Kids Today

I once had a wireless air card, so I accessed the Internet through my IE, which brought up the yahoo home page. However, there were major complications, and now I'm using AOL dial-up (shudder). The neat thing about this is AOL's homepage. I just spent like two hours looking up these articles and reading the responding posts. The article that first caught my attention was one about rules of etiquette at concerts. Most of these rules were common sense, but I couldn't believe how ignorant some of the responses to these rules were. Maybe one out of ever 15 posts made it through the whole thing without a cuss word. About half of them were nothing but profanity with a few ands and buts thrown in for good measure.

Maybe I'm just too old for my age. I'm sure most of the people responding to this were minors, but I'm not that much older. Still, I can't see how they think all of that vulgarity helps them in any way. I've always heard that profanity is a sign of stupidity. If the only words you have in your vocabulary bank is cuss words, you need to pick up a book (preferably a dictionary).

Perhaps I'm just on the edge of being middle aged. You know, that awkward time where you still think you're young, but you're really not. It's kind of funny in a way. As a kid, I dreaded getting old. At eight, eighteen was old. At fifteen, twenty one was old. At twenty five, thirty five was old. As I get older, the fine line between youth and experience keeps moving further away. My twenty seventh birthday is coming up in a few short days, and my question is this: When does the line stop moving? Do you just wake up one morning and think, "I'm old. It crept up on me last night while I was sleeping!"

I still consider myself a kid. Not a little kid, in the minor sense, but a grown kid. I've grown physically as much as I will. I won't get any taller and puberty is a thing of the past. I have kids of my own now and a butt load of responsibility to go with. But, in the larger scheme of things, I'm still young. Now, eighty is old. I just can't help but wonder if I somehow crossed the line and didn't know it. I no longer fear the aging process like I once did. Now I fear being that ridiculous adult who tries to be the perpetual youth.

I think this would be easier if I knew how to tell that I was finally old. Is it when you start quoting your parents? Is it when you start talking about "kids today"? How do you tell? Maybe they should give some sort of vocabulary test to determine when you've nose dived into adulthood. If most of your vocabulary can't be spoken aloud over the radio or in a church, you're still a kid.

Sunlight In My Rain

Disclaimer: I wrote this Friday morning in Word, then promptly fell asleep after. Reading this again as I post, I realized that some might not wish to know this much about me. There's nothing vulgar about this post, however, if you can't hear something about a person's personal life and still look them in the eyes, read no further.


Last night was one of the best nights of my life. It definitely ranks in the top three. What makes last night so special? I’m glad you asked. I went to visit my significant other after a long, hard day, and we played in the rain for a couple few hours. After which, he was concerned about me being too cold (which I definitely wasn’t), so he nudged me into the shower and washed me from head to toe. I particularly loved when he washed my hair. He washed my hair, ladies! How sexy is that?

At this point, I had about all the yummy I could take while still standing. I started getting woozy, so he laid me down, towel dried me, brought me a cold drink, and massaged my back, all the while telling me how special I am.

I can hear the feminine sighs of envy now, and the male snickers. But, let me tell you, boys, he is more man than any guy has a right to be. He can go from caveman to Casanova in a nanosecond. I am so, so, SO lucky.

Last night makes me wonder a few things, though. Like, why hasn’t the rest of the male population caught onto this? Don’t they understand the benefits they would reap from a few romantic gestures? Relationships are like karma, what goes around comes around. With such little effort, my boy toy has just earned himself a batch of homemade cookies and an exotic dance. Lucky him. Not to mention, I’m more confident about his feelings for me, therefore I won’t need to constantly be attached to him as confirmation of said feelings. Last, but not least, he now gets to beat his chest and talk shop about how he turned his younger girlfriend into a human jello mold. I also get to brag about how my fella melted every bone in my body. It’s a win/win situation.

Don’t get me wrong. This should definitely not be an every day occurrence. First of all, I don’t think my body could take it. I may still be young and fit, but I’m getting older every day. Most importantly, it takes something out of it if you expect it. It’s the spontaneity that makes it so special, the rarity that gives it value.

