart thing to do, otherwise all those Xs would have come back to haunt the tax assessor.
We all want to make our mark on the world in some way, don't we? When we are young, we have big dreams of doing big things. My 3 year old son has been running all over the house these days, yelling "Tony Parker to the rescue!" as he attempts to throw a basketball into a hoop. (for the uninitiated or uninterested, Tony Parker is the point guard for the San Antonio Spurs.) When he is a little older, I hope to steer him toward more realistic goals, but right now, he can be Tony Parker, all he wants. He can also be Kid Flash, a character from the TV show Young Justice, or Captain America from The Avengers
At that age, I had some big dreams too. The nuns in my EXTREMELY Catholic family told me that I planned to marry Peter Noonan from Herman's Hermit when I was two. I wouldn't think that nuns, especially nuns related to me, would lie about such a thing, so I suppose I must have established the dream of marrying a rock star.
Those first dreams about the world we want seemed to drift further away as I aged, curling into the air like tendrils of smoke, dissipating over time. Plus, my dreams changed with each new thing I learned or read about. When I was reading Trixie Belden and the Hardy Boys, I wanted to be a detective. When I say To Kill A Mockingbird, I wanted to be white trash. (I kid--it was a lawyer.) Hell, I even wanted to be Mr. Tibbs! (if you don't know who Mr. Tibbs is, google In the Heat of the Night )
I wanted to be a contender in the contest of life. Who doesn't want to be on top of the heap at the end of the day? That is how a lot of people 'make their mark', by getting to the top of whatever pile that counts these days. You climb to the top of the pile, you get to be King of the Mountain, you get to write your X. That's it. You're done. You've reached the pinnacle of your dream. That thing that you've lived your entire life to get? It's got.
Now what? Is that the end of the line, or the start of something new? One door shuts, another one opens. Or as a very wise man once told me "Another train comes along every 5 minutes." Just because we want to leave our mark on the world doesn't mean we only get the one opportunity. If we've reached one goal, it's time for a new one. There's not any reason that we have to settle down and coast.
I have a goal of becoming a novelist. Blogging is my way of relearning the writing process. Once I reach my goal, who knows?
We all want to make our mark on the world in some way, don't we? When we are young, we have big dreams of doing big things. My 3 year old son has been running all over the house these days, yelling "Tony Parker to the rescue!" as he attempts to throw a basketball into a hoop. (for the uninitiated or uninterested, Tony Parker is the point guard for the San Antonio Spurs.) When he is a little older, I hope to steer him toward more realistic goals, but right now, he can be Tony Parker, all he wants. He can also be Kid Flash, a character from the TV show Young Justice, or Captain America from The Avengers
At that age, I had some big dreams too. The nuns in my EXTREMELY Catholic family told me that I planned to marry Peter Noonan from Herman's Hermit when I was two. I wouldn't think that nuns, especially nuns related to me, would lie about such a thing, so I suppose I must have established the dream of marrying a rock star.
Those first dreams about the world we want seemed to drift further away as I aged, curling into the air like tendrils of smoke, dissipating over time. Plus, my dreams changed with each new thing I learned or read about. When I was reading Trixie Belden and the Hardy Boys, I wanted to be a detective. When I say To Kill A Mockingbird, I wanted to be white trash. (I kid--it was a lawyer.) Hell, I even wanted to be Mr. Tibbs! (if you don't know who Mr. Tibbs is, google In the Heat of the Night )
I wanted to be a contender in the contest of life. Who doesn't want to be on top of the heap at the end of the day? That is how a lot of people 'make their mark', by getting to the top of whatever pile that counts these days. You climb to the top of the pile, you get to be King of the Mountain, you get to write your X. That's it. You're done. You've reached the pinnacle of your dream. That thing that you've lived your entire life to get? It's got.
Now what? Is that the end of the line, or the start of something new? One door shuts, another one opens. Or as a very wise man once told me "Another train comes along every 5 minutes." Just because we want to leave our mark on the world doesn't mean we only get the one opportunity. If we've reached one goal, it's time for a new one. There's not any reason that we have to settle down and coast.
I have a goal of becoming a novelist. Blogging is my way of relearning the writing process. Once I reach my goal, who knows?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Wonder
Wonder. It means a cause of astonishment or admiration(first usage 12th century), although I prefer the synonym marvel, which means intense surprise or interest(first usage 14th century). Many thanks to Merriam-Webster for those definitions and history lesson.
A long time ago I read a book by Florence Scovel Shinn, and in it I found the phrase "I will look with wonder-----". There was more to the sentence, but that first part caught my attention, and still does give me pause.
How often do we 'look with wonder' at anything these days? We are all of us so bogged down in an avalanche of mundane tasks that we forget to 'look with wonder' at the world around us. Most days we don't even bother to look beyond the end of our noses, and that is a shame. Because there are lots of beautiful things out there, just clamoring for our attention, our wonder. I remember a line from the movie The Color Purple where one woman tells another that "it pisses God off if you walk past a field of purple" flowers and don't notice. I agree with that sentiment.
I've been playing at gardening in my 'spare' time, trying to grow both flowers and veggies. I've planted several things in the ground as well as in pots, and some of those things have started to grow. I noticed this afternoon that a potato plant(a BLUE potato, no less!) is beginning to peek from the dirt of a pot in the front yard. I thought that was marvelous, since I have the worst green thumb on the planet. I tend to kill more plants than I am able to grow, so much so that I was purchasing only cacti, because they are so difficult to kill. And I have even killed those! Yet there was that potato plant. It made me pause and "look with wonder", if only for a moment.
Take a moment and "look with wonder" at something. A child's face, a rose in bloom, the smell of the air after a gentle rainfall, etc. It will improve your mood, if only until you find another mundane task to swallow your attention.
A long time ago I read a book by Florence Scovel Shinn, and in it I found the phrase "I will look with wonder-----". There was more to the sentence, but that first part caught my attention, and still does give me pause.
How often do we 'look with wonder' at anything these days? We are all of us so bogged down in an avalanche of mundane tasks that we forget to 'look with wonder' at the world around us. Most days we don't even bother to look beyond the end of our noses, and that is a shame. Because there are lots of beautiful things out there, just clamoring for our attention, our wonder. I remember a line from the movie The Color Purple where one woman tells another that "it pisses God off if you walk past a field of purple" flowers and don't notice. I agree with that sentiment.
I've been playing at gardening in my 'spare' time, trying to grow both flowers and veggies. I've planted several things in the ground as well as in pots, and some of those things have started to grow. I noticed this afternoon that a potato plant(a BLUE potato, no less!) is beginning to peek from the dirt of a pot in the front yard. I thought that was marvelous, since I have the worst green thumb on the planet. I tend to kill more plants than I am able to grow, so much so that I was purchasing only cacti, because they are so difficult to kill. And I have even killed those! Yet there was that potato plant. It made me pause and "look with wonder", if only for a moment.
Take a moment and "look with wonder" at something. A child's face, a rose in bloom, the smell of the air after a gentle rainfall, etc. It will improve your mood, if only until you find another mundane task to swallow your attention.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Vacation
Vacations are wonderful things, if you can get them. Time away from your world, adventuring or relaxing, is good for the spirit. Refreshes the soul, those vacations, and helps us get through the tough times. Even if you just get a couple of days to laze around in bed and sleep all you need.
When I actually get a vacation.
Mamas don't actually get to have vacations. We are never truly "off" the clock in motherhood. That's just the way it is. If my family and I decide to go somewhere, I am the one who is responsible for getting my son's suitcase packed in addition to my own. Sometimes I also get to pack my husband's suitcase as well. We probably wouldn't be going on the trip if I hadn't booked it, and I am the one responsible for remembering to put all the passports in my purse, as well as the plane tickets and hotel reservations. If we are driving, I am usually the one packing the car the night before, or putting what we need to take next to the door so it doesn't get left behind. Once we arrive, I am the one who usually keeps track of the itinerary, hurrying us along to make sure that we get to where we need to be at the correct time so we don't miss anything. At the end of the trip I am usually the one making sure we don't leave anything behind. Then I have to empty out all of the suitcases and do laundry.
Actually, I did all this before Zane came along--we haven't been able to go on any vacations with him yet. If you would like to know why, picture someone throwing one of those Superballs on the inside of a car, so that it pings and endlessly bounces all over. That would be my child after 30 minutes in the car. It is as if the Tasmanian Devil of Warner Brothers fame is sitting in the back seat. Maybe it will be different when he learns how to read, but right now it is not practical to try and drive long distances. Well, it's not practical for my sanity.
My idea of a vacation would be to get to where I want(I've always wanted to visit South Dakota) and then stay for a couple of weeks. No alarm clocks. No rushing about. No "have to". Big fluffy pillows to sleep on. Room service. Maid service. Spa service. Massage therapist on duty. Somebody else does all the work, in other words. Someone else does all the planning, organizing, packing, etc. I just show up, and unwind the coils of life from around my midsection, and relax.
That would truly be a vacation. What is YOUR idea of an ideal vacation?
When I actually get a vacation.
Mamas don't actually get to have vacations. We are never truly "off" the clock in motherhood. That's just the way it is. If my family and I decide to go somewhere, I am the one who is responsible for getting my son's suitcase packed in addition to my own. Sometimes I also get to pack my husband's suitcase as well. We probably wouldn't be going on the trip if I hadn't booked it, and I am the one responsible for remembering to put all the passports in my purse, as well as the plane tickets and hotel reservations. If we are driving, I am usually the one packing the car the night before, or putting what we need to take next to the door so it doesn't get left behind. Once we arrive, I am the one who usually keeps track of the itinerary, hurrying us along to make sure that we get to where we need to be at the correct time so we don't miss anything. At the end of the trip I am usually the one making sure we don't leave anything behind. Then I have to empty out all of the suitcases and do laundry.
Actually, I did all this before Zane came along--we haven't been able to go on any vacations with him yet. If you would like to know why, picture someone throwing one of those Superballs on the inside of a car, so that it pings and endlessly bounces all over. That would be my child after 30 minutes in the car. It is as if the Tasmanian Devil of Warner Brothers fame is sitting in the back seat. Maybe it will be different when he learns how to read, but right now it is not practical to try and drive long distances. Well, it's not practical for my sanity.
My idea of a vacation would be to get to where I want(I've always wanted to visit South Dakota) and then stay for a couple of weeks. No alarm clocks. No rushing about. No "have to". Big fluffy pillows to sleep on. Room service. Maid service. Spa service. Massage therapist on duty. Somebody else does all the work, in other words. Someone else does all the planning, organizing, packing, etc. I just show up, and unwind the coils of life from around my midsection, and relax.
That would truly be a vacation. What is YOUR idea of an ideal vacation?
Monday, April 25, 2011
Useful
Useful. If a thing we have is not useful, it ends up in the trash or the recycle bin. Most people want to feel useful, that they serve a purpose. We want to know that what we do matters, to someone. Without purpose, we founder.
People with disabilities want to feel useful too. They want to serve a purpose, as much as they can. Yet there are a lot of disabled people in the world who are cast aside, because they are not considered useful. Well, they aren't considered useful beyond the arrival of their disability check in the mail, which goes in the pocket of whoever gets to the mailbox first.
There are people with autism left stimming in a back room, hidden away, because their family thinks that they are useless and crazy.
There are people in wheelchairs stuck in a house because their family thinks that they are useless and won't build a ramp.
There are people with cerebral palsy who would love to talk to someone, but their family thinks that they are useless and that they can't possibly have anything to say. So those "loving" family members imitate the disabled person instead.
There are people who drag themselves around on their arms because their family thinks that they are useless and won't spend the money to get a wheelchair; even if the wheelchair is free, sometimes they can't be bothered to take the disabled person to go and get it.
