You Knew I was Gonna Do It, Right?

“A Visit from St. Nicholas"
by Clement Clarke Moore (1779 - 1863)


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!


"Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!


He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"


The poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas," also known as "Twas the Night Before Christmas," was written in 1822 and published in a newspaper, The New York Sentinel.


According to  http://www.carols.org.uk/twas_the_night_before_christmas.htm , "the poem, 'Twas the night before Christmas' has redefined our image of Christmas and Santa Claus. Prior to the creation of the story of 'Twas the Night before Christmas,' St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children, had never been associated with a sleigh or reindeer."


Poetry, it changes things.

Happy Christmas!!!!

Almost as Good as CliffsNotes

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manual
by Pamela Spiro Wagner


First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.


Do not assume meanings hidden from you:
the best poems mean what they say and say it. 


To read poetry requires only courage
enough to leap from the edge
and trust.


Treat a poem like dirt,
humus rich and heavy from the garden.
Later it will become the fat tomatoes
and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table.


Poetry demands surrender,
language saying what is true,
doing holy things to the ordinary.


Read just one poem a day.
Someday a book of poems may open in your hands
like a daffodil offering its cup
to the sun.


When you can name five poets
without including Bob Dylan,
when you exceed your quota
and don't even notice,
close this manual.


A few years ago, when we lived in California,I joined a writing group at our local theater house. I had pages and pages of stuff written down but I felt like I was drowning underneath all the words. I was hoping that they could give me some direction and some much needed editing. On a whim, I’d stuck an arbitrary paragraph that I‘d written into my stack of junk to take with me to the meeting. When it was my turn to read, I introduced myself, gave a run-down on what I’d been writing and then read the arbitrary paragraph out loud.

“What is this?" I asked.  “It’s done, I don’t want to work on it any more, I've said what I wanted to say. I really like it…but WHAT is it?“

There was a moment of silence in the room and then a lady in a purple bohemian skirt smiled at me from behind her rhinestone glasses and answered, 

“It’s a poem. Honey, you're a poet." 

 I stared at her in disbelief, she might as well have just told me that I had a big blue daisy growing right out of my head with roots hanging, tangled and dirty, around my ears. But, after a few seconds, her words sunk in and I thought, Of course! and that initial conversation began a poetry friendship that spanned HOURS and HOURS of poetry. I’d email her a poem, she’d comment and tweak and encourage and then I’d email her another one. She became my “poetry-mother” and helped birth me as “poet.” I now have written, literally, dozens and dozens of poems.

What I find so amazing is the fact that I missed this about myself. I earned an English degree and learned to love other poets - Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, e.e. cummings, Shakespeare, among others. 

Well, actually, I know exactly what I did.
I made an assumption about poets
- that they are some sort of  mystical fairytale creatures,
like an unicorn or a griffin, that exist “out there.”
Poets don’t run late, lose their keys, stumble up the stairs,
curse the squeak of stroller tires and wipe baby butts,
do they?

Well, actually yes, they do.

They are normal everyday people who live in suburbia
-contrary to my romantic notions, very few of them actually live on mountain tops.
(They do manage to eek the mystical out of the squeaking hinges of doors, late at night,
while attending to children who won’t go to bed,
they do suck the magic out of the sound of the wind as it tumbles
over their rooftops on rainy afternoons and
they do gnaw on the meat of boredom but, mostly,)
They’re people like me and you
who just happen to love playing with words.

Part of the problem was also that I didn’t like most poetry -  actually, I was afraid of it. It seemed to be this high-brow thing that I didn’t understand and that I was afraid of “getting wrong.” I didn’t know that it could be accessible to people like me. Poetry that I was familiar with was too hard to read, harder to understand and I didn’t have time or energy to work that hard.

The truth about poetry, I’m finding out, is that it punches you in the gut. You don’t have to work at it. It speaks to you so deeply that there is no question what it means - to you, anyway. There are “tastes” to poetry. You don’t like ALL forms of music - country, hip-hop, rock, classical, bluegrass, etc -why would you like all forms of poetry? But you DO like some forms of music, right? In fact, I’d be willing to bet that you like some forms very, very much. Did we forget that all song is just poetry set to music?  And, the fact that it means something to you, that it speaks to you on some level - that is what makes it “good.”

Poetry is just the art of finding the divine in the mundane.
(A poet looks at a dirty shoe and sees more.)
It makes us more than human.
It gives a reason and a mystery to the everyday.

After I discovered that old, normal, boring me could be considered a “poet,” I began to find the courage to seek out other poets. I found poetry everywhere, it just needed to be acknowledged - songs that I heard, dialog in movies, phrases spoken between friends, whole books that I’d read - everywhere. A good quote is, to me, a great form of poetry. One of my favorites is,

"The pessimist complains about the wind;

The optimist expects it to change;

The realist adjusts the sails.”   

- William Arthur Ward 

Aaaah, this is painting with words.

It is a snapshot of an idea, of feelings.

And, that funky line lay-out
is just the way
that the author
establishes a rhythm
and a cadence.
It's a way of emphasizing
certain ideas
and
certain phrases.

:)


(Writing a poem in Word with that ridiculous "auto-correct" switched on, just about drives me BATTY!!! No, I DO NOT want to capitalize that letter! No, really! I'm serious! LOWER CASE, please!!! GRRRR!!)

Eventually, I've even gotten up the guts to attempt to read poetry books. I don’t like all of it but what I do like, I find healing and growth in. I find something that speaks to me on a profound level.

For instance, a poem that has really spoken to me and helped me to heal is Mary Oliver’s “The Journey.”


The Journey
by Mary Oliver


One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house 
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers 
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy 
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night, 
and the road full of fallen 
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn 
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly 
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save 
the only life you could save.