I’m telling you, I definitely feel valued. I also feel tired. Very, very tired. Thank goodness I’m all by myself and responsibility free today, ‘cuz I’m going back to bed. Goodnight, y’all.

Unspoken II (Poem)

Unspoken II

My head upon his shoulder,
my hand upon his chest,
and while he slumbers peacefully,
he knows not my unrest.
Nor does he know the weight of love
that sits upon my breast.

So sad, my thoughts turn inward.
My eyes search out his face.
I wonder what force brought me here
to witness love and grace;
to take it back, now that I know,
and leave this empty space.

Tonight, his presence does naught
to drive away my fears.
And time will not erase the words
still ringing in my ears.
So, while he holds me in his sleep,
I shed, silent, my tears.

So blatantly he spoke it.
No more to him than lust.
To put a wall around his heart
and violate my trust.
He says to linger on this way
would not be fair and just.

Though what he spoke rang hollow,
I know I must let go.
His every touch of fingertips,
reminder of my woe.
And putting space between our hearts,
the only cure I know.

I know I should not linger.
No peace is gained by this.
But I cannot deny myself
this little bit of bliss.
I know not when I’ll see again
those lips I love to kiss.

I sigh, and snuggle closer
to soak him in my skin.
His troubled soul is resting now.
I wish it’d never end;
that time would stop, and nighttime stay
and not let daylight in.

I wish that I could prove him
the depth at which I’m bound.
That when this world had left him cold,
I would have been around;
that my love’s never lost to him,
just waiting to be found.

I slip from ‘tween the covers
into the cold of night.
My heart does beg me to return
and stop this prideful flight.
But to him, I’m not worth the risk
for which to stand and fight.

He stirs, but does not waken.
My heart lets out a cry.
I cup my hands over my face
until it passes by.
I don’t wish him to feel the pain
of loss, so soft I fly.
Yes, only I am witness to
the pain of our goodbye.

When Did I Fall? (Poem)

When Did I Fall?

To J.H.- the one who made me believe.

We started out; my guard was up.
I didn’t quite believe in love.
It seemed enough to just spend time with you.
But you gave your heart, and so I took.
And now, I find that I am hooked.
I never thought I’d find something this true.
And I’m so at a loss. What do I do?

When did I fall?
When did I heed your call?
When was that moment in time
where I gave you my all?
When did I stay
instead of walking away?
What was it that drove me to love you?
I cannot say.
I’ve tried so hard, but I cannot recall.
When did I fall?

I never meant to get so deep,
but now I find I’m losing sleep.
Thoughts of you keep running through my mind.
The way you smile right back at me.
The way you kiss; you taste so sweet.
And if you have a flaw, I must be blind.
A reason to let go I cannot find.

When did I fall?
When did I heed your call?
When was that moment in time
where I gave you my all?
When did I stay
instead of walking away?
What was it that drove me to love you?
I cannot say.
I’ve tried so hard, but I cannot recall.
When did I fall?

Smoker's Social Hour

I had just got home from class and was making my famous heart attack potatoes, when I realized something: The non-smokers are starting to join the after class smoker's social hour. Yay! There's so much more fun to be had when there's more people to share it with! I've also noticed that we're picking up people from outside of our class too. They don't stay as long or contribute as much, but they do stop in for a visit from time to time.

This got me wondering, what is it about a group of people conversing that draws the masses like a moth to flame? I know that I'm insanely curious by nature, but I never really thought about everyone else being that way. Still, I imagine that what they see makes them wonder what's going on. There's people laughing, pointing at papers, waving their arms around, and running in circles like a dog after its own tail. People must wonder if they've walked into a Pentecostal church. Some are speaking in tongues, others are flailing about on the ground, and a preacher is slapping others on the head saying, "I have exorcised the demon! Can I get an Amen!?"

Next, I wonder how many of these people find themselves in a conversation they don't wish to be in? I've been in that situation before. There's been many a time that I've stopped or been stopped by an old class mate for "catch up" time, only to discover that I really didn't want to know what they've been doing for the past five or so years. Sometimes, it's because my life looks so pathetic in comparison. Sometimes, it's because their life, that they are soooooo excited about, just bores me to tears. "Uh huh, uh huh, yeah, you got yourself a little teacup chihuahua named Pookie. He's learned to bark on command. Musta been hard. I mean, chihuahuas hardly ever bark. And you say it only took five years to do this? Wow! I'm so impressed." I guess everyone has their own little "Pookie" story to tell though. I mean, I start most of my conversations with new people with the line, "I had three kids in one year!" I'm pretty sure that there are people who think, "She can stop there and I'll be fine."

