Zero Tolerance

Zane is speeding on a collision course with actual school.  He will start kindergarten next year.  I want him to make friends, and get along with his teachers and learn as much as he can.  I do not want him to be teased, or picked on, or told he is weird because he is different.  I want Zane to treat others with respect, peers and teachers alike, and I want others to treat him with the same respect. In other words, I do not want my son to be bullied or to be a bully.  At the same time, I want him to know that he doesn't have to meekly accept being treated that way; he does have options, which should only involve fisticuffs as a last resort. Any child should be allowed to defend themselves, if necessary.

Schools all over are preaching a no bullying mantra to all students.  No bullying, teachers say to students.  No bullying, kids say to other kids.  Although I think that this current attempt is laudable in many ways, I don't think that it will be very effective in the long run.  You can talk to kids until you are blue in the face about respect and bullying, but they will do what they see adults do, not what they say. 

How many people in the current workforce have been bullied by their boss?  How many have been yelled at, or made to feel less than, by someone above their pay grade? How many people have been told "You should be thankful that you have a job" when their workload triples?   How many people have been talked down to or belittled at work?  Why is it okay to allow bullying in the workplace?  Why is it okay for an administrator to call a teacher into his office and threaten them with job loss if their students don't score well on state assessments?  Why is it okay for an employee to be forced into a pay cut, and told he should just be grateful that he has a job? 

For that matter, why is it okay for Rush Limbaugh to make a living out of bullying?  Because that's what he does--he's a bully.  He doesn't actually have to come up with any original thoughts.  If Limbaugh, or others like him, don't like what another person, such as the President, has to say, they call them names and harangue them instead of arguing in the rational manner of intelligent people.  The Governor of Wisconsin essentially bullied people to get what he wanted; other governors have done the same, and nobody has called them on the carpet for it. 

The political extremism that exists in this country, at its heart, is pure bullying behavior.  This is certainly not a new phenomenon, but the message has always been the same.  If you don't believe what I believe, you are less, you are other, and I can do whatever I want to you in the name of my political party/my religion.   If my party wins, I can cut the funding for the projects you considered to be important as retaliation; if my party loses, I can spend the next four years making life miserable by fighting every single bill that might make any sort of difference.  I am convinced that all the vitriol about Obama's healthcare law has little to do with actual facts and more to do with retaliation for getting the bill passed in the first place.

Kids are exposed to this.  Kids hear their parents calling the President of the United States names that aren't very nice.  Kids hear their parents talking about what their boss called them that day.    Older kids may watch the news and other programs, and hear politicians hurling insults at each other.  What they hear and see doesn't jibe with what they've been told at school.  Since it's okay for Mom and Dad to call other people names and it's okay for politicians to scream at each other, many children will reason,  that this behavior must be okay.   How can we hold children accountable for bullying behavior when no one is holding the adults around them accountable? 

If we truly want bullying behavior to end, if we truly want a more respectful climate in the work world and in politics, then we need to hold everyone accountable for bullying and not just when they are at school.  That means no more tuning in to hear Rush call someone else a slut.   No more doing whatever you want to others just because you can.  We cannot expect our children to 'do as we say' and not do as we do.  We have to show them that we, as parents, will not accept bullying behavior from anyone. If there are friends or family members in your life who are negative and bullying, stop associating with them.  If you attend a church where the pastor spews hatred toward others, find a new church. If we stop giving money to politicians who are bullies, if we stop listening to Rush Limbaugh, if we start giving money to more positive causes, that will get the ball rolling.  We can also start treating each other with more respect.  These are little things, but each drop in the bucket brings it closer to overflowing. 

Spring Has Sprung

I've been a photograph-snapping fool these days, because I am crazy about wild flowers.  I am probably just crazy, but that's another blog post.  In the meantime, enjoy!

Whenever I see a red poppy, I automatically think of The Wicked Witch of the West, with her mortar and pestle, casting a spell to ensnare Dorothy.   Is that weird?  It sure is!

This was in a random cow pasture, and I had to stand in waist high grass and hold the camera over the fence to snap this photo. This pink poppy had a cross in the center of it, after all that.  Cool surprise!

I am not sure what these are.  Part of me wants to say 'daisy', but then there might be some sort of fancypants scientific description, such as 'Fortenberry-SmytheYellow'.   You never know with flowers.


This was one of the writing prompts from Mamakat's Writers Workshop.  Check her out if you get a chance!

Youth is Wasted

Young children seem to be full of energy.  My son is certainly a prime example; he seems to be constantly in motion.  I used to joke around with my husband about putting a hamster wheel in our house for Zane, so he could burn off energy and power up all of our electronic devices. 

But I sort of wasn't joking. 

My husband and I have been on our feet more than usual this past week, during the annual state torture assessments.  The tests require "active monitoring".   We can't do anything except walk around and stare at them.  All that walking keeps me awake, certainly.  But at the end of the day, when we go home, my husband and I are out of energy.  We sometimes don't even have the energy to remember where the remote is. 

My son, on the other hand, wants us to go outside in the backyard and look at caterpillars.  He wants us to help him fly dragons through the house.  He wants us to go with him to the park.  He wants us to put on capes and play Batman and Robin.  He wants us to take him bike riding.   He wants us to play "Lions in the Living Room"(a game which involves Zane riding an elephant, played by me, in search of lions).
As an only child, we are Zane's only play companions at home, because none of the cats will voluntarily wear the Batman hat.  But we are tired, our feet aching, our muscles protesting every movement.  I look at my child, with his abundance of energy, and I can't help but feel a little stab of jealousy.

Wouldn't it be nice to have the energy of a four year old, at least for one day?  I would settle for their nap time.

X Marks The Spot

X marks the spot, I kept repeating to myself.  The harsh sounds of my own breathing accompanied my thoughts in the blackness of my cell. 

I screamed myself hoarse in those first days.  I lay naked on a cot, chains around my wrists and ankles, and the darkness seemed to swallow my screams.  My hands clawed, my wrists bled, and I was suffocating.  I was inside a coffin and the dirt of the grave had already been filled in over me.  I lost count of how many times I passed out, my mind overwhelmed. 
  
X marks the spot.

Calvin's appearance certainly didn't help my mental state, but at least he brought a lantern with him.  He didn't speak, and I gibbered rabidly on broken vocal cords while he fed, watered and cleaned me.  Then he would immediately leave, and I would start screaming into the darkness again.  Except when Calvin didn't leave. 