So, I shall share with you one of my poems.  I am still nervous about sharing most of my poetry.  I don’t feel like I have anything left to prove but no one LIKES to hear criticism. I mean, really, any mom may KNOW that her kid is ugly, but that doesn't mean that she wants you to point out the fallacies of lil' Junior Frankenstein's face. So, I’ll share one that won first place in our local poetry contest when I lived in California, it was published in a local anthology and people just seem to “get it.” So, here it is:

Ex-
by A(-Girl)

2nd wife.
Not the first.
Used up.
Youth budded.
Un-soul mate.
Marriage of convenience?


“No,”
he says without even
taking his eyes off
the highway, like
he doesn’t know 
that this subject 
is a bag of rocks
hung around my heart
keeping me from
breathing easily in 
our relationship.
“This marriage is a decision 
that I made after I was older, 
after I’d discovered who I was. 
After I’d figured out 
what I really wanted 
in my life
and what I really wanted
was you.”  


And I look at him
in the darkness 
of the wet night
as he turns on the
windshield wipers
and glances behind himself
in the rear view mirror.
And I realize that 
he doesn’t even 
know that he has
heaved every one
of my boulders
into the sea. 


It’s like that with us.



In my forties and beyond, I want to spend more time with my poetry (and other people’s poetry.) I want to continue painting companion pieces for my poetry (the picture below goes with my poem, “A Deserter in the Foxhole.”)

(…Now, unspoken words

lie buried between us

like land mines

and so, slowly and deliberately, I desert 

this foxhole, abandoning my pain

and leaving you

there in your frozen denial

-trapped within the gritty

walls of man-made dirt.

And you?

You carry the foxhole 

inside of you. You smell

of musty places, always…)

I want to get beyond my fear that if it doesn't make me any money (or fame) then it can’t be worth doing. I want to learn that it is enough, I am enough. Whatever joy and fulfillment that the day brings is, at sundown, enough.  I want to learn to be content with exactly where I am in my life and exactly who I am. I want my life to be a poem - full of passion and hope and substance where it really counts.

Oh, and :

1) Langston Hughes
2) Mary Oliver
3) Pamela Spiro Wagner
4) William Shakespeare
And,
5) Me, A-Girl

Hahahaha There ya go! I am no longer a “beginner.” :)

“To me a good poem 

is like a sacred mind-altering substance; 

you take it into your system and it carries you beyond your ordinary ways of understanding.”

-  Kim Rosen, The Sun, pg 5, December 2010

Yeah, That Sucks

A-Girl Note: It’s Dec16 and I have found that Grinch-Spot that most adults find about this time of the year, with a thousand and one things to do and only time for 1000. Yesterday, I heard myself growl “Get in the car!” at my late-on-the-morning-of-the-preschool-Christmas-play-kids and I  knew that I was beginning to cave to the pressure of “Happy Holidays!” Then, something like this happens and suddenly I am reminded of how very much I have and what is really important:

Okay, so I was in the grocery store very recently, behind a lady who bought a whole big load of groceries. Well, she was trying to buy them. She’d pick up a few items and watch as the cashier scanned them, check the total, hand a few more to the cashier, check the total, a few more. Finally, she was all done and she hands the cashier her credit card.

And, it won’t go through.

She’s standing there, a whole load of groceries and no way to pay for them. She discusses with the cashier how she’s going to go and get money and where can she pick up this cart full of groceries? Something about the way that she’s talking makes me believe that she won’t be back. That she’s having this conversation because it is just too painful to admit, even to herself, that she just doesn’t have the money to buy the food that they need.  I find this extremely difficult to watch. I am embarrassed for her, embarrassed for her pre-teen son and feeling helpless. What can I do, what should I do?

It is painful.

It used to be me.

I know all too well that desperate feeling of how am I going to feed my kid?


How am I going to get myself out of this horrible situation without bursting into tears?


How did my life get to this point? This is NOT how I saw my life happening.

My ex-husband was an OUT OF CONTROL spender. I won’t go into all the details, suffice it to say that I still - nearly a decade later, with a fatter bank account, and a dependable 2nd husband -  feel the panic when I go to the grocery store and I hand them my card. Please go through, please go through.  I still carry around a check book in another bag “just in case.”   I still grimace when I go to the mail box and my stomach still does the topsy-turvy whenever the phone rings and I don‘t recognize the number. Credit/Debit cards that refuse to go through, unpaid bills and bill collectors on the other end of the phone line still haunt me.

My sweet, caring hubby just doesn’t get this. He’s never been hungry poor, never had the lights go out because the bill wasn’t paid, never been terrified that he’d get sick ’cause there was no way to pay for it and no insurance to cover it, never DREADED Christmas because he had NO IDEA how he was going to buy his family presents. He’s never found himself dependent on the government and family to make it to the next paycheck. He’s never found himself the butt of callous people’s comments or had to endure their righteous disdain. 

I have.

It's easy to have a harsh, 

"Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps," 

attitude if your own bootstraps 

have always been exactly the right length.

I once lost a friend on Facebook because I posted this as my status and he reacted with so much anger that I was forced not only to drop him as a friend on Fb but in my life as well. What is so offensive about this statement? It is true.

I think that people like to think “This is America, everyone has the same opportunity to make something out of themselves.” (It makes them feel less guilt about the cushy middle-class lives that they live. And, I am also, now, one of those guilt-ridden upper middle-class people.) Not true. Some people’s foundations are so screwed up that they’ll spend a life-time caught in the mire of trauma.  Not everyone is blessed with good genetics-bodies and brains that work- and people who love and support them.