I guess I'm lucky. Most people respond with that innate curiosity, after which, I get to tell them all about my precious babies. After that, it naturally leads to the subject of my ex husband, for which I have hours of ammo. And if ever you start finding yourself daydreaming of a tropical island while I rant, you have permission to slap me on the head and say, "I have exorcise the demon!" You never know, it might bring some new people into the conversation.

Brain Drain

I'm beginning to wonder if some alien race discovered my blog and, lacking any humor or creativity of their own, decided to suck my artistic brain dry. I know that when you hit a slump with your writing, you should keep writing. I just really despise looking at a blank screen. Maybe it it's the flashing cursor. Write.Write. Write. Write. Write. Or, maybe it's looking at all the other words that surround my blank screen. I see the words: compose, edit, comments, and create. It's a small form of torture for a person who is normally not at a loss for words.

I guess this is constructive for me. I'm not really dumbfounded when it comes to topics to write about. I simply don't have anything G rated. I have some colorful things to say about my ex husband, but it's a little harsh. I can talk about the humorous things that my kids have been doing, but no one really wants to be entertained with potty training misfortunes. I know I can't talk about my last date, or the neighbors comments the next day. That's totally out of the question, but for all of you who are truly curious, I'll hang around Monday night after class.

I think my problem stems from my upbringing. We didn't have this kind of censorship in our house. Our intimate lives weren't intimate at all. My folks knew what and whom I was doing at all times. I knew more than I wanted about them too. Actually, it's still that way. The lines of communication were more than open at all times. Unfortunately, I haven't adapted to the "real world" as of yet. I'm used to sharing the same information that others squirm just thinking about. Maybe, this class will teach me a happy medium. Or, maybe not. Maybe, I'll just end up staring at a flashing cursor. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write.

Let It Rain!

I’m feeling a little creatively challenged this week. In other words, my stream of ideas could use a little precipitation. Now, I just need to make it rain. I thought about all the tips we were given in class to come up with new ideas. For instance, reading other written works.

I started with my blog, since it was so handy to get to. I didn’t get anything from that. Well, let me clarify. I didn’t get anything useful from it. I did get a few ideas, but nothing I could post without receiving a stern look and a wagging finger. Back to the drawing board.

Next, I tried looking at someone else’s blog. I clicked on the link that says “next blog,” in the upper left hand side. I didn’t see a whole lot to work with by this, either. I did see something that amused me personally. The author of this site posted a “phobia of the day.” I didn’t realize that there were people in this world who were scared of some of these things. Take chirophobia, otherwise known as the fear of hands. How awful must it be to be afraid of your own hands? How, in the world, would you deal with that?

Now, I’m starting to catch a little drizzle. I suddenly remember this twilight zone episode where this man’s hands take over his body, choke the man to death, separate themselves from the man, and join this posse of hands that are running rampant through the town. I think I would have a phobia of hands, too, if this happened.

Here’s a train of thought detour: Fear doesn’t always follow logic, does it? I’m afraid of losing my kids, but the thought only makes me cry. I’m afraid of spiders, and the thought of them leaves me paralyzed. My eyes get big, my chest heaves, my muscles freeze, and the scream of terror freezes in my throat. Ask me which one is worse, and, without a doubt in my mind, I’ll say losing my kids. It’s logical to be afraid of losing them. My fear of spiders isn’t very logical at all. Maybe, that’s why my reaction is so extreme. But, I don’t think spiders are logical either. They have two many legs to be able to move that fast. I’m clumsy on the two legs I have. I’m worse in a three-legged race. How do they get all those legs to move together and not trip themselves up? Or bathroom walls. How do they climb up the shower walls? That’s not right!

