It is the last day of 2011.
And that sucks.
When I was a kid, time seemed to pass so slowly--I remember that it took FOREVER for summer vacation to arrive, never mind Christmas! Now, when I need time to slow down so I can process everything, it seems to have sped up, and everything is now a blur.
Part of this blurriness may be technology related. There's all sorts of electronic devices competing for our attention, and they are so very pretty and shiny. The internet has all sort of interesting pictures, stories, people, that can be accessed in an instant. Smart phones, video games, etc., all keep us focused on things that maybe, just maybe, aren't that important.
Is it really that important that Kim Kardashian has a big butt? Is it really that important that Charlie Sheen acted crazy to get out of a contract? Is it really that important that this current bickering Congress sucks more than a hooker at a truck stop?
No to the first two. I'm still thinking about that last one.
It IS important to tell the people around you that you love them. It IS important to hug your children close every day, if you can. It IS important to hold hands with your spouse. It IS important to be in the moment at every opportunity. I need to be reminded of that more often.
I think that is what I need to work on in 2012. It will be hard to put the smart phone down; because it is probably smarter than me. But I am going to make an effort. Unless the smart phone tells me not to.
Happy New Year, everyone!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Are You Prepared?
I spend a lot of time thinking about emergency planning. It sort of
feeds into my general "what if?" anxiety about the world, but I think emergency planning channels that anxiety into something positive. There will be lots of emergency situations in a person's life. Maybe not Hurricane Irene emergency, although there may be some of those. But there may be fires, there may be tornadoes, there may be zombies, there may be children who accidentally run through the plate glass of the patio door. Life happens, and sometimes it is messy.
We have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen, even before I attempted cooking, because I "what-if-ed".
We have a first aid kit that has burn gel packets and a special pad that helps stop bleeding. We have a radio/cell phone charger and lanterns that don't require batteries to work. I've taken as many of the free online classes offered by FEMA as possible so that I have an understanding of the system that emergency responders use. I actually know what ICS and NIMS stand for, and that is an accomplishment for me, with my horrible memory.
They say that you are supposed to stockpile enough food, water, etc., for three days, and I'm working on that. I've got the water put aside, even some for the cats. The food has been a little more tricky, but I've heard that Wal-mart sells MREs(meals ready to eat), and I am going to check it out.
All just in case. It's better to not need it, and have it, than to need it and not have it. If that makes any sort of sense.
In the event of an emergency, as far as I'm concerned, knowledge is power. The more you know about what to do, the calmer you will be. That is more than half the battle! Hysterical people do stupid things. Children take their cue from the adults they see. If the parents are calm, then no matter what happens, the kids are more likely to believe that they will eventually be okay.
I do not want to be the hysterical parent. I want to be the center-of-the-storm-calm parent. I can get hysterical and down a case of whiskey later.
Unless the zombies drink it all.
We have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen, even before I attempted cooking, because I "what-if-ed".
We have a first aid kit that has burn gel packets and a special pad that helps stop bleeding. We have a radio/cell phone charger and lanterns that don't require batteries to work. I've taken as many of the free online classes offered by FEMA as possible so that I have an understanding of the system that emergency responders use. I actually know what ICS and NIMS stand for, and that is an accomplishment for me, with my horrible memory.
They say that you are supposed to stockpile enough food, water, etc., for three days, and I'm working on that. I've got the water put aside, even some for the cats. The food has been a little more tricky, but I've heard that Wal-mart sells MREs(meals ready to eat), and I am going to check it out.
All just in case. It's better to not need it, and have it, than to need it and not have it. If that makes any sort of sense.
In the event of an emergency, as far as I'm concerned, knowledge is power. The more you know about what to do, the calmer you will be. That is more than half the battle! Hysterical people do stupid things. Children take their cue from the adults they see. If the parents are calm, then no matter what happens, the kids are more likely to believe that they will eventually be okay.
I do not want to be the hysterical parent. I want to be the center-of-the-storm-calm parent. I can get hysterical and down a case of whiskey later.
Unless the zombies drink it all.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Mamakat: And That's The Way It Was
Mamakat's prompt: This year in blog posts…choose a favorite post from each month of 2011 and share. I had fun looking back! The pictures are random. I posted something every day in 2011, which was actually a New Year's resolution. Yay me!
January:
I liked this post about the benefits of ruckus raising. I would like to see a candidate add this particular plank to his platform. I'd vote for them.
February:
This post is alllll about my feelings about Valentine's Day. Although chocolate is always appreciated on any day of the year.
March:
I got deep about Robert Frost in this post. I was in a mood. Having a T. Rex in your backseat will do that.
April:
I jumped right into the A to Z Blogging Challenge with both feet, and felt very accomplished. This post was for the letter E and probably could have also been used for the letter P(for phobia!).
May:
I had some new experiences with parenting, and decided that my son and I are not going to be BFFs.
June:
Nobody ever believes me when I mention the number of times I've set my kitchen on fire. Actually, even I have trouble believing it.
July:
I firmly believe that the word "can't" should be erased from our language. It is a bad word for kids to use!
August:
I am still looking for this chair, dammit! If you see it, please let me know.
September:
One of the hardest parts of being a parent is letting kids climb their own mountains.
October:
I shared my visualization exercise with the folks at Write on Edge. It was challenging to put it down on paper after so many years in my head.
November:
I wrote about how some women compensate for perceived social shortcomings.
December:
I celebrated my child's interest in pushing past every boundary, even if it's my job as a parent to rein him back in.
January:
I liked this post about the benefits of ruckus raising. I would like to see a candidate add this particular plank to his platform. I'd vote for them.
February:
This post is alllll about my feelings about Valentine's Day. Although chocolate is always appreciated on any day of the year.
March:
I got deep about Robert Frost in this post. I was in a mood. Having a T. Rex in your backseat will do that.
April:
I jumped right into the A to Z Blogging Challenge with both feet, and felt very accomplished. This post was for the letter E and probably could have also been used for the letter P(for phobia!).
May:
I had some new experiences with parenting, and decided that my son and I are not going to be BFFs.
June:
Nobody ever believes me when I mention the number of times I've set my kitchen on fire. Actually, even I have trouble believing it.
July:
I firmly believe that the word "can't" should be erased from our language. It is a bad word for kids to use!
August:
I am still looking for this chair, dammit! If you see it, please let me know.
September:
One of the hardest parts of being a parent is letting kids climb their own mountains.
October:
I shared my visualization exercise with the folks at Write on Edge. It was challenging to put it down on paper after so many years in my head.
November:
I wrote about how some women compensate for perceived social shortcomings.
December:
I celebrated my child's interest in pushing past every boundary, even if it's my job as a parent to rein him back in.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wordless Wednesday
This is my Wordless Wednesday picture. Because I was wordless when I saw the mountain of stuff my kid got. The boy made out like a freakin' bandit. I'm a little jealous, I admit. I never had a haul like this when I was a kid!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Not Your Average Bungee Jump
Being sort of lazy, I often just hang my bra from the door knob of my closet. Don't judge! Actually, forget the laziness. I also hang it there because that way I know where it is in the event of a fire. I can grab my kid, purse and my bra and be out the door/window in no time flat. 'Cause I'm all about safety, and not appearing in public with floppy boobs.
On this particular evening, I had the closet door open, and my cat Pounce was sitting just inside the door, hanging out. She tends to hunker down and doze off, like cats do. Something startled her. It could have been the sound of me breathing; that cat is just not all there. Pounce took off like a bat out of hell.
Except that she jumped right into my hanging bra.
I would love to be able to say that Pounce is smart enough that she did not panic and extricated herself without incident. I would be lying. Pounce was hopelessly tangled up in my favorite leopard skin bra, which was still attached to the door. As I stared in complete bewilderment, my poor cat just managed to completely wrap herself in my bra. It was as if my bra had turned into a boa constrictor. I think that Pounce's head was stuck in the cup at one point, but I can't be sure. Pounce was completely hysterical trying to get away from the evil that is my bra. She was doing that wail that cats sometimes do when not sedated. I could not get near Pounce without having my arms ripped to shreds. All I could do is watch and pray that my poor bra did not suffer the consequences.
Finally, Pounce got her back legs back on the ground. Freedom! She took off--forgetting that her upper body was still trapped. My poor, crazy cat traveled about a foot, pulling the closet door shut with a bang...and then she was tossed back to the door. My bra strap was still attached to the doorknob.
Pounce was an unwilling, bungee jumping kitty.
I was laughing hard at the look on her face, because poor Pounce still hadn't connected what she was tangled in with what was happening to her. She just kept trying to get away, and kept ricocheting back to the door. I felt a little guilty about it, but the entire scene was so very ridiculous that I think I can be forgiven. I wish that I had had the foresight to have a video camera ready, but I was shaking so hard from laughter that the picture would have been exceptionally Blair Witch-y.
I was finally able to get to one side of Pounce without getting clawed to ribbons, and lifted the bra strap off of the doorknob. My hysterical kitty took off, with my bra, and ran straight for her hiding place under the bed. It took a couple of hours to coax her out of there so I could untangle her, then she had a flashback and hightailed it back under the bed. She will probably be under there for a couple of days, or until she gets hungry.
Meanwhile, I have a reason to go shopping for bras. Should I feel guilty about that too?
On this particular evening, I had the closet door open, and my cat Pounce was sitting just inside the door, hanging out. She tends to hunker down and doze off, like cats do. Something startled her. It could have been the sound of me breathing; that cat is just not all there. Pounce took off like a bat out of hell.
Except that she jumped right into my hanging bra.
I would love to be able to say that Pounce is smart enough that she did not panic and extricated herself without incident. I would be lying. Pounce was hopelessly tangled up in my favorite leopard skin bra, which was still attached to the door. As I stared in complete bewilderment, my poor cat just managed to completely wrap herself in my bra. It was as if my bra had turned into a boa constrictor. I think that Pounce's head was stuck in the cup at one point, but I can't be sure. Pounce was completely hysterical trying to get away from the evil that is my bra. She was doing that wail that cats sometimes do when not sedated. I could not get near Pounce without having my arms ripped to shreds. All I could do is watch and pray that my poor bra did not suffer the consequences.
Finally, Pounce got her back legs back on the ground. Freedom! She took off--forgetting that her upper body was still trapped. My poor, crazy cat traveled about a foot, pulling the closet door shut with a bang...and then she was tossed back to the door. My bra strap was still attached to the doorknob.
Pounce was an unwilling, bungee jumping kitty.
I was laughing hard at the look on her face, because poor Pounce still hadn't connected what she was tangled in with what was happening to her. She just kept trying to get away, and kept ricocheting back to the door. I felt a little guilty about it, but the entire scene was so very ridiculous that I think I can be forgiven. I wish that I had had the foresight to have a video camera ready, but I was shaking so hard from laughter that the picture would have been exceptionally Blair Witch-y.
I was finally able to get to one side of Pounce without getting clawed to ribbons, and lifted the bra strap off of the doorknob. My hysterical kitty took off, with my bra, and ran straight for her hiding place under the bed. It took a couple of hours to coax her out of there so I could untangle her, then she had a flashback and hightailed it back under the bed. She will probably be under there for a couple of days, or until she gets hungry.
Meanwhile, I have a reason to go shopping for bras. Should I feel guilty about that too?
Monday, December 26, 2011
The A-List: Gone To Texas
Way back before electricity, people would decide to immigrate to Texas, and they would say that they were "Gone to Texas", or just write "GTT" on their front door. People are still heading this way. I've noticed that there have been quite a few Northerners moving to my fair city lately. Some of them are military families, of course, but others just sort of showed up, U-hauls in tow.
Welcome. Texas is a great state, and you will like living here. I have a few pointers if you are interested in blending in with the locals. Even if you are just visiting, these tiny insights may come in handy. Or at least keep you from getting strung up from the nearest tree.
1. The usual stereotypes do not apply. The typical Texan does not look a thing like JR Ewing from the television show Dallas. Not every Hispanic person speaks Spanish with a horrible accent. Nor do we run around dressed like characters from the movie Urban Cowboy. Okay, some of us do, and we taunt them mercilessly. Most Texans do not own cowboy hats, nor do we all own horses. We do, however, own guns. Lots and lots and lots of them. So I guess that that particular stereotype does apply.
2. "Real" chili does not have beans in it. Chili is a big deal here. There's probably chilympiad or chilispiel or similar every weekend in the fall. Frito pie is the perfect dish when a blue norther has blown in and you're freezing your backside off. However, if you put beans in your chili, people are going to point and laugh at you. You can point out that the biggest staple carried around in the Old West was beans. You can mention that beans were eaten at every meal, including chili. I myself know that this makes perfect sense. However, there are many people who go apeshit if you speak these blasphemies in public. It's better to just not even mention it.
3. Never say anything disrespectful about the Alamo. People who see the Alamo for the first time are a bit derisive. It is, after all, tiny in comparison to the many skyscrapers that surround it, and it is hard for some people to believe that a great battle was fought there. The Alamo itself was, and still is, a church. Do not forget that. When you walk through those doors and hear the whispers of the dead, be respectful. There are many people in this state who are intolerant of disparaging comments regarding the shrine of the Alamo. Those people own guns.
