La Fin DuMond Farm

Free Bird

2012-02-03T12:13:00.001-05:00

For Friday, let your character be inspired by music. It doesn’t have to be a specific song or genre, it doesn’t even have to exist anywhere outside your mind. Show us in 400 words or less how your character reacts to a piece of music. It can advance a story line or provide a character sketch–or both!

.... Dumditta-da-da-da-diddah ..wah-wah-wah-wah!

“No baby, it’s not Bond”

DuWah-wah-wah-wah!

“It’s Rammstein!” Kati howled, locking her forearms against the wheel of Bruce’s Mustang, one foot forcing the chrome petal to an immaculate floor.

Then guitars charged into thumping amplifiers; a tide of tearing metal and primal electric screams. Kati’s palms beat a staccato warpath across the wheel.

“Eifersucht!” Jealous. Possessive. Everything Bruce embodied. She had submissively cowered under his rage like a puppy scrambling to obey.

Her vision narrowed, her mouth a tight slash.

“Hab ich so glatte Haut - Zieh sie in Streifen ab!” Have I such smooth skin, Tear it out in stripes.

She glimpsed her bruised face in a rearview mirror adorned with dangling 8 balls.

“Hab ich die klaren Augen - Nimm mir das Licht!” Have I the clearest eyes, Steal all the light.

She glared an icy blue. Bruce had taken more than just the innocence from her eyes. She hissed, reached up, and tore the balls from their perch.

“Hab ich die reine Seele - Töte sie in Flammen!” Have I the purest soul, Burn it in the flames.

“Burn in hell motherfu ...” Her words torn away by howling winds now filling the space the window had been. Bruce’s balls were flung into the melee. She was free now. From this moment forward she owned her free will; never would that be taken again. An elated scream broken from her core as she gunned the car towards Choctawhatchee Bay, leaving Bruce and his balls behind her.

“Es kocht die eifersucht!” We're cooking Jealousy.

The pulsing chant birthed a newfound recklessness. Abruptly she spun the wheel to her right, rocketing through a construction barricade separating the old Mid-Bay bridge from the new; wood exploding around her.

“Es kocht die eifersucht!”

The Mustang suddenly launched off the road. Hurriedly curling herself into the gaping window, Kati’s feet found purchase. She jumped, and was cradled by the weightlessness of peace.

The first thing to break the turquoise surface was her brilliant smile.

Note: The German to English translation is written to make sense, and not necessarily a direct translation. As for the story, I have no idea where it came from. I just started writing.

And for the curious ...

A History Lesson

2012-01-24T14:34:00.000-05:00

Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?
The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”
This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness. 400 words or less. Link up with us on Tuesday’s post.

Time for people moves forward. They are born, become children, turn into adults, grow old, and then die. Generations lived with their minds eye on an eternal horizon. The sky above us, the earth below, our footsteps inconsequential. Trees grow upwards, never having moved from the lineage cradle from whence they unfurled. Their focus is on reaching up, as high as gravity allows. The sky is their mind, the earth surrounds them, their footstep the key to survival.

While they grow they absorb and expand. Ring after ring, year after year, their entire core a record of the past. Any one thing passing them by leaves its indelible mark.

Smoke from a Native’s fire, the chill from snow without end, a song from a bird long gone from its forest, the tug of a rope from a swing just last year.

As it happens, some are felled, and the trees around them absorb this too. Our mental dimensions won’t hear these trees if we are not in the forest as we walk amongst them.

Should you listen; to the prick of gooseflesh across the back of your neck, the angry shadows in your peripheral, a sharp sudden snap of warning from the unseen, you will understand man is unwelcome upon the doorstep of this grove. They stand together branch to branch, crowding the way and shuttering the light. Time needs to heal them, and many generations of man will pass before the doors are opened once more.

Others are more welcoming, their pasts less scarred, their lives open to be touched. The animals know too when the trees are untroubled. Birds flit and chirp, deer move boldly across the way, and there is a communal contentment that shelters your day. If they allow, and your open to knowing, you’ll gain entrance to their temple. A hidden patch just off the path where time and space take a backseat. The air is still, the animals reverent. Outside you will hear the remnants of a world spinning its course, its tones muted and blurred. There will be the briefest of moments where your mind will think upwards, and your hand will reach to connect with these gentle, old sentinels. Then, no matter how minute, you will leave your mark, and the tree will fold it in upon itself, recording your passage in its own heaven bound history.

Thorny Patches

2012-01-20T15:04:00.001-05:00

I ♥ Boobies!

Why So Serious?

One tattered, hemp rasta hoop with a half seashell clasp; the “have to have it or I’ll DIE” purchase from last years Christmas fest.

Jack Skeleton grinning through a face now caked in crusty red.

B.F.M.V. !!! The tween band I thought had meant “Bowel Movements That Hurt”; which had earned me a laugh ... back then.

A few colorful twists of B.F.F. yarn. Proof that friendship is held together by the slightest of things.

And torn apart just as easily.

A chain of tumbling kittens, chasing butterflies alight on their tails.

Below the kittens, a swatch of natty stained leather, drooping with the weight of metal studs.

Innocence wars with the corporeal along my daughters arms.

From elbow to wrist her story is told,

laid out for all to see, in bold and glaring color.

Some stare with cold accusing eyes, blaming me for allowing such atrocities.

Most glance away nervously, pretending she’s no more than the stars; part of the scenery, or not even there ... at all.

Then there are those with the knowing eyes, whose daughters have arms like mine.

Bold declarations of indifference, remnants of childhood, and the shaky uncertainty of accepting their future.

To be sure, it never starts that way, and not every decorated arm shelters the tears mothers of cutters shed.

But cover they do. The tears. The scars. The weeping, bleeding mess.

