May 24th, 2006
To My Dear, Dear Friend,
Three days after getting engaged.
JC-
Thank you for being who you are to me.
You deserve every wonderful thing that is happening to you.
Be proud of who you are and what you have.
You are who you are because of the life you have lived.
Embrace this.
Reward yourself with joy and love.
Treat yourself well.
Treat yourself as well as you treat others and as well as others treat you.
Being married will become a part of you, it will not take over who you are.
You will retain your shape and enrich your life.
Cry when you want to cry.
Laugh when you want to laugh.
Love as you need to be loved.
Give what you may not have gotten.
Forgive what needs to be forgotten.
Find a happy medium, don’t forget your friends, or yourself, but never forget your Love.
You now are a part of a pair.
You are two crystal champagne glasses sitting in a china closet.
Delicate.
Strong.
Beautiful.
Full of fun.
Together, surrounded by other treasured things.
Let yourself be who you are.
Don’t be sorry for having it all.
Work hard to keep what you have.
Strive for more,
But most of all, love, love, love.
-LP
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Master
We have a routine, Charlie and I. Every morning as I am changing him he tells me about the dreams he had the night before. Last night there were frogs in the closet, one was Aunt Sadie.
On the drive to school, he sometimes tells me a story. This morning's was precious:
"Where’d the puppy go?" This was Charlie’s response to my pointing out a stocky, peppy, white spotted Jack Russell terrier who anxiously pulled his owner across the road.
To this, one of his many, tireless questions, was my response, "He’s on a walk with his master." Normally when I respond to his questions, I try to prompt a further response, or at least give more information, which usually inspires yet another question. So I went on to say, "Do you know who Rudy’s master is?"
Charlie said he did not know. "You are Rudy’s master." I said. "That means you are the boss of Rudy, that he loves you the most."
Barely a second passed, when he asked, "Who is the Dame?"
"Baa, baa, black sheep lives down the lane."
Smiling into my rear-view mirror, I told him that I am the dame.
On the drive to school, he sometimes tells me a story. This morning's was precious:
"Where’d the puppy go?" This was Charlie’s response to my pointing out a stocky, peppy, white spotted Jack Russell terrier who anxiously pulled his owner across the road.
To this, one of his many, tireless questions, was my response, "He’s on a walk with his master." Normally when I respond to his questions, I try to prompt a further response, or at least give more information, which usually inspires yet another question. So I went on to say, "Do you know who Rudy’s master is?"
Charlie said he did not know. "You are Rudy’s master." I said. "That means you are the boss of Rudy, that he loves you the most."
Barely a second passed, when he asked, "Who is the Dame?"
"Baa, baa, black sheep lives down the lane."
Smiling into my rear-view mirror, I told him that I am the dame.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
The way it used to be
Single...
How is it that I have gotten here? 30, single. Oh so very single, embarrassingly in fact…through bad decisions, compromise, sheer stubbornness. Single, born of solitude and the ease of being alone, in not having to be accountable. Being single means being a kid.
I am a kid. A 30-year-old-kid. Oh sure, I have a house and a dog and a big tv and a stereo to make noise, to keep the silent still house full, with noise. The thing I miss most about not living alone; is getting to be alone, to have the entire house to myself, it was special, but then thrilling to hear the garage door open. Empty but full; knowing that soon enough someone would be there to share the space, the air, to breathe with the breaths of someone else. That’s why I have Jake.
I lie. I did not have a choice in having Jake. Jake was chosen for me, or at least, Jake chose me. But either way, I had no choice in the matter. But back to breath. It soothes me. He breathes deeply, weighted, slowly, so close to a snore but not, just a deep steady in-and-out breath.
Have I said today is wonderful? That’s my word, wonderful. I love words. How they sound…what they mean, just love them. But wonderful because; you make your day. You decide the outcome. If you keep saying, why did this happen to me, or poor, poor me, or just have a crappy attitude in general; you will make crap. So, something wonderful is bound to happen today. (Say it everyday.)
But to contradict myself, miserable is absolutely my favorite word. Love the way it sounds when you draw it out all slow. Mizzzzz-errrrr-uhhhh-bulll. M-i-s-e-r-a-b-l-e. Even said with a half-scowl. It’s simply wonderful. Ah, but I digress again, or maybe for the first time (here) but definitely not the last. So where was I?
How could I forget? Single. Not suddenly single like the freakishly tall Brooke Shields, stepping over small houses, just plain single. But dating. So how are people supposed to meet each other anyway? At the gym? in the grocery store? through the friends? at school (now work?) while driving? or worse, at a bar? Where. ‘Cause I’ve tried them all. Am constantly talking to people, smiling, saying “hi”, being outgoing, going out, not talking on my cell phone, being available, looking available; but not too available, never too available. Too available is not good.