4. Football is really the official religion of the state. Yes, the Baptists will get all riled up and the Lutherans will begin praying for my immortal soul, but they can't deny this. The sport of football springs into our imaginations from birth, a beacon of righteousness. The gridiron is a field of battle where all spiritual questions regarding fortitude and strength are answered. The football stadium is the church, and while attendance is mandatory, it is most definitely encouraged. High school football may be the only form of spiritual release for a small town. College football offers a broader view of the well-known truths, such as the lateral pass. The Dallas Cowboys Megachurch in Arlington specializing in healing; slow runners find wings when they are given the football, and all rejoice.
5. We are all about independence. As a state, we admire independence. We think highly of pioneers and trailblazers. We even tend to accept the eccentrics. We respect the rights of people to think for themselves. Independence is our thing. If you get here and decide that you don't want to wear cowboy boots to a rodeo, it's fine by us. Dye your head bright red! Wear argyle in the summer! If you decide that you really need a pickup truck, that is great. Have at it. Be your own person! Be independent! We love that.
Really!
Welcome. Texas is a great state, and you will like living here. I have a few pointers if you are interested in blending in with the locals. Even if you are just visiting, these tiny insights may come in handy. Or at least keep you from getting strung up from the nearest tree.
1. The usual stereotypes do not apply. The typical Texan does not look a thing like JR Ewing from the television show Dallas. Not every Hispanic person speaks Spanish with a horrible accent. Nor do we run around dressed like characters from the movie Urban Cowboy. Okay, some of us do, and we taunt them mercilessly. Most Texans do not own cowboy hats, nor do we all own horses. We do, however, own guns. Lots and lots and lots of them. So I guess that that particular stereotype does apply.
2. "Real" chili does not have beans in it. Chili is a big deal here. There's probably chilympiad or chilispiel or similar every weekend in the fall. Frito pie is the perfect dish when a blue norther has blown in and you're freezing your backside off. However, if you put beans in your chili, people are going to point and laugh at you. You can point out that the biggest staple carried around in the Old West was beans. You can mention that beans were eaten at every meal, including chili. I myself know that this makes perfect sense. However, there are many people who go apeshit if you speak these blasphemies in public. It's better to just not even mention it.
3. Never say anything disrespectful about the Alamo. People who see the Alamo for the first time are a bit derisive. It is, after all, tiny in comparison to the many skyscrapers that surround it, and it is hard for some people to believe that a great battle was fought there. The Alamo itself was, and still is, a church. Do not forget that. When you walk through those doors and hear the whispers of the dead, be respectful. There are many people in this state who are intolerant of disparaging comments regarding the shrine of the Alamo. Those people own guns.
4. Football is really the official religion of the state. Yes, the Baptists will get all riled up and the Lutherans will begin praying for my immortal soul, but they can't deny this. The sport of football springs into our imaginations from birth, a beacon of righteousness. The gridiron is a field of battle where all spiritual questions regarding fortitude and strength are answered. The football stadium is the church, and while attendance is mandatory, it is most definitely encouraged. High school football may be the only form of spiritual release for a small town. College football offers a broader view of the well-known truths, such as the lateral pass. The Dallas Cowboys Megachurch in Arlington specializing in healing; slow runners find wings when they are given the football, and all rejoice.
5. We are all about independence. As a state, we admire independence. We think highly of pioneers and trailblazers. We even tend to accept the eccentrics. We respect the rights of people to think for themselves. Independence is our thing. If you get here and decide that you don't want to wear cowboy boots to a rodeo, it's fine by us. Dye your head bright red! Wear argyle in the summer! If you decide that you really need a pickup truck, that is great. Have at it. Be your own person! Be independent! We love that.
Really!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Christmas Merry!
Merry Christmas to everyone! And if you don't celebrate Christmas, I hope that you have a wonderful whatever it is that you do celebrate. 'Cause that's how I roll.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
It's Christmas Eve?
Really? Already? Where was I when all that was happening?
Oh wait, I was enjoying a nice vacation of sleeping in and spending time with my husband. We finished the shopping for gifts earlier in the week, and I concluded the food shopping yesterday. All that is left today is for us to attend services this afternoon, then head over to my parent's house to eat supper and open a few gifts.
Once we get home, we will make some cookies for Lar--I mean, Santa, and place them out where he can find them. We even have a special plate and cup for the guy. Then it will be a matter of getting the boy to sleep so we can put the toys out for him to see on Christmas morning. Zane fights sleep tooth and nail, but once you get him to be still, he's out. It's the getting to be still that will be the hard part.
Then I will sit back and watch Die Hard with a glass of wine while my husband attempts to put together a 3700 piece Lego set and arrange the presents for maximum visual impact when Zane comes down the stairs. Maybe if I can get him to drink a glass of wine, Larry will watch the movie with me.
The kicker? My son decided yesterday that he wanted a Balrog for Christmas, addition to all the other stuff he asked for. Would YOU want this critter in your house?
I told him that Balrogs were messy, smoky, and all-around terrible house guests, and they were not allowed in the house. Besides, all of his toys would melt--did he really want that? Nothing changes a boy's mind faster than the thought of melted toys.
Yep, it's Christmas Eve.
Oh wait, I was enjoying a nice vacation of sleeping in and spending time with my husband. We finished the shopping for gifts earlier in the week, and I concluded the food shopping yesterday. All that is left today is for us to attend services this afternoon, then head over to my parent's house to eat supper and open a few gifts.
Once we get home, we will make some cookies for Lar--I mean, Santa, and place them out where he can find them. We even have a special plate and cup for the guy. Then it will be a matter of getting the boy to sleep so we can put the toys out for him to see on Christmas morning. Zane fights sleep tooth and nail, but once you get him to be still, he's out. It's the getting to be still that will be the hard part.
Then I will sit back and watch Die Hard with a glass of wine while my husband attempts to put together a 3700 piece Lego set and arrange the presents for maximum visual impact when Zane comes down the stairs. Maybe if I can get him to drink a glass of wine, Larry will watch the movie with me.
The kicker? My son decided yesterday that he wanted a Balrog for Christmas, addition to all the other stuff he asked for. Would YOU want this critter in your house?
I told him that Balrogs were messy, smoky, and all-around terrible house guests, and they were not allowed in the house. Besides, all of his toys would melt--did he really want that? Nothing changes a boy's mind faster than the thought of melted toys.
Yep, it's Christmas Eve.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Us Time
I got to spend some time with my husband yesterday. I can't even remember the last time just the two of us spent time together without involving work or shopping. I got my mother to babysit and dragged my husband to the Alamo Drafthouse to see a movie I'd been waiting to see for ages, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
The Alamo Drafthouse is a unique theater. There are spaces between the rows for waiters to move, there are tables in front of each row, and there are menus. You can order food, wine, or one of 40,000 beers that they have available. (Maybe not exactly 40,000. But it was a LOT.) The best part: if you talk during the movie, they make you leave. If you text during the movie, they consider that talking, and they make you leave. It is completely awesome. I hate it when people are texting while the movie is going on--those little screens give off enough light to be distracting. I was a little worried about Larry, however. He spends at least 90% of his day on the phone, either texting or talking. I was so intent on seeing this movie that I probably would have just pretended that I didn't know him so I could keep watching. Hey, I waited a damn year! My worries were for naught, since we did not get kicked out. Instead, we had an early supper while viewing the film.
The movie was awesome, a taut, well-paced thriller. We both enjoyed the film. Bonus for my husband: they showed the trailers for The Hobbit and Batman Rises. I felt a little guilty that I was happy just to be alone with my husband, but there it was. I guess that I needed the break.
It was wonderful to be able to watch something straight through without having to turn up the volume, rewind the DVR or stop the film to address the needs of our child. I guess that I didn't realize how often that happens. Ever since we became parents, our viewing needs have been reshaped by our child and what is okay for him to watch. Everything has to be sanitized, otherwise we have to record it and save it for later.
But for this super date we did not have to base our movie choice on how it whether my child would be warped by it. He was safely at home, hanging with my mother, watching the Balrog mix it up with Gandalf, while my husband and I got to have some "Us" time.
The Alamo Drafthouse is a unique theater. There are spaces between the rows for waiters to move, there are tables in front of each row, and there are menus. You can order food, wine, or one of 40,000 beers that they have available. (Maybe not exactly 40,000. But it was a LOT.) The best part: if you talk during the movie, they make you leave. If you text during the movie, they consider that talking, and they make you leave. It is completely awesome. I hate it when people are texting while the movie is going on--those little screens give off enough light to be distracting. I was a little worried about Larry, however. He spends at least 90% of his day on the phone, either texting or talking. I was so intent on seeing this movie that I probably would have just pretended that I didn't know him so I could keep watching. Hey, I waited a damn year! My worries were for naught, since we did not get kicked out. Instead, we had an early supper while viewing the film.
The movie was awesome, a taut, well-paced thriller. We both enjoyed the film. Bonus for my husband: they showed the trailers for The Hobbit and Batman Rises. I felt a little guilty that I was happy just to be alone with my husband, but there it was. I guess that I needed the break.
It was wonderful to be able to watch something straight through without having to turn up the volume, rewind the DVR or stop the film to address the needs of our child. I guess that I didn't realize how often that happens. Ever since we became parents, our viewing needs have been reshaped by our child and what is okay for him to watch. Everything has to be sanitized, otherwise we have to record it and save it for later.
But for this super date we did not have to base our movie choice on how it whether my child would be warped by it. He was safely at home, hanging with my mother, watching the Balrog mix it up with Gandalf, while my husband and I got to have some "Us" time.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
You Know You're A Mother When...
Mamakat's Prompt: You know you're a mother when...
You go days without ever speaking a complete sentence.
Your wardrobe consists of items of clothing that can survive spills, spit, and other spewage.
Your makeup regime takes less than a minute, and may or may not be limited to one eye.
If you call yourself "Mommy" in conversation because you can't remember your first name.
You can identify the different cries your child makes and know when they are just "foolin'".
Constant interruptions have caused such massive derailment of your trains of thought that you worry that you might have dementia.
No one can talk to you without enduring your random, right-in-the-middle-of-sentences, comments to your child. Even when your child is not there.
The three-second-rule becomes the five-second-rule if you're all out of whatever just fell on the floor.
You get used to peeing with the bathroom door open. (Kids are like cats. The second they notice a closed door, they want to be on the other side of it.)
It's ten o'clock on a Saturday night, and you're already asleep.
You don't even care if there is no tissue to wipe a runny nose--you just use your hand.
When you wait for over an hour in a line at the mall for this priceless photo, and your husband gives you grief because it cracks you up every time you look at it:
You go days without ever speaking a complete sentence.
Your wardrobe consists of items of clothing that can survive spills, spit, and other spewage.
Your makeup regime takes less than a minute, and may or may not be limited to one eye.
If you call yourself "Mommy" in conversation because you can't remember your first name.
You can identify the different cries your child makes and know when they are just "foolin'".
Constant interruptions have caused such massive derailment of your trains of thought that you worry that you might have dementia.
No one can talk to you without enduring your random, right-in-the-middle-of-sentences, comments to your child. Even when your child is not there.
The three-second-rule becomes the five-second-rule if you're all out of whatever just fell on the floor.
You get used to peeing with the bathroom door open. (Kids are like cats. The second they notice a closed door, they want to be on the other side of it.)
It's ten o'clock on a Saturday night, and you're already asleep.
You don't even care if there is no tissue to wipe a runny nose--you just use your hand.
When you wait for over an hour in a line at the mall for this priceless photo, and your husband gives you grief because it cracks you up every time you look at it:
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Sun Always Shines On TV
I don't watch human reality shows. The closest I come to watching something resembling a reality show is American Idol, and we all know that show is rigged. All those ridiculously horrid singers auditioning make it on camera because they make for interesting television, not because anyone actually thinks that they can sing. Rigged is not reality. I am going to rant about this.
My friends and coworkers watch shows about housewives and Jersey and they discuss the train wrecks that these people appear to be living. They go on and on about the Kardashians and other pseudo-celebrities, thinking that they've been given an intimate slice of their lives. It's crap. I have no problem watching animal reality shows. But those animal shows are more realistic than any of the stuff they show about humans, of that I have no doubt.
The average size of a woman in this country is 14, for instance. It would therefore make sense that reality shows would have average sized women, if they truly were reality-based. All I've ever seen in advertisements are women so emaciated that I want to find them and feed them a sammich. They all look like Stepford Wives, not real people. Victoria's Secret is that none of those scantily clad models are normal representations of what women actually look like.
And what woman looks her best 24/7? None that I know. I may start the day looking sort of put together, if I've had enough coffee. Then life happens. I miss an appointment, I get yelled at by my boss, my nose gets shiny, my hair goes flat, my feet hurt, and people generally start to piss me off. I go to bed looking horrible. Even if it's date night, I may still be too tired to make any sort of effort, but my husband loves me. Also, he signed a legally binding contract saying that he has to put up with me.