Who really knows why we fear the things we fear? I could say that I fear spiders because they lurk in dark places, waiting to jump out at you and attach themselves to you. Maybe it’s true. I’m sure that plays a part in it. Still, it’s not very logical to be afraid of spiders since I’ve never had the misfortune to be hurt by one. Then again, I don’t see how people can be afraid of hands either. Maybe they experienced some trauma while watching twilight zone. Maybe, just maybe, fear is like a child’s Christmas present. Logic is not included.

I wish I would've bookmarked that blog I went to. I understand the the "next blog" link doesn't always take you back to the same blog. I could've added their link to my page, but no, I don't think of that. So, in an effort to amuse and entertain, I did a little research. I found a site with a compiled list of phobias that I added the link to. I feel strangly normal and well balanced when reading the list, too.

Ooodles of Fun

Hairless poodles
Toaster Strudels
Ramen noodles
Labradoodles
Magnadoodles
Goodbye/tootles
Scribble/doodles
Snickerdoodles

Can anyone think of any more?

I Know Better (Poem)

I Know Better

He said, “Give me one chance
to make it right.
I swear I’ve finally
seen the light.”
But, I know better.

His chef, and nurse,
and maid, and slave.
He took and took,
and still I gave.
Now, I know better.

Fool me once,
shame on you.
Fool me twice,
shame on me.
Love once made
a fool of me.
Now, I know better.

He said, “Give me one chance
to mend my ways.
You owe it to me
not to walk away.”
But, I know better.

Fool me once,
shame on you.
Fool me twice,
shame on me.
Love once made
a fool of me.
Now, I know better.
I know better.

Again (Poem)

Again


Every tear
I cried for you.
Every heartbeat,
full of you.
Every moment,
fool for you.
Every joy and pain,
I’d do it all again.

Every shiver
given by you.
Every joke
I laughed with you.
Every boredom
passed with you.
Every dance out in the rain,
I’d do it all again.

Because none of it would mean a thing
if anyone else had been there with me.
And, darling, I can’t help but think
of what a waste of life that’d be.

Every second
waited for you.
Every cross word
said by you.
Every tickle
in bed with you.
Every forgiveness and blame,
I’d do it all again.

Sisters

Sometimes, I think that the only reason people have siblings is so they can learn what it is like to completely love someone they don't like. I'm sure everyone who has a sibling, or two, knows what I'm talking about. I, myself, have an older brother and two younger sisters. On occasion, I wish to be an only child. I'm sure I would have hated being an only child, but it's hard to appreciate something that conficts with you so much.

First of all, I should explain that my family dynamics is a little strange. My brother is the oldest, but he acts more like the baby of the family should. He's the comedian, the one everyone loves to have at the party. My littlest sister, the real baby of the family, acts more like the oldest. She is the trailblazer, the one who kicks butt and doesn't take names. She's also the one I conflict with the most.

Don't get me wrong, I love my sister. In some ways, I envy her the very things I dislike about her. She always gets what she want. She doesn't take the backseat to anyone or anything. She tells everyone exactly what is on her mind. She doesn't smooth it over to protect feelings, she just states the facts as she sees them. I'm just not like that. I don't always get what I want. I worry about providing the things that others need first. I often take the backseat. There are just bigger things in this world than myself. I rarely unload on people when they upset me. Words can hurt as much, if not more, than weapons. See the conflict?

Honestly, I don't know if I would've had anything to do with her, were I not kin to her. We have two completely different views of the world. Her view is very black and white. My view is very shades of grey. Still, I learned a few things about her from growing up with her that make it easy to love her. She can be very giving. She is very protective of her family. She strives to do the right thing, even if it's only right in her mind. The thing I love the most, however, is that despite the fact that she acts so tough, she's very sensitive to the views of others. Who doesn't love seeing a raging monster turn into a cream puff?

I guess this sibling thing isn't so bad. Sure, I don't always get along with them. I don't even like them on a regular basis. I can say that I will always love them, and they have made me more tolerant of differences. I'll also say that I'm glad my sister is almost through with her visit back home. Two weeks down, one more to go! After that, we send her back to her husband. Now him, I like. It might just be because he moved my sister to Maryland. What a guy!