Nothing escapes unscathed. Not Jack, not yarn, not kittens, nor mothers.

Some things are too big to cover, to heavy a weight to bear, on such tiny, fledgeling arms.

So while the arms heal from the mind's thorny patches, it’s the mother's heart, the mother's tears, that take hold of these decorated beings, and lead them to open skies, where those precious wounded arms --- take flight.

Disclaimer: I sincerely appreciate everyones concern, and mental health is very much a part of our daily lives here, but I have to say, it's not all sad and dreary - not always ;). Sometimes it is rather entertaining .. crazy has a way of doing that. Today's writing was just a glimpse of one of the aspects of the reality here. Sometimes it's sad, sometimes it's hard, and frustrating, and seemingly overwhelming; but always there is hope, and humor .. lots of humor actually. I write what I know. This is my reality. It isn't to be felt bad for; these are the cards we were dealt, and that's OK. Everyone has something. In all honesty, I'm just trying to make people more comfortable with, and aware of the reality of, and extent of mental health in our society today. With exposure comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes advancement, and that is what this box of nails needs. Take what I write with a grain of salt. It really is only a tiny glimpse of my life, which is rich and fulfilling in its own off-kilter way. Happy Trails!

“The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”

~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke

For your Creative Non-Fiction tell us about the last time that one of these three things “cured” you. If you are going with Fiction, have your character resolve a problem using one of the three (or all three!!!). There are so many ways you can use this prompt so be creative with it, don’t take us where we think you’ll go. Word Limit is 300.

It's a Bot Time

2011-10-19T06:42:00.000-04:00

There was the writing workshop on Whidbey Island.

And the discovery of needle felting.

A Sumo wrestler, and ... (wait for it)

A JOB!

It looks like the hubs won’t be a long-haul trucker just yet.

I’m trying real hard not to feel let down. I mean, I was SOOOO looking forward to missing teeth, flat butt, and Lot Lizards inviting themselves into his cab.

.. Yes, that is EXACTLY what it sounds like.

So for now, Gomez is back in the Veterinary medical profession. He’ll still be gone 4 /5 days out of the week, but he’ll be flying. Not sure how I feel about that. Rocket Man.

We’ve also been cycling back on a scary loop. One I can’t openly discuss at this time, because some decisions aren’t mine to make.

And kids can be not so understanding.

And judgmental.

I am a protective mama bear; my cub is struggling, and I will go to great lengths to protect and shelter its heart. So though I’m usually a smiling bear stumbling through life with a joke on my lips and and trick up my sleeve - make no mistake; I’ve had to fight for this cub before. Against prejudice, ignorance, and intolerance. Against anguish, loss of hope, and the clutches of the reaper.

It is not within me to lose.

Not this battle.

Not against snarky, small minds. Gossip. Assumptions.

I offer this challenge to those who make assumptions; be kind. Be gentle in your words. Offer unconditional friendship. Grow with change, don’t shrink. Chances are, what you choose to believe, may not actually be the case. Sometimes life unfolds without our permission, against our dreams. Life has its own agenda, we’re just here for the ride.

A suggestion: Get over it. Forgive. A mind can only be open when we release our preconceived notions that if we feel it, if we assume it, if we fear it, then it must be true.

If you look hard enough for drama, you’ll find it.

Never, not once, has drama ever been reality.

Reality is harsh and biting, tender and sweet, and it involves more people in this life aside from just you. It doesn’t need our permission to justify its existence. It just is.

Cub; never be ashamed. People come, and they go. Some go quietly, while others part with bitterness and resentment.

I will never go, and that is fact.

I will protect. I will shelter. I will carry.

You are more than a diagnosis, a victim of gossip, or less than anyone else.

You are strength. Beauty. A voice for similar.

Never hide your face.

Know change is inevitable.

You owe no explanation when your heart is exposed.

- Understand your words leave an impression, so when your heart is in hiding and you’ve no desire to sacrifice it, what you say in parting is also falling on tender hearts. When you can’t fully expose your own, take care you don’t harm others.

You are an example, a speaker for those who have no voice.

Move forward with courage. Understand, as you would have others understand you. Know you are loved beyond time and situation.

I’ve spoken my piece on that matter.

Moving on.

Adding to the minutiae of daily life around here, I’ve been going round and round with Comcast. I’ve been unable to go online due to their incessant pop-ups declaring that possibly, some computer in our house, may have a bot. And, unless I click on their pop-up I am unable to do anything else. So I click it, jump through hoops, and inform them yet again, I DO NOT OWN A PC. My "PC" is not a bot ... Because I don’t have a PC. I have a Mac. So what do they continually send me today? Well, the following is the last of 7 emails that have gone back and forth. Each time they send a similar response, regardless of how many times I insist I have a Mac, ~~and that they’re full of shit.~~

Here is their latest email:

(And remember, this is correspondence #7)

Enjoy.

On Oct 19, 2011, at 12:20 AM, Comcast Seattle wrote:

Dear Gomez,

( I used my husbands name, so if they called furious, he would get the call and I could play innocent.)

Thank you for contacting Comcast High Speed Internet. My name is Munch Bot.

(Names have been changed to protect my backside.)

I understand that there is a problem with getting a possible pop up message that keeps appearing on the pages. I would like to apologize for any inconvenience if you are having issues and I know the importance of avoiding these pop ups that cause disturbance.

(The lack of punctuation and "wordiness" suggests that possibly Munch Bot is actually a Jagadbandu, or Baanke Bihaari. An observation.)

Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention. Rest assured that I will provide you relevant information that will appropriately address your concern.

(Suspicions confirmed.)

Gomez, here are the steps:

Windows 2000

1. Click Start, go up to Settings and click Control Panel.

2. Blah, blah, blah, drivel and poo.

3. - 7. See #2

Windows XP Home

1. Click Start, go up to Settings and click Control Panel

2. - 9. Stick a red hot poker through your skull until the pop-ups stop.

