And now on to something completely different...
If you've read my blog from time to time you might notice a reoccurring "I have a hard time with Maxine Jane" theme. She's is my six year old daughter, the sometimes bane of my existence, always the love of my life but most often difficult and precocious.
The other day she got in trouble and wasn't allowed to go somewhere with Jeremiah, Elijah and Olivia while Rose was at soccer. She had to stay home with me which is tantamount to being gravely punished. I decided to take her for a walk just the two of us and five blocks away she said she had to pee. We turned around and walked back to the house.
"Maxine Jane, sometimes you make my head spin like crazy." I looked at her and smiled goofily to let her know I wasn't mad, just crazy.
"Hmmm, that just means you love me a lot." She's crazy smiling now too.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yep and that means you must really, really love Jeremiah because he makes you the craziest in your head."
Six years old and wiser than I am. I wonder when that wisdom starts fading? I'm guessing 11 because when Max recounted the story to Rosey she just rolled her eyes.
"Making someone crazy in the head isn't going to make anyone like you more ever. They're just going to be annoyed and nobody likes someone who is annoying." Rose speaks these words with the emphasis on words like AN-NOY-ing and NO-body.
Is Rosey more or less wise than Max? Or is it just dependent on personality? It is a dichotomy and maybe even a mystery.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Grief
The sun glared through the windows and into my eyes but I did not look away. I did not close my eyes. They watered and even hurt a bit and I still did not care. The spots formed and I felt nauseous and faint.
I finally closed my eyes and sat down on the pale yellow window seat, the cool painted wood under me woke me a bit from my state and I tried to form thoughts.
Nothing came.
The days' consistencies meant nothing to me. I spoke words to concerned people and did not know what I was saying or remember why I was saying them. I went to bed, got up and vomited in the toilet and got back into bed over and over again for days on end.
Or at least it felt like days, it could have very well been moments, seconds, fleeting incalculable snippets of time flying over my head like electric beams of fast moving nothingness.
When this melancholy lifted I began to see small random things in focus. The water I drank for sustenance seemed so much better when I mixed orange juice and lime juice in with it, I remembered I loved that so much.
I changed my clothes and got in the shower, used the kids coconut shampoo and scrubbed and scrubbed my body with Dove soap over and over again until the water started to turn cold. Dove soap reminded me of being in the hospital after giving birth. That first tender shower with a nurse outside your door and your mother just beyond her, making sure you were OK. The sweat and the medicinal smells of labor and delivery wash over you and are replaced with Dove soap. Your breasts ache and your asshole aches and you feel like you might just pass out. Thinking the posted nurse outside your door wasn't such a bad idea, gingerly stepping out of the thickly tiled shower without lifting one leg too high.
After the shower things were clearer. I turned on the small cream lamp on a very short table next to my bed and laid myself down. The sheets smelled of spit and greasy hair. I got up, stripped the bed and put new sheets on, took a basket of clothes to the basement and began to do laundry.
The sun outside had turned to clouds and rain in an opposite rendering of my present state of mind. The clouds in my head were clearing, but I was not sure of the weather that would present itself once they did.
I went back to my room and laid in bed once more. I smelled nothing but coconut and Dove soap. The tears came again but this time I did not vomit. I sobbed gently and fell asleep.
When I awoke the sun was again in my face, but this time I looked away. I turned my back to the window and stripped off my clothes, let the warmth play across my naked back. I took another shower, brushed my teeth and drank more orange juice with lime. The bitterness of the first few sips mixed with the remnants of tooth paste made me aware suddenly of the day and the time.
I made phone calls and plans to begin my life over again. I never felt the same again.
I finally closed my eyes and sat down on the pale yellow window seat, the cool painted wood under me woke me a bit from my state and I tried to form thoughts.
Nothing came.
The days' consistencies meant nothing to me. I spoke words to concerned people and did not know what I was saying or remember why I was saying them. I went to bed, got up and vomited in the toilet and got back into bed over and over again for days on end.
Or at least it felt like days, it could have very well been moments, seconds, fleeting incalculable snippets of time flying over my head like electric beams of fast moving nothingness.