X marks the spot.

The first time I stared as he removed his clothes and climbed onto the cot, climbed onto me.  That impossibly huge mole on Calvin's nose became a second head in the shadows thrown by the light.  My wrists and legs were chained, but I screamed and bucked and fought him every inch.  Calvin enjoyed my anger immensely, and I heard him chuckle as he closed me into the dark once more.    

X marks the spot.

I don't know how long this cycle of darkness and rape went on.  Fear became my sister in the darkness. I even prayed to her, made her a deity in hopes that she would end my suffering.  There was no light to judge the passing of time, and my mind faded in and out. I became aware of where I was, who I was, and who was responsible.  Fear was clouding my brain, fogging my attempts to examine my predicament, but there was a voice as well.  A voice, from within me, repeating the same sentence over and over again, gradually strengthening.

X marks the spot.
 
That mantra pulled me out of my insanity, drove the fear back.  It stilled my screams, steadied my breathing, let me think.  Most importantly, it made me stop fighting Calvin. 

At the core of my being, I wanted to live.  If I continued to fight Calvin, he would kill me.  As long as I was alive, I had a chance of getting away.  But I had to focus.  I had to keep the fear away. 

X marks the spot.  X marks the spot on Calvin's face where I will hit him.  When I kill him.


Prompt:  For this week, I’m giving you the word “Core.” You have 450 words to explore any meaning of the word in a work of creative non-fiction/memoir or fiction. This is a continuation of Calvin's hunt for a bride.

Words of Wisdom

Wisdom is not the same thing as intelligence.  Intelligence is defined by those guys over at Merriam-Websters as "the ability to apply knowledge to manipulate one's environment or to think abstractly as measured by objective criteria."    The ability to apply what you know is intelligence; the more you know, the more tools you have in the toolbox, the smarter you are.  Notice that the definition of intelligence doesn't mention IQ; try as they might, there is no standardized test that consistently measures all aspects of intelligence.   The more we know about how the brain works, the more we realize that we don't know. The human brain is just that awesome.

But as smart as people become, we continue to do some pretty stupid things.  For example, John Edwards is an intelligent man.  Yet for all his intelligence, he is not very wise.  He was a likeable  public figure, running for office, and he has an affair.  It was bad enough that he was a married man having an affair, but to think that no one would ever find out?  Sheer stupidity certainly does not equal wisdom, but it makes Edward's behavior all the more appalling.


The people that I consider to be wise are not necessarily the smartest people I know, but they are people who are considerate of others.  If you ask them a question, their answers are insightful, and they often come up with solutions that I hadn't considered.  These are people who don't always tell me what I want to hear.  I respect that. While I am decisive, I am not always right.  That is one lesson that took me a long time to learn; as a younger me, I had to be right no matter what.  I am very glad that I finally figured out that I really don't know much of anything.  The universe is so vast, and I just have this one tiny brain, after all.  Someone else can be right all the time.  I am old enough to know that I don't know.


Is that the beginning of wisdom? 

Volunteer or Shaddup

Very often in my life, I hear complaints.  Complaints about life, complaints about a particular chapter of life, complaints about a particular character in said chapter of life, etc.  People are just venting, and all I have to do is listen, and occasionally interject murmurs of encouragement.  Sometimes I'm the one venting.  I see venting as the equivalent of a summer storm, as suddenly over as it began.  When the venting is done, equilibrium is re-established, and the world can continue turning. 

Then there are the complainers who just complain.  It's as if they've eaten nothing but sour grapes or sour lemons their entire lives. They cannot open their mouths without a negative statement bursting forth like overripe fruit.  When people try to help these sourpusses, they aren't thanked.  In this instance, the complainer doesn't want the problem to be fixed, they just want to complain about it, and they want everyone to know that they are complaining about it.   This is not a productive person.  They say the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but the squeaky wheel often also ends up getting whacked in the head with a mallet. 

There are a number of very positive people who are willing to volunteer their time.  Every elementary school has room mothers, and more recently Watch D.O.G.S(Dads of Great Students), roaming about, lending a hand here and there.   These fine people saw a need, or were told about a need.  Instead of constantly complaining about how crappy public education is, or how terrible the federal/state government is, or how it's all Obama's fault...these people stepped in and DID something.  They asked what they could do to help, and then...they did it.  These fine parents don't spend all of their waking hours at the school like the actual teacher do, but they do what they can, and that is what counts. If it weren't for volunteers, most schools would be sad places.

My husband has been the "commissioner" of the 3/4 year old soccer teams this spring.  There were almost 80 three and four year old children who wanted to play soccer, and my husband would have gladly placed all of them on teams...except not many parents wanted to volunteer to coach.  So some kids didn't get to play, and that is a darn shame.  Even at this level, a coach needs a team mom, and several willing "cat-herders" to keep the kids focused, but some parents won't even volunteer for that! My husband has since received a number of phone calls and emails complaining about particular coaches, and his response has been to ask the complainer if they are willing to take over coaching responsibilities.  Silence is usually the response. 

Every parent out there should be willing to volunteer for something at least once a year.  It doesn't have to be a sports team; the library needs volunteers, and so does the chess club.  You don't have to be an expert on anything, all that is required is a willingness to help.  Children should see positive adults helping others without expecting payment, aka volunteering.  Adults who volunteer are modeling that giving behavior to the children around them.  It's an awesome thing, to volunteer, and these people should be solemnly kissed on both cheeks and bear hugged. 

This is a message to all you whiny complainers out there: Stop just whining and DO something!  You'll be glad that you did, I promise. 

Under the Rainbow

Source: psdgraphics.com via Tina on Pinterest

Understandably, everyone talks about everything being over the rainbow.  But what about what is under the rainbow?   Most of the world never gets to fly over a rainbow, like the birds, planes, or the occasional alien mothership.   It's also cold up there in the upper atmosphere.  It's cold and there's very little actual oxygen to breathe. Then there is that whole 'fear of falling' thing.  Still, many people find themselves staring wistfully at the sky, wishing that we could fly over that rainbow. We are 'stuck' on the ground underneath the rainbow.

What is wrong with being underneath?  We were made to look at the world with wonder, no matter the perspective!