Windows XP Professional

1. - 10. Did I say, “professional?” I meant “Ripped off from Mac.”

Windows NT

1. - 4. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

To assure the proper tracking of this issue, we have assigned a case number: xxxxxxxx

Please refer to this number should you contact us regarding the same issue.

For further questions and inquiries, please chat with us at

http://www.pleaseholdandyourcallwillbeansweredintheorderthatitwasrecieved.BS

To ensure the time you need to spend on chat is as short as possible, I suggest you have the following information available:

1. Name on the account,

2. Address where service is provided and mailing address.

3. Telephone number associated with the account.

4. One of the following:

-Last four digits of Account holders Social Security Number,

-Security Code,

-Account Number,

-Amount of most recent payment on the account.

5. Blood type and sexual preference.

6. Edward or Jacob?

Thank you for choosing Comcast. Gomez, feel free to contact us anytime we can be of assistance. We value your business. Have a great day!

Sincerely,

Munch Bot

Comcast Customer Care Specialist

My Response:

One more time.

I. Have. A. Mac.

I do NOT have windows on my MAC. And though I’m vastly entertaining, I doubt boogy-hackers are going to go after my old Mac. I’m simply not that exciting. In fact, I’m so unexciting that I craft, eat oatmeal, and own more than one cat, yet I still don’t own a PC. I do have standards.

- You should look into that; plural of stand·ard (Noun)

I can not follow the steps you have sent because:

A: I have a Mac.

B: I do not have windows.

C: I have NEVER owned a PC. Ever. Not even a little pc.

D: I STILL, as of this moment, have a Mac. ... Wait, let me check ... YEP, still a Mac.

E: My Mac does NOT have Windows .. of any variety. Not even ones with curtains or souls.

F: I have already disabled pop ups on my Mac.

G: Comcast still gets their pop ups through - to my Mac. It’s almost as if SOMEONE

:::comcast:::

has invaded my computer, endangering my privacy.

H: Comcast INSISTS my PC is a bot. Strangely .. I. Don't. Have. A. PC.

I. Have. A. MAC.

I … I believe comcast is the only bot schtoopin' my computer.

If you have a suggestion for a Mac user, I'm all ears. And not the two-all-beef-patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese kinda mac either. Unless, of course, that mac contains a McAPPLE.

If it involves windows, bots, PCs, Bill, Melinda, or even her mother's cousin's aunt's first husband who was actually an alien bot in a previous life …. it isn't going to do me any good.

Me. Mac. Me no get um PC. PC bad.

The end.

Perhaps it's my English. Maybe I should be speaking Hindu.

Or, maybe it’s time to look into the Amish thingy.

Whateves.

Now about that Sumo;

(Unexciting, but crafty.)

Ch-ch-ch-Changes

2011-09-28T18:35:00.004-04:00

Life has tumbled into mornings frosted with the remnants of evening fog. Thick and lacy it droops and swirls from cedar boughs, swishing in the wake of a tail belonging to the fat, black cat next door. Autumn has whispered her arrival, leaving her message on the yellowing leaves and fading sunbeams of summer vacation. Nobody does fall like the Puget Sound.

Yeah, yeah, New England has been rumored to be the best place to be for fall, but I’ve lived there too, and though beautiful, it lacks the flavor of Halloween only islands in the fog can conjure.

On an island called Bainbridge, in the city of Winslow, there is an old white church in the center of town. You’ll know it for the steeple, whose peeling paint and belfry bats welcome pumpkin patch wanderers and ferry boat riders. But, it’s the pipe organ that is the real draw; the very soul of Halloween on an island along the Sound.

Change is in the air every direction I turn, and changes have been taking place in this little house of ours as well. Pubert has finished his classes ... with much kicking and screaming, several hissy fits, a few hundred melt-downs, and quite possibly the angst induced bursting of several vital organs. The only thing he has left is a culminating project, and once that is wrapped up, my job as mother hen is done.

Boot. Fluffy peeping backside. Nest. Connection made. Out ... and flying, with any luck.

Sure I’ll always be mom, but the testosterone is rising, and I’m no longer legally obligated to give a fig. This old hen is now able to stretch her wings. One down, one to go.

Speaking of one to go; Wednesday is coming into her own. She’s even made a visit to the hair salon.

A real salon.

Under the care of an actual beautician.

I KNOW!

But before anyone gets any wild ideas, I’ll put to rest speculation that the child has evolved into a gentle specimen of ladylike grace and delicate manners.

She dyed her head a vibrant burgundy ... purplish ... pinkish ... color.

And the beautician had a slight lisp. And was rather chatty ... and chatted incessantly at Wednesday while I sat there quietly laughing in my head;

MUAH-HAHAHAHAHA! MUAH-HAHAHAHAHA!

(Insert Dr. Evil pinky smirk.)

The only thing I was concerned about was the fact that the owner had to keep correcting said beautician. I got the feeling “Rebellion Riddled Reddish” was not her forte.

She also dropped the big, sucker-looking hair dryer thing, and wasn’t sure how it worked.

(iPhone pics - sorry)

The hair dryer.

It was a week before school started, and I was starting to wonder if my child would be bald. Apparently Wednesday did too.

She turned a glance in my direction ... “Should I be worried?” It asked.

I gave a thumbs up, smiling like a monkey with a whole banana shoved in its mouth. She responded by sticking out her tongue; crisis averted.

Then I silently sent a prayer into the ether; “Dear sweet Jesus above, don’t strike the child down bald .. For the love of GOD, this is high school! The HUMANITY! Thanks man.”

After Wednesday survived the beautician's chair she hugged the lady.

As in, actually placed her arms around a total stranger and gave squeeze-edge.