Recipe For Me

Another stray thought just popped into my over-worked brain, so I thought I'd download before I combusted. I'm sure I'll regret staying up to write this when my daughter wakes me up, demanding "talking cereal" (rice krispies in more formal terms), at 4:30 in the morning. I only condone this because it's not sugar injected, chocolate coated, marshmallow sprinkled, cavity inducing trash that posses as "part of a healthy breakfast!" No, that stuff, I keep for my personal stash. However, I wait for a more decent time to indulge. Say, around noonish. That should be the mandatory breakfast hour, dontcha think?

Anyway, I was minding my own business, cleaning up the chaos that gravitates toward my work station, when out of the blue, it hits me. What recipe book was God working from when he cooked me up? I can see him, now, with a Betty Crocker cookbook in His massive hands and wearing a red and white checkered apron with frills along the bottom. Pots, pans, measuring cups, and raw ingredients are spread about a cosmic table. I can hear Him reading each ingredient out loud as his thick finger moves down the list, then searching madly for what to add to the mixing bowl.

"One cup destiny, thoroughly sifted. One level cup of free will. Three tablespoons of intelligence. What the heck, a pinch more won't hurt. Oh yeah, don't forget the common sense. That might be why the last batch didn't turn out. Let's see.....where was I? One tablespoon of fresh personality. Where did I put that? There it is! Behind the jar of dishonesty. Don't want to add that by mistake! Here's where we get creative. Two teaspoons of initiative. Wait, I'm out of initiative. Not to worry, I'll substitute with a little imagination. That should do the trick. I think I'll add a little Attention Deficit Disorder to give this dish character. Oh, and maybe a dash of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for color. Not too much though. Don't want it to distract from the flavor. Now, mix on medium speed until well blended. Which pan do I want to use this time? Let's try the short one! Finally, pour into mold and send into world to bake for........"

Why these little thoughts materialize suddenly, and without warning, into my already stressed brain is a mystery to me. But, once they are there, they don't just go away. They sprout like dandelions in the field of my mind, spreading their seeds in every direction. What starts out as a mental image of God in a frilly apron, soon turns into a philosophical self-discussion on our purpose for being. After all, what if our sole reason for existence is simply God's attempt at making a perfect batch of humans? Makes sense, doesn't it? The trials and temptations we face in life are like the temperature of the oven. If the temperature is too hot, the outside burns to a cinder and the inside is raw. If the temperature is too cold, we don't rise properly. If we're left in too long, we can become hard as a rock. And think of this, if we're cooked beside another dish that has a strong, foul flavor or odor, we can absorb that. Now, look back on all the people you have met. How many of those people were missing a key ingredient? I've known my share! My recipe would be missing self-discipline, for one.

Ridiculous as it all might seem, I can't help but wonder about this. The sad thing, is that it makes more sense the longer I think about it. Each deliberation spurns new questions, which expand my idea further. What if animals are created the same way? Is evolution simply a correction in a faulty recipe? Are shallow people made from pre-mixed recipes, out of a box or can, in an effort to save time and cabinet space? What if the world is just a buffet table of assorted goods in the making? How long was my timer set for?

I guess there really are no answers. None we can bank on, anyway. Still, it would be helpful to know why my mind is so fertile to such off-the-wall concepts. Or better yet, how to turn them off. For now, I suppose, I'll have to satisfy myself with knowing that if I am a human dish, I was definately made from scratch and originallity was on the ingredient list.

Okay, I've been doing my best not to ask it, but I won't get any rest until I do. Do you think God licks the spoon when he's done?

I Go On (Poem)

I wrote this for all the spouses of the military men and women who have to stay behind, whether the parting is temporary or permanent. I can only imagine the strength it must take to carry on with their lives. Peace, love, and respect to all the "homestead soldiers". May your battles be short, and your victories sweet.

I Go On

I wake up in the morning,
and for a moment you’re not gone,
until I reach beside me
and I don’t feel your warmth.
That’s when tears start falling,
but soon enough they pass.
I cannot stop the smile that forms,
when I recall your laugh.
And though my days seem empty
without you, here, with me,
I know I’ll see your face before too long.