When we are under the rainbow, we can stay firmly rooted on the ground, so we don't lose sight of what is real.  Dreaming also comes more easily when we are still, as any toddler can demonstrate.  We can feel the flow of the earth beneath while we stare up at the blue sky, the clouds floating  lazily around the rainbow above.   Under the rainbow, the colors will be more vivid than they are over the rainbow, where the air is thinner.  My imagination can safely chase my thoughts all over the sky and pass through each color of that rainbow, as many times as I want.  And when the rainbow disappears, as they do, I can carry the memory of it in my heart.

Whether you are above it, or beneath it, it's still a rainbow, and it's still wonderful.

There Really Is No It

Source: loveliverspread.wordpress.com via Tina on Pinterest

There it is: You either have It or you don't, people say, and if you don't have It, you aren't going to suddenly get It.  Even if you have all the money in the world, you can't buy It.  You can't wear It, or take a vitamin to get It.  People are born with It, you hear.  It is timeless.  Angels have kissed these individuals, according to the legends.  It is as if the heavens above rained down their benevolence and bestowed It. They are seen by all as beautiful, striking, charismatic.  The people who have It are just meant to be adored, no matter who they are.  Where ever they are, where ever they go, people seem to fall all over themselves to bask in the sunshine of the person who has It.  Everyone loves the person who has It.  Clara Bow had It.  George Clooney has It.  Marilyn Monroe had It.  Marilyn Manson, thankfully, does not(He has something, just not It.). 

Just what the heck is It?  Is It even real?  I look in the mirror sometimes and I wonder.  I know that I don't have It.  There are a lot of people in the world who do not have anything close to It, and as far as I can tell, we are all still relatively functional.  And who gets to decide who has It?  People who have It, or people who have money or power?  I've heard stories about secret cabals of powerful men who gather to decide the fate of the world. Do those guys decide who have It?  If so, what are their qualifications for these decisions?  Rich people aren't necessarily applauded for their brains, unless they pay someone to applaud.

No, It doesn't really exist.  It was created as some sort of advertising propaganda to make us believe that we need whatever it is advertisers are selling.  We don't have to have It to shine, to be who we are.  The people who love me, by virtue of that love,  believe in me.  That means that, as far as they are concerned, I have It.  Whether I buy a particular toothpaste or paint my toenails Electric Slide Blue(is that really a color?  No?  It should be!), the feelings that my loved ones have for me will not change.

I don't need It.

Posing A Question

He almost seems as though he knew I was snapping away with my camera phone, doesn't he?  This was at the Snake Farm in New Braunfels, Texas (motto: if it might kill you, we has it!) in their most recent incarnation of zoo.  This bright guy, and his peacock-y gang, seemed to be content in their little enclosure.  This surprised me.

Housed in the cage directly across from these beautiful birds are two Servils, cats known for eating, well, birds.  And next to that enclosure, are a couple of wolves.  Then there are the hyenas.  And of course, the 14,000 alligators and crocodiles.  In fact, the larger, predatory animals seem to have been arranged to completely surround the succulent birds and lemurs that are housed here.  Certainly, if I were housed in the middle of predators, I would not be so calm about it.  I certainly would not be posing for pictures. 

Or maybe I would, if I looked as good as this guy. 

Simple

Simplicity. We all want it, or at least that's what I've heard.  There are certainly enough books written on the topic.  We long for the days when life was more simple, free of the demands of life and work and other people. 

When most of us think of simplicity, there is this pleasant image of a tire swing underneath an extremely old oak tree, a blanket spread on soft and fragrant, freshly mown grass, a picnic basket full of fried chicken right beside us.   Or maybe we think of a porch swing on a pleasantly warm day, with a grandmotherly type of person bringing us a cool glass of homemade lemonade. 

Who told us that those times were simple?  It was the person sitting on the blanket or the porch swing, wasn't it?  The person who did not wash that blanket is the one saying that life was simple "back in the day".  Of course life was simple for that person!  They didn't have to do anything--someone else did all the work!  There was another person(or more) in that 'simpler' time, standing in a hot kitchen, slicing and squeezing 400 lemons so that there would be some fresh lemonade for someone who probably didn't even say 'Thank you'.   While there wasn't television or Xbox back then, life certainly wouldn't have been considered 'simple' by the people who were living it at the time.   I suppose that each generation has to place a certain sheen of nostalgia on previous generations.  I just wish that they would get their facts straight. 

I often feel as though I am being pulled in several directions at once.  I never feel as though I have finished any tasks; I just seem to have new items added to the lists!  And then I wish that life were simpler. That isn't really what I want. What I want in those moments is for someone else to take care of everything.  Someone else to answer the phone and the emails.  Someone else to listen to complaints.  Someone else to cook the dinner.  Someone else to make some freakin' decisions, at least for 30 minutes so I can have a tiny bit of breathing room.

I also want someone to massage my tired feet at the end of the day and bring me some sort of fruity alcoholic beverage.  But that is another blog post.

Romance

Really, they were just eyebrows.  The eyebrows of my beloved, my husband, my sweetheart, were confounding me.  I could have gazed adoringly into those sky-blue eyes all day long...if it weren't for those eyebrows.  They haunted my dreams.  He would look completely different with new eyebrows, a little voice in the back of my head whispered.

I never noticed those stray hairs until after we'd been married a while, but once I saw them, I couldn't unsee them.  They were ten weeds on the face of perfection, perched on the No Man's Land above the nose, and they were driving me insane.  I resolved several times not to pay them any attention, but it was no use.  Those eyebrows were like a traffic accident; even with the best of intentions, my eyes would drift upward.  Eyebrow plucking is certainly not considered to be a manly art, unless said plucking is followed by the placement of a tattoo or a piercing.

They don't really cover stuff like this in the marriage manuals.  I was certain that I'd never heard any of my friends talking about male eyebrow plucking.  I recalled seeing men in barber shops with towels over their faces when I was growing up, but I could not recall a time when I'd ever seen a man in the barber shop getting his eyebrows plucked.  I wasn't about to call my dad to ask!

How could I approach this topic without ruffling any feathers?   I could take a lot of things, but getting the silent treatment at that time was a torture to be avoided.  I waffled and procrastinated for days, afraid that my topic would start an argument.  I could finally stand it no longer, and I had to say something.  I took a deep breath and made my request.

"What do you mean, you want to pluck my eyebrows?"   He was understandably nonplussed, but he was warily agreeable.  