No one WANTS to be poor or hungry or addicted or homeless.

And right here, is where I get really frustrated. I start to feel like a dog chasing my tail on this issue. Because, it is also true that life is not fair and you can’t make it be fair for everybody. To take away from one person because another person’s life was unfair is…unfair to the first person.  My husband went to school for YEARS, he gets up everyday and goes to work and works hard, I went to school for years, I stay home and WORK. We shouldn’t feel guilty for being successful-we’ve both earned it.

I’ve been on both sides of this issue and the one thing that I do know is true is that there are no easy answers.  And, anyone who says that they know the answers…well, that just tells me that they don’t really understand the questions. There are NO simple answers to complex problems.

The thing is that I know that even if I paid for that lady’s groceries, it probably won’t help the problem.  The problem is probably bigger than one-time help. It was for me. The problem was my ex but it was also my refusal to deal with the problem of him. In fact, we once had very good friends who spent over $300 of 1990s money to buy us groceries and the whole time I was thinking, Don’t do this. You’re just making it more possible for him to NOT do what he should do.  We’d have had enough, IF he’d have controlled his spending. Our friends were just hurting themselves trying to help us. And, that hurt me… and my pride.

It enabled me to stay in a bad situation longer, true, but it also showed me that I couldn‘t protect everybody else from his issues. I couldn’t internalize it all and continue to pretend everything was groovy when it wasn’t.

My experiences have left me much more left of right than I used to be. Politically, I find myself much closer to being “Independent” than anything else.

I’m closer to being Independent mainly because I am so frustrated with BOTH sides’ answers to these kinds of social issues:

Ignore It and Pretend Like It’s Not There
(- ie pull yourself up by your own bootstraps)

or

Throw Money At It
(-ie here, let me fix your problem for you)

- neither of these, by themselves, are viable solutions to complex problems.

There are lots of times when people take advantage of the system, no doubt. Sometimes, some people need a helping hand. They need not to be left on their own against a system that is bigger than any one person. Where would we all be without family? Without other people in our lives who care? Without an education?  There are people in the world, who were born at the wrong time to the wrong people. And, have no foundation. None. They need help if they are to ever make it past “food stamp.”

And, some people need to teeter-totter on their own for a while until they learn to do it themselves.

And, there’s the crux. To know the difference, you have to know the person and the situation personally. You have to be involved.

(I’m not sure that giving to your church counts, if it did a lot of these problems would be smaller. I’ve been involved with a lot of churches and most of them are more focused on their next building project than the community that they live in.)

A handout, without love, will always be just a handout.  I am not advocating against handouts. Some people really need them and should not be denied that help. I’m saying get involved. Know the people in your community. And, help where help is warranted.  It’s going to take the individual person AND the government agency to get this done. It’s going to take creative, WISE answers to individual problems. We’re gonna have to work together-bipartisanship. What a concept!

You mean, we’re gonna have to stop treating politics like a competitive sporting event (“We win, you lose!”) and start working together?

Yep, that’s what I mean. Or, we all, in the end, lose.

(And, don't think for two seconds that I think I have all the answers, I'm still going round and round inside my own head about what, if anything, I should have done differently standing in line behind that woman in the grocery store.)

To Whom It May Concern...

… in the  U.S. "Nag People About the Environment” camp:

I’ll be 40 soon. I’ve lived some life and, as I’m gearing up for the Great Birthday, let me just say,

“I’ve had it with the guilt.” 

Guess what, tree-huggers of the planet -  I am a human being, I live on this planet, I’m gonna leave a “footprint.”

In fact, I’m SUPPOSED to leave a “footprint,” if I didn’t something would be terribly wrong.

My personal choices ARE pretty full of  tree-huggery:

• I only eat organic, WHEN I can find it (I’m not crazy, I’ll eat whatever, but I try to use my brain whenever possible.)
• I get my kids vaccinated but I turn down all the “add ons”  - no flu vaccines for us.
• We drink water that comes from a glass container, shipped to us from Arkansas-no fluorinated, chlorinated water if I can help it.
• I hate plastic and have been known to layer every evil plastic container and every piece of plastic wrap with paper towels just to avoid any of it touching my food. In fact, we have NO carpet (yes, it’s plastic) in the living areas of my house, at all.
• The recycle bin at my house is always full.
• My kids sugar intake is ridiculously low, compared to most of the rest of the USA. My kids think most sugar comes with a fruit skin on it. (I have been known to THROW OUT Halloween candy - horrors!)
• We do not drink any sodas - diet or otherwise. In fact, IF I order a two liter Coke with our pizza it often gets THROWN OUT before we finish it. And, it’s a big deal - my hubby will ask, 

“Oh, it’s been one of THOSE days, huh?”

• I really abide by the “if you can’t pronounce it, you shouldn't be eating it,” mentality when it comes to food. I AM that annoying woman in the grocery aisle reading the back of every package. In fact, if we use it at all, I better be able to pronounce the ingredients. (Everything that we use in the house is as close to “natural” as I can get it, from toothpaste to toilet bowl cleaner.)
• I had a doula and a mid-wife with my third birth which was an underwater birth and definitely the best birth of the three. 
• I do "Parelli Natural Horsemanship" with Horse which, even in the horse-world, makes me a bit of a "touchy-feely" weirdo.