If a disabled person is able to get a job and earn a paycheck, many of them don't have transportation, and their family doesn't believe that they are useful, so why bother? That kid is retarded/autistic/cripple, you often hear. Not worth wasting the gas to drive there.
I don't think that I have to point out who the useless people are in these cases.
I once had a father tell me that he wanted his disabled son to grow up to be a taxpaying citizen. I think that is a fine goal. Everyone can contribute to society in some manner, whether they are disabled or not. It is high time we all recognized this. There are tons of jobs out there--some of them can be done by a person with a disability. Need clothes folded? A person in a wheelchair can do that. Need your entire miniature train collection cataloged and organized? A autistic person could do an excellent job, as long as you're okay with his version of organized. A blind man would make a good listener, useful for hearing flaws in the sound checks that happen before concerts.
This country was built on the premise that all men(and women) have the right to the pursuit of happiness. Disabled people have that right too. They have the right to be taxpaying citizens and we need to give them as much help as we can to get them there. Because that is what makes US useful.
People with disabilities want to feel useful too. They want to serve a purpose, as much as they can. Yet there are a lot of disabled people in the world who are cast aside, because they are not considered useful. Well, they aren't considered useful beyond the arrival of their disability check in the mail, which goes in the pocket of whoever gets to the mailbox first.
There are people with autism left stimming in a back room, hidden away, because their family thinks that they are useless and crazy.
There are people in wheelchairs stuck in a house because their family thinks that they are useless and won't build a ramp.
There are people with cerebral palsy who would love to talk to someone, but their family thinks that they are useless and that they can't possibly have anything to say. So those "loving" family members imitate the disabled person instead.
There are people who drag themselves around on their arms because their family thinks that they are useless and won't spend the money to get a wheelchair; even if the wheelchair is free, sometimes they can't be bothered to take the disabled person to go and get it.
If a disabled person is able to get a job and earn a paycheck, many of them don't have transportation, and their family doesn't believe that they are useful, so why bother? That kid is retarded/autistic/cripple, you often hear. Not worth wasting the gas to drive there.
I don't think that I have to point out who the useless people are in these cases.
I once had a father tell me that he wanted his disabled son to grow up to be a taxpaying citizen. I think that is a fine goal. Everyone can contribute to society in some manner, whether they are disabled or not. It is high time we all recognized this. There are tons of jobs out there--some of them can be done by a person with a disability. Need clothes folded? A person in a wheelchair can do that. Need your entire miniature train collection cataloged and organized? A autistic person could do an excellent job, as long as you're okay with his version of organized. A blind man would make a good listener, useful for hearing flaws in the sound checks that happen before concerts.
This country was built on the premise that all men(and women) have the right to the pursuit of happiness. Disabled people have that right too. They have the right to be taxpaying citizens and we need to give them as much help as we can to get them there. Because that is what makes US useful.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Spring is Springing
It's Spring. Easter Sunday. The bluebonnets have bloomed, and other wildflowers are in their full glory. The Glory of the Lord is being revealed, because Handel wrote the Messiah to coincide with Easter, not Christmas.
This Sunday is about being with family, religious beliefs aside. People have traveled all over to spend this day with parents, grandparents, sisters, cousins, uncles, etc. Some people will have huge gatherings with lots of children underfoot, searching for eggs. Some people will gather at their church for services, followed by a family meal, then more church. There are a few people who camp out in state parks Easter weekend; given the wildfire situation in Texas right now, I hope everyone doing that stays safe.
I think that it is great that people gather for holidays to spend time as a family. But why do they need a holiday? Is there a reason that people have to have a special day to visit their parents or grandparents? Perhaps. Maybe there is residual baggage that we carry with us, vestiges of our childhood, that prevent us from seeing our family for what they are: just people. Maybe we can't let go of anger at being the middle child, or the oldest, or the youngest. Maybe our younger brother stole our favorite toy at some point, and we are still mad about it. We may still resent our parents for not showing up at our fifth grade assembly because they had to work and couldn't get time off.
There's many other reasons that we shy away from big family gatherings. I know that I am easily overwhelmed by lots of noise and competing conversations, and I am sure that I am not the only person sensitive to such things. Since we are having the family come to our house this year, my stress level is tripled by the need for everything to be perfect, with the simultaneous understanding that it will never, ever be.
This day, maybe we can let go of our hangups, our anger, our fears that hold us back from family members. Maybe today, just for today, we can let go of those feelings that keep us separated from those around us. Maybe today we can concentrate on laughter, joy, and the beauty of wildflowers, and just BE.
This Sunday is about being with family, religious beliefs aside. People have traveled all over to spend this day with parents, grandparents, sisters, cousins, uncles, etc. Some people will have huge gatherings with lots of children underfoot, searching for eggs. Some people will gather at their church for services, followed by a family meal, then more church. There are a few people who camp out in state parks Easter weekend; given the wildfire situation in Texas right now, I hope everyone doing that stays safe.
I think that it is great that people gather for holidays to spend time as a family. But why do they need a holiday? Is there a reason that people have to have a special day to visit their parents or grandparents? Perhaps. Maybe there is residual baggage that we carry with us, vestiges of our childhood, that prevent us from seeing our family for what they are: just people. Maybe we can't let go of anger at being the middle child, or the oldest, or the youngest. Maybe our younger brother stole our favorite toy at some point, and we are still mad about it. We may still resent our parents for not showing up at our fifth grade assembly because they had to work and couldn't get time off.
There's many other reasons that we shy away from big family gatherings. I know that I am easily overwhelmed by lots of noise and competing conversations, and I am sure that I am not the only person sensitive to such things. Since we are having the family come to our house this year, my stress level is tripled by the need for everything to be perfect, with the simultaneous understanding that it will never, ever be.
This day, maybe we can let go of our hangups, our anger, our fears that hold us back from family members. Maybe today, just for today, we can let go of those feelings that keep us separated from those around us. Maybe today we can concentrate on laughter, joy, and the beauty of wildflowers, and just BE.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Think
Thinking is hard. Well, not the kind of thinking that involves sentences such as "I love lamp." All cylinders need to be engaged for this sort of thinking. The kind of thinking which may cause smoke to come out of your ears--THAT sort of thinking.
There is usually a problem present to warrant such intense use of a brain. Not the usual "Should I run naked through the Barnes & Noble?" type of dilemma. I refer to problems such as "Should I stay married to this abusive man?", "Should I quit this job that I hate?", "Am I marrying the right person?", or "Should I have a DNR order in place before I have this surgery?"
Those who only think of themselves and what THEY want wouldn't find these questions daunting, because they would only consider themselves. The rest of us, however, have other people, and sometimes many consequences to consider. For instance, if a man is the main breadwinner in his family and he quits his job because his boss is a jerk, he may feel pretty justified. But if he can't get a new job, he's not the only one who suffers. His entire family suffers with him.
And so we think hard, and agonize about these sorts of questions, as they present themselves. We analyze the pros and the cons, we crunch numbers, we may consult books or the internet to research aspects of our question--anything to help us find an answer. We have to look deep within ourselves to examine our true motives and what we really want from life and determine how the answers might be wrapped up within us.
Some out there agonize over EVERY single decision they make, paralyzed with the fear of making the wrong decision. That isn't really necessary for most things, such as "paper or plastic?"(Hint: Plastic bags=BAD) We can 'wing it' on those sorts of choices, suffering no heart wrenching moments of guilt over whether we should go back and get the purple dress instead of the red one. It's the hard questions, and the hard decisions, that deserve our attention, where we should be spending our brainpower.
After all, the Barnes & Noble will still be there tomorrow.
There is usually a problem present to warrant such intense use of a brain. Not the usual "Should I run naked through the Barnes & Noble?" type of dilemma. I refer to problems such as "Should I stay married to this abusive man?", "Should I quit this job that I hate?", "Am I marrying the right person?", or "Should I have a DNR order in place before I have this surgery?"
Those who only think of themselves and what THEY want wouldn't find these questions daunting, because they would only consider themselves. The rest of us, however, have other people, and sometimes many consequences to consider. For instance, if a man is the main breadwinner in his family and he quits his job because his boss is a jerk, he may feel pretty justified. But if he can't get a new job, he's not the only one who suffers. His entire family suffers with him.
And so we think hard, and agonize about these sorts of questions, as they present themselves. We analyze the pros and the cons, we crunch numbers, we may consult books or the internet to research aspects of our question--anything to help us find an answer. We have to look deep within ourselves to examine our true motives and what we really want from life and determine how the answers might be wrapped up within us.
Some out there agonize over EVERY single decision they make, paralyzed with the fear of making the wrong decision. That isn't really necessary for most things, such as "paper or plastic?"(Hint: Plastic bags=BAD) We can 'wing it' on those sorts of choices, suffering no heart wrenching moments of guilt over whether we should go back and get the purple dress instead of the red one. It's the hard questions, and the hard decisions, that deserve our attention, where we should be spending our brainpower.
After all, the Barnes & Noble will still be there tomorrow.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Situational Awareness
Safety. We all want it. Even those weirdos who like to jump out of perfectly good airplanes or climb up to the top of insanely tall mountains want some measure of safety. It's a normal, every day thing to want to feel safe. We do a lot of things to make ourselves feel safe--lock the doors, install an alarm, move across the street from a police station--but there's one thing that most people ignore. It is called situational awareness. I may have blogged about this before, but I plan to keep yammering on about it. It is important.
A lot of people out there don't pay attention to what is going on around them at any given moment, and they therefore don't see things coming at them that might hurt them. The jogger/walker wearing ear buds that are blaring music, for example, is not going to hear a car coming or an attacker running up behind them. They've lost situational awareness, have no idea who or what is around them and are therefore vulnerable. A perfect target. I know--the music helps you 'zone out' so you can get through your workout and get back to eating pizza and watching Jersey Shore. It's the 'zone out' that is the problem.
The reason that texting while driving is a bad idea doesn't have a thing to do with perpetuating bad grammar. When you are texting, or talking on your cell phone, or trying to find the perfect song, or even trying to get a pacifier to your screaming child in the back seat, you have shifted your attention away from the extremely important job of driving without crashing. Driving is a complex task because not only do you have to pay attention to what you are doing, you also have to pay attention to what every other driver is doing so that you can respond if they do something stupid like text while driving. When you shift your attention away from the act of driving, for any reason, you have lost situational awareness in a large metal box on wheels that may or may not protect you in the event of a crash, depending on several factors over which you have no control because you aren't paying enough attention to respond. Add into that mix another person, like a random semi-driver, who is not paying attention, and it's very easy to see the recipe for disaster. It happens to even the most conscientious drivers.
People who own guns are more likely to shoot themselves or a family member because the gun makes them lose situational awareness. They rely on that gun to solve their problems and make them feel safe, and think that is all they have to do. It's a false sense of security that leads people to ignore other signs that something is going to happen until it is too late. When do accidents happen? When people aren't paying attention. You hear it all the time--about how they 'just took their eyes off the road for a second', how they 'just stepped out of the room for a moment'. A moment is all it takes.
Paying attention isn't even that difficult. Keep your head up and look around. Try it. Next time you're out there walking, look around. Know who is around you and what they are doing or not doing, and adjust your behavior accordingly. If someone makes your 'spidey-sense' tingle, pay attention to that feeling.
If you're driving, and you see someone who is texting or talking on the phone or trying to put eyeliner on, put some distance between that person and yourself. If the person putting on the eyeliner or texting is you, pull over safely and then slap yourself.
A lot of people out there don't pay attention to what is going on around them at any given moment, and they therefore don't see things coming at them that might hurt them. The jogger/walker wearing ear buds that are blaring music, for example, is not going to hear a car coming or an attacker running up behind them. They've lost situational awareness, have no idea who or what is around them and are therefore vulnerable. A perfect target. I know--the music helps you 'zone out' so you can get through your workout and get back to eating pizza and watching Jersey Shore. It's the 'zone out' that is the problem.