So, I go on,
like we’ve never been apart.
No matter what the distance,
you’re close within my heart.
Yes, I go on.
It’s easier said than done,
but sorrow cannot steal, from me,
our moment in the sun.
I go on.

There are still some moments
when I give in to despair,
but time cannot erase the feel
of your fingers in my hair;
or when I laid beside you,
the sound of your heartbeat.
Ev’ry memory of you
is just so bittersweet,
but I would never give up
a single day of your love
to avoid the pain now that you’re gone.

I go on,
and I count my blessings too.
My life is so much better because
I was loved by you.
Yes, I go on,
even though I miss you so.
As long as you are in my heart,
I’ll never let you go,
and I’ll go on.

Blog For The Criminally Plain

I just got back from class, and my mind is racing ninety-to-nothin'. I realized, tonight, how much that crazy thought tangent happens during my daytime activity as well. It would seem like every thought that runs through my brain (and most of the ones that leave my mouth) follow some fanatical chain of events that would make no sense if you didn't ride that train yourself. For those who suffered through this with me tonight, I just hope you found the ride entertaining. If not, all I can say is that you need to keep walking and avoid eye contact with me. Just think of me as the unwanted conversation bum of the post-class subway, and your attention being the coin I seek. If you don't want to "pay" attention, just pretend you don't see me. Not that I've received that impression from anyone. Thankfully, most people seem amused, or even educated, by what the filter between my brain and my mouth doesn't catch. Still, I wonder how many people leave a conversation with me thinking, "That girl needs a muzzle!"

Here's a thought: I wonder how many of my classmates would be shocked to discover that my daytime alter ego is not this buoyant? Believe it or not, I don't wake up fueled like a rocket. I rarely have conversations on my cellphone. I don't slide down my banister, dance on the table, or chase moving vehicles. I'm actually very grounded, and not easily stimulated by outside forces. There's very few things that will wind me up like an eight day clock. It just so happens that the written word is one of them (lucky you!).

Writing is one of my passions. I don't know what it is that sparked this little bonfire within me, but I do know what I love about it. Quite simply, it's the most powerful thing a person can ever do. You can create worlds, conquer worlds, save the world, change a mind, move a mountain, touch the stars, touch a heart, and all with nothing more than a blank page and a little ink. Isn't that amazing? You have the power to control it, or change it. You make the rules. Yeah, you have to know where the commas go when you turn in an essay to an English teacher. But, when you're all alone and it's just you and your blank page, punctuation doesn't matter. You get to set the boundaries. Tell me where else in life you get to simply "do away" with the things you don't like, without repercussions? Uh, nowhere! Where else in the world are all the doors open to you and all the possibilities are truly endless? Again, nowhere! So, why do so many people take that for granted?

Okay, going to step off my little soap box and explain the relevance of this to my hyper drive mouth in class. Normally, I procrastinate way too much to be an overachiever. However, I'm sitting in a class that occurs after the sun sets and my adrenaline starts flowing to keep me from slipping into an exhaustive coma. I'm working with a subject matter that strikes a chord in me, and I get to share that with other adults (my audience during the day is a bunch of toddlers). I'm working with my element, and for the most part given free reign. The end result is too much to contain. All I can do is give fair warning: if you've had all of me that you can stand, then avoid eye contact and keep walking. I don't chase moving vehicles, promise.

Sleep (Part II)

I like to read the things I write, several days after, so that I'm certain they make sense and don't have ridiculous little errors that spell check doesn't catch. I have this tendency to put "my" instead of "me" or be redundant in my word choice. I'm also the queen of run-on sentences, but that might be a lost cause. Blame it on my poetic nature. In poetry, punctuation and sentence structure are more flexible. I don't know if any English teachers agree with that comment, so don't quote me.

To make a long story a little shorter, I was reading through my post, titled Sleep, when a few more thoughts popped into my head. So, instead of calling it a night after my last post, I decided to add another. Again, this is for my own amusement, not brownie points. I'll probably add, at least, two more posts before the end of this week. The word count quota is not going to be an issue for me. The sad part of this is that I talk to people much the same way. My conversations are always longer than necessary, the subjects bounce all over the place, and I'm sure I speak in run-on sentences.