Ever look too long? Get caught looking, not looking because you necessarily are interested in knowing that person but looking because they happen to be where you were looking. They were in your space, and still are. And because it is your space, you keep looking back. So much that they catch you looking, at them! Even though you weren’t! But busted anyway.
So being single sucks. It makes for long lazy days of doing nothing and getting nothing done even though there’re a million things to do. Sure, there are sudden manic bursts of energy with profuse cleaning or exercise or writing. It’s not that I ‘m lazy but that I focus my energy towards other things, in other directions. Like for instance, towards going out...
How is it that I have gotten here? 30, single. Oh so very single, embarrassingly in fact…through bad decisions, compromise, sheer stubbornness. Single, born of solitude and the ease of being alone, in not having to be accountable. Being single means being a kid.
I am a kid. A 30-year-old-kid. Oh sure, I have a house and a dog and a big tv and a stereo to make noise, to keep the silent still house full, with noise. The thing I miss most about not living alone; is getting to be alone, to have the entire house to myself, it was special, but then thrilling to hear the garage door open. Empty but full; knowing that soon enough someone would be there to share the space, the air, to breathe with the breaths of someone else. That’s why I have Jake.
I lie. I did not have a choice in having Jake. Jake was chosen for me, or at least, Jake chose me. But either way, I had no choice in the matter. But back to breath. It soothes me. He breathes deeply, weighted, slowly, so close to a snore but not, just a deep steady in-and-out breath.
Have I said today is wonderful? That’s my word, wonderful. I love words. How they sound…what they mean, just love them. But wonderful because; you make your day. You decide the outcome. If you keep saying, why did this happen to me, or poor, poor me, or just have a crappy attitude in general; you will make crap. So, something wonderful is bound to happen today. (Say it everyday.)
But to contradict myself, miserable is absolutely my favorite word. Love the way it sounds when you draw it out all slow. Mizzzzz-errrrr-uhhhh-bulll. M-i-s-e-r-a-b-l-e. Even said with a half-scowl. It’s simply wonderful. Ah, but I digress again, or maybe for the first time (here) but definitely not the last. So where was I?
How could I forget? Single. Not suddenly single like the freakishly tall Brooke Shields, stepping over small houses, just plain single. But dating. So how are people supposed to meet each other anyway? At the gym? in the grocery store? through the friends? at school (now work?) while driving? or worse, at a bar? Where. ‘Cause I’ve tried them all. Am constantly talking to people, smiling, saying “hi”, being outgoing, going out, not talking on my cell phone, being available, looking available; but not too available, never too available. Too available is not good.
Ever look too long? Get caught looking, not looking because you necessarily are interested in knowing that person but looking because they happen to be where you were looking. They were in your space, and still are. And because it is your space, you keep looking back. So much that they catch you looking, at them! Even though you weren’t! But busted anyway.
So being single sucks. It makes for long lazy days of doing nothing and getting nothing done even though there’re a million things to do. Sure, there are sudden manic bursts of energy with profuse cleaning or exercise or writing. It’s not that I ‘m lazy but that I focus my energy towards other things, in other directions. Like for instance, towards going out...
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Charlie and the Plastic Potty
One night when Charlie was getting ready to get in the tub, he decided, 'now, this is the time to shriek!'
Without another thought, he was off!
At first Mommy tried to catch the shrieking, naked child, but soon relented and retreated to filling the tub with Elmo's pirate ship, "Aargh!" and the remaining ships from the Big Potty Toy Ship Brigade - another story in itself. The shrieking and running proceeded until the tub was nearly ready, when around the corner came a very proud, completely naked, Charlie. With a shocked face, he said, "Mama come look, I went Pee Pee in the potty!"
He took Mommy by the soapy hand, led her into the kitchen, and they both peered into the plastic potty sitting on the kitchen floor. "Hallelujah!" in the potty there was Pee Pee. Mommy and Charlie were so excited they both jumped up and down. They were both shrieking now, "Hurray! Hurray! Charlie went Pee Pee in the potty!"
The celebrating continued, for although this was not the first time Charlie had Pee Peed into the potty, it was the first time he had gone shrieking and running naked around the house and not peed on say the Thomas the Train magical Aqua Doodle invisible train track. (Would that be a Diddle Doodle?)
What had become the night time ritual continued, the toy boat brigade battled pirates and Charlie discovered invisible bugs in the faucet of the tub, Brave Charlie nosed right up to one and said, "Hello bug! I went Pee Pee in the potty!"
Soon a damp towel snuggle, new diapey and jammies, brushy, brushy, brushy, a few squirts of monster spray, then finally the first three pages of, The Velveteen Rabbit, followed by a weak, "take book to bed mama?" and a kiss and a hug.