The reason that texting while driving is a bad idea doesn't have a thing to do with perpetuating bad grammar. When you are texting, or talking on your cell phone, or trying to find the perfect song, or even trying to get a pacifier to your screaming child in the back seat, you have shifted your attention away from the extremely important job of driving without crashing. Driving is a complex task because not only do you have to pay attention to what you are doing, you also have to pay attention to what every other driver is doing so that you can respond if they do something stupid like text while driving. When you shift your attention away from the act of driving, for any reason, you have lost situational awareness in a large metal box on wheels that may or may not protect you in the event of a crash, depending on several factors over which you have no control because you aren't paying enough attention to respond. Add into that mix another person, like a random semi-driver, who is not paying attention, and it's very easy to see the recipe for disaster. It happens to even the most conscientious drivers.
People who own guns are more likely to shoot themselves or a family member because the gun makes them lose situational awareness. They rely on that gun to solve their problems and make them feel safe, and think that is all they have to do. It's a false sense of security that leads people to ignore other signs that something is going to happen until it is too late. When do accidents happen? When people aren't paying attention. You hear it all the time--about how they 'just took their eyes off the road for a second', how they 'just stepped out of the room for a moment'. A moment is all it takes.
Paying attention isn't even that difficult. Keep your head up and look around. Try it. Next time you're out there walking, look around. Know who is around you and what they are doing or not doing, and adjust your behavior accordingly. If someone makes your 'spidey-sense' tingle, pay attention to that feeling.
If you're driving, and you see someone who is texting or talking on the phone or trying to put eyeliner on, put some distance between that person and yourself. If the person putting on the eyeliner or texting is you, pull over safely and then slap yourself.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Really?
Really. I couldn't think of a clever sentence that starts with an R. Sorry. It's all Q's fault.
Okay, okay. I just needed some time to think a bit. And I've spent the entire day thinking and writing about reading. That starts with an R, so I'm good. I should at least get a few points for THINKING about the letter R, anyway. Wait--we aren't getting points for this? There's no grade? Crap.
Anyway, sometimes when I am testing a child, things don't add up. Most of your learning disabled kids, for example, will show weaknesses in working memory or retrieving what they've learned. I can see a direct connection between a weakness in retrieving information and math skills. Simple, and relatively easy to work on. Today I looked at some numbers for a student, and there were no weaknesses in memory. Instead, this child showed weakness in visual processing.
When one learns to read, we initially learn the sounds of things and we learn to put the sounds together to form words. Great. But it's not efficient to sound out every single word we are reading--it would take weeks just to get through The Diary of a Wimpy Kid. So the brain memorizes a picture of the word, and stores it away. That way, when reading is going on, the brain can "skip" those words it knows and focus on what the text is saying. Without this system, a child is stuck sounding out the same words over and over, no matter how many times they see them over the course of a lifetime. And that sight based system? Requires visual processing. To be a successful reader requires not only an auditory component, but a visual one.
I figured out the connection, and I am mentally patting myself on the back for spending the time to research all of this. Yay me. Now I know how to help this student, and that makes me very happy.
Okay, okay. I just needed some time to think a bit. And I've spent the entire day thinking and writing about reading. That starts with an R, so I'm good. I should at least get a few points for THINKING about the letter R, anyway. Wait--we aren't getting points for this? There's no grade? Crap.
Anyway, sometimes when I am testing a child, things don't add up. Most of your learning disabled kids, for example, will show weaknesses in working memory or retrieving what they've learned. I can see a direct connection between a weakness in retrieving information and math skills. Simple, and relatively easy to work on. Today I looked at some numbers for a student, and there were no weaknesses in memory. Instead, this child showed weakness in visual processing.
When one learns to read, we initially learn the sounds of things and we learn to put the sounds together to form words. Great. But it's not efficient to sound out every single word we are reading--it would take weeks just to get through The Diary of a Wimpy Kid. So the brain memorizes a picture of the word, and stores it away. That way, when reading is going on, the brain can "skip" those words it knows and focus on what the text is saying. Without this system, a child is stuck sounding out the same words over and over, no matter how many times they see them over the course of a lifetime. And that sight based system? Requires visual processing. To be a successful reader requires not only an auditory component, but a visual one.
I figured out the connection, and I am mentally patting myself on the back for spending the time to research all of this. Yay me. Now I know how to help this student, and that makes me very happy.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Quite Humorous
Quite unexpectedly, I thought of the movie Airplane! the other day. I have several favorite comedies, such as Dodgeball, Young Frankenstein, and Airplane!, that I have rolling in the back of my mind, so that I have some sort of comic relief as I go about my day. Today someone around me was randomly speaking of gladiators, and I immediately thought of Airplane!.
Peter Graves, in a role by now iconic, once asked a young man in the film if he enjoyed gladiator movies. The line worked because Peter Graves, among others in the film, was a 'serious' actor, and stated all of his lines with the appropriate gravity. The entire movie was truly all about the straight face, the serious look, the literal interpretation. (I've actually wondered what an autistic person would think of the movie--if it would be funny to them as well.) Airplane! seemed to take itself very seriously, and the result is still hilarious to the educated today.
At the risk of sounding like a snob, I believe that it is necessary to have at least an average intelligence in order to understand the many aspects of comedy. It just doesn't pay to be ignorant of what is going on in the world, from a comedic standpoint. A lot of comedy, for instance, relies on an awareness of pop culture. Justin Bieber jokes can be funny--if you know who the heck Justin Bieber is. If you have not yet explored the auto-tuned joy that is today's pop music, those jokes will mean nothing to you. The same is true of jokes about Twilight--if you don't know what the references to "Team Edward" mean, those jokes will leave you nervously confused instead of laughing. Ignorance is not bliss in these awkward situations. Sometimes it's possible to fake it, but that is not often.
When I was a kid, I was very literal. I was the perfect "straight man" for my father, who fancies himself quite the jokester. I often did not 'get' jokes my peers told me because I interpreted what they said literally. I heard a joke about the phrase "cast iron sinks", and didn't actually 'get' until two weeks later when I suddenly realized that the word 'sinks' was not a noun in the joke, but a verb. It was also difficult for me to accurately interpret the facial expressions of the person telling a joke when they were trying to keep a 'straight' face. The visual information that told my brain that a person wasn't being serious wasn't there, so I didn't realize there was a joke being told. So I was sort of a sucker, and my peers enjoyed playing tricks and practical jokes on me.
Yet I can remember understanding references to pop culture long before my peers, who were way too interested in their G.I. Joes and Barbies to pay attention. In fact, I often ended up explaining jokes to my classmates because they had no clue. I felt that it was my duty to educate them and set them on the correct path. This was probably one of the reasons I was not ever considered for Prom Queen. People don't really enjoy having their ignorance pointed out to them by others. Once I understood this small but important fact, my dating life improved dramatically, and over the years I've learned to keep my mouth shut.
"Surely you can't be serious," you might say.
"Yes I can," is my reply. And don't call me Shirley.
Peter Graves, in a role by now iconic, once asked a young man in the film if he enjoyed gladiator movies. The line worked because Peter Graves, among others in the film, was a 'serious' actor, and stated all of his lines with the appropriate gravity. The entire movie was truly all about the straight face, the serious look, the literal interpretation. (I've actually wondered what an autistic person would think of the movie--if it would be funny to them as well.) Airplane! seemed to take itself very seriously, and the result is still hilarious to the educated today.
At the risk of sounding like a snob, I believe that it is necessary to have at least an average intelligence in order to understand the many aspects of comedy. It just doesn't pay to be ignorant of what is going on in the world, from a comedic standpoint. A lot of comedy, for instance, relies on an awareness of pop culture. Justin Bieber jokes can be funny--if you know who the heck Justin Bieber is. If you have not yet explored the auto-tuned joy that is today's pop music, those jokes will mean nothing to you. The same is true of jokes about Twilight--if you don't know what the references to "Team Edward" mean, those jokes will leave you nervously confused instead of laughing. Ignorance is not bliss in these awkward situations. Sometimes it's possible to fake it, but that is not often.
When I was a kid, I was very literal. I was the perfect "straight man" for my father, who fancies himself quite the jokester. I often did not 'get' jokes my peers told me because I interpreted what they said literally. I heard a joke about the phrase "cast iron sinks", and didn't actually 'get' until two weeks later when I suddenly realized that the word 'sinks' was not a noun in the joke, but a verb. It was also difficult for me to accurately interpret the facial expressions of the person telling a joke when they were trying to keep a 'straight' face. The visual information that told my brain that a person wasn't being serious wasn't there, so I didn't realize there was a joke being told. So I was sort of a sucker, and my peers enjoyed playing tricks and practical jokes on me.
Yet I can remember understanding references to pop culture long before my peers, who were way too interested in their G.I. Joes and Barbies to pay attention. In fact, I often ended up explaining jokes to my classmates because they had no clue. I felt that it was my duty to educate them and set them on the correct path. This was probably one of the reasons I was not ever considered for Prom Queen. People don't really enjoy having their ignorance pointed out to them by others. Once I understood this small but important fact, my dating life improved dramatically, and over the years I've learned to keep my mouth shut.
"Surely you can't be serious," you might say.
"Yes I can," is my reply. And don't call me Shirley.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Permanent
Note:This week's prompt was to write about something red.
Permanent teeth are more solid than baby teeth, at least from a kid's perspective. Especially those two front teeth, which seem way larger than the other teeth in your mouth, at least until the rest of your body catches up. I had those two permanent teeth, I remember, when I was in third grade.
I also had a boyfriend named Eric. Well, as much of a boyfriend as one can have when you are eight. Mostly, it was all about chasing each other and holding hands. In third grade, boyfriends were given very responsible social roles, at least at the school I attended.
Boyfriends were responsible for pushing you when you were on the swings. They were one side of the teeter-totter(what we called see-saws back before electricity). Boyfriends were the ones who brought you candy and sat next to you at lunch and protected you from any bullies from the upper grade. In return, girlfriends helped boyfriends with their school work. Quid pro quo, Clarice.
Eric(last name withheld because I can't remember it) had a friend named Danny, I think. Danny had a crush on either Eric or me--crushes are sort of ambiguous that way. But he hung around. He was a nice kid, but a little pushy. We were all in the same third grade class and had recess at the same time.
Recess is just about the very best thing about school in the third grade. We were forced to walk to the playground in an orderly line, which was difficult. We all wanted to run so badly. We could see the playground all the way over there on the other side of the street, beckoning to us as we sat in our classroom learning our multiplication tables.
The shiny cardinal slide that was taller than our teacher. The bright red and yellow merry-go-round. The crimson two-seater teeter-totters(two kids could sit on either side). The brilliantly scarlet monkey bars. (The military must have gotten a discount on vermilion paint that year.)
On this particularly fine day, Eric wanted to go on the teeter-totter, so that is where we went first. We found two other people to join us on the two-seaters. Danny ended up behind me, and another boy was behind Eric. Up and down we all went, from the blue of the sky to the brown of the earth. Up and down, up and down, up and down...
Until that @#$&--er, Danny, slid off the teeter-totter. The two of us were at the bottom, and when he "accidentally on purpose" slid off into the dirt, the weight of Eric and his friend catapaulted me into the air. If I hadn't been hanging on to the handles I would have careened into the slide. I was hanging on for dear life, so when gravity asserted its hold over me, I fell. I fell face first onto the broad crimson board of the see-saw. SMACK!
I saw stars in a haze of magenta. It took me only a couple of seconds for me to sit up, and by then the Cavalry had shown up in the form of two actual adults. Who stood around a bit helplessly while I started bawling. I was actually hurt, but I figured that I would throw in a little extra drama to liven up the playground. I was a bit disoriented and it's likely that I had a mild concussion, but once I got off the teeter-totter, I thought that I was okay. Except for the lurid pain in my mouth. And the pain in my forehead. And the pain in my chest from hitting the board.