He sat on the edge of the bathtub as I found my tweezers.   His breath fanned gently over my face as I leaned over for a better look.  I was suddenly nervous.  I'd never plucked anyone else's eyebrows before. What if I plucked too much?  What if his eyebrows ended up lopsided?  What if the tweezers fell out of my sweaty hands and punctured an eyeball and he had to wear an eyepatch?   Stop it, I told myself firmly.  I moved the trembling tweezers into position, grasped at a hair, and ripped the first offending hair out quickly.

"OWW!!!"   Larry leaped to his feet, his eye covered by his hands.  He angrily stepped to the mirror to survey the damage.  "ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME???"

"Don't be silly, sweetie," I giggled nervously,  "Your life insurance policy hasn't activated yet." 

We looked at each other, and started to laugh.   My nerves melted away as he sat back down so I could finish pulling those last nine hairs.



WOE Prompt: It’s time for a change in outward appearance, be it a character, yourself, or someone in your life. write about a makeover of your choice (hair, clothes, makeup, facial hair for the menfolk), fictional or memoir/creative non-fiction. Let’s think about how physical appearance changes can affect the inner landscape.  This is nonfiction, and likely stretches the definition of a makeover, but it's all I've got today. The brain does not run well on migraines and lack of sleep. 

Quick Peek!

Quite some time ago, I acquired my very first cat, and it has been a roller coaster ride ever since. I've always been fascinated by these mercurial creatures, and I love watching them, so it was only natural that when they started showing up here, I would want to keep them around.  At one point, we had four cats in this house, and thus achieved coveted Crazy Cat Lady status.  These days, the count is down to two very different cats, Pounce and Zena.  These two lovelies share a profound dislike of each other, and that is about it.  These are their thoughts on a routine day.

Pounce:

"Zzzzzzzzz--What is coming up the stairs?  Is that the boy? Run! Hide!" 

"What was that noise? Is that a bird? Run! Hide! Hide!"

"ACK!!  You found me!  Run somewhere else! Hide!"

"Pet me.  No, feed me.  No, pet me--and then feed me."

"Is that a speck of dust on my paw?  It must be cleaned, then cleaned again.  And cleaned once more, for good measure." 

"You must pet me NOW or I will lick all the skin off this side of your face."

"What was that noise? Is that another cat?  Hide--no--Run!"


Zena:

"I wonder if I can leap from the top of these cabinets to the island where the treats are?  I think I can!"

"This door is closed. I must be on the other side NOW"

"What is that?  Ooooh! I must catch it and throw it about until it no longer moves."

"This door is closed. I must be on the other side NOW."

"What is that noise? Aggghh!  It's another cat!  Run! Hide!"

"What is that? Can I play with it? Can I hit it? Can I eat it? No?  Not interested..."

"The use of the Pythagorean theorem in this regard is--Hey! Shiny!" 


Mamakat's Marvelous prompt: 4.) List 7 things your pet thought about today. 

P is for Plate

Plates are essential to life in many ways.  There was a time when a person of a certain class group was given a single plate.  No matter what was dished out, it sat on that plate.  Rain or shine, hot or cold, beef or borscht, it went on that plate.  If you didn't have your plate, you either didn't eat, or you ate your food off the floor while fighting off the dogs. Nowadays, there are lots of different plates out there, but we each have made a choice about the one we want to carry around with us all day.  This particular plate  carries our various daily burdens as we move through life.  

You get your first plate when you take those first steps away from the arms of your mother.  As you grow, so does your plate. My plate is a good, sturdy Germanic stock, from a long line of sturdy Germans. On most days, it can handle what gets spooned, slapped, or splorted onto it.  Even when piled high, my plate is able to handle the load. Unless...  Sometimes I find myself carrying the plates of my son and my husband. Nobody asked me to carry them. But in trying to be helpful, sometimes I end up carrying extra plates, and I never was very good at juggling.

The plate you carry matters.  People who carry around large burdens, but use a paper plate, are doomed to feel overwhelmed from the start. People who carry fine bone china plates are going to be too scared of dropping their plate to ever try anything risky.  Most of us prefer the plates that remind us of a time when we were comfortable and safe and happy; those plates don't seem to break so easily.


Most of us were taught to clean our plate at the end of the day, so we can start fresh.  Some of us end up with leftovers on our plate, items that we have to carry over to the next day.  But balance is important.  Too much on your plate, and the weight of it all causes the plate to tip, and everything slides right off onto the floor. It's a big mess.  Too little on your plate, you're left hungry, feeling that something is missing.  Then you may find yourself filching off of someone else's plate, searching for something extra. This usually leads to someone being stabbed with a fork at family dinners.

I've been carrying a bit more on my plate than necessary lately, and I've decided that I need to do something different.  Maybe smaller portions.  Or maybe I just need to take my fork and scrape my plate clean at the end of the day.  

Once RemembeRED

One dark and stormy night, I found myself in the backseat of my Grandmother's car as we traveled along a gravel road.  We had all been at a picnic in some small town, and someone had carried me to the car after I fell asleep.   I could hear my brother snoring loudly from the front; this was before the era of carseats and seatbelts and airbags.  I lay quietly on my back, staring up at the rain rolling down the back window, when lightning flared across the sky. 

Source: cnnphotos.blogs.cnn.com via Tina on Pinterest

It was close, and the thunder that followed drowned out the sound of the gravel road as well as my brother's snoring.  I stared, fascinated, as more lightning chased that thunder.  The rain hitting the windows distorted the power flashing between the clouds, but it was all magical to me.  I wanted to be outside in the rain, my arms raised as if to embrace the storm, and touch the lightning.  Then that power would race through me and it would be wonderful to feel powerful, instead of just a powerless little girl.

"Grandma?"  I didn't even have to sit up to know that she was hunched over, with white knuckles at the "ten and two" on the wheel. 

"What if you touch the lightning?" I spoke to my grandmother, but I was asking the sky.  "It's so pretty!"

My grandmother took a deep breath, and spoke in a rush.

"If you get struck by lightning your skin will turn black and fall off and all your hair falls out and your teeth too."  She went back to her quietly fierce driving as the car fishtailed a little on the gravel.

It didn't matter to me.  Something so beautiful, made of the purest light, had to be an angel of some sort, and I knew that angels would never hurt me.  I also knew that my grandmother would not let me leave the car to test my theory; there was nothing for a six year old to do.  Except dream about embracing lightning.


Prompt: Select an old blog post you’ve written and rewrite it as a memoir piece. You can focus on one element from it, or include them all, depending on what it’s about.   This is the post that I chose.