When this melancholy lifted I began to see small random things in focus. The water I drank for sustenance seemed so much better when I mixed orange juice and lime juice in with it, I remembered I loved that so much.
I changed my clothes and got in the shower, used the kids coconut shampoo and scrubbed and scrubbed my body with Dove soap over and over again until the water started to turn cold. Dove soap reminded me of being in the hospital after giving birth. That first tender shower with a nurse outside your door and your mother just beyond her, making sure you were OK. The sweat and the medicinal smells of labor and delivery wash over you and are replaced with Dove soap. Your breasts ache and your asshole aches and you feel like you might just pass out. Thinking the posted nurse outside your door wasn't such a bad idea, gingerly stepping out of the thickly tiled shower without lifting one leg too high.
After the shower things were clearer. I turned on the small cream lamp on a very short table next to my bed and laid myself down. The sheets smelled of spit and greasy hair. I got up, stripped the bed and put new sheets on, took a basket of clothes to the basement and began to do laundry.
The sun outside had turned to clouds and rain in an opposite rendering of my present state of mind. The clouds in my head were clearing, but I was not sure of the weather that would present itself once they did.
I went back to my room and laid in bed once more. I smelled nothing but coconut and Dove soap. The tears came again but this time I did not vomit. I sobbed gently and fell asleep.
When I awoke the sun was again in my face, but this time I looked away. I turned my back to the window and stripped off my clothes, let the warmth play across my naked back. I took another shower, brushed my teeth and drank more orange juice with lime. The bitterness of the first few sips mixed with the remnants of tooth paste made me aware suddenly of the day and the time.
I made phone calls and plans to begin my life over again. I never felt the same again.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Sara
Bob Dylan was a confused young man who did a lot of drinking and drugging and sexing and then one day he met Sara. He loved her so much he gave up that part of his life and made a home with her. He wrote this song for her:
With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do they think could carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
They loved each other very passionately and fiercely which we all know results in some fighting and making up. He went back on tour and left her and how ever many children they had with promises of a clean life on the road and returning to her the same sane good man. He never came home. He started up with the same lifestyle and told her horrible things late in the evenings when she finally could get him on the phone. He wasn't coming home.
He got in a horrible, horrible motorcycle accident and Sara rushed to his side. Some people might think she was idiotic, I think she was brave. She nursed him back to health and they had more children and more idyllic years together in their charming home in Woodstock NY. Then he went on the road again and he didn't come home again. This time she followed him and confronted him. He agreed to let her out on the road with him.
The drank and fought and were messy and unhappy. Sara returned home and he said he didn't want to be with her ever again, he was never coming home. He hated her. She told everyone, even her children that he was never coming home again. Then he came home. She relented and said just one more time. Then he wrote this for her:
I laid on a dune I looked at the sky
When the children were babies and played on the beach
You came up behind me, I saw you go by
You were always so close and still within reach.
Sara, Sara
Whatever made you want to change your mind
Sara, Sara
So easy to look at, so hard to define.
I can still see them playing with their pails in the sand
They run to the water their buckets to fill
I can still see the shells falling out of their hands
As they follow each other back up the hill.
Sara, Sara
Sweet virgin angel, sweet love of my life
Sara, Sara
Radiant jewel, mystical wife.
Sleeping in the woods by a fire in the night
Drinking white rum in a Portugal bar
Them playing leapfrog and hearing about Snow White
You in the marketplace in Savanna-la-Mar.
Sara, Sara
It's all so clear, I could never forget
Sara, Sara
Loving you is the one thing I'll never regret.
I can still hear the sounds of those Methodist bells
I'd taken the cure and had just gotten through
Staying up for day in the Chelsea Hotel
Writing "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" for you.
Sara, Sara
Wherever we travel we're never apart
Sara, Sara
Beautiful lady, so dear to my heart.
How did I meet you ? I don't know
A messenger sent me in a tropical storm
You were there in the winter, moonlight on the snow
And on Lily Pond Lane when the weather was warm.
Sara, Sara
Scorpio Sphinx in a calico dress
Sara, Sara
You must forgive me my unworthiness.
Now the beach is deserted except for some kelp
And a piece of an old ship that lies on the shore
You always responded when I needed your help
You gimme a map and a key to your door.