That's when I noticed that everyone was staring at me with genuine concern instead of that fake interest stuff. I looked down. Down the front of my favorite white tee shirt were shades of cherry, crimson, and cerise. Wounds around the mouth tend to bleed more, so I was naturally covered in hues of scarlet. Covered in blood from the mouth down. Blood. "AAAAAAAAAArgh!" I screamed from fear, as should anyone who finds themselves in this position. Once I realized that I did not have a gaping wound in my chest, I started to calm down. But that was when my mouth began to explode with pain, especially my lower lip. It seems that my two front teeth went into my lower lip. Ouch. Now that that question had been figured out, I held out my hands and looked at them. They were covered in burgundy that was drying in the sun. I wiped them off on my pants. In the mean time, I turned around to find Danny. He was hiding behind the cardinal slide, but I stalked over there, with my fat lip and maroon streaks and flakes all over my face and clothes. Danny just looked at me, and he did not try to deny anything. So I punched him in the face. Closer to the ear, I think. I wasn't good with the eye-hand coordination.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Optimism
Optimism doesn't sound like a happy word. It actually sounds like a word that has to do with eyeglasses. But there is no mention of eyeglasses in the dictionary under the word "optimism". The word is actually from the Latin, optimum, or 'the greatest good'. The word was originally referring to a philosophical doctrine that essentially said that this current world is the best possible world that could exist(thank you, Dictionary.com). Nowadays the meaning refers to a tendency to look on the bright side of life.
There is a tiny bit of self-delusion involved in maintaining a cheerful outlook, I am sorry to say. Nothing in life is always one way or the other, no matter what the gurus say. Things happen, life goes up, life goes down, and our moods go with it, not always happy, or even the least bit pleasant. Sometimes it's as if our lives are unfolding inside of one of those snow globes they sell to tourists in various cities, and someone has shaken that globe. Who would be happy about having their world turned upside down in such a way?
It is true that we always have a choice in how we respond to the things that happen to us. We can choose to be happy, no matter what, but that cannot happen without our overlooking or ignoring anything that might disturb the waters. No TV news programs. No reading the newspaper. And for gosh sakes, no talking to actual people! Nothing wreaks havoc on a happy mood like other people.
I am vaguely suspicious of people who are overly happy. People who always smile without a reason or are way too overenthusiastic about everything. People who act like they've won the lottery even at 7:43 AM when they've just been pulled over by a cop for speeding in a school zone. I just don't trust those too-happy people, because I know they are either being dishonest or heavily medicated. There seems to be an insincerity about those who are always so over-the-top cheerful, whether it is deserved or not. I feel like they are trying to sell me something. Am I the only person who thinks that?
There is a tiny bit of self-delusion involved in maintaining a cheerful outlook, I am sorry to say. Nothing in life is always one way or the other, no matter what the gurus say. Things happen, life goes up, life goes down, and our moods go with it, not always happy, or even the least bit pleasant. Sometimes it's as if our lives are unfolding inside of one of those snow globes they sell to tourists in various cities, and someone has shaken that globe. Who would be happy about having their world turned upside down in such a way?
It is true that we always have a choice in how we respond to the things that happen to us. We can choose to be happy, no matter what, but that cannot happen without our overlooking or ignoring anything that might disturb the waters. No TV news programs. No reading the newspaper. And for gosh sakes, no talking to actual people! Nothing wreaks havoc on a happy mood like other people.
I am vaguely suspicious of people who are overly happy. People who always smile without a reason or are way too overenthusiastic about everything. People who act like they've won the lottery even at 7:43 AM when they've just been pulled over by a cop for speeding in a school zone. I just don't trust those too-happy people, because I know they are either being dishonest or heavily medicated. There seems to be an insincerity about those who are always so over-the-top cheerful, whether it is deserved or not. I feel like they are trying to sell me something. Am I the only person who thinks that?
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Avengers Assemble
My son loves the Avengers animated series that shows on one of the 15,000,000 Disney channels. He sings the song at the beginning, and he's sort of on key, which is good for my ears. We know that it's a favorite because we have recorded the shows and watched them 500 billion times. That's what kids, and some adults, do when they like something: they watch it over and over and over until they've memorized it. I was the same way with Young Frankenstein, so I totally relate. Anyway, the way that Iron Man alerts the others that it is time to bust some villain butt is to say "Avengers Assemble!" Those are pretty big words for a three year old boy, but Zane can say them pretty clearly.
My husband and I watch the show with Zane, at first to make sure that the show was appropriate for him. But later we started to realize that we actually like the show. I like how the characters don't necessarily agree on everything, and they even get into arguments about their mission. The Hulk and Thor even have a knock-down-drag-out in Central Park, which is awesome. None of the Avengers necessarily like each other, but they respect each other. They all have made it a mission to help people and to help wrong rights. Pretty noble stuff.
I love the chemistry between the characters, the sarcasm, the witty dialogue. Each character has serious baggage, such as Ant Man, who hates violence and wants all the super villains to be rehabilitated. Iron Man tries to be in charge, because it's his club, after all. But really, everyone knows that Captain America is the leader. Iron Man knows it too!
I don't know anything about the Avengers universe. When I was a kid and reading comics, I was all about Batman and the DC 'verse. So a lot of this is new to me, and I am enjoying myself through my son's eyes.
Hey, at least it isn't Elmo.
My husband and I watch the show with Zane, at first to make sure that the show was appropriate for him. But later we started to realize that we actually like the show. I like how the characters don't necessarily agree on everything, and they even get into arguments about their mission. The Hulk and Thor even have a knock-down-drag-out in Central Park, which is awesome. None of the Avengers necessarily like each other, but they respect each other. They all have made it a mission to help people and to help wrong rights. Pretty noble stuff.
I love the chemistry between the characters, the sarcasm, the witty dialogue. Each character has serious baggage, such as Ant Man, who hates violence and wants all the super villains to be rehabilitated. Iron Man tries to be in charge, because it's his club, after all. But really, everyone knows that Captain America is the leader. Iron Man knows it too!
I don't know anything about the Avengers universe. When I was a kid and reading comics, I was all about Batman and the DC 'verse. So a lot of this is new to me, and I am enjoying myself through my son's eyes.
Hey, at least it isn't Elmo.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Nobody likes to hear the N-word. When you hear it, it slices right into your heart and snips all your dreams to pieces. It reduces you to a cut-out of yourself. I, of course, am referring to the word "No". (yes, I know that there is another word that is called the N-word. I choose not to dignify that word by talking about it.)
Rejection in any form is horrible. We are taught from an early age that if we want something, we should ask for it. Ask and you shall receive. It even says that in the Bible.
Yet many times over our lifespan, when we ask for something important, the answer is going to be "no". Maybe what we want belongs to someone else. Maybe that man is married and not interested. Maybe the cost is out of our price range. There may be the most logical reason in the world why we can't have what we want, but it doesn't ever numb the sting of rejection when we hear the N-word.
Everyone hears that word repeatedly in their life. Almost daily, we are told what we cannot have. It is a part of life, part of growing up and being an adult. How we respond to the N-word, however, defines who we are and what we become.
Some of us fight, refusing to let go of that desire, waging battle after battle to force someone to give them what they want.
Some of us hate ourselves for not being 'good enough' to get what we want, and fall into despair.
Some of us hate the person who told us "No", and spend the rest of their life holding that anger and hatred within themselves, like a cancer.
Some of us choose to ignore the 'no' and pretend it never happened.
Some of us move on to find another dream.
What do YOU do when you hear the word "No"?
I was very happy to receive this award from A Mountain Momma She's pretty versatile herself, so you might want to go and check her out.
I'm supposed to tell you some things about myself and pass this award on, but I am falling asleep at the moment, so I will take care of this in a future blog.
Rejection in any form is horrible. We are taught from an early age that if we want something, we should ask for it. Ask and you shall receive. It even says that in the Bible.
Yet many times over our lifespan, when we ask for something important, the answer is going to be "no". Maybe what we want belongs to someone else. Maybe that man is married and not interested. Maybe the cost is out of our price range. There may be the most logical reason in the world why we can't have what we want, but it doesn't ever numb the sting of rejection when we hear the N-word.
Everyone hears that word repeatedly in their life. Almost daily, we are told what we cannot have. It is a part of life, part of growing up and being an adult. How we respond to the N-word, however, defines who we are and what we become.
Some of us fight, refusing to let go of that desire, waging battle after battle to force someone to give them what they want.
Some of us hate ourselves for not being 'good enough' to get what we want, and fall into despair.
Some of us hate the person who told us "No", and spend the rest of their life holding that anger and hatred within themselves, like a cancer.
Some of us choose to ignore the 'no' and pretend it never happened.
Some of us move on to find another dream.
What do YOU do when you hear the word "No"?
I was very happy to receive this award from A Mountain Momma She's pretty versatile herself, so you might want to go and check her out.
I'm supposed to tell you some things about myself and pass this award on, but I am falling asleep at the moment, so I will take care of this in a future blog.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Meatsarella
Note: This week's Red Writing Hood prompt requires fiction: "One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in the mail with the words, 'I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one.'"
My mind wandered as I sat in the back booth at Guido's, with a slice of triple pepperoni on the plate in front of me. The rest of the pizza was untouched. I should have ordered Cindy's favorite, I thought. The Meatsarella. Ten pounds of meat, but My oldest and bestest friend Cindy and I could pack it all away. We were hardcore about our pizza.
I looked at the postcard in my hands. It was well worn and wrinkled by my hands now, although it had appeared brand new when I opened the mailbox this morning.
The picture on the front of the postcard was of the Boardwalk in Atlantic City, a place that my friend Cindy had visited at least once a month, carrying the local union payments to the area Mob Boss, Carmine Funicello. Insurance money, he called it. Cindy was the daughter of the union president, and good looking enough to make Carmine interested, so he had 'requested' that Cindy be the one who delivered the money. I got the impression that Cindy had to deliver more than money when she went to Atlantic City.
Except that now Cindy was dead. I was at the viewing last week. I went to her funeral. I was there when they lowered the casket into the earth. I held her mother while she wailed piteously throughout the whole thing.
I held up the postcard so that it was in the light. On the back of the card were the words, "I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's. Tell no one." My curiosity got the better of my grief. If she weren't dead, why go through this elaborate ruse? Cindy was always about the drama, but this was rather extreme.
Guido's was packed tonight with the usual Friday night crowd; families coming at the end of the week, freed from work and school responsibilities. The children were rambunctious, the parents frazzled, but all were united by their love of Guido's pizza. As my eyes wandered, I noticed two guys in dark suits sitting quietly, not talking, in a booth across the room. One of them seemed to be staring at me. What were Feds doing here? I wondered why Cindy chose this busy place to appear if she were trying to conceal that she was still alive.
I turned to find the waiter next to my table, eyeballing me pointedly. He was hinting that I needed to vacate my table; Guido's had a line and my table was prime real estate. But I wasn't ready to leave. I was going to sit there in that booth until I got some answers. I was...going to have to go to the ladies room.
"I would like another soda, and bring me a large Meatsarella with extra cheese," I told the waiter as I stood up and walked toward the sign pointing the way to the restrooms. "I'll be right back."
I walked into the ladies room. It was a two-seater, as my grandmother used to say, although one of the stalls appeared to be occupied at the moment. I went into the other one, closed the stall door, and sighed heavily as I sat down.
"Ginny? I've been waiting in this stall for hours!" A familiar whisper came from the other stall. I froze in midstream.
"Cindy?" I whispered back. "Cindy! Oh my God!" I wanted to hug her, but for obvious reasons, was forced to refrain. "What on earth is going on? I am happy you are not dead, but what the hell are you doing? Your mother is a complete wreck!"