Nightmares

Zane woke up one morning from a nightmare.  He woke up crying, disoriented.  He had likely been dreaming about the Army ants from Monster Bug Wars, I thought.  Or the praying mantids.  Or the--ick--extremely enormous cockroaches.  I had nightmares about those cockroaches myself. I calmed him as best I could. 

"Mama, why did you turn into a monster?" Zane was still crying, but he was fully awake now.  As he told the story, I turned into a flying monster in his dream.

I did all the mother stuff that you're supposed to do in these situations.  I comforted my sweet child, hugged him, and assured him that I had no intention of turning into any sort of flying monster now or at any time in the future.

But I was irritated about the entire thing.

Really? I was thinking.

Are you kidding me?

I know, it's childish. He's just a kid.  I really shouldn't be upset with him for his subconscious pulling a fast one. I was probably more cranky about losing sleep than anything else, which is usually at the root of most of my crankiness.  Anyway, you can't really stop a nightmare--they just sort of appear and you're helpless until you wake up. 

Still...I was annoyed.  Here I am, making sure my son is loved and fed and clothed, reading him books, playing "Crazy Lions in the Living Room" with him, holding him when he's sickly, etc...and I'm the monster in his nightmare. 

And not even a decent monster!  I just fly.  That's a silly power for me to have.  I'm scared of heights, fer cryin' out loud!  No horns, no fangs, no flames...just wings.  Bah. 

I'll bet if Zane had a nightmare about his father turning into a monster, he'd have had some flames...
 

A Walk in the Park

The weather has been a bit windy, but it is good to get outside. Well, outside in a way that doesn't involve lawn work.  There is a small park near our house that is perfect for a quick walk, with various stops to look at spider webs and rolly-polys.  I've become more of an explorer since my son came along.  It's kind of fun to explore the parts of the world that are very small and hidden from us by inattention.  During the week everything seems to pass by in a blur, so it is good to let things slow down at least one day a week.

M is for Morris

My oldest cat Morris died on February 20th of this year.  We'd been traveling down this path for some time, he and I.  There were signs, of course, but I missed them in the busyness of life.  I feel a little guilty about that, but I can't rewind.   Morris certainly didn't help me figure out what was going on; cats always try to hide their illnesses.  Eventually, however, I noticed that my cranky, irascible friend had stopped eating. 

I gave him treats.  I bought him some soft food; I even tried his favorite, pureed chicken.  He turned up his nose at them all; turned his back on the bowl as if he didn't want to see what he was missing.  That's when I knew.  I contacted the vet, put Morris into his carrier, and we made the trip together, just like we always did. 

Morris hated the vet.  It was nothing personal; he just did not like going to the vet. Even the most gentle of doctors was treated to hissing and growling.  Morris was known to fight any attempts to examine him, and the one time he had to have a catheter several people were bitten.  This time the vet delivered the bad news that Morris was too far into kidney failure to save; even a blood transfusion would only buy him a brief respite. 

When your friend is dying, you do what you can to ease their passing.  I brought a favorite blanket for him to lie on.  He was too weak to do much more than lay there.  I stroked his head for a long time, and he purred weakly while I cried.  I've never been good at goodbyes.  My husband arrived, and he said his goodbyes to Morris and held my hand as the vet came back into the room.

It was somehow so Morris that with his last bit of strength he would try to bite the vet.  I guess that he knew.  I kept my hand on him through everything, my fingers entwined in his fur as the drugs took effect.  One, two more shallow breaths...and then he was gone.   After that, there was not much more to do or say.  I cried for a long time. 

We had sixteen years together, and although he was a cranky cat, I loved him very much.  I hope that he is in kitty heaven, snacking on cat treats to his heart's desire, the hands of angels brushing his soft fur while he purrs in contentment.  

But I miss him.

Lucifer Always Collects

Melchior entered the sanctuary of his office, striding angrily over to the sideboard and throwing ice into a glass.  His harsh breathing created a fog in the cold darkness of the room.  The remains of a fire and the lamp on his desk were the only illumination; he preferred it that way.   He muttered incoherently in his rage as he poured his drink.  His mind was already plotting his next move against the enemy.   Perhaps another assassination attempt...

 

"It isss time, Melchiorrr." the sibilant voice was low, but an echo of sinister certainty poured into the cavernous room.  A slithering rustle of movement emanated from the darkest corner, and the air became suddenly oppressive.

Melchior blanched. The drink he had just poured fell from suddenly numb fingers; the sound of the glass shattering was swallowed up by the darkness.  

 

Had it been a thousand years already? The bargain had not been completed!

"No! That cannot be!  I have not eradicated the dragon!"  Melchior's eyes searched the darkness.

"Neverthelessss."  The voice seemed to feed on the shadows, becoming more substantial as the darkness grew. 

"I am so close!"  Melchior screamed.  "I will not go!  I need more time!"

 

"You would dare argue with ME?"  Barking, gutteral laughter seemed to come from everywhere at once.

 

Melchior felt the tortuous weight of cold air pressing him into the floor.   A whispering of anguished screams skittered around the room, and an icy wind of displeasure stirred the papers on Melchior's desk.  An impossibly huge shape began to coalesce within the darkness in the center of the room.  The last embers of the fireplace flickered, fighting to maintain what little light they could.   

 

Melchior's eyes focused on escape.  He pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, a brief flicker of hope in his chest. He had left the door on the other end of the hallway open!  Freedom was ten steps away. 

An icy talon gripped his ankle, and a wail of despair was released from Melchior's lungs as he was dragged back into the darkness.  The sound of his screams accompanied his departure.

Write on Edge Prompt: This week, write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about a time one of your main characters finds himself or herself paying back a debt–financial or otherwise.  This post goes along with this particular storyline.

Kid Gloves

Kids are funny.  Sometimes funny-ha-ha, but occasionally funny in a "he obviously gets that from YOUR side of the family" sort of way.  I guess this goes along with that whole "explore the entire world" aspects of childhood growth and development.  The methods a kid chooses to explore their environment are not always logic-based and we know that.  Whatever they are doing makes perfect sense to them at the time, however.  Kids are not bound by our profound awareness of social conventions, and we just have to get over it.