(Some of my choices aren't are so full of tree-huggery:

• I wear a diamond ring that my husband gave me when we got married, I have no idea if it is “conflict free” or is a “blood diamond.”  I’m thinking I’m gonna keep wearing it.
• I drive a gas guzzling, non-hybrid, keeping my kids safe, hauling my horse, F-150 TRUCK.
• I eat meat. There, I said it. And, I have no intention of not eating it. My body was designed to eat it. Carnivores on this planet eat other animals lower than them in the food chain. I am a carnivore. It sucks, I’m not arguing that point. It is the way that it is in this world.  Survival of the fittest, rules. I think it sucks what is done to animals in the name of “growing” them for consumption. It should change, laws should be passed, agreed. I’m not gonna stop eating my hamburgers because somebody else is acting like a fool. That said, I do buy “grass-fed, organic beef” when possible. It’s not possible, a lot.
• I breast-fed my kids as much as I could and then I put them on formula. I KNOW! FORMULA!!!  <sarcasm>  Hello, it ain’t rat poison. The point is to FEED your kids. Kids, fed.
• Hold on to your hats, I hate to admit this, it is soooo heinous -I used disposable diapers on all my babies!  Egads-shocker! )

Most of my choices would put me in the category of  “Tree-Hugger-Wanna-Be” and you know what? Even I’m tired of the guilt and the confusion. We’re all just doing the best we can with what we’ve got to do it with.

Our culture gives me a whole supermarket full of aisles of stuff to buy, urges me to be a good little consumer and then you nag me when I don’t consume the correct stuff.  In fact, you are always nagging me to buy the next earth-friendly thing. I’m beginning to feel like it’s all just a ploy to get me to BUY more stuff.


It’s not that I don’t think the environment should be protected.


It’s not that I don’t want to do my part,

but, believe me, Big Business is doing far
far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far
more damage to the environment than I ever will,
in my whole lifetime.

Pick on them for a change.

Kay?

Thanks!

     -A-Girl

4,5,6,40?

“Momma, my birthday is next.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I will be five.”
“Yes, Baby you will be 5.”
“Whose birthday is next, after my birthday, Momma?”
“Well, Baby. Mine. My birthday comes next.”
“How old will you be Momma? 6? Will you be 6?”

Um, no.

<giggle> "No, Baby. I’ll be 40.”
“How old are you now?’
“I’m 39.”
Silence. “Uh-huh.”

Hahahahaha

I, too, remember the unfathomable ages that my parents were when I was a kid. How do you wrap your brain around “40,” when you’re 5 (or even, 16?) 40 is literally 8 times as old as a five-year-old. It would be like me trying to wrap my brain around being 320. I have a hard enough time wrapping my brain around "50" at this point. Speaking of, according to Yahoo News,

“Stars who turned 50 in 2010,” are:

Julianne Moore
Daryl Hannah
Hugh Grant
Colin Firth
Jane Lynch                  
Bono
Michael Stipe
David Duchovny
Antonio Banderas
Valerie Bertinelli
Sean Penn
James Spader

Yeah, I know. NO FREAKING WAY!

(And, I remember my mom catching sight of an aging star on Tv and exclaiming, "He's looking so old!" I had a few of those moments, myself, looking at the pics that went with this list.)

The look on Oldest Child’s face when I told him, a few years ago, that I remembered when there were no CD players or microwaves was priceless. He was astonished. (You should have seen his face when he asked what you did if you broke down on the side of the road before cell phones and I answered, "You WALKED to the next exit and prayed that they had a working phone and that you could find a quarter to use it." The look on his face that time was...well, his mouth fell open. <giggle>)

Today, I perused People’s "Sexiest" issue and knew NO ONE in the age group,“20s and 30s.” (I didn’t recognize anyone until I got to the “40s and 50s.”)

Who ARE these people?

I didn't recognize a single face and the only celebrities whom I knew are ... beginning to play the mothers and fathers of the stars of recent movies.  I blinked and suddenly my peeps have been regulated to background characters?   I’m serious, watching a movie for me, now, is a plethora of hearing myself asking desperately,

“Who is THAT?”  

Don’t even get me started on music. I’m serious, don’t get me started.
I can’t even pronounce some of these acts.
Kei$ha? How do you say, “$” ????
Her name is, “ Kei-dollar sign-ha?”

(All I know is Oldest Son was aghast that I had one of her songs on my phone,

“Mom, she’s a slut! 

My mom listens to ‘slut-music!’ 

I can’t stand it!”) 

And, who in the world is  “Flo Rida?”
Seriously, the guy calls himself “ Florida?”
His name is a state?
That’s it!
From now on, I shall be known as “Al A. Bama.”

I had to Google “Justin Bieber” (my husband just informed me that he was SURE that his name was "Justin BEAVER" hahahahaha)  just to figure out how to spell the little (yes, he is little) dude's name. Apparently, there is some language associated with being his fan?

( http://www.fanpop.com/spots/justin-bieber/forum/post/65941/title/bieber-language)

But before I shake my head and get too cocky I remember Donny Osmond and his purple socks. Surely, this kid is not as corny as that. Right? Right???

I have definitely entered the Twilight Zone World of Middle Age. Every time my husband shakes his head and makes some comment on how kids are so stupid today, I respond,

“Honey, I KNOW. 

But we think that because we are old fogies. 

Did you just hear the comment 

that came out of your mouth?? 

Yep, old, old, old. 
Personally, I would say it's 'cause 
we finally got smart but everybody else 
would say 'old,old,old.”

My grandfather suddenly seems so much smarter to me.

Seriously, it's been around for a while but WHO thinks jeans worn down below your butt is COOL?

(I came around the corner of my truck, not that long ago at the car wash, and found myself face to,well, face with the boxer clad butt of a teenage guy bent over vacuuming out his car. I could just about see his cheeks jiggling underneath that pitiful excuse for fabric. I couldn't help it, I stopped and stared, at that, and at his jeans which were hanging on for dear life right around his upper thighs. I wanted to shout out,

 "You DO know that that belt ain't doin' much good, right?"  