"I know, but you can't tell her that I am alive, Ginny," Cindy whispered a little more loudly this time. "She's the effin' reason I am in this mess in the first place!"
In a teary, urgent whisper, Cindy told me that her mother had fallen afoul of the law due to her habit of badly shoplifting expensive items at the local mall. Cindy's eighty-seven year old mother was going to be sent to prison. I gasped. That would have been a death sentence; Cindy's mom would never survive a week of food that wasn't Italian. Or the lack of her "stories" on the daytime TV. Or her shoplifting.
Cindy had offered the feds a deal--let her mother go, and she would give them Carmine. Carmine was a talker after sex, it seems, and Cindy had a digital recorder on her cell phone. Enough evidence had been provided, based on her monthly "visits", to topple the Funicello family for good. She had to disappear, though, to keep the Mob from gunning her down for her 'betrayal'. So the Feds had 'killed' her in a car accident. Cindy would be entering the Witness Protection Program tonight.
"But I had to talk to you one last time, Ginny," she finished, sniffling a little. "You are my bestest, and I couldn't leave without saying goodbye."
What could I say to that? I wanted to hug Cindy one last time, and said as much. So we both flushed and exited our respective stalls, and then we hugged each other as tightly as we could. There was a discreet knock on the door of the ladies room.
"I gotta go now, Ginny," Cindy dabbed at her eyes, but her mascara was hopelessly streaked and smeared.
"Drop me a postcard sometime," I smiled at her, a little jealous. Cindy opened the door and walked out of her old life and into a brand new one. How many people get to do that?
I waited a second, until I had calmed down, then went back to my booth. The Meatsarella was piping hot, and I was suddenly hungry.
My mind wandered as I sat in the back booth at Guido's, with a slice of triple pepperoni on the plate in front of me. The rest of the pizza was untouched. I should have ordered Cindy's favorite, I thought. The Meatsarella. Ten pounds of meat, but My oldest and bestest friend Cindy and I could pack it all away. We were hardcore about our pizza.
I looked at the postcard in my hands. It was well worn and wrinkled by my hands now, although it had appeared brand new when I opened the mailbox this morning.
The picture on the front of the postcard was of the Boardwalk in Atlantic City, a place that my friend Cindy had visited at least once a month, carrying the local union payments to the area Mob Boss, Carmine Funicello. Insurance money, he called it. Cindy was the daughter of the union president, and good looking enough to make Carmine interested, so he had 'requested' that Cindy be the one who delivered the money. I got the impression that Cindy had to deliver more than money when she went to Atlantic City.
Except that now Cindy was dead. I was at the viewing last week. I went to her funeral. I was there when they lowered the casket into the earth. I held her mother while she wailed piteously throughout the whole thing.
I held up the postcard so that it was in the light. On the back of the card were the words, "I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's. Tell no one." My curiosity got the better of my grief. If she weren't dead, why go through this elaborate ruse? Cindy was always about the drama, but this was rather extreme.
Guido's was packed tonight with the usual Friday night crowd; families coming at the end of the week, freed from work and school responsibilities. The children were rambunctious, the parents frazzled, but all were united by their love of Guido's pizza. As my eyes wandered, I noticed two guys in dark suits sitting quietly, not talking, in a booth across the room. One of them seemed to be staring at me. What were Feds doing here? I wondered why Cindy chose this busy place to appear if she were trying to conceal that she was still alive.
I turned to find the waiter next to my table, eyeballing me pointedly. He was hinting that I needed to vacate my table; Guido's had a line and my table was prime real estate. But I wasn't ready to leave. I was going to sit there in that booth until I got some answers. I was...going to have to go to the ladies room.
"I would like another soda, and bring me a large Meatsarella with extra cheese," I told the waiter as I stood up and walked toward the sign pointing the way to the restrooms. "I'll be right back."
I walked into the ladies room. It was a two-seater, as my grandmother used to say, although one of the stalls appeared to be occupied at the moment. I went into the other one, closed the stall door, and sighed heavily as I sat down.
"Ginny? I've been waiting in this stall for hours!" A familiar whisper came from the other stall. I froze in midstream.
"Cindy?" I whispered back. "Cindy! Oh my God!" I wanted to hug her, but for obvious reasons, was forced to refrain. "What on earth is going on? I am happy you are not dead, but what the hell are you doing? Your mother is a complete wreck!"
"I know, but you can't tell her that I am alive, Ginny," Cindy whispered a little more loudly this time. "She's the effin' reason I am in this mess in the first place!"
In a teary, urgent whisper, Cindy told me that her mother had fallen afoul of the law due to her habit of badly shoplifting expensive items at the local mall. Cindy's eighty-seven year old mother was going to be sent to prison. I gasped. That would have been a death sentence; Cindy's mom would never survive a week of food that wasn't Italian. Or the lack of her "stories" on the daytime TV. Or her shoplifting.
Cindy had offered the feds a deal--let her mother go, and she would give them Carmine. Carmine was a talker after sex, it seems, and Cindy had a digital recorder on her cell phone. Enough evidence had been provided, based on her monthly "visits", to topple the Funicello family for good. She had to disappear, though, to keep the Mob from gunning her down for her 'betrayal'. So the Feds had 'killed' her in a car accident. Cindy would be entering the Witness Protection Program tonight.
"But I had to talk to you one last time, Ginny," she finished, sniffling a little. "You are my bestest, and I couldn't leave without saying goodbye."
What could I say to that? I wanted to hug Cindy one last time, and said as much. So we both flushed and exited our respective stalls, and then we hugged each other as tightly as we could. There was a discreet knock on the door of the ladies room.
"I gotta go now, Ginny," Cindy dabbed at her eyes, but her mascara was hopelessly streaked and smeared.
"Drop me a postcard sometime," I smiled at her, a little jealous. Cindy opened the door and walked out of her old life and into a brand new one. How many people get to do that?
I waited a second, until I had calmed down, then went back to my booth. The Meatsarella was piping hot, and I was suddenly hungry.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Last Kid Left at Daycare
My husband and I both work, we work in another city, and sometimes things just happen(like car accidents or two hour meetings with an angry parent). Sometimes we have to stay late for one of those "stuff that we aren't paying you for but we will write you up if you don't show" events. We all have to pay our dues for that paycheck, and sometimes it means that we don't get to pick up Zane at our usual time. That is when I freak a bit. Okay, a lot.
I have this fear that Zane will be the last kid left at the daycare. I know it's unreasonable. In my mind, showing up late means that we are horrible parents who should have our Parent cards revoked for abandoning our child. So when we are late, I start to panic. I told you that it was unreasonable.
Kids don't usually notice when their parents are late, and are perfectly happy playing outside with the other kids or playing with some toys in the classroom--unless they are the last kid. Then they do notice, because they can't help it. One by one, a Mom or Dad has shown up to take their child home. Every other child in the entire building has been picked up, kissed, placed in a car seat, and driven off. Except that last kid, and the daycare worker who has to stay with him.
The daycare employee, who wants to go home to his or her own family, starts to get impatient and short. She is also worried that a parent has not arrived, and wonders if something has happened. I know all this because I have worked at a couple of daycares over the years and have had to sit with the last child a couple of times. It just plain sucks. That sweet child is full of questions. The daycare employee does not have answers for the child. Children under five don't understand the why. All they know is that their Mommy or Daddy is not there. They have been abandoned. The trust that all is well with the world has been broken. Add hunger into the mix(it is the dinner hour or later), and you've got trouble. There are tears. Sometimes the kid starts crying too!
I don't want that to be my kid, hence my unreasonable fears. I hate staying late at work because it deprives me of time I get to spend with my son and my husband and our cats, safe at home, being a family. Family comes first, as far as I'm concerned. It seems that nobody else has this viewpoint; there's always some reason that Larry or I have to stay late at least once a month. We've tried to solve this dilemma by having a grandparent pick him up when we know we won't get there on time. I still get upset that it's not Mama and Daddy picking Zane up, but at least he's not the last kid at daycare.
I have this fear that Zane will be the last kid left at the daycare. I know it's unreasonable. In my mind, showing up late means that we are horrible parents who should have our Parent cards revoked for abandoning our child. So when we are late, I start to panic. I told you that it was unreasonable.
Kids don't usually notice when their parents are late, and are perfectly happy playing outside with the other kids or playing with some toys in the classroom--unless they are the last kid. Then they do notice, because they can't help it. One by one, a Mom or Dad has shown up to take their child home. Every other child in the entire building has been picked up, kissed, placed in a car seat, and driven off. Except that last kid, and the daycare worker who has to stay with him.
The daycare employee, who wants to go home to his or her own family, starts to get impatient and short. She is also worried that a parent has not arrived, and wonders if something has happened. I know all this because I have worked at a couple of daycares over the years and have had to sit with the last child a couple of times. It just plain sucks. That sweet child is full of questions. The daycare employee does not have answers for the child. Children under five don't understand the why. All they know is that their Mommy or Daddy is not there. They have been abandoned. The trust that all is well with the world has been broken. Add hunger into the mix(it is the dinner hour or later), and you've got trouble. There are tears. Sometimes the kid starts crying too!
I don't want that to be my kid, hence my unreasonable fears. I hate staying late at work because it deprives me of time I get to spend with my son and my husband and our cats, safe at home, being a family. Family comes first, as far as I'm concerned. It seems that nobody else has this viewpoint; there's always some reason that Larry or I have to stay late at least once a month. We've tried to solve this dilemma by having a grandparent pick him up when we know we won't get there on time. I still get upset that it's not Mama and Daddy picking Zane up, but at least he's not the last kid at daycare.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Kid Logic
Kids are funny creatures. They listen to adults talk, even when we are not aware that they are around, and they take in our language. What WE say becomes what THEY say. Scary stuff, because often we say things without thinking. Mean things, bad words, etc., all the bad language habits we've picked up, don't sound so funny coming from the mouth of your three year old.
Then again...
"Zane, why did you throw that rock/eat that bug/break that toy/various other rambunctious behaviors?"
"That's why because." Zane says. We don't know where he got that from, but it makes perfect sense. If you're a politician, that is.
The next time Obama has to answer another question second-guessing a decision he's made as President, I would like him to say that.
Then again...
"Zane, why did you throw that rock/eat that bug/break that toy/various other rambunctious behaviors?"
"That's why because." Zane says. We don't know where he got that from, but it makes perfect sense. If you're a politician, that is.
The next time Obama has to answer another question second-guessing a decision he's made as President, I would like him to say that.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Just Another Summer Day
Note: This week's Remembe(red) writing prompt is a photo(of a garden hose) to take you back in time. In 700 or fewer words, show us where your memory takes you. Remember that this image is merely inspiration. Your piece needn't have a hose in your piece, but we need to easily see how you were inspired by it.
Just as I thought that I would die of thirst, I saw it. Coiled on the patio in the back yard, the hose beckoned, an oasis in the desert.
I ran toward it, my little brother close behind. I got to the faucet first, and turned it on. My brother had picked up the other end of the hose and was about to drink.
"HEY!!!" I was outraged. By the Sacred Virtue of Birth Order, it was decreed that I always got to go first. Plus, like they said on tv, ladies were supposed to go first. I was the oldest(at five), I was a girl, so I went first.
Except that my brother didn't believe that. He believed that since HE was the youngest by two and a half years, the "adorable" baby of the family, he should go first. He also believed that I should just LET him go first, since he was the baby.
I could not allow this violation of All That Was Holy in my worldview to continue, so I did what any older sister would do: I tackled him. I took him out at the knees, and he let go of the hose as we both fell back into the grass. My brother did not take this punishment lightly--he fought back as fiercely as he could. We rolled around on the grass, yelling, the forgotten hose releasing all that cool, delicious water into the ground near us.
"WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!! My mother was suddenly hollering at us from the sliding glass door. We froze. "KNOCK IT OFF!!!"
There is nothing more powerful than the Fear of Mom, so of course we hopped right up, covered with grass stains. I ran over to the hose, suddenly thirstier than I had ever been before. I lean over the hose to take a drink.
"AND TURN OFF THAT HOSE!" My mother hollered.
I waited until she wasn't at the door anymore, then quickly took a drink and handed the hose to my brother. Then we ran back to our playing.
Note: This is a melding of every single summer day that my brother and I spent playing together. Yes, we actually did have fights like that, but we never actually ever hurt each other. Except once or twice. Maybe three times.
Just as I thought that I would die of thirst, I saw it. Coiled on the patio in the back yard, the hose beckoned, an oasis in the desert.
I ran toward it, my little brother close behind. I got to the faucet first, and turned it on. My brother had picked up the other end of the hose and was about to drink.
"HEY!!!" I was outraged. By the Sacred Virtue of Birth Order, it was decreed that I always got to go first. Plus, like they said on tv, ladies were supposed to go first. I was the oldest(at five), I was a girl, so I went first.
Except that my brother didn't believe that. He believed that since HE was the youngest by two and a half years, the "adorable" baby of the family, he should go first. He also believed that I should just LET him go first, since he was the baby.
I could not allow this violation of All That Was Holy in my worldview to continue, so I did what any older sister would do: I tackled him. I took him out at the knees, and he let go of the hose as we both fell back into the grass. My brother did not take this punishment lightly--he fought back as fiercely as he could. We rolled around on the grass, yelling, the forgotten hose releasing all that cool, delicious water into the ground near us.
"WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!! My mother was suddenly hollering at us from the sliding glass door. We froze. "KNOCK IT OFF!!!"
There is nothing more powerful than the Fear of Mom, so of course we hopped right up, covered with grass stains. I ran over to the hose, suddenly thirstier than I had ever been before. I lean over the hose to take a drink.
"AND TURN OFF THAT HOSE!" My mother hollered.
I waited until she wasn't at the door anymore, then quickly took a drink and handed the hose to my brother. Then we ran back to our playing.
Note: This is a melding of every single summer day that my brother and I spent playing together. Yes, we actually did have fights like that, but we never actually ever hurt each other. Except once or twice. Maybe three times.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Idiot
It was my own fault. I have no one to blame but myself. Zane was playing and didn't want to come and eat, so I'm the one who started it.
"Zane, if you don't come and eat your food, your dragon is going to eat it," I said. This is his dragon:
It's the 'big' dragon from the movie How to Train Your Dragon, one of Zane's favorite movies that he has seen seventy-billion times. In the movie the 'big' dragon eats the little dragons who don't bring him food. This particular version of the 'big' dragon comes with three little dragons that you can put in his mouth. The little dragons travel to the belly of the 'big' dragon, and there's a hatch to open so you can retrieve them and do it all over again.
I thought that Zane would become interested in his breakfast if I told him the dragon would eat it, and I was right. Sort of. Zane came to the table and sat down and picked up his fork, and I turned away to get my own plate of eggs. I heard a giggle, and turned around. There was Zane, his fork of eggs inserted into the mouth of the dragon. My son was feeding the dragon his breakfast.
"Ack!" I screeched. "Zane, no!" I moved quickly to the table, and pulled the fork out of 'big' dragon. I explained that the dragon was perfectly capable of eating his own eggs without any help from him. And I emphatically asserted that under NO circumstances were dragons supposed to eat bacon. They're allergic, you see.
I don't think Zane bought it, but at least he stopped. It took me about thirty minutes to clean all the eggs out of the dragon's belly. And I have no one to blame but myself.
"Zane, if you don't come and eat your food, your dragon is going to eat it," I said. This is his dragon:
It's the 'big' dragon from the movie How to Train Your Dragon, one of Zane's favorite movies that he has seen seventy-billion times. In the movie the 'big' dragon eats the little dragons who don't bring him food. This particular version of the 'big' dragon comes with three little dragons that you can put in his mouth. The little dragons travel to the belly of the 'big' dragon, and there's a hatch to open so you can retrieve them and do it all over again.
I thought that Zane would become interested in his breakfast if I told him the dragon would eat it, and I was right. Sort of. Zane came to the table and sat down and picked up his fork, and I turned away to get my own plate of eggs. I heard a giggle, and turned around. There was Zane, his fork of eggs inserted into the mouth of the dragon. My son was feeding the dragon his breakfast.
"Ack!" I screeched. "Zane, no!" I moved quickly to the table, and pulled the fork out of 'big' dragon. I explained that the dragon was perfectly capable of eating his own eggs without any help from him. And I emphatically asserted that under NO circumstances were dragons supposed to eat bacon. They're allergic, you see.
I don't think Zane bought it, but at least he stopped. It took me about thirty minutes to clean all the eggs out of the dragon's belly. And I have no one to blame but myself.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Double Take
I was at the mirror in the bathroom this morning, about to dry my hair. I did not look at my son when he walked into the room. Mentally I was still in my bed fast asleep.
"Mama, I got your balls here," Zane said.
It took a couple of seconds for those words to compute, my face to register "Huh?" then a couple more seconds for me to turn in his direction.
Zane was holding a bag of colorful plastic balls from his toy box. He smiled at me as he held out the bag.
It was at that moment that I decided that I needed a cup of coffee.
"Mama, I got your balls here," Zane said.
It took a couple of seconds for those words to compute, my face to register "Huh?" then a couple more seconds for me to turn in his direction.
Zane was holding a bag of colorful plastic balls from his toy box. He smiled at me as he held out the bag.
It was at that moment that I decided that I needed a cup of coffee.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Happiness
Happiness is always a good goal to aim toward, and I was very happy at least once this week, which I consider a victory. Yay me!
I got another award from the wondermous Deirdre Eden-Coppel, who based her award on what she read of my blog. That is so very cool! She is a great visual artist--check this out:
Pretty awesome picture, isn't it?
Anyway, happiness is something that I have to work very hard at. Every day, I have to consciously make a decision that I am going to be happy. I spend a lot of time thinking of all the things that can go wrong, which just plain sucks. It also tends to depress the heck out of me, and who needs that?
I think that some mental disorders are future-oriented, and I have absolutely no research to support that. Anxiety, for instance, is all about the big "What if?" Everything is a worst case scenario because there is no target for the fear. It's all about what is going to rather than what IS. No room for the present in all that worrying about tomorrow!
Because it is so easy for me to get ensnared by the "What if?s" in life, I decided to make a conscious decision to BE happy. It's a big shift in my gears--I have to stop and focus on the sound of my breathing or the warmth of the sun on my skin or brightness of a full moon. Sometimes it is a real effort to stop and ponder these little things, especially when my stress level is high. But I try to take a couple of minutes a day to work on this, and it seems to be working. These little changes will result in a big change down the road, and maybe one of these days the "What if?s" won't bother me so much.
I got another award from the wondermous Deirdre Eden-Coppel, who based her award on what she read of my blog. That is so very cool! She is a great visual artist--check this out:
Pretty awesome picture, isn't it?
Anyway, happiness is something that I have to work very hard at. Every day, I have to consciously make a decision that I am going to be happy. I spend a lot of time thinking of all the things that can go wrong, which just plain sucks. It also tends to depress the heck out of me, and who needs that?
I think that some mental disorders are future-oriented, and I have absolutely no research to support that. Anxiety, for instance, is all about the big "What if?" Everything is a worst case scenario because there is no target for the fear. It's all about what is going to rather than what IS. No room for the present in all that worrying about tomorrow!
Because it is so easy for me to get ensnared by the "What if?s" in life, I decided to make a conscious decision to BE happy. It's a big shift in my gears--I have to stop and focus on the sound of my breathing or the warmth of the sun on my skin or brightness of a full moon. Sometimes it is a real effort to stop and ponder these little things, especially when my stress level is high. But I try to take a couple of minutes a day to work on this, and it seems to be working. These little changes will result in a big change down the road, and maybe one of these days the "What if?s" won't bother me so much.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Gratitude
Guess what? This is fiction, so don't freak out!
"Give it back!" I heard my brother yelling, and I walked around the corner of the apartment building toward the playground to check it out. He was standing nose to nose with another boy who appeared to also be eight. The two boys were mirror images of defiant children, with their chins jutting out, hands fisted on their hips.
"No! It's mine!" said the other boy. He held up his prize in one fist, intent on keeping what was in his grip.
I sighed loudly. I had told my brother that if he brought one of his Marvel action figures outside of the house, some other kid would want it. When we got home from school, Albert had wanted to take the Hulk outside to play in the sandbox. I had told him not to do it, but he didn't ever listen, and since he was my baby brother, I almost always gave in. Now I got to clean up the mess, without any thanks from him. I waded through the sea of bystanders into the center of the arena.
"What is going on here?" I pitched my voice a little louder than usual to get their attention. It did no good.
"Give my Hulk back right now!" My brother's face was starting to turn crimson. It was the color that meant he would either explode or cry. Or both. I did not want to have to explain the situation to my mother when she got home.
"I told you, it's mine!" The other boy was being kind of a jerk, I decided. Considering that his size was extremely round, I thought that Jerk-boy should be more polite.
I was ready to take Albert and go home, back to our apartment, to get started on our homework before supper. I marched over to Jerk-boy. Being thirteen and taller, I roughly grabbed the wrist holding the action figure and extracted it from his smaller hand. I wasn't gentle, and I heard some cracking as I pried the fingers open, but I was the more determined, and so I was the victor.
When I had the toy back, I let go of Jerk-boy's arm and he fell right on his butt onto the ground. The sound of the bystanders laughing reminded me of their presence, and I vaguely wondered why it was so entertaining to watch two eight year olds fight.
Jerk-boy struggled to his feet, holding onto his hand and crying. He gave me an angry look and ran off, shoving the crowd out of his way. A few jeers followed him, but I was more interested in Albert.
"Are you okay?" I put my hand on his shoulder. Albert jerked angrily from my touch. He whirled to face me, and I noticed the dirt on his face, and on his clothes, from playing in the sandbox.
"Why do you always have to do that?" Albert raised two fists and slammed them into my chest as hard as he could. I didn't even pretend to flinch.
"Why do I have to do what?" I responded, bewildered. I expected his gratitude. I had retrieved his toy for him. Why wasn't he happy about this?
"You get in my way!" Albert screamed, and began trying to hit me repeatedly with his small fist.
"I think that you should show a little gratitude that you have a big brother to help you out when you need it," I was starting to get angry. My brother was not ever grateful when I helped him out like I did today. He never thanked me or hugged me or anything!
"All I am trying to do is help," I insisted.
"Don't help!" Albert screamed at me, and started to cry. He began running toward our apartment, and the crowd began to disperse. I looked down at the Incredible Hulk toy in my hand, sighed again, and turned around to follow Albert. I took two steps before I stumbled over something in the dirt/sand. The Hulk looked back at me from the grass. I did a double take. I held a Hulk in my hand, and there was one on the ground. I looked from one to the other for several second, my brain not processing what I was seeing at first.
There were two Hulks, which meant that someone else besides Albert had decided to take their toys outside today. I was horrified that I had taken a toy that belonged to Jerk-boy. I didn't even know his name. I had no way to find him. I was ashamed. I was a bully. No wonder Albert was so angry and ungrateful.
Just then I heard a loud popping sound, and a scream. I looked up and saw my brother standing for a second, people running from him, before he crumbled to the pavement near the door to the building. I began to run to him. Jerk-boy was standing a few feet away, and in his hands was a gun.
As I reached him I heard a rattling sound as the last breath Albert ever took left his body. I had heard that sound before. I shook him, as if trying to wake him up. It was too late.