Those bachelor shows? Seriously? They're putting all those men in the same place to compete with each other for one girl, and all of them act like complete doormats until she picks one of them? No brawling? No jockeying for position? That makes no sense, from an evolutionary viewpoint. Think lions, not lambs. Do men have "frenemies"? The one time I watched five minutes of a show because I was too lazy to change the channel, all those men were hanging out together, acting like best buds, waiting for the woman to "pick" them. Even if there were no gladiator-type fistfights, men competing for the affections of a woman certainly don't pal around together, even when forced. The love of a woman is at stake, after all.
In reality, people walk out of public restrooms with paper stuck to their shoe, or their zipper down. People spill things down the front of their outfits and walk around without noticing. Clothes don't always fit correctly. People sometimes spit when they talk. Hair doesn't always have that 'just styled' look. People don't associate with people they don't like or who act completely unhinged. People fall asleep in the middle of getting romantic. Issues don't get resolved within an hour, or during sweeps month.
Reality is messy. I live it. I don't want to see it on TV.
My friends and coworkers watch shows about housewives and Jersey and they discuss the train wrecks that these people appear to be living. They go on and on about the Kardashians and other pseudo-celebrities, thinking that they've been given an intimate slice of their lives. It's crap. I have no problem watching animal reality shows. But those animal shows are more realistic than any of the stuff they show about humans, of that I have no doubt.
The average size of a woman in this country is 14, for instance. It would therefore make sense that reality shows would have average sized women, if they truly were reality-based. All I've ever seen in advertisements are women so emaciated that I want to find them and feed them a sammich. They all look like Stepford Wives, not real people. Victoria's Secret is that none of those scantily clad models are normal representations of what women actually look like.
And what woman looks her best 24/7? None that I know. I may start the day looking sort of put together, if I've had enough coffee. Then life happens. I miss an appointment, I get yelled at by my boss, my nose gets shiny, my hair goes flat, my feet hurt, and people generally start to piss me off. I go to bed looking horrible. Even if it's date night, I may still be too tired to make any sort of effort, but my husband loves me. Also, he signed a legally binding contract saying that he has to put up with me.
Those bachelor shows? Seriously? They're putting all those men in the same place to compete with each other for one girl, and all of them act like complete doormats until she picks one of them? No brawling? No jockeying for position? That makes no sense, from an evolutionary viewpoint. Think lions, not lambs. Do men have "frenemies"? The one time I watched five minutes of a show because I was too lazy to change the channel, all those men were hanging out together, acting like best buds, waiting for the woman to "pick" them. Even if there were no gladiator-type fistfights, men competing for the affections of a woman certainly don't pal around together, even when forced. The love of a woman is at stake, after all.
In reality, people walk out of public restrooms with paper stuck to their shoe, or their zipper down. People spill things down the front of their outfits and walk around without noticing. Clothes don't always fit correctly. People sometimes spit when they talk. Hair doesn't always have that 'just styled' look. People don't associate with people they don't like or who act completely unhinged. People fall asleep in the middle of getting romantic. Issues don't get resolved within an hour, or during sweeps month.
Reality is messy. I live it. I don't want to see it on TV.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Does The Green Lantern Like Cookies?
Apparently the answer to that question is yes. There probably isn't any sort of notation anywhere in the DC universe that would say so definitively, however. After all, superheroes have to watch their figures. Those tights show everything!
My kid likes to play dress up. He has several superhero costumes, a knight costume and a pirate costume. But I digress. We were discussing Green Lantern's fondness for cookies.
The illustrious Green Lantern was following me around the other day, asking me about cookies. These cookies were vital to the continued tranquility of sector 2814. I was in the middle of reading blogs, of course; he was persistent. I finally told Green Lantern that I would make him cookies, but that he would have to help. We dragged a chair over to the counter, washed his hands, and got to work.
The intrepid Green Lantern used his super strength and stirred the eggs and butter...
He added the cookie mix(Yeah, I use a mix. Sue me.).
The Green Lantern used his power ring and placed the cookie dough on the baking sheet. He waited patiently near the stove while the cookies were baking and kept lookout for Sinestro and Parallax, two villains known for their cookie addictions.
In no time at all, the mission was deemed a success! The cookies supercharged Green Lantern's ring! Green Lantern flew away to resume his patrol of sector 2814; I reminded him that his powers are only to be used for good as he disappeared.
That was when I noticed that all the dishes had been left to me. Dang. That power ring would certainly be pretty useful for cleaning dishes, wouldn't it?
My kid likes to play dress up. He has several superhero costumes, a knight costume and a pirate costume. But I digress. We were discussing Green Lantern's fondness for cookies.
The illustrious Green Lantern was following me around the other day, asking me about cookies. These cookies were vital to the continued tranquility of sector 2814. I was in the middle of reading blogs, of course; he was persistent. I finally told Green Lantern that I would make him cookies, but that he would have to help. We dragged a chair over to the counter, washed his hands, and got to work.
The intrepid Green Lantern used his super strength and stirred the eggs and butter...
He added the cookie mix(Yeah, I use a mix. Sue me.).
The Green Lantern used his power ring and placed the cookie dough on the baking sheet. He waited patiently near the stove while the cookies were baking and kept lookout for Sinestro and Parallax, two villains known for their cookie addictions.
In no time at all, the mission was deemed a success! The cookies supercharged Green Lantern's ring! Green Lantern flew away to resume his patrol of sector 2814; I reminded him that his powers are only to be used for good as he disappeared.
That was when I noticed that all the dishes had been left to me. Dang. That power ring would certainly be pretty useful for cleaning dishes, wouldn't it?
Monday, December 19, 2011
The A-List: Christmas Edition
I would like to say that I easily slip into the spirit of the season, but I would be lying. A lot of the trappings of the holiday season get on my nerves. Putting Christmas stuff out in September? Hate it. Radio stations playing 24/7 Christmas music for a couple of months? Makes me want to fill my ears with eggnog. You get the idea.
There are some things that I do like about the holiday, however. Today's A-list is dedicated to things that I can tolerate during the days leading up to Christmas.
1. A Christmas Story. This is the very best Christmas movie ever. I triple-dog-dare anyone to say different. This movie is funny. Ralphie is every kid out there who dreams of a perfect Christmas morning. After all the syrupy-sweet feel-good holiday movies have put you into a diabetic coma, this movie is a huge relief.
2. Fudge. The only time I ever make or eat fudge is around Christmas time. There's something about this time of the year that makes me want to eat about fifteen pounds of fudge. I should just strap it to my thighs, since that is probably where it ends up, but I like to savor every delicious sugary bite
3. Flannel. It's colder at this time of the year. It is the perfect time for me to break out my comfy flannel jammies. I certainly can't wear them in July when it is hotter than the surface of the sun. Everything feels better when you're in your comfy flannel jammies.
4. Sleeping. My husband tends to rise early no matter what, while I am generally comatose until about ten in the morning. I love to sleep in, which to me means not having to get up at 6am. It is awesome that I get a two-week opportunity to do this, even if it is not every day.
5. The Hallelujah Chorus. This song is perfection. I don't think that anyone can hear this song and not feel uplifted, no matter what your beliefs are. The music is that good. Even though Handel wrote this while on a huge manic high, he got it right.
So...what do you like about this time of the year?
There are some things that I do like about the holiday, however. Today's A-list is dedicated to things that I can tolerate during the days leading up to Christmas.
1. A Christmas Story. This is the very best Christmas movie ever. I triple-dog-dare anyone to say different. This movie is funny. Ralphie is every kid out there who dreams of a perfect Christmas morning. After all the syrupy-sweet feel-good holiday movies have put you into a diabetic coma, this movie is a huge relief.
2. Fudge. The only time I ever make or eat fudge is around Christmas time. There's something about this time of the year that makes me want to eat about fifteen pounds of fudge. I should just strap it to my thighs, since that is probably where it ends up, but I like to savor every delicious sugary bite
3. Flannel. It's colder at this time of the year. It is the perfect time for me to break out my comfy flannel jammies. I certainly can't wear them in July when it is hotter than the surface of the sun. Everything feels better when you're in your comfy flannel jammies.
4. Sleeping. My husband tends to rise early no matter what, while I am generally comatose until about ten in the morning. I love to sleep in, which to me means not having to get up at 6am. It is awesome that I get a two-week opportunity to do this, even if it is not every day.
5. The Hallelujah Chorus. This song is perfection. I don't think that anyone can hear this song and not feel uplifted, no matter what your beliefs are. The music is that good. Even though Handel wrote this while on a huge manic high, he got it right.
So...what do you like about this time of the year?
Sunday, December 18, 2011
It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Yoda
"We need to get Zane an Advent calendar," I said.
It was a couple of days after Thanksgiving. Zane had been telling us that it was Christmas every single day...since his birthday in October. And yes, that did get old very fast. Finally, my tiny brain lit up with the idea of the Advent calendar.
The Advent calendar is a way to count the days until Christmas. Each day the child(or adult) opens a little door on the calendar and gets a treat. The treat is usually a piece of chocolate, but there are other calendars out there that have other special treats. I am trying to get into the spirit of the season; what better way to get into the spirit than with a piece of chocolate a day?
"Lego makes an Advent calendar," Larry replied to my suggestion of the calendar. "They make a Lego Star Wars Advent calendar, too."
I couldn't help but have an involuntary reaction at the idea. My eye twitched at the thought of yet more tiny pieces lurking in my carpet waiting to jab me in the foot, but if Lego Star Wars would help Zane count the days until Christmas, I would do my best to live with it. Plus, it would be worth it for the little Yoda minifigure in the Santa outfit. We purchased the calendar.
The night before December 1st, I found my husband looking at a tray full of tiny Lego parts. He had opened the box and pulled out everything. I screamed a little; I had assumed that he knew how Advent calendars worked. He did not. He's from East Texas; they only sell fruitcakes there. Well, fruitcakes and nativity scenes made of extra deer parts. I made that last part up. I hope.
"You don't know how an advent calendar works?!!!" And of course I got that tone in my voice. The "Are you an idiot?" tone. It's not what you say, it's how you say it. The secret to a harmonious marriage is to never use that tone with your spouse. After several minutes of irritated and annoyed whispering(Zane was asleep in the next room), peace in the house resumed. I showed Larry how to put the calendar back and we taped up the box.
December 1st dawned, and Zane seemed pretty excited about opening the first door and putting together the little figures with help from his father. December 2nd was also fun, as was the 3rd. The 4th...
You know that rule about fish and house guests stinking after three days? The rule also apparently applies to Advent calendars. Zane lost interest. To be fair, he's only four. The average attention span of a four year old kid is what, 43.6 seconds? But it's all good--Larry has been having a great time opening up all the doors and putting the figures together.
On the plus side, Zane has stopped asking if it is Christmas yet.
It was a couple of days after Thanksgiving. Zane had been telling us that it was Christmas every single day...since his birthday in October. And yes, that did get old very fast. Finally, my tiny brain lit up with the idea of the Advent calendar.
The Advent calendar is a way to count the days until Christmas. Each day the child(or adult) opens a little door on the calendar and gets a treat. The treat is usually a piece of chocolate, but there are other calendars out there that have other special treats. I am trying to get into the spirit of the season; what better way to get into the spirit than with a piece of chocolate a day?
"Lego makes an Advent calendar," Larry replied to my suggestion of the calendar. "They make a Lego Star Wars Advent calendar, too."
I couldn't help but have an involuntary reaction at the idea. My eye twitched at the thought of yet more tiny pieces lurking in my carpet waiting to jab me in the foot, but if Lego Star Wars would help Zane count the days until Christmas, I would do my best to live with it. Plus, it would be worth it for the little Yoda minifigure in the Santa outfit. We purchased the calendar.
The night before December 1st, I found my husband looking at a tray full of tiny Lego parts. He had opened the box and pulled out everything. I screamed a little; I had assumed that he knew how Advent calendars worked. He did not. He's from East Texas; they only sell fruitcakes there. Well, fruitcakes and nativity scenes made of extra deer parts. I made that last part up. I hope.
"You don't know how an advent calendar works?!!!" And of course I got that tone in my voice. The "Are you an idiot?" tone. It's not what you say, it's how you say it. The secret to a harmonious marriage is to never use that tone with your spouse. After several minutes of irritated and annoyed whispering(Zane was asleep in the next room), peace in the house resumed. I showed Larry how to put the calendar back and we taped up the box.
December 1st dawned, and Zane seemed pretty excited about opening the first door and putting together the little figures with help from his father. December 2nd was also fun, as was the 3rd. The 4th...
You know that rule about fish and house guests stinking after three days? The rule also apparently applies to Advent calendars. Zane lost interest. To be fair, he's only four. The average attention span of a four year old kid is what, 43.6 seconds? But it's all good--Larry has been having a great time opening up all the doors and putting the figures together.
On the plus side, Zane has stopped asking if it is Christmas yet.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Spreading A Little Sunshine
My dear friend Andrea over at Maybe It's Just Me presented me this lovely award the other day. She is so very awesome, isn't she? Thank you, Andrea!