I can’t even get her to do that to me for candy and liquor.

OK, maybe for liquor ...

That was a joke people .. She wouldn’t hug me for *just* liquor.

NOT SERIOUS. She’s a better kid than that.

On the final hair note; Homecoming is this weekend. Since the new, officially confirmed boyfriend hasn’t gotten around to asking her to the dance, she’s made the choice to ask him, or simply go sans man.

Nothing stands between a teenage girl, a new dress, and heels.

She has learned well. Way to go little grasshopper! Your muhzher is proud.

Changes indeed.

Gomez ... Well, I’m not going to touch the subject of Gomez and a job, because that has always proven fatal to our finances. Lady luck isn’t a relative, and Uncle Midas is more akin to Uncle Shit-cicle. Laying claim to good news is always a bad idea around here. Instead, I’ll dance around the subject quietly, and pray that the powers that be don’t scent my fragile hope. Let’s just say, being of the redneck variety, long haul trucking was an inevitability, and danged if I’m not going to make the most of it.

My mom also visited from Georgia. We hit beaches, went to Seattle (Where some pecker came along just before we got there and bought all 50 lbs. of crawfish the fishmongers had for the day. WTF? Really? 50 pounds of crawfish? Jerk. )

Anyfish, suffice it to say I was unable to make my mother a proper etouffe. Me, the unemployed wife of a soon to be trucker; denied swamp fare. The universe has a serious wrinkle in its long under ware.

::le sigh::

In other news (Yes, I actually have other news, surprising as that may be in my otherwise stagnant life.) I have several writing workshops coming up that I’m looking forward to. I’ve given up on aspirations of an actual vocation that may, perhaps, pay a bill or two, and have decided to live the reckless dream of playing at being a writer for the time being.

When going for broke, I believe one should go all out. It’ll be fun.

So. Still no income, going for broke, daughter didn’t go bald, and son has “ALMOST” finished school.

Well peeps, we have come to the end of yet another post.

Yes, yes .. try to contain thyself.

Point No Point

Over and Out. Keep on truckin’.

Angels and Monty Python

2011-08-11T19:16:00.000-04:00

This is my little lemon tree. It has absolutely nothing to do with my post, but it makes me happy. Enjoy.

Two things. No, wait ... three .. Ok, no limiting myself here. Let’s just say, I’m not dead yet. I have been doing “stuff”.

Stuff number one: A fellow blogger named Noelle had her baby about a week ago. She’s also a Utah girl so somewhere we had connected. I have to say I’m probably more of a fan of hers than she is of my wild-mouth-ways, but she’s lovely, and gracious, and I feel rather protective of her.

She doesn’t know this.

Because then she would get a court order ....

Anyway. Noelle and her hubby Jason knew going in that something was up with little Emily’s heart. She (Emily) just had surgery the other day and I’m waiting to see how that went. So anyone capable and able to send a shout out to the powers that be, please do so on behalf of this little girl and her family.

I don’t usually do this. I NEVER do this. But something is tugging my heart in that direction, and I know they can use all the prayers they can get.

Stuff number two: Last weekend (Or so; I run on Peninsula time.) we had a little art festival here in town. Aside from the Elvis impersonator (Whom I didn’t get to see because he had no grasp of time, and I had a life to live.) there were several neat little booths. Lots of the jewelry, some of the pottery, and one that I kept walking by because it looked ... Well ... It looked “CRAFTY”, and I don’t do “Crafty”.

I throw clay. I sling glaze and paint. I build. I create. Sometimes I even birth goats, but that's another story.

Bottom line: I don’t glue, sew, knit or attempt anything with a stapler or paper.

Anyhoot. Walking around.

I had gone there with the daughterling Wednesday, and my newly acquired daughterling, Mini-Me. They were goofing off, dancing to the music, and pushing each other into passer-by’s when we passed by the Crafty booth again. I think they were hip-checking each other when they accidentally hip-checked me nearly on to one of the tables ... where I noticed stamps.

Now, here’s the thing; I don’t actually stamp, I just have this bizarre attraction to them. Maybe it’s the concept OF stamping - I don’t know. Possibly in another life I was an ink sniffer.

So, I see these stamps, and it’s like the holy grail of crack to a junkie hoarder. I swear each little stamp grew a halo and a heavenly chorus of “Aaaaaaahhhhhh!” rose up from their shimmering images. It was a transcendental Monty Python moment.

I'm speaking literal here people.

In my mind I saw the stamped clouds roll in with stamped cherubs trumpeting the arrival of a large stamped pointy hand that descended from the heavens. Then it started glowing.

( Which frightened a monk who then tripped over a root ::AH-AH-WHOOP!::)

Then the big pointy hand started flashing, “Buy! Buy! Buy!” whilst poking me in the head as I sat in my stamped chapel, within a stamped forest.

“le Cheffie, queen of the Britons; I command you to buy more stamps!” Came a thundering voice from within my head.

No, I'm not actually British - stay with me ...

Around this point the nice lady in the booth asked if I needed any help, to which I replied, “I have been sent by God to buy stamps.”

.... Maybe I said that .. I don’t really remember. She merely clucked her tongue and pointed at the First Aid booth.

"They'll have your medication hon," she offered, ".. but first .."

In the end I discovered there’s a group that gets together to make cards, and stamps are involved. For whatever reason; maybe I was still on my big, pointy hand high; I agreed to attend a crafty card making class.

Me Jessica. Me make pretty.

Stuff number three: I’ve been sick as a dog since attending the afore mentioned card class. So I have to assume that crafting leads to illness. Despite this obvious conclusion, while laid up in bed I’ve been hoarding all my craft-like supplies, and getting things in order to order more.

I’m a sick, sick person. Someone should slap me ... but then I might just throw up on them.