I looked up in time to see his mom staring at me over his head. She gave me a look that said, 

"I know! I know! STUPID! He takes after his DAD!" hahahahaha)

I hate to tell you, we would have. We would have thought it was cool.

Aren't we the same generation who actually went to school (when we could get around our totally shocked moms) in “underwear”  worn as “outerwear”  ala’ Cyndi Lauper and Madonna?

Yeah, the only difference between “us and them” is about 20 years.

It’s just that I am so much smarter, now, and they are so much more stupid. :)

The young always have the same problem

-how to rebel and conform at the same time. 

They have now solved this by 

defying their elders and copying one another. 

-Quentin Crisp

“Damn it, Jim…!”

We have previously discussed my love of all things sci-fi which just so happens to be rooted in an early viewing of Star Wars. What we have not talked about is my love of Star Trek.

"Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before." <cue 60’s surreal “futuristic” music>

I, however, am not a true Trekkie, you’ll never catch me in costume -nope, not even one of those “sexy” green-girl ones, no way, NUH-UH -  and I have absolutely no interest in learning to speak or, even, understanding Klingon. In fact, I would prefer not to be in the same room with someone who is attempting to speak Klingon (why, oh why, oh why - a thousand times, why?)

The only Star Trek that qualifies as true Star Trek, in my mind, are the original seasons. (According to Wikipedia, “The Guinness World Records lists the original Star Trek as having the largest number of spin-offs among all TV series in history.”) It's not that I don't like the other Star Trek spin-offs, it's just that the first one is in a league of it's own.

Oh, my! This isn’t even really sci-fi, this is comedy. Campy. Campy. Campy.

“Sp-AHHHH-ck!” hahahahaha

Could they all roll around that bridge any less convincingly?

You don’t have to watch too many of these shows to pick up on something - no one wants to be Ensign Ricky (or Ensign Whomever, the names change, the plot does not.) The conversations usually go a little like this:

“Something horrible has happened on the planet down below, we must have every senior officer to the transporter NOW…oh yeah and you, Ensign Ricky.” 

At this point, I am literally screaming at the Tv,

“Don’t do it! No! Ensign Ricky! It’s a trap, you will be eaten!” 

We won’t even talk about what asine set-up would call for ALL the senior officers to put themselves into harm’s way AT THE SAME TIME.

What am I saying?
As long as they’ve got an Ensign Ricky, they’re cool.
What have they got to worry about?
30 minutes of being chased by that lump of pizza-goo covered in felt, a couple of really bad acting moments by William Shatner and then a horribly predictable fall into the path of  Pizza-Goo by Ensign Ricky and all’s well in the end. (If they should get hurt in some manner, there’s always Bones to point his little plastic medical “brick” at them and come up with exactly what must be done to save the day.)

(Speaking of William Shatner-could any one in Hollywood have played his cards so well? He was a joke- a washed-up, no good (literally), ego-maniac running around Hollywood scaring old women and driving his former co-workers crazy. And, you know what he did? He’s made a ton of money playing exactly that on Tv. He’s turned crap pie into delicious dessert by making fun of himself. Now, he comes across as a funny, wacky, almost warm guy.  It’s enough to make you rethink your whole opinion of him. Or, he’s just got a really shrewd agent- regardless, at least, he had enough sense to listen to said shrewd agent.)

Sometimes, I feel like the Ensign Ricky in my own damn life. I should soooo listen to that strange voice coming from “out there,”

“Don’t do it! Nooooooo!” 

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I crack myself up.

(“Pizza-goo covered in felt” design guy. I SO want that job!)

Run Emptyins-

To show signs of not holding out well, as for instance in a speech or other enterprise. Probably from the analogy of a beer-barrel. (from) Western Connecticut. To run emptyins is where a speaker or writer continues to speak or write after he has delivered himself of every thing of consequence. - Informal English, by Jeffrey Kacirk, pg 172

So, we are at the half-way point. Give or take a few weeks, (I’m not gonna actually admit when my real birthday is on the internet. My name is… my birthday is… I was born in…um, no!  Duh!  Any more of my security questions, you want me to answer for you? :) )

I’ve got three more months to go

Honesty time: I write these things in advance. I’m usually at least 4 weeks ahead of myself. So, if it says, “Today…” it’s not that it didn’t happen, it’s just that it usually happened a few weeks ago. There are a few exceptions but for the most part, there it is.I have written 29 (counting this one) of these things and I have roughly 29 more to go.

I am beginning to freak out.

This SEEMED like such a good idea. Write twice a week for 6 months? No problem!!!! It's not like I haven't done stuff like this before. I have pages and pages and pages of poetry and non-fiction and other stuff. But, this is on a deadline and, sometimes, people READ IT! :)

Ai-Yi-Yi!

 I know that, by counting unpublished posts, I have enough material to make to the end of January If I keep posting twice a week. If I drop it to once a week I can make it until...well, I'd be done.  And, never have to write another thing (they need to be polished and stuff, but that's not the same thing as the

brain numbing gymnastics 

--cartwheel, cartwheel, flip, round-off! 

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee, 

please don't let me land on my butt!-

of coming up with another whole new one.)   But, if I drop it till once a week I’ll be disappointed with myself. Actually, finishing was part of this task that I gave myself for my birthday.

So, I’m gonna have to keep writing, even if the writing is old and stale and nasty.
Sorry! <weak grin>
(Hey, I'm writing NOW, even if the writing is old and stale and nasty. hahahahhaha)

I realized that I have dedicated myself to doing this and that most of my months (and I picked the LONG months) will be during the fall/winter when this strange pseudo-depression sets into my head. I was once diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder. They’re not sure what causes it- lack of sunlight is one theory. I think, add to that, the anxiety of the holiday season, and voila! stressed out, tired A-Girl.