Sara, Sara
Glamorous nymph with an arrow and bow
Sara, Sara
Don't ever leave me, don't ever go.
Of course he did it to her again, but this time she didn't let him come home. Why this time? What made it different? Did he wear her down? Was he prone to self destruction and she just got in his way? What if he had stopped drinking and carousing? Maybe she wasn't as good and wonderful as I just made her seem and did wretched things to him so he did wretched things back. We'll never know.
I do know that I love those songs. I know that he loved her and she loved him. That they made a happy home and cherished each other. That addiction is horrid and a menace. That nothing is ever simple and things are always changing. People are always changing and then changing again. There is no end and you just have to try and try again. Again and again and again.
You need something to open up a new door, to show you something you seen before but overlooked a hundred times or more. -Bob Dylan
With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do they think could carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
They loved each other very passionately and fiercely which we all know results in some fighting and making up. He went back on tour and left her and how ever many children they had with promises of a clean life on the road and returning to her the same sane good man. He never came home. He started up with the same lifestyle and told her horrible things late in the evenings when she finally could get him on the phone. He wasn't coming home.
He got in a horrible, horrible motorcycle accident and Sara rushed to his side. Some people might think she was idiotic, I think she was brave. She nursed him back to health and they had more children and more idyllic years together in their charming home in Woodstock NY. Then he went on the road again and he didn't come home again. This time she followed him and confronted him. He agreed to let her out on the road with him.
The drank and fought and were messy and unhappy. Sara returned home and he said he didn't want to be with her ever again, he was never coming home. He hated her. She told everyone, even her children that he was never coming home again. Then he came home. She relented and said just one more time. Then he wrote this for her:
I laid on a dune I looked at the sky
When the children were babies and played on the beach
You came up behind me, I saw you go by
You were always so close and still within reach.
Sara, Sara
Whatever made you want to change your mind
Sara, Sara
So easy to look at, so hard to define.
I can still see them playing with their pails in the sand
They run to the water their buckets to fill
I can still see the shells falling out of their hands
As they follow each other back up the hill.
Sara, Sara
Sweet virgin angel, sweet love of my life
Sara, Sara
Radiant jewel, mystical wife.
Sleeping in the woods by a fire in the night
Drinking white rum in a Portugal bar
Them playing leapfrog and hearing about Snow White
You in the marketplace in Savanna-la-Mar.
Sara, Sara
It's all so clear, I could never forget
Sara, Sara
Loving you is the one thing I'll never regret.
I can still hear the sounds of those Methodist bells
I'd taken the cure and had just gotten through
Staying up for day in the Chelsea Hotel
Writing "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" for you.
Sara, Sara
Wherever we travel we're never apart
Sara, Sara
Beautiful lady, so dear to my heart.
How did I meet you ? I don't know
A messenger sent me in a tropical storm
You were there in the winter, moonlight on the snow
And on Lily Pond Lane when the weather was warm.
Sara, Sara
Scorpio Sphinx in a calico dress
Sara, Sara
You must forgive me my unworthiness.
Now the beach is deserted except for some kelp
And a piece of an old ship that lies on the shore
You always responded when I needed your help
You gimme a map and a key to your door.
Sara, Sara
Glamorous nymph with an arrow and bow
Sara, Sara
Don't ever leave me, don't ever go.
Of course he did it to her again, but this time she didn't let him come home. Why this time? What made it different? Did he wear her down? Was he prone to self destruction and she just got in his way? What if he had stopped drinking and carousing? Maybe she wasn't as good and wonderful as I just made her seem and did wretched things to him so he did wretched things back. We'll never know.
I do know that I love those songs. I know that he loved her and she loved him. That they made a happy home and cherished each other. That addiction is horrid and a menace. That nothing is ever simple and things are always changing. People are always changing and then changing again. There is no end and you just have to try and try again. Again and again and again.
You need something to open up a new door, to show you something you seen before but overlooked a hundred times or more. -Bob Dylan
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
My Garbage Gnome
Over the years of blogging, networking and making friends a few people have mentioned that I have nice skin. I'm pretty sure that totally and completely jinxed me because around the time of my 30th birthday I started getting zits all over my face. I've tried a bunch of different shit and it seems like nothing works.