"The Sunshine Blog Award is awarded to bloggers whose positivity and creativity inspires others in the blogosphere". Me--positive AND creative! I think that we can all agree that Andrea was drinking a lot of eggnog when she decided to give me this award. But as I've said before, I am always in search of validation for my low self-esteem issues, so I'll take it!
So now that I've accepted this award, I have to do this quid pro quo thing:
* Thank the person who gave this award and write a post about it.
* Answer the following questions below.
* And pass the award to 10 fabulous bloggers, link their blogs and let them know you awarded them.
My answers to the questions:
Favorite color? Whoever said that it pisses God off to walk by the color purple and not notice? I don't remember, but I love purple. But not the pastel purple. I am very definitely not a pastel person; pastel people are way more cheerful than I can handle without alcohol.
Favorite animal? Cats. I know that if I were mouse-sized, they'd all take turns whacking me around until I died, and then they'd leave me on the doormat the way a person might leave a couple of bucks on the nightstand after a misbegotten shore-leave. I find them fascinating, except for the hairballs.
Favorite number? 3 or 8. I could say that my favorite number is 73, but I don't spend a lot of time thinking about numbers outside of work. Math is evil.
Favorite drink? Iced tea, straight up. Followed by a good chardonnay or malbec.
Facebook or Twitter? Both. I like Facebook, even though my aunts are kicking my backside on Words with Friends, but Twitter satisfies my "24/7" brain. Twitter was made for people with ADHD.
Your passion? Reading and then writing.
Giving or getting presents? Giving!
Favorite day? Any day that I get to sleep in. Truly. They don't really talk about that aspect of parenting.
Favorite flower? Cactus flowers. You have to wait until after it rains, but then the vibrancy of the colors are so gorgeous, you'll forget about the exceptionally painful and extremely difficult to remove spines.
Ten Fabulous Bloggers? Here they are. If they want to pass the award on, that's great, but it's not a "have to" sort of thing. I just wanted to give credit where it is most certainly due.
Pam over at Over 50 Feeling 40 She is an extremely cheerful person who blogs about attitude and fashion and weight loss and other fun stuff. She is a teacher and a journalist. She posts pictures of the outfits she chooses. Of course, she looks marvelous. All without a net! I have trouble picking out a sweats, so her choices inspire me and give me hope that one day I won't look like one of those Glamour Don'ts pictures.
Caren over at Cat Chat with Caren and Cody Some cat blogs try too hard to be cutesy and fluffy, and it is really difficult to maintain that sort of thing without medication. Caren and Cody don't do that. There's the cute, but there is also helpful advice, interviews, giveaways, and pictures of grandchildren.
Red over at Amazing Australian Adventures I can't say enough good things about Red. Her travel blog is so full of cheerful imagery and gorgeous pictures. Plus, she is funny. I love her so much that when I am driving around, sometimes I think about stopping to take a picture so I can be like Red.
Galit Breen from These Little Waves is not only an excellent writer, but a constant source of positive support. Other bloggers seem to gravitate toward her; she gives such encouragement and finds something positive to say every time. When I hear her voice in my head as I read her comments, she speaks with an Irish accent. I have no idea where that came from, but I've just accepted it as part of the weirdness that is my brain.
Sweaty from Do Sweat the Small Stuff She's an awesome writer who seems to put her heart out on her sleeve every time she starts typing.
Lance from My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog He's not kidding--his blog is that tough.. This guy can write. Read his stuff. It's gritty and it's real, even if it might be fiction.
Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times.
Jim over at Just a Lil Blog
Lizbeth over at Four Sea Stars
Grace over at That's Right I Said It Dot Com
The above bloggers are parents of children with autism. It's an extremely tough job, even on a good day. There's all sorts of ups and downs and sideways that just don't happen to other parents. As tough as it is, and as frustrating as it can get, these parents are determined to help their kids find their path in life. They are fighting for services and fighting for acceptance, and they've turned that fight into something positive and funny on most days. I think that is awesome.
"The Sunshine Blog Award is awarded to bloggers whose positivity and creativity inspires others in the blogosphere". Me--positive AND creative! I think that we can all agree that Andrea was drinking a lot of eggnog when she decided to give me this award. But as I've said before, I am always in search of validation for my low self-esteem issues, so I'll take it!
So now that I've accepted this award, I have to do this quid pro quo thing:
* Thank the person who gave this award and write a post about it.
* Answer the following questions below.
* And pass the award to 10 fabulous bloggers, link their blogs and let them know you awarded them.
My answers to the questions:
Favorite color? Whoever said that it pisses God off to walk by the color purple and not notice? I don't remember, but I love purple. But not the pastel purple. I am very definitely not a pastel person; pastel people are way more cheerful than I can handle without alcohol.
Favorite animal? Cats. I know that if I were mouse-sized, they'd all take turns whacking me around until I died, and then they'd leave me on the doormat the way a person might leave a couple of bucks on the nightstand after a misbegotten shore-leave. I find them fascinating, except for the hairballs.
Favorite number? 3 or 8. I could say that my favorite number is 73, but I don't spend a lot of time thinking about numbers outside of work. Math is evil.
Favorite drink? Iced tea, straight up. Followed by a good chardonnay or malbec.
Facebook or Twitter? Both. I like Facebook, even though my aunts are kicking my backside on Words with Friends, but Twitter satisfies my "24/7" brain. Twitter was made for people with ADHD.
Your passion? Reading and then writing.
Giving or getting presents? Giving!
Favorite day? Any day that I get to sleep in. Truly. They don't really talk about that aspect of parenting.
Favorite flower? Cactus flowers. You have to wait until after it rains, but then the vibrancy of the colors are so gorgeous, you'll forget about the exceptionally painful and extremely difficult to remove spines.
Ten Fabulous Bloggers? Here they are. If they want to pass the award on, that's great, but it's not a "have to" sort of thing. I just wanted to give credit where it is most certainly due.
Pam over at Over 50 Feeling 40 She is an extremely cheerful person who blogs about attitude and fashion and weight loss and other fun stuff. She is a teacher and a journalist. She posts pictures of the outfits she chooses. Of course, she looks marvelous. All without a net! I have trouble picking out a sweats, so her choices inspire me and give me hope that one day I won't look like one of those Glamour Don'ts pictures.
Caren over at Cat Chat with Caren and Cody Some cat blogs try too hard to be cutesy and fluffy, and it is really difficult to maintain that sort of thing without medication. Caren and Cody don't do that. There's the cute, but there is also helpful advice, interviews, giveaways, and pictures of grandchildren.
Red over at Amazing Australian Adventures I can't say enough good things about Red. Her travel blog is so full of cheerful imagery and gorgeous pictures. Plus, she is funny. I love her so much that when I am driving around, sometimes I think about stopping to take a picture so I can be like Red.
Galit Breen from These Little Waves is not only an excellent writer, but a constant source of positive support. Other bloggers seem to gravitate toward her; she gives such encouragement and finds something positive to say every time. When I hear her voice in my head as I read her comments, she speaks with an Irish accent. I have no idea where that came from, but I've just accepted it as part of the weirdness that is my brain.
Sweaty from Do Sweat the Small Stuff She's an awesome writer who seems to put her heart out on her sleeve every time she starts typing.
Lance from My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog He's not kidding--his blog is that tough.. This guy can write. Read his stuff. It's gritty and it's real, even if it might be fiction.
Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times.
Jim over at Just a Lil Blog
Lizbeth over at Four Sea Stars
Grace over at That's Right I Said It Dot Com
The above bloggers are parents of children with autism. It's an extremely tough job, even on a good day. There's all sorts of ups and downs and sideways that just don't happen to other parents. As tough as it is, and as frustrating as it can get, these parents are determined to help their kids find their path in life. They are fighting for services and fighting for acceptance, and they've turned that fight into something positive and funny on most days. I think that is awesome.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Red Writing Hood: And All Was Revealed
Prompt: This week, we’d like you to write a post – fiction or creative non-fiction – which begins with a countdown. “Three, two, one.” You pick what the countdown is for. The ideas above are just suggestions. Use your imagination and have fun with it! I am continuing to play with Zenna and Boone from last week's adventure.
"Three...two...one," a heavy sigh from behind me. My eyes covered, I waited; I sensed that Boone was stretching, unfurling after a long day. My tattoo throbbed, but I barely noticed.
"Okay. You can turn around," Boone said. "Remember--you promised. No hysterics!"
I waited to uncover my eyes until I was facing him.
Boone was crouched, one knee on the floor, to accommodate the space in my bedroom. From his shoulder blades extended leathery wings covered with iridescent green scales; the scales flowed over the rest of his body. I watched the light dance over them, and noticed that Boone's feet had doubled in size. Enormous claws had erupted from his toes. I followed the leg up into the chest and shoulders, to find him looking at me, intelligent green eyes glowing in a face surrounded by a green frilled collar.
The man I loved was really a dragon!
He stood up gracefully, aware of his position in the tiny room, and had to duck his head so it didn't end up in the attic. He towered over me, and it should have been intimidating and scary.
Instead, I stepped toward him, and his wings seemed to curl around my shoulders. My hands slid over him, slowly. His skin was cool to the touch, but softer than any other skin I'd ever felt. I leaned in close, closed my eyes, and inhaled Boone's incredible scent. This snapped a cord within me, releasing me from myself. At that moment, I desired nothing less than to let my lips replace my hands and continue my frenzy of exploration. Stepping closer to Boone's chest, I softly pressed my lips over his heart. He shuddered.
"Oh Boone," my voice a whisper. "You're magnificent." "I want you now, Zenna," his voice was a growl, barely contained. My breath hitched, my skin electrified.
Then his claws tore my shirt off in one move.
"Three...two...one," a heavy sigh from behind me. My eyes covered, I waited; I sensed that Boone was stretching, unfurling after a long day. My tattoo throbbed, but I barely noticed.
"Okay. You can turn around," Boone said. "Remember--you promised. No hysterics!"
I waited to uncover my eyes until I was facing him.
Boone was crouched, one knee on the floor, to accommodate the space in my bedroom. From his shoulder blades extended leathery wings covered with iridescent green scales; the scales flowed over the rest of his body. I watched the light dance over them, and noticed that Boone's feet had doubled in size. Enormous claws had erupted from his toes. I followed the leg up into the chest and shoulders, to find him looking at me, intelligent green eyes glowing in a face surrounded by a green frilled collar.
The man I loved was really a dragon!
He stood up gracefully, aware of his position in the tiny room, and had to duck his head so it didn't end up in the attic. He towered over me, and it should have been intimidating and scary.
Instead, I stepped toward him, and his wings seemed to curl around my shoulders. My hands slid over him, slowly. His skin was cool to the touch, but softer than any other skin I'd ever felt. I leaned in close, closed my eyes, and inhaled Boone's incredible scent. This snapped a cord within me, releasing me from myself. At that moment, I desired nothing less than to let my lips replace my hands and continue my frenzy of exploration. Stepping closer to Boone's chest, I softly pressed my lips over his heart. He shuddered.
"Oh Boone," my voice a whisper. "You're magnificent." "I want you now, Zenna," his voice was a growl, barely contained. My breath hitched, my skin electrified.
Then his claws tore my shirt off in one move.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Mamakat: My Husband's Top Five
Mamakat's prompt: If you HAD to marry a celebrity...who would make your top five list and why? (Let's just pretend you're not actually already married mkay?)
Since I've already written about my top five guys, I decided to ask my husband about HIS top five. He reads my blog sometimes(Hi Sweetie!), so he knew all about my list, and he actually agreed with my hypothetical choices. My husband is cool like that, but I was curious as to how he would handle the question being asked of him.
"Sweetie, if you HAD to marry a celebrity, in order to save the world or something, who would be in your top five?"
Larry did not even have to think about it.
"Jon Stewart," was the emphatic response.
I responded the only way that one can respond in this type of situation.
"Oh?!!" I nodded slowly. "Uh, why?"
"You asked about marrying, you didn't say anything about sex," Larry replied. "I don't know why you would buy into the stereotype that all men would only think of female celebrities in this type of hypothetical situation."
Fair enough. I continued my query, adding the stipulation that we deal with females for a bit. Larry sat there, thinking seriously.
"I honestly can't think of anyone," he finally said. I was undeterred.
"What about Cate Blanchett? You liked her in that hobbit movie."
"No, she is older than me," came the response. I snorted.
"Sweetie, I am also older than you. Quit stalling."
Finally, my husband came up with his five:
Claudia Black from Farscape
Christina Scabbia from the band Lacuna Coil
Tricia Helfer from Battlestar Galactica
Oprah Winfrey
JK Rowling
"I get why you chose the first three," I said. "But why the last two?"
"I'm not really that interested in looks," my husband said. "I am interested in brains. And the money to be able to do whatever I wanted. Plus, those two probably know some really interesting people that I could meet."
I couldn't argue with any of that. That's probably how I'd look at it, too. To save the world, anyway.