We‘re talking some serious needing-to-see-a-Shrink juju, here.

( Remember November’s post, “…Smell My Feet…” ? )

OH! OH! OH! Wait a minute…
…I‘m having a thought…
<leans back in chair, lets out big sigh>
…it‘s the anxiety that CAUSES the depression.
OH!!! DUH!
How could I be more thick-headed?

Anxiety 
is to the emotions 
what running a marathon 
is to the body- EXHAUSTION.

We’re talking grimy, brown poop-sliding-down-the-leg, marathon-running exhaustion.
OH!!!!
(Seriously, no one in the room is more aghast at my DUH!ness than I am.)

During these months I am so exhausted from fighting anxiety and missing the sun that my brain is flat, it is hard to finish a thought some days, much less a whole blog entry. What was I thinking?

(Seriously, it’s lots better than it used to be. I more than cope now - with a smile on my face, most days. I've even been known to giggle. But that‘s not as funny as the freak-out, above.)

<holds glass up in the air>  Here’s to NOT "run(ning) emptyins."

(Oh, good grief. I’m doomed!)

350 - It Ain't Just a Number on the Oven Dial

Heavens to Betsy, it's a miracle! My oven does "heat up."
(You'd never believe that I really do cook, sometimes, would ya?)

"Honey, it's already dead. No really, trust me.
That's what it looks like before the 
restaurant people serve it to us."

"Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is

...a bigger kitchen...and a maid...and a nanny....and..."

And, here is the proof that it really did taste okay.
dB is eating leftovers with Smudge.
He hates to eat with Smudge (notice that his ears are laid back)
but this time he wasn't gonna let Smudge get all of the leftovers.

The kids survived my "heating up!"
Shewwww! What a relief. :)
(They love that old, pink, worn-out Jeep,
- it doesn't even have a battery anymore
 but they don't know it. They just push
 each other around the yard in it.
Sometimes, they just sit in it together.
I have no idea where they're going - do they? -
but it's fun getting there.hahaha)

These big smiles represent my favorite "tradition" (2 years in a row makes it a tradition, right?) of Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving night we put on our new Christmas Pjs and watch,
"The Scary Train Movie," also known in some circles as
"The Polar Express," downstairs on Daddy's BIG Tv
(it's a projector with a screen 
so the little boy experience is intense)
We have "hot chok-co-lot!" and popcorn to go with the movie.
In this photo, Middle Child and Wild Child are
laughing out loud at the hot air popper as it shoots popcorn out.
(Simple Kids-what do you expect from a mom that lets them play with an old dilapidated Jeep without a battery? hahaha)


This is my favorite part of Thanksgiving.

Halloween, THANKSGIVING and Then, Christmas

Happy Thanksgiving! 

(You know, that pesky little holiday that hangs out between Halloween and Christmas-somebody tell the retail stores, 'cause I think they forgot about it.)

This is it for this week,
I am going to take Thanksgiving (Thursday) off and just hang out with my family and a big dead bird.
Okay?
Good.
I think that’s fair.

I am actually cooking this year.

Wait, that is a lie. Kroger is cooking and I am “heating up” but hey, I will be heating up a big fat turkey in my oven. For a woman who has been known to use the rack in her oven as a place to dry flowers, THIS.IS.A.VERY.LARGE.DEAL.  (Wish me well, even this concept is a little daunting-seriously, where am I gonna put the left-overs???)

I have progressed from dead flowers to dead birds, this is a major advancement in the world, as we know it. Quick, you might want to buy stocks (or sell them) or something before this hits the newspapers (sorry, my age was showing again) the internet  Maybe, not. But you never know how the butterfly effect can change things. You were warned, I’m just sayin.’


Speaking of my age, I remember Thanksgivings when, really, everything was closed (you‘d just pray you could find a gas station that was open in case you HAD to go somewhere,) when you’d just about die of boredom as a kid, when you had turkey lunch at the kids’ table and then sat around and twiddled your thumbs at one another. My sister, my cousin and I turned this into a poker marathon one year. I still get tickled thinking about the three of us little girls in our green visors, our pretzel stick cigarettes hanging out of our mouths (you let them hang there until they got soggy and then you‘d eat them and steal another one from your neighbor's "money pot" to “smoke,”) and our cache of pretzel-stick-chips, arguing about whether or not Jokers were wild.

“I’ll see your 5 pretzel sticks and…”

Arbitrary Thanksgiving Tidbits:

Best Thanksgiving: Several years ago when I was in Dallas, Texas at the spa  (no, of course it wasn't really the spa! But I swear people thought that - for 6 weeks, I got stabbed every 15 minutes with needles and people secretly thought that I was AT THE SPA!)  at the Environmental Health Center-Dallas, we discovered this great sushi bar, the Blue Note. It was small and I could breathe inside (a BIG deal in those days) and very yummy. While in Dallas, we just kept returning to that place -  it was my “I actually, finally, feel like going out, but where?” place. K-Man (anyone else see the cartoon caveman dude and hear him yelling the words “Captain Caveman!!!!” when they read “K-Man?” No? Okay, well it must just be me) and I spent Thanksgiving there that year all by ourselves and it was awesome. I was finally feeling better, there was absolutely no stress at all and the hope for better days was just about palpable. Plus, they had this version of a Tiramisu that was to die for.

Worst Thanksgiving: The one right after my grandmother died. All around that table were volcanoes of emotion, all in various degrees of eruption, but there nonetheless. I drew a picture of what it felt like…it’s around here somewhere…let me find it…can't find it…yeah, I didn't want to see it, either.