Life is a gamble people.

Stuff number four: My mom is coming for a visit the end of this week. Needless to say my house is a wreck and I’m only making it worse with craft crap and illness.

(Not to worry darlings, she birthed me. She'll be well medicated and fully prepared for my shenanigans.)

Stuff five: I’ve been trying to lose weight, and I’ve actually been successful at it. I’ve been out exercising - except the last few days, and those fat pants are starting to get baggy. Not by much, but if I squint; they are definitely getting baggier.

So far I have lost 7lbs. Nothing like a stomach bug to whip you into shape. Go ME! Time for a Klondike bar.

Now I just need to get my hands on a tapeworm.

Stuff six: While the rest of the world is enjoying bumper crops, I have a few stupid, sad little tomatoes that refuse to do anything. I’ve put more energy into those ratty little plants than I have anything else this summer, and I’m about to chuck them all over the fence into the woods for the bears.

Aside from the flowers I planted to make myself feel better, do you see anything even remotely close to red in this photo? Neither do I. I do see lots of dead. And stupid. LOTS of stupid.

My blueberries are doing great though. However, every time the wind blows I lose all the ripe ones.

BUGGER!

Enough with the “stuff” bit.

Gomez and I are also in the final stretch with our darling son Pubert and his &#@!%$#!!! schooling. We’re talking 6, maybe 7 assignments away from graduating from high school ... And he only has until the end of August, or it’s no dice.

And he refuses to do anything.

Smart as a whip, and a hard worker, but has the temperament of a dead mule in a frozen tar pit with a thorny stick up its backside. The kid isn’t doing ANYTHING unless he believes it was his idea.

Thus, I’m inventing the patron saint of mothers at the end of their rope.

She walks softly so she can sneak up and beat underlings with her big stick.

Saint Iwanna Beatu Untilifeelbetter.

Feel free to worship her at your leisure. She likes chocolate. (FYI)

Now I have to go do more cleaning and pseudo - gardening.

Why?

Because this post has taken me about a week to write, and I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing since I originally started.

We also had Mini-Me over last night, and I cooked a deplorable low-cal dinner. I was so ashamed and unsatisfied I made Madeleines to make myself feel better.

GIANT Madeleines.

I ate 3.

If Ben and Jerry had to give my big fat ass a flavor, it would be The Diva Explosion, or perhaps Jess’ Jungle Jiggle.

Whatevs. Forget about my butt and go give Noelle a hello. Little Emily could use the support more than my fat backside.

A Beauty Rest

2011-07-31T23:50:00.001-04:00

The last few days have been the things of which memories are fondly made. Endless miles of beach have been massaged by my bare feet, pockets have been filled with sandy sea glass, and the sun has kissed my shoulders and stained my hair as I drove tottering around winding hills picketed with shady pines in an old, topless Jeep. It may take some doing, and a lot of patience, but summertime along the Puget Sound is unrivaled and glorious in its salty dog, friendly way.

Today I awoke to the scent of rain as it whispered through my bedroom curtains. The sun still came calling, but its voice was hoarse and weak from a week spent hollering up canyons and across the sound. I lazed in bed far too late, smelling the beach calling my name as I scratched patches of newly acquired sunburn. I ignored my tomato plants and their refusal to produce. I ignored the empty bird feeder, and dishes, laundry and leg shaving. Instead I sat wondering about life and sunny days. Thinking on how much my brother would have loved this past week, if only he could have held on a little longer. Life is funny like that; sunny one day, with rain by morning. Seasons always change, as do mornings.

I had wanted more sun today. Another day to walk the beaches and terrorize the shoreline gulls, but life knew I needed to take a break. My sunburns needed a day of shade, my feet needed to stop pounding the surf. Maybe the rain came so I could appreciate the finer aspects of a sunny day; a day to stop and notice the little things.

So today after checking on a fellow blogger due to have her baby any second, and on another who lives by a river hungry for hero's lives, I came across "this". This local reminder of the little things in life that happen right under our noses as we rush about our lives. Life will continue to happen, even when it rains, or the sun shines, or when life strikes us down, or delivers miracles ... If we just take the time to notice, sometimes it makes it all worth it. All the chaos of humanity, the complications, the pace, and the sheer size and weight of life ... sometimes it's those little unseen worlds that allow us to say to ourselves," Isn't life beautiful?" Each and every nuance, when you really break it down, removing all the politics and fuss ... life really is beautiful in its simplicity.

"A giant pacific octopus mother who lived just across from downtown Seattle had her hatch right under the noses of local divers. Her den was sequestered in Cove Two in West Seattle, in a location that spared her from predators and over-visitation by humans. On September 4, 2010 the eggs began hatching. It’s a time of mixed emotion; joy at the hatch, and sadness at the knowledge that this event means the mother’s life will end. The hatch lasted a full week, after which the mother died. Spoiler alert: Best footage comes starting at 3:24. Enjoy!"
(The excess copyright notification in the film had to be included due to people stealing footage.)

Taking The Mom / Blogger Pledge

2011-07-23T01:20:00.000-04:00

The Mom Pledge is about women standing up, speaking out, and coming together to eradicate online bullying of moms by moms. The time has come for us to take the power back and own this issue.

We’ve all been there. At some point in our lives, we’ve all been there. Whether we are the instigator, or the object of a bully’s attentions, we’ve all had to deal with bullying at some time or another.

I’m a fan of speaking my mind, in fact I find it difficult not to. However, there is a difference between having an opinion, and bullying others into agreeing with you. People are free to disagree with me. My kids do it all the time. So does my husband. Even my dogs disagree with me on a daily basis. I might not appreciate it, but I can respect it ... sometimes. I can’t help but feel that if someone else is entitled to their opinion, then so am I. It’s not within me to sit back and take whatever the “In” crowd or popular opinion throws at me. I don’t have to change my mind, or words, or self, to conform to someone else’s ideals of what’s black, and what’s white. My life holds too many variables. Shades of grey are the very definition of my experiences here on Earth, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. People don’t have to like that fact, but they ought to respect it. None of us live the same life, and as such, none of us will view the same world with identical eyes.