There's this avocado mask thingy though that doesn't really get rid of my zits but does make my skin feel very soft, so about 30 minutes before I take a shower I apply the mask and then my kids all go crazy about how funny I look with green shit all over my face. It never gets old for them either. I only shower a couple times a week, so maybe that's why it remains hilarious.
Regardless, last night I applied the mask, sat and talked with Jeremiah for a bit, withstood the children's taunts and then locked the door behind Jeremiah when he left to go skate. I settled the kids into Olive's room with the Wii and apples, got my favorite towel out, undressed and got ready to start the shower. There are two large tall windows in our bathroom facing the street and something behind the blind caught my attention.
Jeremiah had put the garbage out the night before but because of the holiday the garbage collectors were running a day late. A white minivan was crookedly parked in front of our garbage and inside the minivan I could see many, many garbage bags filling the interior.
"What the fuck!" I was kind of startled and ran into my room to grab my robe. Back in the bathroom I peek out the window again and now found the driver of this trash laden minivan going through our trash cans. The perpetrator's appearance was almost as shocking as her actions; heavy and wearing a plum purple sweatsuit, brown hair in a perfect bowl cut, of an indeterminable age somewhere above age 35 and one arm and hand much smaller than the other. I stared in wonder as she began to actually tear open bags and pull out trash.
I don't know if this is exclusive to families with children, but our trash is freaking disgusting. Maxine still wets the bed and there are often urine soaked pull ups in the trash, not to mention Jeremiah's recent sardine fetish and Elijah's recent stomach flu which resulted in two shopping bags full of vomit. And this lady is ripping open these bags and sticking her hand into them.
I could not rip myself from the window but felt I should do something. My avocado green face mask and threadbare robe (which I've had since Rosey's birth 11 years ago) made it impossible to go out and confront my Garbage Gnome. And yes, I very well could have put some clothes on and went out anyways but I am most assuredly a coward.
Instead I called our neighbor and buddy Donnie to go peruse the situation. I see him exit his house and talk to her in low concerned tones. From the window I could see her wipe her mouth with her good hand, the hand that has been rooting through our disgusting filth. Donnie leaves her at it and he calls me a minute later.
The Garbage Gnome has given him a very sad story about how her back was broken, her husband left her and she had no money. She was going around trying to collect cans to hand in for money. She assured him she wasn't an identity thief and he warned her about how potentially dangerous garbage could be. This worry for her was made even more serious by the fact that he espied maggots crawling on her arms. MAGGOTS FROM MY TRASH!
Although I felt some sympathy and at one point even considered running her out some cash, I was still concerned that this was happening. I mean an identity thief wouldn't admit to being one. But my cowardice prevented me from doing anything other than calling my Daddy to tell him what was happening and watching her throw cans into her car madcap. *do not yell at me for not recycling this month, it's a long story*
My Gnome finally finished thoroughly soaking herself with urine and vomit from my garbage and painfully spent another two minutes just getting into her minivan. The car literally lurched off into the distance and I was left with mixed feelings.
She had put the garbage back so it wasn't strewn everywhere, but there were still open garbage bags sitting out in front of our house. I'm pretty sure she wasn't trying to steal information and considering I did see her taking cans kind of confirms this. Also, her minivan was fairly new and in great shape. Except for the mountains of trash inside, of course. This further confused me.
What would you have done? When I told Jeremiah about the incident he half jokingly said I should have called the police.
But then the police officers, my neighbor and the Garbage Gnome would have joined my children in mocking my green face mask and my late onset acne.
There's this avocado mask thingy though that doesn't really get rid of my zits but does make my skin feel very soft, so about 30 minutes before I take a shower I apply the mask and then my kids all go crazy about how funny I look with green shit all over my face. It never gets old for them either. I only shower a couple times a week, so maybe that's why it remains hilarious.
Regardless, last night I applied the mask, sat and talked with Jeremiah for a bit, withstood the children's taunts and then locked the door behind Jeremiah when he left to go skate. I settled the kids into Olive's room with the Wii and apples, got my favorite towel out, undressed and got ready to start the shower. There are two large tall windows in our bathroom facing the street and something behind the blind caught my attention.