Snuggled under star blanket, ouchey blankey, 'nother blankie, and finally the long requested, misinterpreted blue dog blankie rug and Charlie-bear blanket to top it all off, Charlie, just two, squshed his Binky, Maggie Simpson style, slightly lifted his head and said, "Night, night."
Later, in the kitchen, Exhausted Mommy -- who had just taught a day of "silent school" (just proceeding "sock day" because of an unfortunate toe-meet-bed-in-the-dark occurrence) followed by "Silent Princeton Review Online, " and a good game of whispering Publix shopping cart catch, because when she spoke, coughing erupting until the gag reflex occurred -- cleaned the Pee Pee off the floor smiling inside because her big boy got most of it into the pot.
And that is the story of Charlie and the Plastic Potty.
The end. (Ok, so I added the bug part, give me a little creative justice here, I am a fiction writer. Composite.)
**Note: Silent school - a day with no teacher talking due to illness - where the student get directions from the board. The first stating. "Silent Activity! Do NOT make me talk! Or I will puke! Comprende?"
Their response? "This is fun!", "Like charades!", "Can we do this more often?"
Today kids, you are in lucky! Today is "Silent Song Lyric Poem Brainstorming Day." Good thing creativity is my lifeblood.
Without another thought, he was off!
At first Mommy tried to catch the shrieking, naked child, but soon relented and retreated to filling the tub with Elmo's pirate ship, "Aargh!" and the remaining ships from the Big Potty Toy Ship Brigade - another story in itself. The shrieking and running proceeded until the tub was nearly ready, when around the corner came a very proud, completely naked, Charlie. With a shocked face, he said, "Mama come look, I went Pee Pee in the potty!"
He took Mommy by the soapy hand, led her into the kitchen, and they both peered into the plastic potty sitting on the kitchen floor. "Hallelujah!" in the potty there was Pee Pee. Mommy and Charlie were so excited they both jumped up and down. They were both shrieking now, "Hurray! Hurray! Charlie went Pee Pee in the potty!"
The celebrating continued, for although this was not the first time Charlie had Pee Peed into the potty, it was the first time he had gone shrieking and running naked around the house and not peed on say the Thomas the Train magical Aqua Doodle invisible train track. (Would that be a Diddle Doodle?)
What had become the night time ritual continued, the toy boat brigade battled pirates and Charlie discovered invisible bugs in the faucet of the tub, Brave Charlie nosed right up to one and said, "Hello bug! I went Pee Pee in the potty!"
Soon a damp towel snuggle, new diapey and jammies, brushy, brushy, brushy, a few squirts of monster spray, then finally the first three pages of, The Velveteen Rabbit, followed by a weak, "take book to bed mama?" and a kiss and a hug.
Snuggled under star blanket, ouchey blankey, 'nother blankie, and finally the long requested, misinterpreted blue dog blankie rug and Charlie-bear blanket to top it all off, Charlie, just two, squshed his Binky, Maggie Simpson style, slightly lifted his head and said, "Night, night."
Later, in the kitchen, Exhausted Mommy -- who had just taught a day of "silent school" (just proceeding "sock day" because of an unfortunate toe-meet-bed-in-the-dark occurrence) followed by "Silent Princeton Review Online, " and a good game of whispering Publix shopping cart catch, because when she spoke, coughing erupting until the gag reflex occurred -- cleaned the Pee Pee off the floor smiling inside because her big boy got most of it into the pot.
And that is the story of Charlie and the Plastic Potty.
The end. (Ok, so I added the bug part, give me a little creative justice here, I am a fiction writer. Composite.)
**Note: Silent school - a day with no teacher talking due to illness - where the student get directions from the board. The first stating. "Silent Activity! Do NOT make me talk! Or I will puke! Comprende?"
Their response? "This is fun!", "Like charades!", "Can we do this more often?"
Today kids, you are in lucky! Today is "Silent Song Lyric Poem Brainstorming Day." Good thing creativity is my lifeblood.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
pro·cras·ti·nate - [proh-kras-tuh-neyt-] verb, -nat·ed, -nat·ing.
1. to defer action; delay: to procrastinate until an opportunity is lost.
2. to put off till another day or time; defer; delay.
[Origin: 1580–90; < L prōcrāstinātus (prōcrāstināre to put off until tomorrow)
Dictionary.com Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.
Procrastination, it defines me. Just the thought of tackling an insurmountable task spins me into a frenzy. It always has, at least since I can remember. "Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?" has become my personal unspoken mantra.