Since I've already written about my top five guys, I decided to ask my husband about HIS top five. He reads my blog sometimes(Hi Sweetie!), so he knew all about my list, and he actually agreed with my hypothetical choices. My husband is cool like that, but I was curious as to how he would handle the question being asked of him.
"Sweetie, if you HAD to marry a celebrity, in order to save the world or something, who would be in your top five?"
Larry did not even have to think about it.
"Jon Stewart," was the emphatic response.
I responded the only way that one can respond in this type of situation.
"Oh?!!" I nodded slowly. "Uh, why?"
"You asked about marrying, you didn't say anything about sex," Larry replied. "I don't know why you would buy into the stereotype that all men would only think of female celebrities in this type of hypothetical situation."
Fair enough. I continued my query, adding the stipulation that we deal with females for a bit. Larry sat there, thinking seriously.
"I honestly can't think of anyone," he finally said. I was undeterred.
"What about Cate Blanchett? You liked her in that hobbit movie."
"No, she is older than me," came the response. I snorted.
"Sweetie, I am also older than you. Quit stalling."
Finally, my husband came up with his five:
Claudia Black from Farscape
Christina Scabbia from the band Lacuna Coil
Tricia Helfer from Battlestar Galactica
Oprah Winfrey
JK Rowling
"I get why you chose the first three," I said. "But why the last two?"
"I'm not really that interested in looks," my husband said. "I am interested in brains. And the money to be able to do whatever I wanted. Plus, those two probably know some really interesting people that I could meet."
I couldn't argue with any of that. That's probably how I'd look at it, too. To save the world, anyway.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Santa's Dilemma
Note: After yesterday's complete downer, I'm posting something more lighthearted, because I really am trying to be more positive and cheerful. Really. It's not just a rumor! Again, apologies if I upset anyone yesterday. Also, I received a very lovely award from my friend Andrea and I will talk about that soon, I promise!
I've previously spoken of my need to get the "perfect" gift, and that need applies to making sure that my son has a wonderful time on Christmas morning. Zane is old enough that he can speak about what he likes, or does not like. He is very emphatic about it, at least for that moment. My husband and I were foolish enough to believe that this would make our Christmas shopping easier. Zane would tell us what he wanted, and mysteriously--without a chimney in sight--Santa would have that magical gift underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
Did I mention that I am learning this parenting thing as I go?
"What presents would you like for Santa to bring you, Zane?" I asked my son two weeks ago as we were driving home from daycare. He's not old enough to "make a list", so we had to drag it out of him between statements regarding which kid passed gas that day.
"All of them." Yep--That was a verbatim quote.
That was no help. We can't just arrive at the Toys'R'Us and tell the cashier that we want "All" of the toys. Where would we put them, especially since we'd have to sell the house to pay for them all? My husband and I agreed to try later a couple of days later, thinking that perhaps the idea needed to germinate a bit.
"Zane, what would you like for a Christmas present?" I asked him at lunch with the entire family. I thought that the presence of the grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins might be an inspiration.
"A reindeer," the boy announced. There was a collective "huh?" on all of our faces.
"A reindeer? Where are you going to put it?" my mother asked him.
"In the backyard."
Never mind the logistics of actually getting a reindeer; I am pretty sure that it is too darn hot here for that particular species. Plus, hunters are drawn like flies toward anything they can possibly shoot and eat. So no reindeer.
I tried again the next day.
"Zane, what would you like for Christmas?" I even clarified. "What would you like for Santa to bring to you as a present?"
"I don't want anything." Zane told me. "I have too many toys."
"Who are you and what have you done with my child?" I felt his forehead for signs of fever, and then Zane felt MY forehead to see if I had a fever. I may have hallucinated the entire exchange, after all. As much as I would love to applaud the altruism my child expressed, we all know what would happen if I took him at his word and there were no presents Christmas morning. Hell hath no fury like a child denied Christmas presents.
My husband and I have taken turns every single day to get some kind of consistent answer, since the deadline is looming. He's still interested in the reindeer, and he mentioned that he wanted a steam train...and dinosaurs, specifically a T-Rex...and Batman...and Legos...and a Christmas tree.
Anybody know how much it costs to ship a reindeer?
I've previously spoken of my need to get the "perfect" gift, and that need applies to making sure that my son has a wonderful time on Christmas morning. Zane is old enough that he can speak about what he likes, or does not like. He is very emphatic about it, at least for that moment. My husband and I were foolish enough to believe that this would make our Christmas shopping easier. Zane would tell us what he wanted, and mysteriously--without a chimney in sight--Santa would have that magical gift underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
Did I mention that I am learning this parenting thing as I go?
"What presents would you like for Santa to bring you, Zane?" I asked my son two weeks ago as we were driving home from daycare. He's not old enough to "make a list", so we had to drag it out of him between statements regarding which kid passed gas that day.
"All of them." Yep--That was a verbatim quote.
That was no help. We can't just arrive at the Toys'R'Us and tell the cashier that we want "All" of the toys. Where would we put them, especially since we'd have to sell the house to pay for them all? My husband and I agreed to try later a couple of days later, thinking that perhaps the idea needed to germinate a bit.
"Zane, what would you like for a Christmas present?" I asked him at lunch with the entire family. I thought that the presence of the grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins might be an inspiration.
"A reindeer," the boy announced. There was a collective "huh?" on all of our faces.
"A reindeer? Where are you going to put it?" my mother asked him.
"In the backyard."
Never mind the logistics of actually getting a reindeer; I am pretty sure that it is too darn hot here for that particular species. Plus, hunters are drawn like flies toward anything they can possibly shoot and eat. So no reindeer.
I tried again the next day.
"Zane, what would you like for Christmas?" I even clarified. "What would you like for Santa to bring to you as a present?"
"I don't want anything." Zane told me. "I have too many toys."
"Who are you and what have you done with my child?" I felt his forehead for signs of fever, and then Zane felt MY forehead to see if I had a fever. I may have hallucinated the entire exchange, after all. As much as I would love to applaud the altruism my child expressed, we all know what would happen if I took him at his word and there were no presents Christmas morning. Hell hath no fury like a child denied Christmas presents.
My husband and I have taken turns every single day to get some kind of consistent answer, since the deadline is looming. He's still interested in the reindeer, and he mentioned that he wanted a steam train...and dinosaurs, specifically a T-Rex...and Batman...and Legos...and a Christmas tree.
Anybody know how much it costs to ship a reindeer?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Remembered: Cleaning House
Prompt: Think of a time that you “cleaned house.” Consider the subtext—we’re not writing about Windex here. We’re writing about relationships. Or feelings. Or a captured moment in time.
It's at this time of the year that I mourn a bit. Sorry if I upset anyone.
I finally made myself clean off the shelf in the closet one day a few years ago. I pulled everything that I hadn't wanted to see onto the floor. I opened the special box that I had purchased just for the occasion. I placed the tissue box next to me. Then I went through the pile, and I cried as I laid each item gently into the box.
The sonogram pictures.
The sonogram videotape, each tiny heartbeat visible, so fierce.
A small hand painted box containing a tiny hat and a small gold ring; a birth gift for a child who never saw it. I think that she would have liked that ring.
A silk rose, white. It was placed on my hospital room door to let the nurses know.
The birth/death certificate, signed by the doctor on December 9, 2003.
I placed all these painful memories in that special box, running my hands over them, reading them, touching them. As if I could turn back time for that moment and have it turn out differently.
Then I closed the box, but not my heart.
It's at this time of the year that I mourn a bit. Sorry if I upset anyone.
I finally made myself clean off the shelf in the closet one day a few years ago. I pulled everything that I hadn't wanted to see onto the floor. I opened the special box that I had purchased just for the occasion. I placed the tissue box next to me. Then I went through the pile, and I cried as I laid each item gently into the box.
The sonogram pictures.
The sonogram videotape, each tiny heartbeat visible, so fierce.
A small hand painted box containing a tiny hat and a small gold ring; a birth gift for a child who never saw it. I think that she would have liked that ring.
A silk rose, white. It was placed on my hospital room door to let the nurses know.
The birth/death certificate, signed by the doctor on December 9, 2003.
I placed all these painful memories in that special box, running my hands over them, reading them, touching them. As if I could turn back time for that moment and have it turn out differently.
Then I closed the box, but not my heart.
Monday, December 12, 2011
The A-List: Movies That Always Make Me LOL
Last week I wrote about a movie that always makes me cry, so to balance out the Force, I decided that this week I would write about movies that make me laugh. Happy stuff! We all need a little bit of stress relief for the holidays, and what better way is there to de-stress than laughter? (Yes, I know--but this is a family show, at least for today.)
For the record, I most definitely Laugh Out Loud. I snicker. I chortle. I guffaw. I even snort on occasion. If something cracks me up, anyone in a five mile radius hears me. These are movies that always make me laugh out loud, no matter what mood I am in or how many times I've seen them. There is a small voice in my head telling me to list these movies in alphabetical order. A small voice which shall soon be drowned out with wine.
Blazing Saddles One of the most irreverent films I've ever seen, this is also one of the funniest. I can't hear "Camptown Ladies" without thinking of this movie. I secretly wait for moments when I can enter a room and say, "What in the wide, wide, world of sports is a-goin' on here?" This is by no means a 'politically correct' movie; it was made well before such nonsense. It shows racism and other things, sure, but these topics are shown in the bright light of comedy, and the result is positive. Cleavon Little and Gene Wilder seemed to have such an easy chemistry on screen that they always look like they're having a blast. In fact, the entire cast appears to be having a great time, and that is contagious.
Young Frankenstein I first saw this movie by myself in Germany when I was nine or ten. I got very few of the jokes at the time. I remember loving Marty Feldman arguing with Gene Wilder about the correct pronunciation of "Frankenstein". I watched the movie again when I was a teenager; we were one of the first families around with a Betamax. This time, I actually got all of the jokes, and fell in love with the movie. I wore that tape out. It turns out that just about every second of that movie is a joke of some kind, either a sight gag or a play on words or a word in another language(Schwanstuka, anyone?). My friends and I would take turns laughing about "Abby-someone", and reciting other lines, such as "Could be worse. Could be raining." The dart game between Dr. Frankenstein and Inspector Kemp is still one of my favorites.
Dodgeball I did not want to like this movie, but I ended up laughing so hard that I had to go get my inhaler. I actually remember playing Dodgeball in school; I was one of the kids who always had red welts on my arms and face from being pegged out. The nerdy guy who reads about obscure sports, the guy who thinks he's a pirate, the teenager who longs to be a cheerleader instead of a football player--perfect misfits Rip Torn with his "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball" routine was both insulting and hilarious at the same time. I am pretty sure that Rip Torn was actually wasted while filming that part, and that is okay. It made the point without overstating it. Ben Stiller shone as White "Nobody makes me bleed my own blood!" Goodman. ESPN should actually have a channel called The Ocho, and Cotton McKnight and Pepper Brooks need to be announcers at the Super Bowl. Plus, this movie has Chuck Norris in it. If you don't laugh, Chuck Norris will come to your house and punch you in the face.
Airplane! The key to this entire movie is that it was filmed as if it weren't a comedy, but a drama. It was supposed to be a spoof of all the airline disaster movies that were popular during that decade, but Airplane! is so much more. Peter Graves, Robert Stack, Lloyd Bridges, and Leslie Nielsen, and the others made this movie the classic that it is, by keeping a straight face while reciting some pretty off-the-wall things, such as "Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue". Even the names of the characters were part of the joke, as in Roger, Victor, and Clarence. And who hasn't sat next to someone like Ted Striker, who won't shut up for the entire plane ride? Surely you can't be serious!
Monty Python and the Holy Grail I actually have a stuffed animal of the evil bunny from this movie; you can make his mouth open to see his little teeth. The Holy Hand Grenade would hold a place of honor on the mantle, if it hadn't been blown to bits. Movies with straight-faced British actors always seem to be a little smarter because of their crazy accents, and I don't think that any American could have made Holy Grail. The tale of King Arthur is a British story, after all. We didn't have any Black Knights defending bridges. We didn't have any "Bring out your dead!" carts rolling about. And none of the Salem witches was ever accused of turning anyone into a newt. No, Holy Grail is most definitely a British film. The sight of that cow flying over the wall of the castle has me cackling ever time.
Honorable Mention: The Naked Gun, There's Something About Mary, Tropic Thunder. They all crack me up!
Have I missed any good comedies? Let me know--I'm always looking for a good laugh!
For the record, I most definitely Laugh Out Loud. I snicker. I chortle. I guffaw. I even snort on occasion. If something cracks me up, anyone in a five mile radius hears me. These are movies that always make me laugh out loud, no matter what mood I am in or how many times I've seen them. There is a small voice in my head telling me to list these movies in alphabetical order. A small voice which shall soon be drowned out with wine.
Blazing Saddles One of the most irreverent films I've ever seen, this is also one of the funniest. I can't hear "Camptown Ladies" without thinking of this movie. I secretly wait for moments when I can enter a room and say, "What in the wide, wide, world of sports is a-goin' on here?" This is by no means a 'politically correct' movie; it was made well before such nonsense. It shows racism and other things, sure, but these topics are shown in the bright light of comedy, and the result is positive. Cleavon Little and Gene Wilder seemed to have such an easy chemistry on screen that they always look like they're having a blast. In fact, the entire cast appears to be having a great time, and that is contagious.