It’s OK. That’s how life was meant to be lived.

Blogging has been my release, a venue for my creativity, a way to scream into the universe, a pain in my backside, and at times, dreadful. I do understand my thoughts or actions, and words or innuendoes, leave an impression. I can’t control who reads what, or how they are going to take it, but I do control the thought process behind it. I do not blog with the intent to bully. I do not blog with the intent to hurt. At times I do rant ... I am human, but it’s simply my opinion of events, and peoples reactions to them, not an attempt to silence other voices. I don’t dish out names, or garbage about fellow bloggers, because to do so would be a violation of their space in this world. I can dislike their actions or their words, and I have every right to write about my experiences, but it’s not up to me to punish others under the guise of my opinion. However, I do believe I am entitled to my opinion on how their actions and words make me feel. But that’s just it; all of us are entitled to our opinions, and who’s to say what’s truly right or wrong?

This is why I have taken The Mom Pledge.

• Because I am comfortable with who I am as a mother, I will honor other’s opinions, and conduct myself with sincerity. This does not mean I have to change who I am to please everyone’s tastes. People are free to stop reading, but they don’t have the right to stop me from writing. It is OK to be me.

• I pledge to treat fellow bloggers with respect. I will acknowledge that there is no one "right" way to be a good blogger, mother, or human being. Each individual will make the choices best for their lives.

• I believe a healthy dialogue is a good thing. I will welcome differing opinions when offered in a respectful, non-judgmental manner, and will treat those who do so in kind.

• I am standing up against cyber bullying. My online space reflects who I am and what I believe in. I will not tolerate comments that are rude, condescending, or disrespectful, just because someone sees something differently than I do.

• I refuse to give those who bully a platform. I will remove their remarks with no mention or response. I control my blog, and only I can determine what is / isn’t acceptable within it.

• I want to see bloggy moms work together to build one another up, not tear each other down. Words can be used as weapons, and I will not engage in that behavior. I can have my opinion on a matter, but I’m not going to single anyone out for attack. I know my heart is good, and that’s enough for me.

• I affirm that we are an online community, and as a member of The Mom Pledge Community, I will strive to foster goodwill among moms, bloggers, kids, and society in general.

Taking The Pledge is easy. All you have to do is:

• Read the pledge and commit to its principles

• Post the Take the Pledge badge prominently on your blog. (If applicable)

• Add yourself to The Community page.

• Write a post about what The Pledge means to you.
(For bloggers)

• Spread the word and encourage other moms to Take the Pledge

Fat Pants and Chloroform

2011-07-20T08:08:00.001-04:00

The internet is racing at warp speed. Backwards. In trying to get to blogs, network, and generally better my trollish attitude, “The Net” has stuck out its well shod foot and knocked me off the ladder. So while I wait pathetically long times for a page to load, I write posts, go grocery shopping ::shudder:: and give birth.

... Perhaps the last bit was a slight overstatement, though I’m failing to see how it doesn’t aptly portray the situation. I won’t go so far as to declare my connection woes a conspiracy, but let’s just say there are four other computers in this house, all of which are older than mine, and none of them are having any trouble. How do I know this? Let me introduce you to my daughter. Some of you know her real name, but for the community at large, we call her “Wednesday”. The computer she uses is 12 years old, and refuses to be shut off.

Let me clarify; if we shut it off, it requires a good shaking, maybe a few kicks, and the seductive threats of what we’ll do to it if it doesn’t turn on. It’s letting us know we are not allowed to shut it off, because it just may decide to never, EVER, turn back on.

Anyhoot. Wednesday. Her Facebook status seemingly updates with every beat of her heart. I swear there have been times we’ve been standing in line at the grocery store when she blanks out, eyes scanning back and forth, then with a jolt she snaps back into reality. When we get home I find an update on her wall:

“Standing in line with the motherling; map coordinates; 47º Latitude, -122º Longitude. Request sarcastic, angst riddled backup of the teen genus. DEFCON 4 initiated; self destruct in 10, 9, 8 ...”

Point being; she’s able to wax poetic online with her ancient Mac and magic, while I sit here waiting for the twirly thing in that box to stop, and load the damn page.

Want to know what my Facebook page looks like?

So unless I buy a corn snake, all this networking BS effort is for nothing. Some days I wonder.

Now that I have wallowed in the swamps of boo-hoo and self pity, I need to go figure a few things out. Or, maybe I’ll just go bake something, because I’ve completely abandoned my food blog out of sheer “I’m really beginning to not care anymore-ness”. Obviously I have been baking and cooking between food blog posts, as my gargantuan backside can aptly attest. I even had to go buy fat pants.

FAT PANTS. :(

Aside from being middle aged, and dubbed uncool by the teen populace, I now have to wear fat pants, or run about in nothing but too-tight underwear, like some meaty, mental crack ho. (Not “panties” ... Underwear. Ladies of my ilk do not wear panties. People like Snow White and Carmen Electra wear “panties”. I wear underwear, like Dame Edna and Meryl Streep.) I bought the ugliest ones I could find too, because if that doesn’t motivate me to loose the excess, then I deserve to look like a hulking mass of rum infused Jell-O during an elephant stampede. I also only bought three pairs of them, and I got them off the clearance rack of Wal-Mart. I get to look fleshy, repugnant, and well worn. I call it "austere ghetto-posh". Just you watch, by next week all those S.B.'s in Hollywood are going to be rocking the Wally Fat Pants. Maybe when I finally loose the weight I’ll auction off the trend to the highest bidder, or whomever is willing to trade for chocolate.