First, I will think about the task at hand. Then, I think of all else that needs to be done before this can be done. For example, in college if I had a paper to write or an exam to study for, I would have to pick up any items laying around in the dorm room, and later the apartment, that were somewhere they didn't belong.
Put this in its place, put this in its place, put this in its place.
All the while walking around discovering new things that needed to be done. Change the air filter. Oh, take out the garbage. Empty the garbage cans, empty the refrigerator of any out-of-date pickles, relish, ketchup - yes! ketchup has an expiration date! Throw out dark green, slimey water in a bag that halfway stuck to the bottom of the crisper leaving striations of greens. How on earth could it have gotten like this? Oh well. Must clean the fridge. Huh, top of the fridge is awful dusty. Take it all down and dust, dust it all and put it all back up. Clean the counters, stove, microwave - oh, in the microwave, the fridge door, is that a spider web on the ceiling? Uh - bulb out - laundry room, change the bulb. Oh yeah, clothes in the dryer. Fluff for a few minutes. What was I doing? Oh yeah, kitchen.
Aaaaah! Kitchen clean. Hm.
Paper.
Computer screen dusty. So's the keyboard...
As so it goes. Before I know it all the furniture has been moved around, I have brand new sheets on my bed, my dog is squeaky clean, I've showered and shaved with a new razor - because there is nothing better than egyptian cotton sheets straight from the dryer - and a perfectly clean, and hairless me - not to mention a sparkling new apartment.
2 a.m. Slide into bed. Mmmmmuuh! (My voiceless command for my truely loyal dog, Jake, to hop onto my bed and lay his sweet head on the pillow next to mine as I drift off to sleep listening to the sound of his breath slow as he drifts off to where he chases rabbits, I assume, and barks with his mouth closed, and runs laying down.
PROCRASTINATION ACCOMPLISHED.
2. to put off till another day or time; defer; delay.
[Origin: 1580–90; < L prōcrāstinātus (prōcrāstināre to put off until tomorrow)
Dictionary.com Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.
Procrastination, it defines me. Just the thought of tackling an insurmountable task spins me into a frenzy. It always has, at least since I can remember. "Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?" has become my personal unspoken mantra.
First, I will think about the task at hand. Then, I think of all else that needs to be done before this can be done. For example, in college if I had a paper to write or an exam to study for, I would have to pick up any items laying around in the dorm room, and later the apartment, that were somewhere they didn't belong.
Put this in its place, put this in its place, put this in its place.
All the while walking around discovering new things that needed to be done. Change the air filter. Oh, take out the garbage. Empty the garbage cans, empty the refrigerator of any out-of-date pickles, relish, ketchup - yes! ketchup has an expiration date! Throw out dark green, slimey water in a bag that halfway stuck to the bottom of the crisper leaving striations of greens. How on earth could it have gotten like this? Oh well. Must clean the fridge. Huh, top of the fridge is awful dusty. Take it all down and dust, dust it all and put it all back up. Clean the counters, stove, microwave - oh, in the microwave, the fridge door, is that a spider web on the ceiling? Uh - bulb out - laundry room, change the bulb. Oh yeah, clothes in the dryer. Fluff for a few minutes. What was I doing? Oh yeah, kitchen.
Aaaaah! Kitchen clean. Hm.
Paper.
Computer screen dusty. So's the keyboard...
As so it goes. Before I know it all the furniture has been moved around, I have brand new sheets on my bed, my dog is squeaky clean, I've showered and shaved with a new razor - because there is nothing better than egyptian cotton sheets straight from the dryer - and a perfectly clean, and hairless me - not to mention a sparkling new apartment.
2 a.m. Slide into bed. Mmmmmuuh! (My voiceless command for my truely loyal dog, Jake, to hop onto my bed and lay his sweet head on the pillow next to mine as I drift off to sleep listening to the sound of his breath slow as he drifts off to where he chases rabbits, I assume, and barks with his mouth closed, and runs laying down.
PROCRASTINATION ACCOMPLISHED.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Believe in Cinderella
Believe in destiny, love at first sight, and happily ever after.
Through the eyes of a child, see the world.
Gaze with amazement at a shooting star. Toss penny wishes into fountains, touch the ocean with your toes, and wonder, Does it go on forever? Walk barefoot through the grass; roll down a towering hill. Eat sand. Sit nose to nose with a bug and talk. Catch a frog, fall in love, and know it will last forever. Read the Fairy Tale, and believe in Cinderella.
Through the eyes of a mother, see the child.
Gaze with amazement as he discovers a shooting star. Keep pennies in your purse and a blanket in your car. Walk slow; let go. Let the world reveal itself. From a distance, stand and listen to soft words spoken to make believe. Let nature be the teacher, but always lead the way.
Rediscover with your little one. Forget wrongdoings and forgive with tears still on your face.