Young Frankenstein I first saw this movie by myself in Germany when I was nine or ten. I got very few of the jokes at the time. I remember loving Marty Feldman arguing with Gene Wilder about the correct pronunciation of "Frankenstein". I watched the movie again when I was a teenager; we were one of the first families around with a Betamax. This time, I actually got all of the jokes, and fell in love with the movie. I wore that tape out. It turns out that just about every second of that movie is a joke of some kind, either a sight gag or a play on words or a word in another language(Schwanstuka, anyone?). My friends and I would take turns laughing about "Abby-someone", and reciting other lines, such as "Could be worse. Could be raining." The dart game between Dr. Frankenstein and Inspector Kemp is still one of my favorites.
Dodgeball I did not want to like this movie, but I ended up laughing so hard that I had to go get my inhaler. I actually remember playing Dodgeball in school; I was one of the kids who always had red welts on my arms and face from being pegged out. The nerdy guy who reads about obscure sports, the guy who thinks he's a pirate, the teenager who longs to be a cheerleader instead of a football player--perfect misfits Rip Torn with his "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball" routine was both insulting and hilarious at the same time. I am pretty sure that Rip Torn was actually wasted while filming that part, and that is okay. It made the point without overstating it. Ben Stiller shone as White "Nobody makes me bleed my own blood!" Goodman. ESPN should actually have a channel called The Ocho, and Cotton McKnight and Pepper Brooks need to be announcers at the Super Bowl. Plus, this movie has Chuck Norris in it. If you don't laugh, Chuck Norris will come to your house and punch you in the face.
Airplane! The key to this entire movie is that it was filmed as if it weren't a comedy, but a drama. It was supposed to be a spoof of all the airline disaster movies that were popular during that decade, but Airplane! is so much more. Peter Graves, Robert Stack, Lloyd Bridges, and Leslie Nielsen, and the others made this movie the classic that it is, by keeping a straight face while reciting some pretty off-the-wall things, such as "Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue". Even the names of the characters were part of the joke, as in Roger, Victor, and Clarence. And who hasn't sat next to someone like Ted Striker, who won't shut up for the entire plane ride? Surely you can't be serious!
Monty Python and the Holy Grail I actually have a stuffed animal of the evil bunny from this movie; you can make his mouth open to see his little teeth. The Holy Hand Grenade would hold a place of honor on the mantle, if it hadn't been blown to bits. Movies with straight-faced British actors always seem to be a little smarter because of their crazy accents, and I don't think that any American could have made Holy Grail. The tale of King Arthur is a British story, after all. We didn't have any Black Knights defending bridges. We didn't have any "Bring out your dead!" carts rolling about. And none of the Salem witches was ever accused of turning anyone into a newt. No, Holy Grail is most definitely a British film. The sight of that cow flying over the wall of the castle has me cackling ever time.
Honorable Mention: The Naked Gun, There's Something About Mary, Tropic Thunder. They all crack me up!
Have I missed any good comedies? Let me know--I'm always looking for a good laugh!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The Presence of Presents
My husband often accuses me of waiting until the last minute to buy gifts for people. When he does that, I usually end up walking off in a huff; I think that I do good huff. Secretly, I have to consider that Larry might be right, but it's not laziness that keeps me from braving stores early.
It's the idea that a gift must be perfect that gets me. It stops me in my tracks and paralyzes me with indecisiveness. I hate that.
I try to be a thoughtful giver. I try to find gifts that show that I have paid attention to hobbies or favorite activities. These days, however, it feels like the gifts that I choose must be THE absolutely most perfect-for-that-person ever. If I am buying a gift for a music lover, for example, then I have to find an obscure recording of Blind Lemon Jefferson(Bonus points if you know who that is without Google!). If I'm buying for a knitter, then it has to be virgin-worsted grass-fed Himalayan Alpaca wool. I don't even know what that is, but I feel pressured to find it. The thought of a disappointed face spurs me on.
In years past, I would drive myself crazy trying to find the "right" present. I still do for some people. If it isn't the "right" present, then it doesn't count, for some people. I wasn't aware that there was a contest, but I have been competing anyway. If I didn't get the "right" present, then I had failed. It hasn't help that occasionally, after all my efforts, the recipient of my gift would show their appreciation by immediately returning my "perfect" present, or by telling me that they were disappointed. And yes, those things have actually happened. Those people get gift cards or cash, and then marked off my list. I don't even bother now. It makes me sad, but I have enough to worry about without adding their disappointment to my plate.
A gift should never be given with the expectation of gratitude. It truly should be the 'thought' that counts, as cliche' as that sounds. It's not about the dollar amount, either. For a gift to have presence, for a gift to be "right", it only needs the giver's desire to bring joy to the recipient behind it. If my son, in his desire to make me smile on Christmas morning, makes me some sort of lumpish knick-knack, then that gift is perfect. When people open gifts that express that sense of thoughtfulness in some way, it lights up their heart, even if the gift isn't what they expected. The gift of love always shines. That is what people remember about the gifts they are given; those are the memories that people hold close to their hearts.
It's the idea that a gift must be perfect that gets me. It stops me in my tracks and paralyzes me with indecisiveness. I hate that.
I try to be a thoughtful giver. I try to find gifts that show that I have paid attention to hobbies or favorite activities. These days, however, it feels like the gifts that I choose must be THE absolutely most perfect-for-that-person ever. If I am buying a gift for a music lover, for example, then I have to find an obscure recording of Blind Lemon Jefferson(Bonus points if you know who that is without Google!). If I'm buying for a knitter, then it has to be virgin-worsted grass-fed Himalayan Alpaca wool. I don't even know what that is, but I feel pressured to find it. The thought of a disappointed face spurs me on.
In years past, I would drive myself crazy trying to find the "right" present. I still do for some people. If it isn't the "right" present, then it doesn't count, for some people. I wasn't aware that there was a contest, but I have been competing anyway. If I didn't get the "right" present, then I had failed. It hasn't help that occasionally, after all my efforts, the recipient of my gift would show their appreciation by immediately returning my "perfect" present, or by telling me that they were disappointed. And yes, those things have actually happened. Those people get gift cards or cash, and then marked off my list. I don't even bother now. It makes me sad, but I have enough to worry about without adding their disappointment to my plate.
A gift should never be given with the expectation of gratitude. It truly should be the 'thought' that counts, as cliche' as that sounds. It's not about the dollar amount, either. For a gift to have presence, for a gift to be "right", it only needs the giver's desire to bring joy to the recipient behind it. If my son, in his desire to make me smile on Christmas morning, makes me some sort of lumpish knick-knack, then that gift is perfect. When people open gifts that express that sense of thoughtfulness in some way, it lights up their heart, even if the gift isn't what they expected. The gift of love always shines. That is what people remember about the gifts they are given; those are the memories that people hold close to their hearts.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
New Parent? Come On In!
Somehow I won this parenting blog award from www.ecollegefinder.org, and since I am always desperately in need of validation, I humbly accepted. In my opinion, there just isn't enough education in this world, which explains the current Congress(those children should have been left behind), and it is a fact that the more educated you are, the more money you make over your lifetime. Really--go look it up.
As a consequence of winning this award, I feel that I should at least address some small part of what I have learned over the last four years of being a parent. In my case, absolutely NOTHING happened like it does in the movies! Well, except that my OB-Gyn sort of looks like Oliver Platt. Anyway, here's my two cents, adjusted for inflation.
////
Congratulations, new parent! You've brought your progeny home from the hospital or from the adoption agency. This most precious creation now lies safely sleeping in the correct position in their crib, while you and your spouse gaze at them in wonder. At this point, you should be terrified.
This is normal. The people who tell you that being a parent is easy are either high or selling something. Being a parent is the hardest job on the planet. It takes courage to be a parent. It is not for the weak-minded or the frivolous.
If you get to be a parent, there are a lifetime of challenges ahead, true. There are a lot of heartbreaks ahead, too. There is also a lifetime of success and joy and happiness ahead that will light your heart up with warm and fuzzy for the rest of your life. Being a parent is hard, but the rewards make up for that. Without further ado, here is my advice to new parents, based upon my four fabulous years of experience.
1. You are the role model for your child. Whatever you do, from now on, that little face is going to be looking to see how you handle what life throws at you. Think about how EVERYTHING that you do looks from the eyes of your child. It is an exceptionally humbling exercise. If you do it or say it, expect your child to do it or say it. Behave accordingly.
2. You are never going to parent as well as the next person, because that parent is not you. The sooner you get over that, the better. It used to keep me up nights thinking about all the things that I wasn't doing "right", and I'll never get that sleep back(Sleep is GOLD to a new parent. GOLD). Your child is unique; you are unique. Your parent-child relationship is unique. There is no "one size fits all" kid, so why expect to be that kind of parent?
3. A parenting book can be a helpful reference, but it is not the Bible. I am partial to Dr. Spock, but a number of people like those "What to Expect books". Each parenting book out there says the same thing, except when they don't. One book may say that it is okay to let your baby cry for hours. Another book threatens to call CPS if you ever let your child cry for longer than twenty seconds. You can go crazy. Choose one book to use as a reference, in case you get stuck. Don't even open any other parenting book, for sanity's sake.
4. Loving your child is not the same as letting them do whatever they want. Nobody likes a spoiled brat; there's enough of those in Congress. Boundaries make a child feel safe, and that's a stone cold fact. Sometimes that means telling them 'no'. You are not your child's friend, you are their parent. Your child needs to trust you to protect them, even from themselves.
5. Once you become a parent, there is no going back to the life you had before. It is very easy to become frustrated as a new parent. Real life experiences can be scary. There is nothing wrong with admitting that you need help. If you don't have family members who can give you a couple of hours respite here and there, check with local churches, community groups, Any Baby Can, etc. This is especially true if you have a special needs child. Even God rested on the seventh day.
Dearest readers, do you have any advice for first time parents? Do tell--my kid is only four, so I have years of stuff to learn!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Red Writing Hood: The Doorbell
Prompt: We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season, keeping in mind that for some people “the holiday season” begins around Halloween and doesn’t end until well after the New Year is underway.
The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”
This is fiction, and is sort of connected to this piece and this piece.
The doorbell rang. My tattoo felt hot on my skin, and I knew. I sighed heavily, wiped at my puffy eyes, pulled my robe closed, and shuffled downstairs. As I opened the door, I could hear the voices of carolers drifting in the cold air.
The man that I would love with my last dying breath stood there. Boone. The dragon who had ripped my heart from my chest with his sudden departure two months ago. The heat rolling off of him had melted all of the snow around the front door; I looked up to find Boone's green eyes glowing, his face haggard.
I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry in front of him, and moved toward the living room. He followed. I stood awkwardly in front of the Christmas tree. I clenched my teeth; my emotions were too raw for conversation. I wanted to just scream out my heartache; instead, I kept my eyes down. Boone reached out and wrapped his hand around my wrist, pulling me closer. His touch made my dragon tattoo writhe like a living thing. I cried out at the sensation and then I was pulled into his arms. He was still so much a part of me. My arms knew exactly where they fit to hold him close.
"You are in danger every second that we are together," Boone whispered into my hair. "You know my secret; you know what hunts me and my kind."
He pulled away, lifted my chin so that our eyes met.
"But I simply cannot be without you. I don't want to leave your side ever again. I love you, Z."
I pulled away from Boone and turned toward the window. My tears, and the snow, began to fall.
I can't keep writing about these characters using only pronouns! I like the name of Boone for the guy character, but I'm having trouble with the name for my heroine. Any suggestions?
The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”
This is fiction, and is sort of connected to this piece and this piece.
The doorbell rang. My tattoo felt hot on my skin, and I knew. I sighed heavily, wiped at my puffy eyes, pulled my robe closed, and shuffled downstairs. As I opened the door, I could hear the voices of carolers drifting in the cold air.
The man that I would love with my last dying breath stood there. Boone. The dragon who had ripped my heart from my chest with his sudden departure two months ago. The heat rolling off of him had melted all of the snow around the front door; I looked up to find Boone's green eyes glowing, his face haggard.
I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry in front of him, and moved toward the living room. He followed. I stood awkwardly in front of the Christmas tree. I clenched my teeth; my emotions were too raw for conversation. I wanted to just scream out my heartache; instead, I kept my eyes down. Boone reached out and wrapped his hand around my wrist, pulling me closer. His touch made my dragon tattoo writhe like a living thing. I cried out at the sensation and then I was pulled into his arms. He was still so much a part of me. My arms knew exactly where they fit to hold him close.
"You are in danger every second that we are together," Boone whispered into my hair. "You know my secret; you know what hunts me and my kind."
He pulled away, lifted my chin so that our eyes met.
"But I simply cannot be without you. I don't want to leave your side ever again. I love you, Z."
I pulled away from Boone and turned toward the window. My tears, and the snow, began to fall.