Okay, to get back to my point, I was reading my posts and had some new ideas to add and thought it would be a stellar example of how a previous written work can foster expanded thoughts or new ideas. No, really, I'm not brown nosing. I swear!

In the first Sleep post, my sleep deprivation, and my subsequent inability to capture flow, made me realize how important a nap could be as a writing tool. Obviously, sleep is imperative for brain function, but dreams in themselves could be excellent idea boosters. It was reading this that I got to thinking about the moments right before the world goes dark. It's those moments, between conscious thought and subconscious thought, where my weird little mind gets free reign. It's like the veil between two worlds disappears, and suddenly, my conscience has access to my sub conscience's restricted files. Things that I would never think of, were I lucid, pop into my head like wildflowers in a field; colorful, but no rhyme or reason. Some of these thoughts are important, but not likely to be remembered (Memo to self: pick up a bottle of dressing. I used the last of what I had today.), but most of it is total nonsense (How many licks DOES it take to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop?). The craziest part is when one of those nonsense thoughts goes off on a tangent (Why does that kid let an owl steal his sucker? My kids never turn loose their candy, even to other humans. That makes no sense. Oh yeah, memo to self: buy a bottle of Goo Gone to remove chewing gum from livingroom carpet. Don't forget the dressing. Mmmmm, chicken ceasar salad! Too bad I didn't have croutons. Why do I find stale bread so tasty? I don't find spoiled meat tasty. But then again, cheese is just spoiled, moldy milk, and cheese is tasty.). Fade to black.

Again, I reiterate, sleep is a wonderful writing tool. Think of all the ideas that come from it! I could write a definition essay on the making of cheese, the wonders of Goo Gone, or on technicolor candy advertising! We should definately practice this in class! How many ideas can you gain from a pre-slumber brainstorming session? The world may never know!

Life as a single parent!

Do you know what most annoys me about being a single parent to three toddlers? There's no one around to appreciate my virtues, like patience, creativity, and trouble-shooting skills. Take this weekend for example. In one day, just one of my sons went through a bottle of window cleaner, painted my sheets with toothpaste, painted my walls with liquid eyeliner, painted himself with flour, smeared lotion all over the television and dvd player, climbed the cabinet and emptied a large container of seasoning, locked himself in the rec room, destroyed a homework assignment, and cut a hole in his covers. That's just one child! There are two others! I have three words for you: Divide And Conquer!

Do you know what I love best about being a single parent to three toddlers? There's no one around who could ever replace me. Not that I could be replaced anyway. I mean, come on, all this and good looks too! Still, it's nice to know that I'm going to have these wonderful moments that no one else gets to have, like butterfly kisses, cuddles during rainstorms, flowers picked from the yard (mostly dandelions), and those wonderful coloring book pictures with purple suns and orange clouds.

Single parenthood is a humbling experience. You have to learn to swallow a lot of pride so you can provide your children with what they need. You have to mature beyond your years because there's not the experience of two parents for your children to learn from. You have to learn the difference between luxury and necessity. Most importantly, you have to learn how to count your blessings.

The last part is a lot harder than it seems. Sure, it's easy to spot if your child has ten fingers and ten toes. It's easy to tell if your child is healthy. The hard part is in realizing how much better this new person has made your life. Privacy go out the door? Yeah, maybe so. But now, I have a cuddle companion during the sappy parts of a show. No longer have time for the girly stuff? Yup, I can say that. But I learned how to appreciate the beauty that I was born with. I learned how to be proud of what was on the inside. Strangely enough, people respond better to that than to my once perfectly manicured hands. Don't get to sleep in or lounge on the couch anymore? Yeah, there's some days I miss that. Then I realize that I'm back to prepregnancy weight, more toned than I was in high school, and more motivated and capable than I was, even as a manager of a store. I'm never bored. I always have something to do. I don't have time to brood over life's little hiccoughs. Better yet, the crooked little grin my son gives me when he proudly shows off the liquid eyeliner mural on the wall is better amusement than a rented movie starring Jim Carrey. Besides, I don't need make-up anyway. It's what is on the inside that counts, and the inside contains a lot of patience, creativity, and ability in problem solving. My babies are going to be better people for making me a better person, and in the end, knowing that they won't be future stars on The Springer Show is all the back pat I need.