Thanksgiving Memory Most Likely to Make Me Giggle: The pizza year. My ex-husband (after this story, you might not wonder why he’s an ex. hahaha ) and I had friends who had the excellent idea of switching out Thanksgivings.

“I’ll cook this year, you cook next year.”

Stupid, I am not. So, I was honest with her,

“That sounds great but really, So & So, I DO NOT cook. You’re going to go to all this trouble and then next year I’ll just order pizza. I’m serious, I’ll just order pizza.”  

Apparently, she didn’t believe me. She went to all the Thanksgiving meal trouble on her year and then kept reminding me all year that the next year was my turn.
I KEPT saying,

“So & So, I’m ordering pizza.”

When my year finally got there, what did I do?
<Shoulders scrunch up, “What?”>
I ordered pizza. (DUH!) I ordered it a day ahead of time to be sure that I could find a pizza joint that was open and then, right before they got there, I heated it up. (I don’t remember if I had to remove flowers from the oven or not and, apparently, “heating up“ is not an issue for me.) Her kids were tons happy. She was not amused. Really, I didn’t mean to piss her off. Try making small talk after that, over your pineapples and anchovies. ;p

This year, I am thankful for:

• A husband who thinks making cappuccinos for me on Saturday mornings is FUN.

• The fact that I have three children who are, more or less, OUT.OF.DIAPERS.

• A hobby that I love and am passionate about. I used to watch other people ride really well and dream about being “able to do that,” this year I surpassed that. Wow. (Sunday, I hooked my horse trailer to my truck, loaded Horse, drove him to another barn, unloaded him, tacked him up, rode him all over the cross-country course in an Eventing Clinic,only said a few dirty words as he LEAPED over the jumps, loaded him back up, took him back to his barn, BACKED my horse trailer into it’s spot between the trees and unhooked the trailer, by myself. I haven’t attempted making coffee at the same time, yet, but I’m thinking about it. Hahaha See September’s post, "WIS, That Was Fun!" for why this is a big deal.)
• Our own personal comedy duo of  “Smudge and dB." (Don't be fooled, I just heard a big crash from the living room and the other little "bundle of joy," is so overcome with love for me that he is BITING the inside of my upper arm as I type this. They better, both, say a prayer at Thanksgiving that their tiny furry butts make it until New Year's. hahahaha) Explanation to be found in November's post, "Hmmmm, It Won't Come Off."
• Red wine and dark chocolate.
• A smile that comes easy to my face.
• And, hope. That’s the clincher, you can deal with just about anything if you’ve got that bad boy in your corner. Hope rocks.

Happy Thanksgiving to you! 

Good luck “heating up."

Just Call Me “Snowflake”

Well, The Blindside movie came out (you probably saw it so I won’t bore you with details that you already know. If you haven’t seen it, stop reading this immediately and go watch it)  and people who I know and love were comparing me to the Sandra Bullock character. Really? After we watched the movie, when I was commenting how my friends were saying that I was a lot like the Bullock character, Oldest Child looked at me and said,

“Mom you ARE her.” 

Okay.  I didn’t know how I felt about that. I mean, there was a lot to deal with in that character. And, not all of it was nice.There was a protective pit-bull quality about her that I'm not sure I have. I want to be that protective "safe" bubble for my kids, but honestly, I'm not sure that I am. I do have high expectations for my kids, I do hold them to a high moral standard, but this was a mother who could smother you with her very large expectations. Um, thanks but no thanks?

I think I finally realized it about myself, about five weeks ago.

About five weeks ago we went to the Eagles Concert in Piedmont Park in Atlanta. (Yeah, I have to process before I can write.)
I learned several things: 
the Eagles are awesome (well, I already knew this one)-even more so live and in concert,
I want an actual seat next time - a place to put my old butt  -
I’m too old for chaos
and pot smoke always smells the same.

I’ll admit, it’s been a while since I’ve been to a concert. I’ve got little kids, I don’t have a nanny and by the end of any given day, I’m just plumb worn-out. But the Eagles are one of those bands that I don’t want to miss -  they’re grandparents by now, they are more worn-out than I am and it’s only a matter of time until they say “enough!”

I don’t want to have missed it.

So, when my husband wanted to go and his brother couldn’t go with him, I sorta reluctantly agreed to go. I am so glad I did. Once we got past the “help me, I’m overwhelmed, how do we hire a baby-sitter?” part, it started to seem like a lot of fun.

However, it was at Piedmont Park in downtown Atlanta which was great in some ways
-being outside, the band, the weather,all of that was nifty.
But, it sucked in some ways
- there was only general admission, we had to sit on the ground and 30-something-thousand people fighting their way to the stage was not fun, particularly since they seemed to be doing it over the top of us. (Really, there was, like, a neon sign over our heads that read,

 “Please, walk RIGHT HERE to proceed down the hill. Don‘t mind the old people beneath your young virile feet, they‘ll move their worn-out bodies out of your way.”)  

And, as we know already, I don’t like crowds, see November's “…Smell My Feet…” post. (In my defense, this concert happened before Halloween, so, you know, I plead the 5th. hahaha)

We’d found a spot up on a hill to put our blankets. It was sorta the “old fogies” section. It was a ways away from the stage but we could see and stretch out.

Even the pot smoke was kinda that nice, faint, sweet smell in the air, not the overwhelming, blue-haze, “I never inhaled,”  Clinton-esq bull crap, that it could have been.

We were pretty happy

Until “Hotel California,” started up. I think that’s when this happened, my husband swears that they DID play “Hotel California,” but I only remember the last few chords of it, ‘cause it was at this moment that the young slightly (um, yeah right!) toasted kids behind us decided to rush the stage.