I can't keep writing about these characters using only pronouns! I like the name of Boone for the guy character, but I'm having trouble with the name for my heroine. Any suggestions?
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Crying
Mamakat's Prompt: What is it about that movie that makes you cry every time?
Ever since Old Yeller, when I cried for two and a half hours after the movie was over, I've been embarrassed to be seen crying in the theater. I've cried over Terms of Endearment and Steel Magnolias in the safety of my own house, a box of tissue handy. I tend to avoid chick-flicks like the plague. One day, my friend asked me to go and see The Bridges of Madison County with her. I love Clint Eastwood, but really only when he punches and shoots people on screen. This was one of my good friends, however. Sometimes you bite the bullet for your good friend, even when you aren't sure whether she will be okay with a blubbering idiot sitting next to her in a darkened theater.
The basic story--woman in a rut finds herself falling in love with some random stranger she meets at a covered bridge--was all right. Except that the woman in question was married with two children; her husband and children were out of town. Of course the random guy wants her to run off with him, and of course she can't do that to her children. As he walks out, Clint Eastwood's character Robert turns.
"This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime." he says. I started bawling, and did not stop until the movie ended.
It is very easy for me to put myself into the shoes of the characters on the screen or on the pages of a good book. I felt a great deal of empathy for Meryl Streep's character, Francesca. I understood the intensity of her feelings. She was up there on the big screen crying, so I was crying as well. I was also pretty angry at her. Robert is supposed to be the "love of a lifetime", and in a colossal display of utter selfishness, he demanded that she leave everything to run off with him. He claimed to love her, claimed to understand her, yet he expected her to leave her children behind without a second thought? A normal person would have become angered by this. Did his selfishness make Francesca turn her back on him? No, she almost jumped out of a moving vehicle to join him, and then she pined over him for the rest of her life. I cried out of frustration that Francesca was an idiot. I so wanted to like her.
Rumors to the contrary, I do have a girly side. I am a woman who likes to be swept off her feet on occasion. I love the idea of true love conquering all and the knight riding off into the sunset with the princess. Thus it was that the majority of my tears that day were of the "OMG! That is SO romantic!" nature. I still can't watch The Bridges of Madison County without getting weepy. Sometimes I find the movie on a cable channel, and I end up watching, and I end up crying. My husband sometimes finds me blubbering; he just sighs heavily and brings me the box of tissues.
Ever since Old Yeller, when I cried for two and a half hours after the movie was over, I've been embarrassed to be seen crying in the theater. I've cried over Terms of Endearment and Steel Magnolias in the safety of my own house, a box of tissue handy. I tend to avoid chick-flicks like the plague. One day, my friend asked me to go and see The Bridges of Madison County with her. I love Clint Eastwood, but really only when he punches and shoots people on screen. This was one of my good friends, however. Sometimes you bite the bullet for your good friend, even when you aren't sure whether she will be okay with a blubbering idiot sitting next to her in a darkened theater.
The basic story--woman in a rut finds herself falling in love with some random stranger she meets at a covered bridge--was all right. Except that the woman in question was married with two children; her husband and children were out of town. Of course the random guy wants her to run off with him, and of course she can't do that to her children. As he walks out, Clint Eastwood's character Robert turns.
"This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime." he says. I started bawling, and did not stop until the movie ended.
It is very easy for me to put myself into the shoes of the characters on the screen or on the pages of a good book. I felt a great deal of empathy for Meryl Streep's character, Francesca. I understood the intensity of her feelings. She was up there on the big screen crying, so I was crying as well. I was also pretty angry at her. Robert is supposed to be the "love of a lifetime", and in a colossal display of utter selfishness, he demanded that she leave everything to run off with him. He claimed to love her, claimed to understand her, yet he expected her to leave her children behind without a second thought? A normal person would have become angered by this. Did his selfishness make Francesca turn her back on him? No, she almost jumped out of a moving vehicle to join him, and then she pined over him for the rest of her life. I cried out of frustration that Francesca was an idiot. I so wanted to like her.
Rumors to the contrary, I do have a girly side. I am a woman who likes to be swept off her feet on occasion. I love the idea of true love conquering all and the knight riding off into the sunset with the princess. Thus it was that the majority of my tears that day were of the "OMG! That is SO romantic!" nature. I still can't watch The Bridges of Madison County without getting weepy. Sometimes I find the movie on a cable channel, and I end up watching, and I end up crying. My husband sometimes finds me blubbering; he just sighs heavily and brings me the box of tissues.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Meeting Hijackers
It was supposed to be just an autism specialist, a behavior specialist, and me, brainstorming. We planned to meet, discuss options, and then we would gather data to share with the rest of the team.
Somewhere, there was a breakdown of communication. It happens. Everybody who even knew the first name of the child showed up. Standing room only. We all hunkered down to do some heavy problem solving, knowing that too many chefs spoil the souffle'.
Then a not-so-funny thing happened. Reason #437 why I hate meetings.
The instructional aide, who showed up uninvited, began cutting people off in mid-conversation. She would interrupt others before they had even finished a sentence to add her two-cents. Consequently, her two-cents ended up being about a buck-fifty. The rest of us sat in stunned silence.
The meeting had been hijacked.
This happens to me at least once a week. Somebody always tries to monopolize the time, no matter how dedicated we all are to finishing fast. It gets people off track and the entire purpose of the meeting goes right out the window, sacrificed to someone's ego.
If what she was saying had been insightful or helpful, maybe she would have been forgiven for her blatant monopolizing of the meeting. This woman appeared to have no grasp of what we were trying to accomplish; she seemed to be only concerned about appearing to be smarter than the rest of us. It was as if she thought that if she could talk enough, we would see her intelligence shining like a beacon.
Instead, I imagined slapping her upside the head repeatedly. That was fun, of course. But not really productive. Just fun.
I waited for the autism specialist to step in. She was the one who had called the meeting, and I was trying to be polite. Finally I couldn't stand it anymore.
I'm not a negotiator in these sorts of situations. I don't have the patience to gently steer things back in the right direction. I am a "let's get to the point so I can go" person. I'm more like a one-person SWAT team for the meeting-impaired; I tend to just break the door down and toss in tear gas. I am hardcore, especially if I am missing lunch.
I cut the hijacker off. In the middle of a sentence. I even used dismissive body language; I waved her off. The double whammy. The meeting hijacker was not happy. I didn't care. I summed up the meeting in two sentences, indicated who was going to be responsible for data collection, and stood up. Everyone filed out of the room. A couple of grateful looks were directed at me as the room cleared extremely fast.
I decided right then and there that if I ever got to be Queen of the Universe, anyone convicted of hijacking meetings would have hot bamboo shoots inserted under their fingernails. Either that, or they would have to re-enact that scene from An Officer and a Gentlemen, where Richard Gere is running in place while Lou Gossett, Jr. has the hose on him.
What do you think? Do you guys hate meetings as much as I do?
Somewhere, there was a breakdown of communication. It happens. Everybody who even knew the first name of the child showed up. Standing room only. We all hunkered down to do some heavy problem solving, knowing that too many chefs spoil the souffle'.
Then a not-so-funny thing happened. Reason #437 why I hate meetings.
The instructional aide, who showed up uninvited, began cutting people off in mid-conversation. She would interrupt others before they had even finished a sentence to add her two-cents. Consequently, her two-cents ended up being about a buck-fifty. The rest of us sat in stunned silence.
The meeting had been hijacked.
This happens to me at least once a week. Somebody always tries to monopolize the time, no matter how dedicated we all are to finishing fast. It gets people off track and the entire purpose of the meeting goes right out the window, sacrificed to someone's ego.
If what she was saying had been insightful or helpful, maybe she would have been forgiven for her blatant monopolizing of the meeting. This woman appeared to have no grasp of what we were trying to accomplish; she seemed to be only concerned about appearing to be smarter than the rest of us. It was as if she thought that if she could talk enough, we would see her intelligence shining like a beacon.
Instead, I imagined slapping her upside the head repeatedly. That was fun, of course. But not really productive. Just fun.
I waited for the autism specialist to step in. She was the one who had called the meeting, and I was trying to be polite. Finally I couldn't stand it anymore.
I'm not a negotiator in these sorts of situations. I don't have the patience to gently steer things back in the right direction. I am a "let's get to the point so I can go" person. I'm more like a one-person SWAT team for the meeting-impaired; I tend to just break the door down and toss in tear gas. I am hardcore, especially if I am missing lunch.
I cut the hijacker off. In the middle of a sentence. I even used dismissive body language; I waved her off. The double whammy. The meeting hijacker was not happy. I didn't care. I summed up the meeting in two sentences, indicated who was going to be responsible for data collection, and stood up. Everyone filed out of the room. A couple of grateful looks were directed at me as the room cleared extremely fast.
I decided right then and there that if I ever got to be Queen of the Universe, anyone convicted of hijacking meetings would have hot bamboo shoots inserted under their fingernails. Either that, or they would have to re-enact that scene from An Officer and a Gentlemen, where Richard Gere is running in place while Lou Gossett, Jr. has the hose on him.
What do you think? Do you guys hate meetings as much as I do?
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
RemembeRED: Crash
Write on Edge Prompt: Your word is below. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience, spend ten minutes really exploring that memory. Then wrap it up, publish, and come back to link up. I had difficulty with this prompt, mostly because as soon as I read it I had to go to work, where I had exactly 7.3 seconds to myself between interruptions, phone calls, and conferences. I didn't even get to eat lunch, which I feel is a crime against humanity. Anyway, this is all that came to mind, which is weird.
Crash
My mom walked into the ER room where I sat in a drafty hospital gown, thankful that they let me keep my socks on. She looked exactly like she had been pulled out of bed and dressed in a hurry. My mother prided herself on dressing appropriately for any occasion.
"I got halfway here and couldn't remember if you really called or if I was just dreaming," she said after visually verifying that I was indeed still in one piece.
"How often do people call you in the middle of the night to ask for a ride home from the hospital, Mom?" I felt that a bit of sarcasm was justified under the circumstances, even if it did go right over my mom's head.
I was extremely tired, stiff, and in a bit of pain. Earlier in the evening the car I was riding in was hit, and I ended up not only getting my first involuntary ride in an ambulance, but having the bejeesus scared out of me by the ER doctor, who swore that he saw a fracture in some part of my vertebrae mysteriously named "C7" and put me through the torture of a CT-Scan for nothing. After that roller coaster ride, I just wanted to go home. I climbed off the bed, gathered up the discharge papers and handed them to my mother.
"Can you hand me my clothes?" I held out my hand. My mom turned picked up my jeans and my bodysuit and handed them to me.
"You didn't have any underwear?" She was confused.
"No Mom," I replied, pulling the bodysuit on. "I did not have any underwear." You can't wear underwear with a body suit; it looks like you have a diaper on. I pulled up my jeans and found my boots.
"Why weren't you wearing underwear?" My mom had not moved on. She was part of the generation raised on the idea that clean underwear must be worn in case one had to go to the hospital. I wanted to laugh, which was probably a bit of hysteria, but I knew that her feelings would be hurt.
"Let it go, Mom." I headed for the door. "Nobody ever said anything about not wearing underwear to the emergency room."
Crash
My mom walked into the ER room where I sat in a drafty hospital gown, thankful that they let me keep my socks on. She looked exactly like she had been pulled out of bed and dressed in a hurry. My mother prided herself on dressing appropriately for any occasion.
"I got halfway here and couldn't remember if you really called or if I was just dreaming," she said after visually verifying that I was indeed still in one piece.
"How often do people call you in the middle of the night to ask for a ride home from the hospital, Mom?" I felt that a bit of sarcasm was justified under the circumstances, even if it did go right over my mom's head.
I was extremely tired, stiff, and in a bit of pain. Earlier in the evening the car I was riding in was hit, and I ended up not only getting my first involuntary ride in an ambulance, but having the bejeesus scared out of me by the ER doctor, who swore that he saw a fracture in some part of my vertebrae mysteriously named "C7" and put me through the torture of a CT-Scan for nothing. After that roller coaster ride, I just wanted to go home. I climbed off the bed, gathered up the discharge papers and handed them to my mother.
"Can you hand me my clothes?" I held out my hand. My mom turned picked up my jeans and my bodysuit and handed them to me.
"You didn't have any underwear?" She was confused.
"No Mom," I replied, pulling the bodysuit on. "I did not have any underwear." You can't wear underwear with a body suit; it looks like you have a diaper on. I pulled up my jeans and found my boots.
"Why weren't you wearing underwear?" My mom had not moved on. She was part of the generation raised on the idea that clean underwear must be worn in case one had to go to the hospital. I wanted to laugh, which was probably a bit of hysteria, but I knew that her feelings would be hurt.
"Let it go, Mom." I headed for the door. "Nobody ever said anything about not wearing underwear to the emergency room."
Monday, December 5, 2011
A World Without Lines
See that line? That yellow rope? That boundary drawn for the express purpose of keeping people away from touching the extremely expensive, one of a kind trains? If you look closely, you can just see the speculative look on my son's face. Just seconds after I snapped this picture, Zane was underneath that yellow rope, heading for that train. Without my husband's well-timed ankle grab, things would not have ended well.