To be fair, children don't necessarily know that what they are saying or doing might be considered odd/destructive/cringeworthy by adults; they're just being kids.  Using a squeeze bottle of mustard to write on the wall is a good idea to a four year old kid because the opening is pointy, just like all those crayons.  Eating that crayon is a good idea to a toddler because the purple ones look just like a grape; in fact, the name of the color happens to be 'grape'. Stripping naked in church because it's crowded and you're hot makes perfect sense to a three year old.  In all of the above examples, the child does not care a whit what anyone else thinks about it at the time.

You want to holler at them when they do these things, of course.  Sometimes you actually start yelling, before you even realize it.  Finding your child in the middle of your makeup kit, drawing a picture on your favorite silk blouse with your fifty dollar Christian Dior lipstick while wearing your most expensive pair of high heels might traumatize even the calmest of parents. Yelling would spontaneously occur in 9 out of ten instances.

Children who are in "happy explorer" mode want to share what they've learned with their parent because they do not see what they've done as 'wrong'.  You see what they've done as wrong because you're viewing their behavior through your own adult filter.  This is very important to remember. I need to remember it, anyway. If we yell at them in these situations of spontaneous creativity,  there may be a cost. 

There isn't a magic light bulb that lights up a toddler's brain with a sign saying "My mother is upset because I have defied some sort of respected social convention".  Yelling at them in these random situations hurts their feelings and scares them.  In some cases, yelling may cause a child to resist creative thinking in the future.  We do not want that creative thinking stifled; we want strong, independent thinkers out there in the work world. 

Back before electricity, when someone needed to be treated with special care, for whatever reason,  it was said that that person should be handled with "kid gloves".  I propose that in future situations, parents, myself included, deal with their children with  'kid gloves'. We must overcome our demands that the world be put together our way, and treat the creative child with special care instead of yelling at them.  This would likely encourage a little wayward behavior, true, but it would also encourage more of the creative thinking that will be needed in the future.  We need to encourage creativity where ever and whenever we can. 

So the next time you find your darling hip deep into the flower pots and covered with dirt and other sediments, take a deep breath and put on your kid gloves. Use those kid gloves to deal with the situation.  Encourage the independent thought, and try to redirect that creativity into more appropriate channels.   After all, the child drawing tyrannosaurs on the wall could be the next Picasso or the next, best, greatest paleontologist to ever live.

And that would be awesome. 

Joyful Noises

There is a Bible verse that tells us to 'make a joyful noise unto the Lord'.  No, I don't know where it says that.  I am sure that there are people out there who could tell me exactly what chapter, what verse, and which version of the good book that particular exhortation comes from.  I've never felt the need to memorize what I can easily look up.  Yep--I went there. 

We are told to 'make a joyful noise.'   Nobody is to do this for us. This 'joyful noise' is ours; we bear full responsibility to happily make a joyful noise.  Okay.  Got it. Ummm...What is a joyful noise, exactly?  Joyful is defined as "experiencing, causing, or showing joy".   Noise is defined as "loud, confused, or senseless shouting or outcry".  So...a joyful noise  is a "loud, confused or senseless shouting or outcry when experiencing joy".  Sort of gives the impression that you went nuts, huh?   But we are supposed to give that 'joyful noise' to God as it rises up to the heavens

So what is  a joyful noise?  Anything that makes you smile.  Anything that makes you giggle.  Anything that makes you guffaw.  If you are laughing so hard that you peed your pants, that laughter is a joyful noise.   Laughter is very definitely something that God would want to have a part of.    But there are other joyful noises.





The sound of my son's light snoring is a joyful noise to me.  The sigh a soda makes when you open it, as the fizzy stuff escapes, it is a joyful noise.  Birds singing in the early morning can be a joyful noise.
Trees rustling in the breeze, signally that something new and joyful  is coming.  A cat meowing is a joyful noise.  Anything and everything can make a joyful noise if you hear it correctly.

What are some of your joyful noises?

Inevitable

It is a known fact that teenagers are self-centered.  Every teen firmly believes they are center stage of the greatest saga of all time.  I was awkward in social situations, almost always said the wrong thing, and had a bad habit of falling down the stairs.  And yet I was no different in seeing myself as the star of my own show, even if it was a poorly rated show in danger of being cancelled by the network.   In hindsight, it was really not that big a deal that I had no date to the Prom. Certainly, it was not the most embarrassing 'traumatized for life' situation that I was ever forced to endure.  Except at the time, it was.

I wanted to go to the Prom and have a magical evening with Mr. Right Now!   My best friend Michelle even dragged me kicking and screaming to the Prom Committee meetings in hopes of finding me a date.   Her enthusiasm being infectious, I soon began brushing up on my dancing skills and looking for a dress.  I even made my mother take me to a mall in the next county so I could find the most perfect dress ever made...for under a hundred bucks(all my mom would give me).  The length of the dress made me feel even more awkward, but that was the style of the time.

Although I batted my eyelashes like crazy, no prom invitations came, and I became  a little desperate.  I felt cheated. Where was my grand Prom romance like they have in the movies?  I was finally asked to the Prom by a junior, at the last minute.  When we walked into the Prom and went to have our picture taken, my mood went even south. 

The girl standing in front of us was wearing my dress, AND she looked better wearing it.   I was about to yell at this girl for shopping at MY department store...until another girl drifted by with her date, and she was also wearing MY dress.  This one looked even better in that dress than I did.   As the three of us noticed each other, yet another girl walked past wearing our dress.  Four girls at the same Prom...wearing the same dress. 

Recipe for disaster...or at least an epic cat fight. 

We all just stared at each other, a four-way stare down.  Then one of us smiled and laughed and the tension broke as we all inevitably realized that we were not the stars of our own teen romance movies.  For tonight, at least, we were all stars gracing the stage in a comedy.  We shared a laugh then, at ourselves and the situation, and then we went our separate ways.   



Write On Edge RemembeRED prompt: Think back to your own adolescence. With the perspective of time, try to find the beauty or grace in an awkward adolescent situation, even if there is only a sliver to find.

Humanity

Here is a poem I wrote, since NaBloPoMo's theme is Poem:

Lonely flotsam, floating

on the sea, surging 

along the streets,

bobbing on the surface of the crowd;

the debris is both static and fluid, 

fighting to remain unchanged

yet inevitably drawn along in the flow 

'til at last

the tide must slow,

a moment

before the entire teeming, streaming mass

is inexorably pulled toward the drain.