Jeremiah had put the garbage out the night before but because of the holiday the garbage collectors were running a day late. A white minivan was crookedly parked in front of our garbage and inside the minivan I could see many, many garbage bags filling the interior.
"What the fuck!" I was kind of startled and ran into my room to grab my robe. Back in the bathroom I peek out the window again and now found the driver of this trash laden minivan going through our trash cans. The perpetrator's appearance was almost as shocking as her actions; heavy and wearing a plum purple sweatsuit, brown hair in a perfect bowl cut, of an indeterminable age somewhere above age 35 and one arm and hand much smaller than the other. I stared in wonder as she began to actually tear open bags and pull out trash.
I don't know if this is exclusive to families with children, but our trash is freaking disgusting. Maxine still wets the bed and there are often urine soaked pull ups in the trash, not to mention Jeremiah's recent sardine fetish and Elijah's recent stomach flu which resulted in two shopping bags full of vomit. And this lady is ripping open these bags and sticking her hand into them.
I could not rip myself from the window but felt I should do something. My avocado green face mask and threadbare robe (which I've had since Rosey's birth 11 years ago) made it impossible to go out and confront my Garbage Gnome. And yes, I very well could have put some clothes on and went out anyways but I am most assuredly a coward.
Instead I called our neighbor and buddy Donnie to go peruse the situation. I see him exit his house and talk to her in low concerned tones. From the window I could see her wipe her mouth with her good hand, the hand that has been rooting through our disgusting filth. Donnie leaves her at it and he calls me a minute later.
The Garbage Gnome has given him a very sad story about how her back was broken, her husband left her and she had no money. She was going around trying to collect cans to hand in for money. She assured him she wasn't an identity thief and he warned her about how potentially dangerous garbage could be. This worry for her was made even more serious by the fact that he espied maggots crawling on her arms. MAGGOTS FROM MY TRASH!
Although I felt some sympathy and at one point even considered running her out some cash, I was still concerned that this was happening. I mean an identity thief wouldn't admit to being one. But my cowardice prevented me from doing anything other than calling my Daddy to tell him what was happening and watching her throw cans into her car madcap. *do not yell at me for not recycling this month, it's a long story*
My Gnome finally finished thoroughly soaking herself with urine and vomit from my garbage and painfully spent another two minutes just getting into her minivan. The car literally lurched off into the distance and I was left with mixed feelings.
She had put the garbage back so it wasn't strewn everywhere, but there were still open garbage bags sitting out in front of our house. I'm pretty sure she wasn't trying to steal information and considering I did see her taking cans kind of confirms this. Also, her minivan was fairly new and in great shape. Except for the mountains of trash inside, of course. This further confused me.
What would you have done? When I told Jeremiah about the incident he half jokingly said I should have called the police.
But then the police officers, my neighbor and the Garbage Gnome would have joined my children in mocking my green face mask and my late onset acne.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Purple is Depressing for the First Day of School?
This year's first day of school was especially poignant for us because it was one of my Grandma's favorite days. She loved either being here to see them all dressed and ready for school or the phone was ringing while I was walking in the door from the bus stop to hear about who was wearing what and which shoes and how their hair was fixed.
My Grandmother passed away this June and it still is a very tender subject for myself, my children and my extended family, being that she was above and beyond just a Grandma...but alas.
Rose and Max decided to wear purple today to commemorate Grandma because purple was her FAVORITE color. Trust me folks, have you ever seen a deep purple painted bedroom with matching deep purple satin comforter? I read once that purple in a bedroom is depressing and I told my Grandma that. She laughed pretty hard and then said, "I have medication for that."
Olivia didn't have anything purple and said that, "Purple looks better on them anyways, I like pink!" Hot pink it is Olive.
Elijah isn't going to school this year or the next and was pretty sad to see his sisters go. I packed him a lunch last night while I packed the girls' and he's keeping it by his side until lunch time. It's propped up against his bat cave where he is playing as we speak.