Now, where did I put that Magic Eraser? Kertis! NO! Goldfish don't eat potato salad!

Take It Away (Poem)

Take It Away

I’m sitting here, so lonely.
My dreams and demons haunt me.
There’s so much I still want to say.
Please, take it away.

I’ve cried so hard since you left.
I feel so lost and bereft.
I still cannot find my way.
Please, take it away.

Take away all this pain I am feeling.
Take away all the tears that I cried.
Now you’re gone and you’ve left me behind
with this heartache.
Please, take it away.

I’m sitting here, so empty.
Nothing but pain is with me.
I loved you, but you walked away.
Please take it away.

Take away all this sorrow that plagues me.
Take away all the lies that you lied.
Now you’re gone and you’ve left me behind
with this heartache.
Please, take it away.

Sleep

Just for my personal amusement, I decided to write more this week. I had a topic already picked out (something about tragedy in the media) but I decided to forgo that topic for a lighter one. Honestly, I'm just too tired after the all-nighter I pulled to get so fired up about a subject. Instead, I figured on throwing out a few casual thoughts and maybe posting one of my poems after all. Since it won't count towards my word count, I can't see how posting something I wrote before this class will affect my grade any (dang my big mouth). In case you don't understand what this little tangent is about, I thought I would have the journal thing licked by a simple cut and paste of some stories and poems that I have written over the years. However, in mentioning this, I discovered that it wouldn't cut it at all. Oh well, worth a shot.

Hmmm, here's an observation. Have you ever noticed how hard it is to write, or even speak, with any kind of flow from subject matter to subject matter when you've had no sleep? Well, maybe it's just me. Still, I think that proper rest should definately be one of the tools necessary for helping you develope your paper or essay. In fact, maybe we should have a sleep period in class to see if it helps us with our writing. Of course, we might have to try it several times. We can test how well we write after a good nap vs. staying awake the entire time and chart the results.

Oh, wow! I just though of something terribly clever. For those of us who remember our dreams, maybe dreaming could be an observation or brainstorming session for us! I know I could come up with some far out ideas based on a few of the dreams I have remembered. In fact, dreaming itself could be a good subject matter. You can write about how some people dream in black and white, while others dream in color. Or, you can write about how some people are simply observers in their dreams while others are participants. Even better, we can do a in class study to see if spicy foods make for spicy dreams (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). I say we take a vote. All those in favor of ordering mexican food and catching a few z's on Monday, say "Aye!"

Okay, so it really isn't gonna happen (sigh). I did, however, get a little giddy at thinking of us all showing up with take-out boxes and a pillow. English Comp would be the first on the list of my favorite classes if that did occur. I even bet that there were several people who were really agreeing with me on this one. Let me know if you did, because we'll start a movement if so.

Journal Epiphany

Hmmmmm, a journal. I haven’t kept a journal for myself since I discovered that my brother was using mine as reading material, while in the can, when I was eleven years old. In fact, I think that poor thing was read by more people than the Bible. The irony of this being that I’m now posting one specifically for the purpose of being read by others. Time really does change a lot of things.
Well, maybe I can’t say that I haven’t been keeping a journal. I suppose it might be in how one looks at it. I’ve been writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil, and most of it is poetry. I have a massive collection of poems that I keep in a three ring binder. Would that be considered a journal of sorts? I mean, good poetry (the kind that has a voice of it’s own) is basically raw emotion and thoughts that have been stylized and manipulated to bring pleasure to the ear and mind. The real beauty of it, is that it can mean so many things to so many people. It’s a lot more open to interpretation than, say, The Diary of Anne Frank.
So, maybe all this time, I really have been keeping a journal. I’ve just been keeping one that can be read by millions and still keep the secrets locked up tight. Wow, I’m more brilliant that I thought I was! Of course, I have now shared this little epiphany with everyone, so I guess that blows that. Then again, I have been told that posting an old poem of mine would be akin to cheating, so I won’t be throwing any of them up for criticism anyway. I guess this puts me back to square one. Still, I would be ever so grateful if no one printed this up to use as bathroom fodder. Some wounds never heal.