Gratitudes

Gratitude is difficult these days for a lot of people.  There's a heaviness in the air, the weight of worry on millions of minds as people wonder if they will have jobs or if they will lose their homes.  I know that I have lots to be thankful for, actually breathing being one of them.  Most days, it's not hard to be grateful for the gifts I have been given.  I have a family that loves me, a roof over my head, and a job.  I can walk.  I can read, and I can write.

And then there are other days.  Days when I just feel overwhelmed by the thousands of tiny details, and I am afraid.  I'm afraid that I will miss something important, and everything will fall apart in a horrible chain reaction and it will be the end of the world. 

Did I remember to bring the snacks for the soccer game?    Did I neglect to pack my son's turf shoes?  Did I turn off the coffeemaker before we left the house?  Did I forget to take my blood pressure medication?   Is my underwear on correctly, not inside out? Is there spinach in my teeth? 

Pretty mundane things, true, but pile them on, and they can become a mountain.   Mountains are not easy to move, even under the best of circumstances.   And these are not the best of circumstances.

There's research that says that gratitude is healthy for us.  Being thankful has a positive ripple effect on everything else in our lives.  Gratitude is something that we should all work toward, and all journeys begin with a step in the right direction.  I am going to try to be more positive, so I can move that mountain of worry off my shoulders, and I would like for all of you to come along.

Today is a day for gratitude. Even if you are underneath a mountain of worries, find at least one thing that you are grateful for, however small.   Take a moment and let that thankfulness float to the top of your brain.   See if that helps you move that mountain, even if it's only 1/10th of a centimeter.

Game Play

Games are where we are developmentally with my son these days.  It was as if a switch turned on in his brain, and now he is all about playing games.  The first game he 'got' was, of course, soccer, but this week he discovered...Tag. 

I am okay with my child playing games.  Games teach kids to work cooperatively toward a goal, encourage healthy competition, and are a big boost to the thinking skills that will be needed in other areas.  Games that involve physical activity also build stamina, muscle coordination and a whole bunch of other stuff that I am too lazy to go look up right now.  I am a big fan of games.

I am not a fan of Tag right now.  My son is one of those 'spontaneous' types who likes to start a game off in the middle of my morning pot of coffee, or while I am in the bathroom.  Zane will dart in and touch me, yelling "TAG!!!" and then he will be off to other parts of the house, all before my brain can form the letters "Wha--?"   I can't exactly leap up and chase after him, not without making a mess in either location. 

I tried explaining to my son that there is a time and place to play games, and that interfering with Mama and her coffee was a dangerous enterprise.  But Zane has that whole 'joie de vivre' thing going, and when he's gotta tag, he's gotta tag.  I don't remember ever being that way as a child, but he must have gotten it from somewhere. 

So I've resorted to trickery.  When Zane tags me, I yell, "I'm going to get you!!!"  He runs off, giggling, and I get to finish whatever I am in the middle of without further interruption, until he realizes that I'm not anywhere near to 'getting' him.  Then I hide behind a door, and when he runs by, I jump out and yell "TAG!" 

Then I run.  Okay, I don't actually run.  I walk really fast. 

What games do you play with your kids/grandkids?

Forever Is A Long Time

 "For the heart wants what it wants."

The gravelly voice came from behind me, just beyond my peripheral vision.  I sighed heavily.  My irritation at the interruption was compounded by the inconvenience of having to turn around in my seat to see who was speaking to me.

"Excuse me? "   I frowned as I put down the book I had been trying to read at the coffee shop and turned around to greet the person attached to the voice.

He was certainly not a keeper, to use the local phrase.  He was a bit on the short side, and he had a unibrow.   I had intended to look him in the eye, but the mole on his nose yanked my attention right to it. 

 "I said that the heart wants what it wants," the man was right next to me; I could see the pores on the parts of his nose not completely covered by that mole.   I stared at him in confusion, and he pointed helpfully at the book. 

"Your book--it's a biography of Emily Dickinson."

"Wha--oh."  I felt kind of stupid.  I frowned at myself.  How could I not know that?  The man, who I was already calling Unibrow in my head, stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Calvin.

"I've been watching you, and I think that you're the woman for me." Calvin said.  A small smile played about his large mouth.  "We are going to be together forever, you and me, that's what I think."

 I stifled a pang of disgust, trying to be polite without encouraging.  It never paid to get the crazy people riled up, my mother always said.   I didn't know this guy, but his assurance made me nervous.

"Okay, Calvin," I began gathering my things to leave.  I thought that I might have better luck reading at home.   "It was nice meeting you, but I have another appointment."

"I suppose that you do," Calvin smiled broadly as I brushed past him. 

I walked out of the shop and headed to my car.  The sun was still bright in the sky as I threw my things into the trunk and made my way to the driver's side. I barely registered the van parked next to me as I put my hand out to open my car door, and then I felt a bright spark of pain in my arm.  My body began to spasm, and I had time to wonder if I was having a seizure. 

Then I was falling into the iron bands of Calvin's arms. He quickly opened the side door of the van and lay me on the floor, putting the taser down and tying my arms and legs with the the duct tape he had ready. The tape was warm as he put it over my mouth, as if it had been in the van for some time.  He stepped back when I was secure, surveying his work.

"You're a keeper," Calvin said with a wide smile, as the door of the van slid closed. I didn't see the sun again.

Write on Edge Prompt:  Introduce a romantic interest or opportunity and see what happens.  I guess that romance is in the eye of the beholder. 

Every Day I Wake Up 26

Each day, whether the alarm goes off or not, I wake up feeling as though I am exactly twenty-six years old.   As my consciousness slaps my unwilling brain into the pre-coffee cognitive efficiency required to get out of bed,  I am in a state of agelessness, but I feel twenty-six.

Not twenty-nine.  Not twenty-one.  Not even twenty-five. Twenty-six.

At twenty-six, I was pain-free.  I was at a respectable weight and I felt healthy.  I had the occasional migraine, but I didn't have asthma.  I didn't have Epstein-Barr.  I didn't have fibromyalgia. I didn't have high blood pressure. I didn't have brain fog. 

More importantly, I was an optimist. I thought that the world was generally a good place full of good people.  I thought that people did the right thing just because it was the right thing.  I had just finished my master's degree. I was just starting a new job working as a school psychologist. I had just moved into my own apartment.   My entire world felt full of promise, on the verge of something great.  At twenty-six, I relished getting out of bed in the mornings.  Some days I literally sprang off the mattress when the alarm went off, I was so eager to be exactly where I was.