Happy First Day of School to anyone out there with children that started today! It will be chaos when they come home and start shoving papers in your face and complaining about how their new shoes hurt their feet. Ah. School.
My Grandmother passed away this June and it still is a very tender subject for myself, my children and my extended family, being that she was above and beyond just a Grandma...but alas.
Rose and Max decided to wear purple today to commemorate Grandma because purple was her FAVORITE color. Trust me folks, have you ever seen a deep purple painted bedroom with matching deep purple satin comforter? I read once that purple in a bedroom is depressing and I told my Grandma that. She laughed pretty hard and then said, "I have medication for that."
Olivia didn't have anything purple and said that, "Purple looks better on them anyways, I like pink!" Hot pink it is Olive.
Elijah isn't going to school this year or the next and was pretty sad to see his sisters go. I packed him a lunch last night while I packed the girls' and he's keeping it by his side until lunch time. It's propped up against his bat cave where he is playing as we speak.
Happy First Day of School to anyone out there with children that started today! It will be chaos when they come home and start shoving papers in your face and complaining about how their new shoes hurt their feet. Ah. School.
Monday, August 15, 2011
My Golem
I sat in the dark, late into the evening on our grey porch shaped like my favorite Tetris piece. Atop an uncomfortable green plastic chair, my short legs wrapped under my body slightly numb from the strange position, I stared out into the night. In my right hand was my Kindle, but my thoughts were not on the fantastical words of a strange, fat man in a cap on the digital page. I was instead thinking of my Love, slumbering fitfully one wall and two rooms away from me. I was pondering on his disposition and his variable thoughts and found myself wistfully longing that I could read his mind. Not every moment and never over intrusively, but perhaps for just fleeting seconds so I could feel how he feels, see how he sees.
It was while I was contemplating this sought after supernatural gift that I noticed the creature perched on our porch ledge like a long, lean gargoyle. Like a gargoyle in stance but more like a shadow in form, it sat still as a dark puddle on a black top in an empty parking lot. I thought at first it was there to remind me of something, like the rubber bands my father wears on his left wrist and yet I could not place what it was that I should be remembering. Maybe instead it was a forewarning, but like the lack of epiphany about the remembrance, I couldn’t decide whether it was a ominous warning or a auspicious one. Not wanting it to grow any larger there in front of me, feeding it with my interest or my fear, I stood up and turned my back on it, walked with a steady gait to our front door and let myself into to our bright house. For no reason I can decipher, I held the door open and let it creep in behind me. I set my Kindle down on the front desk, turned off all the lights around our first floor, locked the front door and made my way up the stairs to bed.
I know the golem is here with me somewhere and I know I let it into our home, but I don’t know why.
It was while I was contemplating this sought after supernatural gift that I noticed the creature perched on our porch ledge like a long, lean gargoyle. Like a gargoyle in stance but more like a shadow in form, it sat still as a dark puddle on a black top in an empty parking lot. I thought at first it was there to remind me of something, like the rubber bands my father wears on his left wrist and yet I could not place what it was that I should be remembering. Maybe instead it was a forewarning, but like the lack of epiphany about the remembrance, I couldn’t decide whether it was a ominous warning or a auspicious one. Not wanting it to grow any larger there in front of me, feeding it with my interest or my fear, I stood up and turned my back on it, walked with a steady gait to our front door and let myself into to our bright house. For no reason I can decipher, I held the door open and let it creep in behind me. I set my Kindle down on the front desk, turned off all the lights around our first floor, locked the front door and made my way up the stairs to bed.
I know the golem is here with me somewhere and I know I let it into our home, but I don’t know why.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Sleepless, Restless
12:15 AM
I finished watching Mad Men Season One Episode Nine, put the finishing touches on an order and packaged it, turned out all of the lights, locked all of the windows and doors and made my way up to bed.
I went into each of the kids' rooms and checked that each one of them was sleeping comfortably, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Jeremiah had fallen asleep watching TV in a swath of sheets in our gameroom and I hated to wake him so I had the whole bed to myself. After sharing a bed on and off with various small beast like children I finally have a no kid bed.