Believe in destiny, love at first sight, and Cinderella.
See the world through the eyes of a child.
Through the eyes of a child, see the world.
Gaze with amazement at a shooting star. Toss penny wishes into fountains, touch the ocean with your toes, and wonder, Does it go on forever? Walk barefoot through the grass; roll down a towering hill. Eat sand. Sit nose to nose with a bug and talk. Catch a frog, fall in love, and know it will last forever. Read the Fairy Tale, and believe in Cinderella.
Through the eyes of a mother, see the child.
Gaze with amazement as he discovers a shooting star. Keep pennies in your purse and a blanket in your car. Walk slow; let go. Let the world reveal itself. From a distance, stand and listen to soft words spoken to make believe. Let nature be the teacher, but always lead the way.
Rediscover with your little one. Forget wrongdoings and forgive with tears still on your face.
Believe in destiny, love at first sight, and Cinderella.
See the world through the eyes of a child.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Tomorrow's never-will-bes
"Fight fire with fire and you'll be left with flames."
Anger to anger resolves nothing. Anger diffused proves success.
Fire plus fire equals flames which turn to ashes, smouldering masses, hot piles of yesterday's procrastinations and tomorrow's never-will-bes.
Anger to anger resolves nothing. Anger diffused proves success.
Fire plus fire equals flames which turn to ashes, smouldering masses, hot piles of yesterday's procrastinations and tomorrow's never-will-bes.
The Helm
"Anyone can be at the helm when the sea is calm."
Calm waters can create confidence in those who may not necessarily be the best behind the helm. It also may create complacency among those who are "the best." The sea is never "safe," to be completely trusted. Trouble may arise at the blink of an eye, separating the best from the rest.
(To continue his metaphor, translate it to apply today, to me, it means:)
Only the strong can withstand adversity. The weak will wither away. It goes along with the cliche, "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger."
When I arrive at a point in my life, when I believe, I've gotten to my wit's end, that's when a change occurs, either something else goes wrong and I still prevail or the winds change and I begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Either way, I've survived. I'm strong. I need to not forget it. Because when I do, I am reminded again.
Calm waters can create confidence in those who may not necessarily be the best behind the helm. It also may create complacency among those who are "the best." The sea is never "safe," to be completely trusted. Trouble may arise at the blink of an eye, separating the best from the rest.
(To continue his metaphor, translate it to apply today, to me, it means:)
Only the strong can withstand adversity. The weak will wither away. It goes along with the cliche, "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger."
When I arrive at a point in my life, when I believe, I've gotten to my wit's end, that's when a change occurs, either something else goes wrong and I still prevail or the winds change and I begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Either way, I've survived. I'm strong. I need to not forget it. Because when I do, I am reminded again.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
9 Flintlock Drive
How am I am 9 Flintlock Drive?
The memories, the habits formed, the lessons learned, from baby teeth to tonsils out. 3-18, 2"-5", small to grown, toddler to teenager, knowing only the safety of a loving home to the harsh reality of the real world. Mickey Mouse, Smurfs and Strawberry Shortcake to a driver's license, down the shore and off to college. Babysat to babysitting. Chubby cheeks to all-grown-up. From them worring about my diet, to me worring about it.
That house saw years pass by and changes occur. It healed a broken arm, a broken heart, and fostered a creative spark. It sheltered.
Home is 9 Flintlock Drive. Home will always be Flintlock Drive.
I don't go back. But in my mind, in my mind, home will always be 9 Flintlock Drive.
Will I go there again? Metaphorically. I hope. I dream. That is my dream. Funny how then it was my prison yet now it is my sanctity. It's not the house, the road, the neighbors, it's not New Jersey. It's a place in me, a place I long to go. A place that's safe and soft and full. Pony rides and snow days, where every Christmas ornament has a history that is told and retold with every unpacking, where pets are members of the family and are remembered long after they are gone.
At 9 Flintlock Drive, all cuts can be fixed with bandaids and all else, mended with time. Where the phone rang with the news of the loss of a friend, twice. It's piano lessons, gold linoleum and matching phone, floppy disks and Santa revealed. This place was a home that again can be created, that will be perfect again, and from which another will still leave.
The dream perfected is a home with roots.
The memories, the habits formed, the lessons learned, from baby teeth to tonsils out. 3-18, 2"-5", small to grown, toddler to teenager, knowing only the safety of a loving home to the harsh reality of the real world. Mickey Mouse, Smurfs and Strawberry Shortcake to a driver's license, down the shore and off to college. Babysat to babysitting. Chubby cheeks to all-grown-up. From them worring about my diet, to me worring about it.
That house saw years pass by and changes occur. It healed a broken arm, a broken heart, and fostered a creative spark. It sheltered.