But while I might wake up feeling briefly twenty-six, and I might occasionally want to go back to that age on a more permanent basis, I would never do so.  Because to go back to that pleasant age would mean that I would never have experienced many, many  happy moments that occurred much later in my life.   I didn't meet my wonderful husband until I was in my thirties. Who would want to miss the chance to be with their future husband just to avoid creaky knees?  Also, we were not blessed with our son until I was in my forties.  Even with the difficulty of his birth, there is no way I would miss being able to hold him and read stories to him each night.  What's a little fibromyalgia compared to that?


I'm linking up over here today!
Mamakat's Wonderful Prompt:  3.) If you had to pick an age to be forever, what age would you pick and why?

Diamante: Phoenix

Diamante poems are poems in the shape of a diamond, and I like to try new things.  What do you think?

Fire

Destructive, Consuming
Distilling, Melting, Melding
From our pain, we peel away what we were

Cleansing, Strengthening, Creating

Forging, Rising;

Rebirth

Source: google.com via Tina on Pinterest

Clearly The Fish Needed Some Excitement

Coworkers can make your job fun.  The other members of my office in the early nineties were fond of playing practical jokes, but they had given up on me. How was I supposed to know that you're supposed to scream, jump away, and act like you're having a heart attack when someone puts a rubber snake in your drawer?  It wasn't that I didn't get the joke.  I just never reacted the expected way.

One of my coworkers had a small fish tank next to her desk. One morning I greeted Donna as I returned from getting a cup of coffee, while she sat warming up her Apple II for the day. I walked around the corner and sat at my own desk just as the rest of the office began to arrive.

A couple of hours passed before Donna noticed a new pair of eyes staring at her from the depths of her fish tank.  I heard a shriek of surprise.

"Who put this gorilla in my fish tank?!!" 

This exclamation was followed by laughter; the normally taciturn Donna was actually laughing.  Everyone else had to come and see that, truly, there was a gorilla in the fish tank.  This was remarked upon as quite creative; no one had ever thought about putting anything in the fish tank as a practical joke. 

"Who did put the gorilla in the fish tank?"  The group exchanged bewildered looks.

"I did."  I smiled as I walked back to my desk, and I went back to work.

Source: google.com via Tina on Pinterest

 

 

Unfortunately for the poor fish, my coworkers tried to improve on my original prank.  A week later, Martie dropped a few glittery plaster Christmas ornaments into the fish tank as a prank...only to realize that plaster dissolves in water!  I walked into the office on that day to find a weeping Martie prostrate at a bemused Donna's feet, begging her forgiveness for killing her fish**. 

I smiled at Donna as I walked by; she smiled back, then rolled her eyes at Martie's wailing. 

**no fish were actually harmed, except they were glittery for awhile. 

 

RemembeRED Prompt: This week we’re asking you to write about a time that a prank, joke, or piece of gossip twisted out of control, producing unexpected results.  Unexpected doesn’t have to mean negative!

Bluebonnets!

Bluebonnets are the state flower of Texas, and they have roared to life after we had a bunch of rain.  They have popped in places where I've never seen them before, and it has been wonderful.

We wouldn't have this many bluebonnets if Lady Bird Johnson hadn't devoted time to planting wildflowers all over the place.  Thank you, Lady Bird!  It certainly makes spending almost four dollars for a gallon of gas feel mildly better when you can see these on your way to work in the mornings.   Contrary to popular belief, it is not against the law to pick these flowers.  The likelihood that someone will shoot you for doing so is high, however, especially if it is a mother trying to take Easter photos of her darlings among these blooms.  I try yearly to take photos of my son in these flowers, but he a)does not ever sit still, b)does not like to sit on the ground, and c)doesn't like spiders to crawl on him.

I've taken to carrying my camera around in my car so that I can pull over and snap pictures when I see something interesting.  These are growing all along the roads in the Hill Country around the New Braunfels area.  There are some white bluebonnets around here, but not in a place where I can easily pull over without being hit by a random senior citizen out for a jaunt.  I just love looking at them.  I'd like to have pictures of all the wildflowers indigenous to the state, but that would require more effort than I'm willing to put forth. 

What about you?  Has spring sprung where you are?  If so, what wildflowers are visiting your neck of the woods?

A Game of Thrones

A Game of Thrones.  The very title conjures up images of chess, doesn't it?  Politics has often been compared to the game of chess.  It's all about strategy, and moving your pieces to trap and defeat your opponent.  In reality, the art of politics is nothing like chess, except maybe on the surface.  Most political tactics take place off of the board, however. 

I first read A Game of Thrones, by George R.R. Martin, probably when it was first published in paperback. I remember being extremely angry about some of the characters in the book--so upset, in fact, that I had no interest in reading any of the other books. I won't tell you what upset me, because I don't want to spoil the story.  But I used to be way more idealistic than I am now, and that colored my response to the story.   After my husband and I started dating, he read the book.  Larry wouldn't stop talking about it, and while I remembered that I had read the book, I had forgotten much about it.  (Before I had a kid, I averaged about 8 books a week; that so does not happen anymore!) So I reread A Game of Thrones.  I still got very upset with part of the story, but this time I had a more realistic view under my belt.

And I've been hooked ever since.  My only kvetch about the series is that Martin takes forever to finish each book!

Larry and I were beside ourselves when we learned that HBO was turning A Game of Thrones into a television series. We were right to be concerned; could the tale told by George R. R. Martin be translated onto the screen in a way that would convey the rapture of reading it?  We decided that we would wait and see, particularly when we learned that Sean Bean would be playing a role in the series.  My husband adores Sean Bean, particularly his portrayal of Boromir in The Lord of the Rings movies.   The phrase "One does not simply walk into Mordor..." is oft repeated in our household, even before it was popular as a meme.  Casting Sean Bean was sheer genius on HBO's part, at least in terms of getting nerds/geeks like my husband and I to watch the show. 

We watched the first episode, and were hooked.  It was as if the book had come alive!  The producers took great pains to make the show as authentic looking as possible, and it shows.  I'm not going to spoil the show for you, if you haven't watched it, but the settings, the pacing, the actors all fit together so perfectly that you find yourself transported.  Which is what a good book or a good movie should do.

The second season begins April 1st, (today!!), and we will be parked in front of our television, at least after our son is asleep, since the show is definitely not kid safe.  If you haven't read the books, no worries.  You don't need to, although the books provide enrichment.  If you haven't see the show, go rent the first season.  You won't be sorry!