12:30 AM
I laid down in bed, set the alarm on my phone and carefully placed it under Jeremiah's pillow and turned on the TV. I tossed and turned, flipping restlessly through the channels. Ancient Aliens? No.
Scarface? Again? Really? How many times can one watch Scarface?
Teen Mom? Fuck you.
1:00 AM
I got out of bed, got a glass of water, turned on the lamp and set my laptop up to watch more Mad Men in bed.
2:00 AM
Maxine Jane starts screaming bloody murder from her room. I run in to find her on the floor, wrapped and writhing in layers of sheets.
"Max! What happened? And why do you have so many sheets?"
"I was cold and I went into Rosey's room and then in the closet and got more sheets."
"Max, there's a whole pile of blankeys next to your bed, within your grasp for that reason!"
Why am I arguing with a six year old at 2:00 AM?
"OK Baby, back in bed."
2:30 AM
After folding the many sheets Max had thieved from various rooms around our house, tucking her in with her own blankeys, getting her a drink and kissing and hugging her goodnight many times, I finally am ready to get back in bed. Put away the laptop and realize my Kindle is downstairs. Go get Kindle, see lights flashing in front of the house. The police are across the street and down three houses where there have been many numerous incidents before. Mostly a couple and their drunken friends fighting over indecipherable topics. I become entranced with the hullabaloo, unable to leave my perch at the front window.
3:00 AM
The police disband and I go back to bed. Forgot my Kindle again, decide to try and force myself to sleep with complete dark. End up getting extra pillows from the linen closet and lining them up all around my body. Fall asleep almost immediately, enclosed in a pillow fence, just like as if I had any of my loved ones in bed with me. So much for loving the freedom of a no kids bed.
7:00 AM
Wake up to Maxine perched beside me on the pillow to my left.
"Momma? Why do you have all these pillows in your bed?"
"I don't know Max, why did you have all the sheets in your bed last night?"
I finished watching Mad Men Season One Episode Nine, put the finishing touches on an order and packaged it, turned out all of the lights, locked all of the windows and doors and made my way up to bed.
I went into each of the kids' rooms and checked that each one of them was sleeping comfortably, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Jeremiah had fallen asleep watching TV in a swath of sheets in our gameroom and I hated to wake him so I had the whole bed to myself. After sharing a bed on and off with various small beast like children I finally have a no kid bed.
12:30 AM
I laid down in bed, set the alarm on my phone and carefully placed it under Jeremiah's pillow and turned on the TV. I tossed and turned, flipping restlessly through the channels. Ancient Aliens? No.
Scarface? Again? Really? How many times can one watch Scarface?
Teen Mom? Fuck you.
1:00 AM
I got out of bed, got a glass of water, turned on the lamp and set my laptop up to watch more Mad Men in bed.
2:00 AM
Maxine Jane starts screaming bloody murder from her room. I run in to find her on the floor, wrapped and writhing in layers of sheets.
"Max! What happened? And why do you have so many sheets?"
"I was cold and I went into Rosey's room and then in the closet and got more sheets."
"Max, there's a whole pile of blankeys next to your bed, within your grasp for that reason!"
Why am I arguing with a six year old at 2:00 AM?
"OK Baby, back in bed."
2:30 AM
After folding the many sheets Max had thieved from various rooms around our house, tucking her in with her own blankeys, getting her a drink and kissing and hugging her goodnight many times, I finally am ready to get back in bed. Put away the laptop and realize my Kindle is downstairs. Go get Kindle, see lights flashing in front of the house. The police are across the street and down three houses where there have been many numerous incidents before. Mostly a couple and their drunken friends fighting over indecipherable topics. I become entranced with the hullabaloo, unable to leave my perch at the front window.
3:00 AM
The police disband and I go back to bed. Forgot my Kindle again, decide to try and force myself to sleep with complete dark. End up getting extra pillows from the linen closet and lining them up all around my body. Fall asleep almost immediately, enclosed in a pillow fence, just like as if I had any of my loved ones in bed with me. So much for loving the freedom of a no kids bed.
7:00 AM
Wake up to Maxine perched beside me on the pillow to my left.
"Momma? Why do you have all these pillows in your bed?"
"I don't know Max, why did you have all the sheets in your bed last night?"
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