Home is 9 Flintlock Drive. Home will always be Flintlock Drive.
I don't go back. But in my mind, in my mind, home will always be 9 Flintlock Drive.
Will I go there again? Metaphorically. I hope. I dream. That is my dream. Funny how then it was my prison yet now it is my sanctity. It's not the house, the road, the neighbors, it's not New Jersey. It's a place in me, a place I long to go. A place that's safe and soft and full. Pony rides and snow days, where every Christmas ornament has a history that is told and retold with every unpacking, where pets are members of the family and are remembered long after they are gone.
At 9 Flintlock Drive, all cuts can be fixed with bandaids and all else, mended with time. Where the phone rang with the news of the loss of a friend, twice. It's piano lessons, gold linoleum and matching phone, floppy disks and Santa revealed. This place was a home that again can be created, that will be perfect again, and from which another will still leave.
The dream perfected is a home with roots.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The face you see
The face you see may not really be the face of me; it may not show you who I am. You may not see who I don't want you to see.
I am me; It is I.
It is I who 'slays the dragons.' It is I who runs from the dark. It is I who am afraid of a scary movie. It is I who keeps you in the dark.
I am me; It is I.
It is I who 'slays the dragons.' It is I who runs from the dark. It is I who am afraid of a scary movie. It is I who keeps you in the dark.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Crackle, Crackle
I never knew that ANYONE would want me to sing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" enough times to make my throat crackle.
But the tiny twinkling fingers reaching towards the sky in the rearview mirror and the "Twinkle, Twinkle again Mama" was enough to keep me going, off key, and holding back laughter at how terrible my concert for one really was.
Amazingly, each chorus was sung with more and more conviction until, I believed, as my son believed, that that was the best that song could be sung.
The concert ended with the two of us serenading the crescent moon through the moon roof heading Northbound on the Gandy Bridge, he in his red striped jammies and me in my flip flops, three days after Thanksgiving.
But the tiny twinkling fingers reaching towards the sky in the rearview mirror and the "Twinkle, Twinkle again Mama" was enough to keep me going, off key, and holding back laughter at how terrible my concert for one really was.
Amazingly, each chorus was sung with more and more conviction until, I believed, as my son believed, that that was the best that song could be sung.
The concert ended with the two of us serenading the crescent moon through the moon roof heading Northbound on the Gandy Bridge, he in his red striped jammies and me in my flip flops, three days after Thanksgiving.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Idiosyncrasies of me
I remember two college professors, switching majors at least twice, one high school disciplinarian, a senior English teacher who would tell me not to cut but never acted on the infractions, a trig teacher who would show strange cartoons on the days he wasn’t feeling the numbers, a history teacher who’s known for being too friendly with one girl in particular but who never minds my frequent absences and a shop teacher – automotive – who allows trips to the Bagel Smith on days that I wear a dress, as long as I bring back a large coffee, black.
The house I grew up in is gallant, white, two-stories, yet simple. My parents call it “colonial,” I call it a prison, but not all the time. It rests at the top of a small hill, not large enough to get one in trouble with the Slip‘n Slide or a snow saucer like the Gilbert’s hill, which isn’t longer but steeper, making passing cars on a snowy day a worry for those in charge.
Cold gray slates lead to the front door, painted a glossy black to match the shutters. Its exterior is made of wavy shingles, and not those shingles that are pressed together ready to kill you, real wood with layers and layers of white, eggshell, off-white and antique linen paint just barely peeling off at the corners, only noticeable to those who may hide in the landscaping to say, evade Indians.
Its yard takes 45 minutes to mow if run on the rabbit setting, the back, all curvy and surrounded by woods, and the front, with a garden off to the side and many, many tall oak trees, presumably oak trees, both with a lawn so soft you can sit bare-legged and only get the thin impressions of grass like sheets on your skin. There, daddy-long-legs wander up stalks of grass, salamanders hide beneath the flat coolness of rocks and crayfish scutter beneath the crisp stream that separates our house from the Petrellas, the stream that has a thin wood board, flexible and wobbly, bridging the two, is just barely hidden at the edge of the woods.
Most importantly are the woods; these woods provide children with a place to create, to adventure, to discover. Many great stories, legends even, are what they are today because of these woods, the creek, the fallen trees, the vines, the hill, and the field that leads to the farm.
The street is like most other streets in the neighborhood. No yellow line, but no cul-de-sac either. A stop sign at each end, and if riding a bike from bottom to top, one may have to stand up.
The town has one stop light, two grocery stores and a brand new Drug Fair, from where I stole a rainbow eraser, felt so guilty that I had to bury it in the white pebble rocks directly outside. In the same strip mall is the only video store in town, a doll house store and a clothing store my mom’s friend owns, making the daughter my “friend.” To make it sound less tacky the people of the mall named it the “Mini Mall,” still tacky by my way of thinking.