I turned to look at Jerk-boy, who was still standing there, holding the gun, as if he were in a trance. His eyes were round and locked on Albert's body. My tears did not prevent my vision from suddenly going red, nor did they stop my feet as I stood up, nor did they stop my movement as I walked over to Jerk-boy and grabbed the gun from him.
"Here, this one is yours," I gave him his action figure back. There were sirens in the distance, getting nearer. I raised the gun, pointed it at his head, and pulled the trigger. The loudness muffled the sound of my sobs for a moment. Jerk-boy dropped to the ground and didn't move. The gun fell from my hand. I woodenly walked back to my brother's body, sat down, and waited for the cops to arrive.
At least our mother would be grateful not to have us around anymore, I thought.
"Give it back!" I heard my brother yelling, and I walked around the corner of the apartment building toward the playground to check it out. He was standing nose to nose with another boy who appeared to also be eight. The two boys were mirror images of defiant children, with their chins jutting out, hands fisted on their hips.
"No! It's mine!" said the other boy. He held up his prize in one fist, intent on keeping what was in his grip.
I sighed loudly. I had told my brother that if he brought one of his Marvel action figures outside of the house, some other kid would want it. When we got home from school, Albert had wanted to take the Hulk outside to play in the sandbox. I had told him not to do it, but he didn't ever listen, and since he was my baby brother, I almost always gave in. Now I got to clean up the mess, without any thanks from him. I waded through the sea of bystanders into the center of the arena.
"What is going on here?" I pitched my voice a little louder than usual to get their attention. It did no good.
"Give my Hulk back right now!" My brother's face was starting to turn crimson. It was the color that meant he would either explode or cry. Or both. I did not want to have to explain the situation to my mother when she got home.
"I told you, it's mine!" The other boy was being kind of a jerk, I decided. Considering that his size was extremely round, I thought that Jerk-boy should be more polite.
I was ready to take Albert and go home, back to our apartment, to get started on our homework before supper. I marched over to Jerk-boy. Being thirteen and taller, I roughly grabbed the wrist holding the action figure and extracted it from his smaller hand. I wasn't gentle, and I heard some cracking as I pried the fingers open, but I was the more determined, and so I was the victor.
When I had the toy back, I let go of Jerk-boy's arm and he fell right on his butt onto the ground. The sound of the bystanders laughing reminded me of their presence, and I vaguely wondered why it was so entertaining to watch two eight year olds fight.
Jerk-boy struggled to his feet, holding onto his hand and crying. He gave me an angry look and ran off, shoving the crowd out of his way. A few jeers followed him, but I was more interested in Albert.
"Are you okay?" I put my hand on his shoulder. Albert jerked angrily from my touch. He whirled to face me, and I noticed the dirt on his face, and on his clothes, from playing in the sandbox.
"Why do you always have to do that?" Albert raised two fists and slammed them into my chest as hard as he could. I didn't even pretend to flinch.
"Why do I have to do what?" I responded, bewildered. I expected his gratitude. I had retrieved his toy for him. Why wasn't he happy about this?
"You get in my way!" Albert screamed, and began trying to hit me repeatedly with his small fist.
"I think that you should show a little gratitude that you have a big brother to help you out when you need it," I was starting to get angry. My brother was not ever grateful when I helped him out like I did today. He never thanked me or hugged me or anything!
"All I am trying to do is help," I insisted.
"Don't help!" Albert screamed at me, and started to cry. He began running toward our apartment, and the crowd began to disperse. I looked down at the Incredible Hulk toy in my hand, sighed again, and turned around to follow Albert. I took two steps before I stumbled over something in the dirt/sand. The Hulk looked back at me from the grass. I did a double take. I held a Hulk in my hand, and there was one on the ground. I looked from one to the other for several second, my brain not processing what I was seeing at first.
There were two Hulks, which meant that someone else besides Albert had decided to take their toys outside today. I was horrified that I had taken a toy that belonged to Jerk-boy. I didn't even know his name. I had no way to find him. I was ashamed. I was a bully. No wonder Albert was so angry and ungrateful.
Just then I heard a loud popping sound, and a scream. I looked up and saw my brother standing for a second, people running from him, before he crumbled to the pavement near the door to the building. I began to run to him. Jerk-boy was standing a few feet away, and in his hands was a gun.
As I reached him I heard a rattling sound as the last breath Albert ever took left his body. I had heard that sound before. I shook him, as if trying to wake him up. It was too late.
I turned to look at Jerk-boy, who was still standing there, holding the gun, as if he were in a trance. His eyes were round and locked on Albert's body. My tears did not prevent my vision from suddenly going red, nor did they stop my feet as I stood up, nor did they stop my movement as I walked over to Jerk-boy and grabbed the gun from him.
"Here, this one is yours," I gave him his action figure back. There were sirens in the distance, getting nearer. I raised the gun, pointed it at his head, and pulled the trigger. The loudness muffled the sound of my sobs for a moment. Jerk-boy dropped to the ground and didn't move. The gun fell from my hand. I woodenly walked back to my brother's body, sat down, and waited for the cops to arrive.
At least our mother would be grateful not to have us around anymore, I thought.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Funny Felines
Felines are creatures of extreme habit. Like all animals, they thrive on consistency, and are completely discombobulated when new things suddenly pop up.
Morris is an old cat, in the Old Geezer phase of life, almost sixteen. His life is very consistent: sleeping, yowling for treats, eating, and pooping. In that order. Morris is all about simple. And there is nothing more relaxing than watching a cat sleep. Maybe a baby
The other day I added a new water bottle upstairs for the cats to drink from, the kind that refill themselves until the bottle is empty. When the bowl empties out enough, the pressure of the water in the bottle forces its way out of the bottle and into the bowl. Simple.
A couple of days after I filled the new water bottle and put it on the floor for the cats, I saw Morris approach the bowl and start to drink. I applaud silently that he is not snubbing the new water dish, and just as I think that thought, the water bottle made a gurgling noise and the bowl began filling up.
Morris' reaction was unexpected. He leapt about a foot in the air and landed about two feet away from the bowl. Without turning around! He had the most surprised expression on his face, too. It was definitely what they call a 'WTF?' face. I didn't even know that cats knew that phrase. And I sure as heck had no idea that he could move like that.
It was Morris' furry 'WTF?' face that did it. I started laughing. I started laughing and laughed so hard that I had to sit down to catch my breath. For the rest of the day, that image of Morris leaping backwards would pop into my head, and I would giggle.
It would be two days before Morris would come anywhere near the water dish.
He hasn't tried to drink, but that old cat seems to be trying to get used to the water dish again. I have to give him points for bravery, as well as trying something new. And for waking up from his nap to do those things.
Morris is an old cat, in the Old Geezer phase of life, almost sixteen. His life is very consistent: sleeping, yowling for treats, eating, and pooping. In that order. Morris is all about simple. And there is nothing more relaxing than watching a cat sleep. Maybe a baby
The other day I added a new water bottle upstairs for the cats to drink from, the kind that refill themselves until the bottle is empty. When the bowl empties out enough, the pressure of the water in the bottle forces its way out of the bottle and into the bowl. Simple.
A couple of days after I filled the new water bottle and put it on the floor for the cats, I saw Morris approach the bowl and start to drink. I applaud silently that he is not snubbing the new water dish, and just as I think that thought, the water bottle made a gurgling noise and the bowl began filling up.
Morris' reaction was unexpected. He leapt about a foot in the air and landed about two feet away from the bowl. Without turning around! He had the most surprised expression on his face, too. It was definitely what they call a 'WTF?' face. I didn't even know that cats knew that phrase. And I sure as heck had no idea that he could move like that.
It was Morris' furry 'WTF?' face that did it. I started laughing. I started laughing and laughed so hard that I had to sit down to catch my breath. For the rest of the day, that image of Morris leaping backwards would pop into my head, and I would giggle.
It would be two days before Morris would come anywhere near the water dish.
He hasn't tried to drink, but that old cat seems to be trying to get used to the water dish again. I have to give him points for bravery, as well as trying something new. And for waking up from his nap to do those things.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Elevators
Elevator riding is an act of faith, I've decided, no matter your religion or beliefs. Think about it.
An elevator is a box on a string, pulled up and let down by a motor. Pretty flimsy, really. Not much margin for error. Yet each day millions of people step into those boxes and trust that that string is going to stay strong and keep them safe while carrying them to their destination. Most of us step between those steel doors without paying any sort of attention, probably talking on our cell phones or texting, and just press a button. We never consider that, while in that little box stuffed with other people or not, we have given control of our lives to something insubstantial. Something that we never see, but keeps us from falling into the darkness. I occasionally wonder about that 'something', and I sometimes whisper a quick 'thank you' while I am riding.
What if the elevator deposited you where you needed to be instead of where you want to be? Would you demand to be let back on the elevator or let yourself wander around for a bit? Would you accept the elevator's decision regarding your needs or would you argue or fight about it? Would you expect the elevator to solve all your problems during the ride? What if you're afraid of the elevator and never have the faith needed to step into that box?
I probably think about things like this just a bit more than necessary.
And speaking of elevators, my friend Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times. is the awesome parent of a child with autism who likes trains and elevators, and since it is Autism Awareness Month, you should probably go and visit her blog. She has been guest posting on other blogs and answering questions and just being a wellspring of information. She might not like being called a 'wellspring', but there it is. Since Autism has been said to occur in 1:110 children, you probably know someone, or will know someone, who has autism. I think that is a darn good reason to read up on the topic!
An elevator is a box on a string, pulled up and let down by a motor. Pretty flimsy, really. Not much margin for error. Yet each day millions of people step into those boxes and trust that that string is going to stay strong and keep them safe while carrying them to their destination. Most of us step between those steel doors without paying any sort of attention, probably talking on our cell phones or texting, and just press a button. We never consider that, while in that little box stuffed with other people or not, we have given control of our lives to something insubstantial. Something that we never see, but keeps us from falling into the darkness. I occasionally wonder about that 'something', and I sometimes whisper a quick 'thank you' while I am riding.
What if the elevator deposited you where you needed to be instead of where you want to be? Would you demand to be let back on the elevator or let yourself wander around for a bit? Would you accept the elevator's decision regarding your needs or would you argue or fight about it? Would you expect the elevator to solve all your problems during the ride? What if you're afraid of the elevator and never have the faith needed to step into that box?
I probably think about things like this just a bit more than necessary.
And speaking of elevators, my friend Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times. is the awesome parent of a child with autism who likes trains and elevators, and since it is Autism Awareness Month, you should probably go and visit her blog. She has been guest posting on other blogs and answering questions and just being a wellspring of information. She might not like being called a 'wellspring', but there it is. Since Autism has been said to occur in 1:110 children, you probably know someone, or will know someone, who has autism. I think that is a darn good reason to read up on the topic!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Distraction
Note: This week, your memoir prompt assignment is to think of a sound or a smell the reminds you of something from your past and write a post about that memory.
Daydreams can often involve reliving old memories. We take them out of the box in our minds where we hide our treasures and hold them up to the light to see if those memories still sparkle. Some of those treasures seem to hold more sparkle than others, of course, and those are the ones we enjoy the most.
I was in high school, and like many high school students, I had a job. I worked at a Roy Rogers restaurant. I remember that I had to wear a godawful straw cowboy hat and cheerfully say "Howdy!" to everyone entering the restaurant. Those two things gravely insulted the native Texan within me. Texans did not wear cowboy hats indoors pre-Urban Cowboy, and we did not say "Howdy!". And Roy Rogers was born in Cincinnati, which is so very much NOT Texas. I was a bit of a snob about Texas when I was in high school.
They gave me a job as a cashier, which was a mistake of epic proportions on the part of Management, given my people skills. How Management could expect ANYONE to smile and be cheerful when they were wearing a horrid hat and smelled like french fries was beyond my tiny teenager brain.