My husband was flattened up against a tree with the binoculars out, watching Joe Walsh hit his guitar licks. I was just about flattened by the mob that descended the hill, flying past me on both sides, walking on my stuff, knocking into me. It was a bit frightening until I heard myself start screaming.

“Hey! Hey! Stop it! Hey, guys! I’m SITTING here!"

And, you know what happened? The mob stopped. One of the guys stopped directly above my head and glared at me, I glared back until he stepped over me and stomped away. But they stopped.

I knew then that I was not that same ‘ole “good girl” I’d always been. The one who would just about implode in order to maintain the

 “A(-Girl), be nice!” 

order given by my mother. The one who’d take untold abuse in order to be seen as “the sweet one.”  I’m not nice anymore. And, I’m proud of that fact. I’ve finally gotten healthy enough to protect myself.

I hope I am always kind, I will not always be nice. There is a difference.

In my mind, “kind,” always seeks to understand the other person, (there are never good enough excuses for bad behavior but there are reasons, I hope I always seek to understand a person‘s reasons) “nice,” infers that I won’t hold my boundaries.

I will.

That Friday night at the Eagles concert cemented that fact for me - no matter how much I may “understand” the other person’s reasons for their actions, I am not going to let them step all over me and my boundaries.

That makes me happy.
For one thing, that’s healthy.
For another thing, as an adult, I have a responsibility to protect the people who are under my influence. I will not be very good at protecting my kids if I’m not very good at protecting myself.

I know intimately the damage that can occur when the adults refuse to be the protectors of the children.

It’s not gonna happen in my life or the lives of my kids.
That is a very cool thing to realize this side of 40; I’m a good Mom. A mom who does a good job of protecting herself and therefore will do a good job of protecting her kids, as an extension of herself.

A mom who is okay with being kind but not always “nice.”

And, as I reminded Oldest Child, after The Blindside, a protective mom who drives you crazy with her high expectations can also make you reach beyond yourself to become greater than you would have been without her pushing you.  She is, usually, also the mom who will stand toe to toe against the bad-guy-drug-dealer with the “gun in her purse” when it comes time to protect her kids. She will NOT back down.

You can’t buy that with a million bucks.

(And, to that young chick, 

at the Eagles' concert, 

who referred to me, as

“That annoying girl!” 

hahahahaha 

Thanks! 

Jokes on you, lil' chica, 

I’m old enough to be your mom, but thanks!!!)

Hmmmm, It Won't Come Off

SOOOO, my neighbor has cats. Oh, my. That is an understatement. She has a herd. (They gallop, you can hear them. You think I’m joking…)


Kittens have been coming to visit us for a while now. Wild Child is in heaven. Where Middle Child came out of the womb sputtering, “Vrrrrrrmmmmm,” and loving all things with wheels and engines. (I swear he had a whole fleet of vehicles in there with him and rolled them all over my internal organs…I was so uncomfortable, that is the only answer!) Wild Child has always loved his “babies.” Every night, for a long time, he was nearly lost under the pile of stuffed animals in his bed. He has a favorite stuffed “Kitty” and a VERY favorite stuffed “Puppy.”


K-Man and I have been saying for a while that the kids, Wild-Child in particular, needed some real “babies.” At some point. That point is NOT now. I have a three yo and a four yo that I’m trying to keep up with. No, not another breathing, dirty-making thing is allowed in my house.
No.
I said, “No.”


Apparently, the universe wasn’t listening. Or it was laughing in my face, ‘cause down the street came Smudge-the-Super-Kitty. He took one look at me and said,

“Um, yeah. I live here now.” 

He's not really that pretty (don't tell him, kay? Thanks.) but his little personality is awesome and the for-sure-she's-gonna-let-you-stay - he's VERY kid tolerant. You know that saying that you don’t pick your pets, they pick you? It’s like that.


So, the kitties (yes, plural!) have been to the vet and declared healthy which makes it official in my book…

I, obviously, named this one, "Smudge."  
To me, he looks like a white cat that someone 
tried to decorate with a graphite pencil and just got smudges all over him.

My audio-video freak of a husband named this one “Decibel” or “dB” for short. 
And, yes, dB are the correct initials for "decibel." 
I have no idea why 
- drives my English-major-brain nuts but makes perfect sense to my Engineer husband.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decibel
For the rest of us, this means that a decibel is 
a unit for measuring sound. 

("It's a power ratio... formally, it's a unit-less thing...

so it's like so many watts over one watt so 

the watts cancel out...blah, blah," my eyes just glazed over. hahahaha 

I LOVE him but he talks Math-ese. 

Actually, I find it very sexy I just do NOT understand a single word he says. hahahaha)  

Don’t tell our kids, they are busy naming these cute little babies after their best friends at preschool. :)

Middle Child surprised me with how much he loves the kitties.

Wild Child having a ball.

                                                                                                        

I just love this picture for 
Wild Child's fashion sense. 
It is truly stellar.

After the kids go to bed, 
guess what the parents do. hahahahaha

This is why we get two kitties. CUTE.

Right when I get sick of that litter box, 

I see something like this and it's worth it.

(He has an ITCH. I will remain in willful denial that 

Middle Child is picking his nose in MY sweet picture. hahahahaha)

Who am I kidding? I hate a litter box, they will be indoor/outdoor kitties.

                                                      

My first cat picked me when I was 5. She walked right up to me, this little scraggly multi-colored kitten, on Ellis Street in Augusta, Georgia and claimed me as "her" human. Mrs. Ellis slept, curled up on my bed, for many, many years. 

Truly, in nearly 4 decades of life, I have found that everything you do in life is better if you're cuddled up with a cat. 

Yep, cats make a house, a home.