To get as far away as possible, I plan to apply to schools all over the country.
“Maryland, Boulder, San Diego, South Carolina and Florida,” I inform my parents of the plan.
“That’s too far,” insists my mother while my father with a stern face shakes his head in agreement as if he is the one making up the rules, “the farthest you may go is Florida, no Boulder, and definitely no San Diego.” He has this funny thing about him where he agrees with my mother but yet only because the words have come out of her mouth.
I protest in the way I usually do, by shutting down and looking away, silently taking myself out of the conversation of which I no longer wish to be a part of, not that I really wanted to be a part of it in the first place. This was a trick I learned from my grandfather, Grandpa Durell, one that I have seen him do many times before.
Grandpa Durell wears a hearing aid, and at the dinner table when a conversation that he does not wish to take part in arises he simply takes his thumbnail and twists the tiny ridged, almost flesh-colored, knob and lowers the volume then with a smug satisfaction he continues eating the rest of his dinner, but not before sprinkling salt from the tall Tupperware shaker onto his hand only to then dust it to the plate beneath, unlike my father, he never tastes it first.
“When you’re at a meal with a potential employer, or client, never salt your food without tasting it first. This sends the wrong impression,” my father often says. “It says, ‘I don’t look before I leap. I’m a risk taker. Do you really want to hire me?’ That’s not the message you want to send.”
Then my mom normally chimes in with some comment to affirm what he just said, which is funny to me because he is normally the one saying, “Your mother is right, no television or phone until all of your homework is done,” or something of the sort, which, to kids, is the same as, “yeah, what she said.”
It’s not like I had a bad childhood, but I was a bad child, or as my therapist says, “I was lashing out.”
I was very good at lashing out. Whether it be over not eating a steak dinner, or not taking “No.” for an answer. I really gave my parents a lesson in how to deal with a difficult child. And it wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t like one day I tossed my ballet slippers aside and decided, ‘From here on out, I am going to challenge everyone.’ That’s not how it happened at all really.
The house I grew up in is gallant, white, two-stories, yet simple. My parents call it “colonial,” I call it a prison, but not all the time. It rests at the top of a small hill, not large enough to get one in trouble with the Slip‘n Slide or a snow saucer like the Gilbert’s hill, which isn’t longer but steeper, making passing cars on a snowy day a worry for those in charge.
Cold gray slates lead to the front door, painted a glossy black to match the shutters. Its exterior is made of wavy shingles, and not those shingles that are pressed together ready to kill you, real wood with layers and layers of white, eggshell, off-white and antique linen paint just barely peeling off at the corners, only noticeable to those who may hide in the landscaping to say, evade Indians.
Its yard takes 45 minutes to mow if run on the rabbit setting, the back, all curvy and surrounded by woods, and the front, with a garden off to the side and many, many tall oak trees, presumably oak trees, both with a lawn so soft you can sit bare-legged and only get the thin impressions of grass like sheets on your skin. There, daddy-long-legs wander up stalks of grass, salamanders hide beneath the flat coolness of rocks and crayfish scutter beneath the crisp stream that separates our house from the Petrellas, the stream that has a thin wood board, flexible and wobbly, bridging the two, is just barely hidden at the edge of the woods.
Most importantly are the woods; these woods provide children with a place to create, to adventure, to discover. Many great stories, legends even, are what they are today because of these woods, the creek, the fallen trees, the vines, the hill, and the field that leads to the farm.
The street is like most other streets in the neighborhood. No yellow line, but no cul-de-sac either. A stop sign at each end, and if riding a bike from bottom to top, one may have to stand up.
The town has one stop light, two grocery stores and a brand new Drug Fair, from where I stole a rainbow eraser, felt so guilty that I had to bury it in the white pebble rocks directly outside. In the same strip mall is the only video store in town, a doll house store and a clothing store my mom’s friend owns, making the daughter my “friend.” To make it sound less tacky the people of the mall named it the “Mini Mall,” still tacky by my way of thinking.
To get as far away as possible, I plan to apply to schools all over the country.
“Maryland, Boulder, San Diego, South Carolina and Florida,” I inform my parents of the plan.
“That’s too far,” insists my mother while my father with a stern face shakes his head in agreement as if he is the one making up the rules, “the farthest you may go is Florida, no Boulder, and definitely no San Diego.” He has this funny thing about him where he agrees with my mother but yet only because the words have come out of her mouth.