My kid is generally a well-behaved child, interested in anything and everything around him. He says "Yes, ma'am." He follows most rules and routines. Yet when he sees a "line" of any kind, any sort of barrier, it's an open invitation. His eyes positively light up at the challenge. It is almost physically impossible for him to refrain from at least attempting to move beyond any sort of physical boundary. My sister-in-law told us a story once about how she put up one of those gates to keep Zane in the living room. Zane sat there in front of the gate, just staring at it. Then he stood up, grabbed the gate and started rocking with it, until the gate fell down. At the time, I marveled at my child being smart enough to figure out how to get the gate down. Now I wonder.
There are very definitely some boundaries that are not supposed to be crossed, no matter how challenging they may be. There's a reason that there's a gate around Fort Knox, for example. Some doors are locked because what is behind them is dangerous. I would hope that Zane will understand that very fine distinction, and so far he seems to hear us when we tell him that he might get hurt. And yet...
Galileo(or was it Copernicus?) was shown the boundary, established by the Church, that said the sun rotated around the earth. He ignored that boundary, and discovered that the earth went around the sun instead. The first surgeon ignored the boundaries of his time, which did not allow for opening up the body to look for illness. The first explorers of the world ignored the conventional wisdom that said the world was flat. Every 'first', every creator, every explorer, every theorist, pushed past a boundary to find something new. In these cases, not recognizing a boundary led to something wonderful. That is what I would hope for my son's future; that he see boundaries as something to push over and move past. At least, those boundaries which are not going to get him arrested.
There are lots of 'boundaries' in our lives, and most of them, like 'don't stick your finger in an electrical outlet', are there for a good reason. But what if we ignored some of those established boundaries? the ones that seem arbitrary and archaic. Useless. When those boundaries are breached, it seems almost mystical. Maybe if we listen to that voice inside us that says "Ignore this boundary" on occasion, maybe something miraculous will come of it.
Today, I am going to be daring and push past an established boundary. I am not sure what it will be, or how grand my gesture will be. Maybe I'll spend the day saying exactly what I think. Or maybe I'll just loudly fart in a public place. It'll depend on what I have for lunch.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Five Things
This was my second choice for Mamakat's writer's workshop, and I can't think of anything worse than letting something go to waste when it has already been written, so here it is.
5 things you don't know about me:
I am okay with the occasional chick-flick. Even if I cry a bit.
I secretly see myself as a size 10. No matter how many cookies I eat.
I will do anything to get out of taking out the trash. And vacuuming.
If you see me eating more chocolate than normal, run. Especially run if you've eaten the last piece of chocolate.
My second and third toes are longer than my big toe. Seriously. They're almost prehensile.
5 things I am pretty knowledgeable about:
Disabilities
British history, particularly the monarchs before Henry VIII.
Bartending
Emergency management
Migraines
5 things you know nothing about:
Physics
Surgery
Breeding elephants
Fly fishing
Calculus
5 things I believe:
Love makes you do the wacky, and that's okay.
There is nothing more beautiful than the smile of a happy child, and anyone who deliberately harms a child is evil.
Karma, or the Threefold Law, Do Unto Others, etc., is real.
There is a God, Infinite Spirit, etc.
People who think that they know what is best for everyone else, usually don't. They need to be slapped repeatedly until they wake up.
5 things you don't know about me:
I am okay with the occasional chick-flick. Even if I cry a bit.
I secretly see myself as a size 10. No matter how many cookies I eat.
I will do anything to get out of taking out the trash. And vacuuming.
If you see me eating more chocolate than normal, run. Especially run if you've eaten the last piece of chocolate.
My second and third toes are longer than my big toe. Seriously. They're almost prehensile.
5 things I am pretty knowledgeable about:
Disabilities
British history, particularly the monarchs before Henry VIII.
Bartending
Emergency management
Migraines
5 things you know nothing about:
Physics
Surgery
Breeding elephants
Fly fishing
Calculus
5 things I believe:
Love makes you do the wacky, and that's okay.
There is nothing more beautiful than the smile of a happy child, and anyone who deliberately harms a child is evil.
Karma, or the Threefold Law, Do Unto Others, etc., is real.
There is a God, Infinite Spirit, etc.
People who think that they know what is best for everyone else, usually don't. They need to be slapped repeatedly until they wake up.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Doody-head
We were met by my son's teacher yesterday at pickup time. She was concerned about the 'bathroom talk'. I was momentarily confused, then I realized that she was referring to my son's current raging case of 'potty-mouth'.
For the past week, my son has called everyone around him, including my cat Morris, a 'doody-head', a 'dookie', and other variations of the same. All Zane can talk about is the potty--what sits on it, what goes in it, etc. These are words that we do not use, and we naturally assumed that Zane acquired this new vocabulary from his social group. We get that. Zane is apparently at the age where it is developmentally appropriate to talk about poop with your peeps.
Larry and I have discussed Zane's behavior with each other, and with him, several times. We can't even bring up any of the words without Zane exploding in giggles. Of course, every time my husband hears the word 'doody', he giggles. He's like Pavlov's dog that way. I'm not much better, I must confess. I have to fight off the urge to snicker, and everyone knows that you can't be a stern disciplinarian and snicker. It's just not done.
While Zane's teacher was talking, what am I thinking about? I am the MOM here, after all! I should be thinking about MOM things, right? Am I considering all the possible consequences I can inflict on my child as punishment for his wayward behavior? Am I rifling through my assorted behavior management tricks to find just the right thing to nip this particular behavior in the butt? (Sorry. Could not resist.)
No.
All that was going through my head was the Babe Ruth scene from the movie Caddyshack. I nodded and tried to look concerned, while in my head I was seeing Bill Murray in the hazmat suit holding the offending candy bar.
"What was that all about?" Larry wanted to know when we finally got out to the car.
What could I tell him?
"Doody."
For the past week, my son has called everyone around him, including my cat Morris, a 'doody-head', a 'dookie', and other variations of the same. All Zane can talk about is the potty--what sits on it, what goes in it, etc. These are words that we do not use, and we naturally assumed that Zane acquired this new vocabulary from his social group. We get that. Zane is apparently at the age where it is developmentally appropriate to talk about poop with your peeps.
Larry and I have discussed Zane's behavior with each other, and with him, several times. We can't even bring up any of the words without Zane exploding in giggles. Of course, every time my husband hears the word 'doody', he giggles. He's like Pavlov's dog that way. I'm not much better, I must confess. I have to fight off the urge to snicker, and everyone knows that you can't be a stern disciplinarian and snicker. It's just not done.
While Zane's teacher was talking, what am I thinking about? I am the MOM here, after all! I should be thinking about MOM things, right? Am I considering all the possible consequences I can inflict on my child as punishment for his wayward behavior? Am I rifling through my assorted behavior management tricks to find just the right thing to nip this particular behavior in the butt? (Sorry. Could not resist.)
No.
All that was going through my head was the Babe Ruth scene from the movie Caddyshack. I nodded and tried to look concerned, while in my head I was seeing Bill Murray in the hazmat suit holding the offending candy bar.
"What was that all about?" Larry wanted to know when we finally got out to the car.
What could I tell him?
"Doody."
Friday, December 2, 2011
Red Writing Hood: And Her Glory Shone All Around
Prompt: This week we’d like you to write a piece about hair. It can be about you or one of your characters where hair figures prominently. Don’t just describe it. Use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you and your life. This is a continuation of my dragon story, here.
A dragon!
Drawn by the light of an enormous fire, Arik watched the dragon from his hiding place in the forest. He had witnessed the change from dragon to woman, stunned. He had stared in disbelief as she stumbled from the fire and crawled to the cooling waters of the lake. As she rose from the water to stand, smoke rolled away from her pale skin, and all was revealed to Arik in the moonlight.
He was transfixed.
Even wet, the dragon’s new hair caught the firelight and consumed it, until the rich obsidian waves seemed to glow in the darkness. Arik could not take his eyes off of the thick, rippling waves of hair that undulated down her shoulders to her waist. Her hair seemed to be a living entity, enticing in its sensuality. He wanted to grab those locks, to feel them flow over the bare skin of his hands. The urge was so visceral that Arik clenched his hands into fists, feeling those tresses slide through his fingers. He drew in a breath.
At his inhalation, the dragon turned slowly toward the darkness surrounding his hiding place, as if she could see Arik, or feel the weight of his stare. Her eyes glowed. He froze.
“I know that you are there, human.” To Arik’s ears, the dragon’s voice was melted chocolate. She held out an open hand toward him.
“Come.”
I should be afraid, he thought. No one would have called him coward for running. Instead, he was intrigued.
He stepped out of the forest and walked toward her.
A dragon!
Drawn by the light of an enormous fire, Arik watched the dragon from his hiding place in the forest. He had witnessed the change from dragon to woman, stunned. He had stared in disbelief as she stumbled from the fire and crawled to the cooling waters of the lake. As she rose from the water to stand, smoke rolled away from her pale skin, and all was revealed to Arik in the moonlight.
He was transfixed.
Even wet, the dragon’s new hair caught the firelight and consumed it, until the rich obsidian waves seemed to glow in the darkness. Arik could not take his eyes off of the thick, rippling waves of hair that undulated down her shoulders to her waist. Her hair seemed to be a living entity, enticing in its sensuality. He wanted to grab those locks, to feel them flow over the bare skin of his hands. The urge was so visceral that Arik clenched his hands into fists, feeling those tresses slide through his fingers. He drew in a breath.
At his inhalation, the dragon turned slowly toward the darkness surrounding his hiding place, as if she could see Arik, or feel the weight of his stare. Her eyes glowed. He froze.
“I know that you are there, human.” To Arik’s ears, the dragon’s voice was melted chocolate. She held out an open hand toward him.
“Come.”
I should be afraid, he thought. No one would have called him coward for running. Instead, he was intrigued.
He stepped out of the forest and walked toward her.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
War Paint
Mamakat's Prompt: describe a time a child's honesty made you think.
My husband and I carpool to work and we drop my son off at his daycare on the way. In order to save time, I usually put my make up on in the car. I was applying my eyeshadow the other morning when Zane piped up from the backseat.
"You going to battle, Mama?" he asked. I snorted before I could stop myself.
"Yes, son," I told him. "Mama is going to battle."
"What do you think Mama is going to battle, Zane?" My husband was curious.
"A big giant ROBOT!!!!" was the answer. We all laughed as we pulled into the daycare parking lot.
Later, I thought about what Zane had said. The kid was actually on the right track. Unlike most women, I often think of makeup as my war paint. There are some days when I don't see eye shadow and blush as enhancements, but as weapons.
My ritual application of color to my face each morning seems to prepare me to face whatever enemy has made an appointment on the field of engagement. When I apply a particular color of lipstick, there's often an intent on my part to "put on" a particular face, or a mask, in order to convey a particular message to people who see me. This message might be "Hello!" or it might be "Get the F--- away from me before I rip your arms off." Or both, depending on the agenda.
People who know me understand that I have social skills issues. My attention to the social niceties is extremely short, particularly when I have a goal in mind. I'm just as likely to say the wrong thing as I am to say the right thing. Even when I make an effort to smooth things over, things tend to get messy. Throw an angry parent in there, and blood may get spilled.
My "war paint" provides me with a feeling of protection as well as a sort of confidence. This is all very necessary for my daily 'battles'. Once my 'mask' of makeup is in place, I have a shield between me and the rest of the world.
That includes big robots.
My husband and I carpool to work and we drop my son off at his daycare on the way. In order to save time, I usually put my make up on in the car. I was applying my eyeshadow the other morning when Zane piped up from the backseat.
"You going to battle, Mama?" he asked. I snorted before I could stop myself.
"Yes, son," I told him. "Mama is going to battle."
"What do you think Mama is going to battle, Zane?" My husband was curious.
"A big giant ROBOT!!!!" was the answer. We all laughed as we pulled into the daycare parking lot.
Later, I thought about what Zane had said. The kid was actually on the right track. Unlike most women, I often think of makeup as my war paint. There are some days when I don't see eye shadow and blush as enhancements, but as weapons.
My ritual application of color to my face each morning seems to prepare me to face whatever enemy has made an appointment on the field of engagement. When I apply a particular color of lipstick, there's often an intent on my part to "put on" a particular face, or a mask, in order to convey a particular message to people who see me. This message might be "Hello!" or it might be "Get the F--- away from me before I rip your arms off." Or both, depending on the agenda.
People who know me understand that I have social skills issues. My attention to the social niceties is extremely short, particularly when I have a goal in mind. I'm just as likely to say the wrong thing as I am to say the right thing. Even when I make an effort to smooth things over, things tend to get messy. Throw an angry parent in there, and blood may get spilled.
My "war paint" provides me with a feeling of protection as well as a sort of confidence. This is all very necessary for my daily 'battles'. Once my 'mask' of makeup is in place, I have a shield between me and the rest of the world.
That includes big robots.
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