...shaddup!

Time to go laddies. (I was feeling Irish.) It’s ticking away to 3:30 am and I have to go put the daughterling, and my newly acquired child, (Wednesday’s friend, whom I’ll call “Mini Me”) to bed.

Long story. Some other time. For now, this will have to suffice. It's rather telling, and quite an accurate portrayal of life around here.

Followed by;

I'm not sure what's worse; My new fat pants, or no longer being able to "employ" the chloroform trick.

A Mermaid's Shoes

2011-07-15T03:20:00.004-04:00

One of my favorite parts of summer is THE SHOES. So for your prompt this week I'd like you to write about your character (or yourself) and a pair of his or her shoes.

Those shoes can be real or symbolic, they can hurt or be super comfy but I want to see what they say about the life of the person wearing them. It's a chance to use all those descriptive words I love reading.

word limit is 625.

I was the girl who wore no shoes. In winter I wore socks of course, but only as a nod to the weather. At first no one paid any attention, because I was small, and my family was large, and my clothes were second hand; I was easy to overlook.

Then came Spring with its mud and sunshine, and my toes hid behind red desert clay. I was hummingbird small, with thick long hair, stubbornly straight, and always out of fashion. I had large grey eyes atop rioting curves that slippy-slid a gaze down, inevitably resting it on my wiggling bare feet. Suddenly, I was discernible.

When Cross Country season started I became everyone’s favorite scandal; all curves and hair, doe eyes and bare feet. I ran through that small cow town like a mermaid parting the red sea. Oh how they loved to ignore me! Whispering as I passed, a confirmation of their assessment, of the wild little girl from across the tracks.

When I began beating their boys, they publicly noticed me. Suddenly there were rules about shoes, and hips, hair and uniforms. The nerve of this girl, flaunting her gender, her place in society, her utter lack of propriety and respect for the sport.

The races became staggered starts according to gender. I was ordered to wear binding shirts under the polyester uniform, and told to buy proper shoes befitting a lady. It took this free spirit by complete surprise. I was unaware I couldn’t beat a boy. That I had curves, and given the choice, most people actually prefer to wear shoes. More than the curves or the shoes, I was surprised to find that how a person was born, and in living true to their heart, they could be wrong.

At the very next race the boys left at the first firing of the gun, and I put on my walking boots. At the sound of the second, fifteen minutes later, the girls were allowed their opportunity. It was then that small cow town ironically, had a very large one. And the pristine "official books" now had to bear the scar of my scratched out name. Forever. I was to be overlooked again.

The thing with books is, they can’t change fact, regardless of its aftertaste. One fact will always remain; the mermaid girl from the wrong side of the tracks did in fact beat Every. Last. Boy. And she beat them in a push-up bra, and bare footed, knowing before she even began, that she had already forfeited the race.

Whether it was acknowledged or not, the race wasn’t run for a ribbon, and it wasn’t won under the rules decided that day. On that day, in that big fished, small minded town, that race was won for every free-thinking / wild-child / shoeless, runner of life races. Because in a true runners heart it’s not the shoes that decide the outcome, but the soul that drives the runners feet.

Authors note: I continued to beat the boys up into my senior year, when I stopped competing. They liked it well enough when I won for the school, but not when hips and boobs beat their boys. So I let them eat their cake, but I was damned if I was going to let them have it too.

Years later, after graduating high school, I ran into an old classmate. They noticed I was still barefoot and made a comment along the lines of, they thought I would be over it by now. The thing is, I’ve never gone barefoot because it made me stand out, or I was trying to rebel, but because my left foot is a full size bigger than my right. If I bought for my right the shoes hurt. Buying for the left meant I was constantly loosing my right shoe. Going barefoot became the logical solution. Had anyone ever bothered to ask, they might have had an entirely different perspective on the matter.

What I Like About Me

2011-07-14T13:19:00.001-04:00

I Like that I hide ducklings in the cabana bath,

And that I always choose the ugliest, most tattered ones.

I Like that my daughter is one of my best friends,

And that I can talk to her about the important stuff in her life.

I Like that I seemingly have endless reserves,

And when put to the test I know I’m going to survive.

I Like that my heart is at peace outside,

And when I settle myself I can blend seamlessly into the energy.

I Like my ability to learn,

And when I put my mind to it, I can master it.

I Like being a part of many siblings,

And when I need them, they are there, like an extension of myself.

I Like that I can communicate with writing,

And when so inclined I can really move worlds.

Get Thee Hence

2011-07-14T05:01:00.000-04:00

Depression and bad moods do not mix. It’s like vodka and cauliflower; each should only be dealt with on its own, because mixed together, someone could die.

Meet my son; Cauliflower (It’s not chance I made him the vegetable.)

Meet my daughter; The Match

Meet my husband; Vodka

We’re talking a flaming heap of oppressive, vegetive communism, with an alcoholic binder.

Meet me; I’m the one with the bad mood. Call it a tuber hangover, a case of the flaming commies, whatever. I’m not picky.

I love my family, dearly. They are all intelligent, wonderful beings I can’t imagine living without.

Except for maybe today. Or for the next year. Maybe I’ll even get a nice beach cottage and let them visit every couple years.

I have to admit, the shenanigans dear Wednesday was up to were rather tame in comparison to things she could have been doing. And, we are still able to communicate.

“It puts the spray paint down, or else it gets the hose again.”

She knows that of which I truly speak, so I’m going to leave it at that, despite her not knowing from whence the reference came.

:::Hey Wednesday! Waving:::

Actually, I'm relieved I have a fellow estrogen viking on board right now. It be the man folk that have they head up their arses. Whole whopping lot of testosterone blazing junkies they be.