I don't remember if the restaurant was full or empty. I don't remember what time it was. I think it was a Saturday afternoon, but it's a known fact that french fry fumes have an anesthetic effect on one's memory, so who knows? What I do know is that I was looking next to my cash register and trying to identify some sort of ketchupy-mustardy-mayo sort of stain that had fallen on the counter. There was the sizzling sound that the french fries make as they were placed into the hot oil to cook, and there was the ever present smell of french fries. Then I noticed that a customer was standing on the other side of the counter.
I looked up, smiling, ready to say, "Howdy!", and paused. I looked right into those eyes, and was transfixed. Someone could have struck me right in the middle of my forehead with a hammer, and I probably would not have noticed.
He was beautiful. Tall, dark hair, a strong jaw, a defiant nose, and bright blue eyes, smiling back at me. At that moment, a song by America started playing in my head:
"You can do magic,
You can have anything that you desire..."
I forgot to breathe. I think I may have drooled a little. I was struck speechless, and I didn't care. I didn't care what I looked like with that ridiculous hat on my head. I didn't care that I smelled like french fries. As far as I was concerned, THAT Boy was the Only Boy in the entire universe at that moment.
"You know darn well when you cast your spell you will get your way..."
The Boy gazed back at me, and I think he was just as enthralled as I was. His expression became bemused, but he did not take his eyes off of mine.
Ours was a sudden and intense intimacy. We just stood there, in the middle of Roy Rogers, not saying a word, just looking at each other. It was as if we had known each other at some other point in the past. Entire lifetimes together, impossibly brief, flickered fast between our eyes.
"So this is love at first sight," was my only coherent thought, the chorus from "You Can Do Magic" repeating in the back of my mind.
"Hey! Are you going to take his order or not?" One of the other cashiers put her hand on my shoulder, breaking the spell. I broke eye contact and remembered to breathe. I inhaled the fumes of french fries, and coughed. When I looked up once more, The Boy was shaking his head as if he had been asleep on his feet. I took his order, his money, and then placed the items he wanted on a tray. I gave him an extra fries, because I could give him nothing else at the time, and somehow I knew that this was it.
I never saw That Boy again, but every time I hear that song, I think of him. Every now and then the smell of just cooked french fries will bring him to mind as well. I used to wonder if seeing him again would have the same electric effect on us both, but with time I've decided that it wouldn't matter.
We had a moment, and that was all we needed.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Cooking Can Be Fun
Cooking kind of scares me. It always has. I remember when I was a kid visiting my grandmother, she would use her hand as a measuring cup, adding a fistful of this or a pinch of that, without looking at a recipe. Who the heck can compete with that kind of pressure?
But I was recently invited to a dinner party at my friend Kermette's house. Not having much experience with dinner parties that don't involve BBQ and paper plates, I was a little concerned about my long forgotten table manners. I generally don't do well in situations with more than three forks and two plates. I was afraid I'd use the oyster fork incorrectly and be shamed into leaving the state.
There were ten of us ladies invited. We chatted amiably amongst ourselves while we waited for our hostess. Kermette came downstairs and brought a cup with numbers in it; we had to pick a number to divide us into teams. Each team was responsible for cooking a different 'course' of the evening meal--appetizer, salad, meat, etc. We all immediately kidded Kermette about her extravagant ruse to get us all to cook for her, but we were kind of intrigued. I could tell because several ladies immediately declared that they would need some sort of alcoholic beverage to get their courage up. We are a raucous bunch when it's just us girls.
My partner Patty and I got the job of making Ratatouille. After someone told us how to pronounce it, we got to work. the first order of business was chopping up zucchini, eggplant, and squash. I generally am not very good with knives, but I was extremely careful. Nothing like severing an artery to kill a party. We were momentarily distracted by the recipe calling for a 'dutch oven'. Huh? We ended up using a large pot instead. We were to saute' the first group of veggies while chopping up a second round, including three different peppers. I was in charge of mincing garlic. I have never minced garlic before. I gave it the old college try, in the spirit of the evening.
That was when Patty noticed that we had an extra yellow squash. Oops! Patty made quick work of cutting the squash up and slipping it into the pot with the peppers and the garlic. Then we added stewed tomatoes, wine, and various spices. While that cooked, I grated the parm cheese, the last part of the recipe. In the meantime, we snacked on the appetizer, a hot cheesy crab dip which was served with homemade artisan bread baked by our friend Dee. My sister-in-law and her partner got the task of cooking the Cornish game hens, while another group made a Caesar salad, and the last team worked on risotto.
Then it was dinner time! Kermette had her formal dining room set up fancy.
Cornish Game Hens
Ratatouille
Risotto
Dinner is Served!!!
It was a wonderful evening!
But I was recently invited to a dinner party at my friend Kermette's house. Not having much experience with dinner parties that don't involve BBQ and paper plates, I was a little concerned about my long forgotten table manners. I generally don't do well in situations with more than three forks and two plates. I was afraid I'd use the oyster fork incorrectly and be shamed into leaving the state.
There were ten of us ladies invited. We chatted amiably amongst ourselves while we waited for our hostess. Kermette came downstairs and brought a cup with numbers in it; we had to pick a number to divide us into teams. Each team was responsible for cooking a different 'course' of the evening meal--appetizer, salad, meat, etc. We all immediately kidded Kermette about her extravagant ruse to get us all to cook for her, but we were kind of intrigued. I could tell because several ladies immediately declared that they would need some sort of alcoholic beverage to get their courage up. We are a raucous bunch when it's just us girls.
My partner Patty and I got the job of making Ratatouille. After someone told us how to pronounce it, we got to work. the first order of business was chopping up zucchini, eggplant, and squash. I generally am not very good with knives, but I was extremely careful. Nothing like severing an artery to kill a party. We were momentarily distracted by the recipe calling for a 'dutch oven'. Huh? We ended up using a large pot instead. We were to saute' the first group of veggies while chopping up a second round, including three different peppers. I was in charge of mincing garlic. I have never minced garlic before. I gave it the old college try, in the spirit of the evening.
That was when Patty noticed that we had an extra yellow squash. Oops! Patty made quick work of cutting the squash up and slipping it into the pot with the peppers and the garlic. Then we added stewed tomatoes, wine, and various spices. While that cooked, I grated the parm cheese, the last part of the recipe. In the meantime, we snacked on the appetizer, a hot cheesy crab dip which was served with homemade artisan bread baked by our friend Dee. My sister-in-law and her partner got the task of cooking the Cornish game hens, while another group made a Caesar salad, and the last team worked on risotto.
Then it was dinner time! Kermette had her formal dining room set up fancy.
Cornish Game Hens
Ratatouille
Risotto
Dinner is Served!!!
It was a wonderful evening!
It is MIDNIGHT!
okay, it is not midnight. It is after. I just came home from a wonderful party and I've had a few glasses of wine with dinner.
Cats do not understand the concept of 'I've had too much,' by the way. They do not seem to be impressed. All they seem to care about is food.
I guess I should be shocked. I am not. If I were a cat, it is likely that that would be my primary concern as well.
I would be a good cat.
Cats do not understand the concept of 'I've had too much,' by the way. They do not seem to be impressed. All they seem to care about is food.
I guess I should be shocked. I am not. If I were a cat, it is likely that that would be my primary concern as well.
I would be a good cat.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Being The Weekend
By the time I gather my things together at the end of the day and pick up Larry, we are pretty exhausted from stress. Many days this year, in particular, I feel singularly beaten down. This discourages my attempts to adopt a more positive attitude in life, although I plan to keep trying. It also makes it more difficult to get up and go to work every day. Who would want to go to work feeling like they had a huge target on their back? By the time we arrive at the daycare, it is occasionally difficult just to get out of the car, we are so despondent. Thank God it's the weekend, Larry and I say to each other, but we are thinking of the same thing: the brilliant smile of our son.
But then I walk into that daycare and my son comes running to me, smiling, wanting to be picked up. And the stress begins to melt off my body like candle wax. His teacher shared with me yesterday that in the middle of a game, Zane stopped what he was doing. He had been participating in a game of musical chairs, was laughing, and seemed to be having fun, his teacher reported, but he stopped. Why stop?
Because he somehow knew that it was close to pickup time.
Because he wanted to sit where he could see the door.
Because he wanted to see his parents when they arrived.
Best. Stress. Relief. Ever.
But then I walk into that daycare and my son comes running to me, smiling, wanting to be picked up. And the stress begins to melt off my body like candle wax. His teacher shared with me yesterday that in the middle of a game, Zane stopped what he was doing. He had been participating in a game of musical chairs, was laughing, and seemed to be having fun, his teacher reported, but he stopped. Why stop?
Because he somehow knew that it was close to pickup time.
Because he wanted to sit where he could see the door.
Because he wanted to see his parents when they arrived.
Best. Stress. Relief. Ever.
Friday, April 1, 2011
April Fool
April is such a lovely month, Talia thought. Just look at all the wildflowers all along the side of the road. So colorful.
Talia smiled absentmindedly to herself as she drove her car down the highway. She was on a hunt for bargains. It was her favorite hobby, to find a piece of clothing or some other prize for the lowest price possible. There was no greater joy for her than to find treasures.
A car swerved into her lane, and Talia slammed on her brakes, then laid on the horn. The car sped off.
"Stupid sonofabitch," she muttered. "I'd like to beat his head in with a baseball bat for cutting me off. I hope he dies for scaring me!" Talia took a deep breath and remembered why she was smiling.
The radio began broadcasting the latest talk show on WGZS, the 24 hour Jesus channel, her favorite Christian station. She listened as the radio announcer began to read about deliverance from the wicked. Psalm 94, Talia thought, and so very appropriate. Lots of wicked out there nowadays. Lots of repenting was needed to right the world again, in her opinion.
"...Understand, you stupid people! You fools, when will you be wise?" The radio intoned.
"Amen!" Talia responded.
Her cell phone rang just as she pulled into a parking spot at the mall. It was her dearest friend Celia.
"Why Celia, how nice to hear from you!" Talia smiled as Celia began tearfully describing some awful thing that her boss, Mr. Dupree, had done just that morning. He wrote Celia up for something, Talia didn't really catch that part because Celia started crying all over again. Mr. Dupree sounded like the worse boss in the world, if Celia were to be believed.
"Celia, you need to get yourself together and stand up to that man!" The sound of more crying filtered through the earpiece of the phone. Talia waited for a pause while she thought longingly about all the wonderful shoes that were 50% off this morning only. 70% off with her store coupon! She sighed.
"Calm down and go have your lunch. After lunch you go see that Mr. Dupree and let him know that he can't treat you like that!" Another pause. "That's it, take a deep breath. You can do it!"
"Okay, honey, I've got to go now. You take care. I'll be praying for you!" Talia pushed the 'end call' button and sat for a moment. The radio announcer was finishing his sermon regarding wicked gossip and how it poisons the soul. Talia nodded at the radio, but she smiled. Then she picked up her cell phone and dialed her son-in-law. He was at work, but she knew he would take her call.
"Mr. Dupree's office," the secretary sounded bored. As soon as Talia identified herself, she was on the line with her daughter's husband. Talia told her son-in-law every single thing that Celia had just told her, leaving out Talia's advice. Mr. Dupree was quite angry when Talia finished. She couldn't wait to hear what happened next, and wished that she had a front row seat when Celia got what she got. Ought to teach her some better manners, like respecting her superiors.
The radio announcer was speaking of the sins of the wicked and Talia turned off the ignition. She put her cell phone in her purse, gathered her reusable shopping bags, locked the car and began walking toward the store. She began humming "How Great Thou Art" as she thought of all the great buys she would find today. Maybe some lovely shoes that she could wear for the month of April.
NOTE: This week's Red Dress Club prompt is to think of a person(fictional or non) who drives you crazy and then write from their perspective. The person I chose does not actually exist.
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