I protest in the way I usually do, by shutting down and looking away, silently taking myself out of the conversation of which I no longer wish to be a part of, not that I really wanted to be a part of it in the first place. This was a trick I learned from my grandfather, Grandpa Durell, one that I have seen him do many times before.
Grandpa Durell wears a hearing aid, and at the dinner table when a conversation that he does not wish to take part in arises he simply takes his thumbnail and twists the tiny ridged, almost flesh-colored, knob and lowers the volume then with a smug satisfaction he continues eating the rest of his dinner, but not before sprinkling salt from the tall Tupperware shaker onto his hand only to then dust it to the plate beneath, unlike my father, he never tastes it first.
“When you’re at a meal with a potential employer, or client, never salt your food without tasting it first. This sends the wrong impression,” my father often says. “It says, ‘I don’t look before I leap. I’m a risk taker. Do you really want to hire me?’ That’s not the message you want to send.”
Then my mom normally chimes in with some comment to affirm what he just said, which is funny to me because he is normally the one saying, “Your mother is right, no television or phone until all of your homework is done,” or something of the sort, which, to kids, is the same as, “yeah, what she said.”
It’s not like I had a bad childhood, but I was a bad child, or as my therapist says, “I was lashing out.”
I was very good at lashing out. Whether it be over not eating a steak dinner, or not taking “No.” for an answer. I really gave my parents a lesson in how to deal with a difficult child. And it wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t like one day I tossed my ballet slippers aside and decided, ‘From here on out, I am going to challenge everyone.’ That’s not how it happened at all really.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Magic
This is something everyone has; it is also something not everyone sees. Charisma may sometimes be confused for magic, it is not. Though it may be an asset, charisma can also be a shield.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Paper airplanes
I am raising a little boy to become a good man.
He's happy and sweet and a terrible two, all I wanted, and more than I could dream. His internal clock does not know weekends are for sleeping in. He'll press every button, find any remote, ask for Cheerios and then dump them on the floor. He loves his Mimi and Ga-pah, already blames things on Ru-ru. This little man makes me laugh every day, what more could I ask? The road we'll travel is sure to wind. Along the way, we'll be making paper airplanes...
Friday, August 04, 2006
I am from...
I am from Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese cut down the middle, a warm mug of hot cocoa stuffed with mini marshmallows, and, of course, the occasional snuck Oreo.
I am from home-grown cucumbers, breakfast radishes, which by the way are not to be eaten for breakfast, and warm, delicious tomatoes.
I am from “clean your plate” and “you will never see a lima bean in this house!”
I am from Nancy Drew by flashlight and under the covers; The Hardy Boys, Strawberry Shortcake, Holly Hobby and a mom who cares enough to buy a black market Cabbage Patch Kid.
I am from 9 Flintlock Drive.
I am from Girl Scout Camp and red rubber boots, the stables of Foggy Valley Farm, Cambodia Acres and the warm nuzzles of Woofie, Blackie, Misty, and PJ.
I am from New Jersey.
I am from Broadway, chicken pox and the regret of missing Annie.
I am from Easter Baskets and batches of homemade Christmas Cookies, ice cream made with what was left from the raspberries picked by Dad and I.
I am also from “don’t make me pull over this car!” and “Oooooooonnnnnneeeeee…t-w-o…three!”
I am from “be careful,” ballet, and backyard birthday parties; bobbing for apples and pony rides.
But mostly, I am from 1-4-3, I love you.
I am from a good place.
I am from home-grown cucumbers, breakfast radishes, which by the way are not to be eaten for breakfast, and warm, delicious tomatoes.
I am from “clean your plate” and “you will never see a lima bean in this house!”
I am from Nancy Drew by flashlight and under the covers; The Hardy Boys, Strawberry Shortcake, Holly Hobby and a mom who cares enough to buy a black market Cabbage Patch Kid.
I am from 9 Flintlock Drive.
I am from Girl Scout Camp and red rubber boots, the stables of Foggy Valley Farm, Cambodia Acres and the warm nuzzles of Woofie, Blackie, Misty, and PJ.
I am from New Jersey.
I am from Broadway, chicken pox and the regret of missing Annie.
I am from Easter Baskets and batches of homemade Christmas Cookies, ice cream made with what was left from the raspberries picked by Dad and I.
I am also from “don’t make me pull over this car!” and “Oooooooonnnnnneeeeee…t-w-o…three!”
I am from “be careful,” ballet, and backyard birthday parties; bobbing for apples and pony rides.
But mostly, I am from 1-4-3, I love you.
I am from a good place.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Words
Words. I love 'em. Somehow I'm certified to teach them. Now I write them. Sometimes, though not often as I should, I read them. Mostly I think of them; how they sound rolling around in my head, what they say when I put them together.
This army we compile to say who we are.
This army we compile to say who we are.
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