(That's Viking speak. I'm sure of it.)

It's dang well brought me to my knees, and you know just how wrong I can go there.

I suspect the big man just felt a wrinkle in the fabric of time, like a warning shot over the bow....

Dear Big Man,

FYI, this whole male thing needs a rethink. Might I suggest an evolution upgrade; I have several great suggestions.

Suggestion #1; Put the junk away. It annoys me in the morning. Sometimes in the afternoons. I believe I’ve covered evenings previously. It’s pushing 40. What’s the lifetime on these things anyway? Are they all German engineering, or will you be putting out a Chinese model soon?

Suggestion #2; I’ve noticed when the alpha male is placed too close to the beta male, they produce a lot of screeching feedback, and then they spontaneously burst their gaskets, resulting in an inconvenient pissing tournament. I’m worried one of them may short out or start a fire.

(Note: Are they flammable? Maybe they should be.)

Suggestion #3; Disable & Sleep Mode included on remote.

Suggestion #4; Employment software compatible with World of Warcraft system glitch.

Suggestion #5; If it can’t be fixed, a Roomba, and cabin on lake Tahoe would be suitable replacements.

Suggestion #6; Failing the Roomba and cabin, I’ll take chocolate and a cheese cave in France.

Thanks.

I’m torn. I dearly love my baby boy. My; 18 year old - refuses to finish the 1/2 credit he needs to graduate from high school - taken up smoking - battling OCD - stubborn as a donkey stuck on a pike frozen in a pit of molasses in Antarctica - smart, but only when he chooses to be - baby boy.

So do I smack him hard and special, or try and coddle him through the last few assignments so he can graduate? Preferably before his dad throttles him.

I say, throttle them both and pop out the limes and ice.

I love the father model as well, but the ornery fire bug that has crawled up his butt this past year is DRIVING ME NUTS. I’m only a few weeks into the unemployment myself, and I’m ready to start grazing the walls for lead chips. I don't know how he continues to do it. I want to go back to work, but these male things can’t be left alone together or productivity comes to an abrupt halt, and one of these days I’m going to walk into the house and find a chalk outline of one or the other. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for art and what not, but that might be a hard one to explain to the in-laws.

I think my daughter has behaved this well this long because she’s seen what happens when you keep poking your finger in an electrical outlet, a la Bart Simpson style.

(And the alpha one is going to have something to say about this post if he comes across it. Which kind of makes my point.)

... But oooohhhh she was a horrible baby! HORRIBLE!

(How's that for subject jumping? Now your getting the mental picture.)

Locking her mother out in the pouring rain and giving her the finger before turning her back and pouting because mom turned off Rolie Polie Olie .... And this when she was 3. This is what every picture of her looked like from the ages of 2 to about 7.

Motherhood. Where the crossroads of puberty, mental health, and bad moods intersect. I’m tired of being bitter and jaded, and I’m starting to see why so many memories of aunts, grandmothers, and other lady friends all involve someone being roasted on gin and tonic for years at a time.

“Oh that aunt Louise, what a lush, always drinking the tiki candles at the luaus! Ha ha ha ha!”

That's because Louise was an effin' genius my pretties!

The smart ones were the ones who just started out the gates with their belly to the bar. I’m sure their babies slept better anyway, and I’ll bet they could garnish like nobodies business by the time they hit Kindergarten.

(Oh get over it. You know who you are, and you should know me by now.)

See. Bad mood.

Well. Now I’m going to go eat Cheetos and watch Graham Norton. Tomorrow I have several blogs to catch up on.

I’ll go grocery shopping some other day. It’s only been a few weeks. ...

Sweet Saint Patrice! I need a hobby, cause the bottle is about empty.

I Prefer Wheat Bread

2011-07-12T02:44:00.003-04:00

OK, YES I DID.

Your assignment this week was to write a post about an embarrassing moment.

Many of you asked, "We can only pick one?" Because it is, unfortunately, part of life.

I wasn’t sure I would even do this. We have those love hate relations with our blogs, and I’m going through a bit of the "unromances" with mine lately. I guess an embarrassing moment fits right in with the discomfort of my inability to bed this whole social media / Facebook thing with any sort of grace ....

So let’s see.... So many .... Hhmmmm.

No literary gem here ... But anyway.

I had been married approximately four months to a boy from the wilds of south Florida. He knew the back door to both Miami and the swamps like I knew Utah and the stairway to heaven. How we met and got married, I blame on ignorance and youth, but how I ended up pregnant and diabetic a month into it, I blame entirely on him. However, nothing in his life could have prepared him for what just landed in his lap.

Poor guy.

I was young, in over my head, and hormonal in what I can only describe as hell inside a sauna of hormones and geriatrics. Neither of us had a job, so what little money we could scrape up we had to spend wisely. Being a gestational diabetic didn’t offer many opportunities as far as diet was concerned, so there were approximately six items I could eat at the Albertsons down the road, and only about two of those I could afford. One particularly brutal day in late August we finally found enough change to buy a few items. After walking to the store in 98º heat (with 100% humidity) I had to sit on the floor for a bit to cool off once we got there. I could feel my sugar spiraling down, and the shaky, dizzy - warping sensation that should have warned me things were about to get weird. Instead I got up, got a cart to steady myself, and began walking up and down the aisles. A creepy old lady began following me. When I reached for a small jar of sugar free jam she shoved me aside and grabbed it from my hand, throwing it into her cart with a clack of her smelly dentures. I was too tired to protest, so I moved on, leaning on the cart and walking down the aisle. Time and agin she did this, following me from aisle to aisle. When I reached for an item, she shoved me aside, slamming my obviously pregnant belly into the cart, and grabbing the item I reached for. By the time I reached the bread aisle my sugar had bottomed out, and my vision was starting to tunnel, fuzzing around the edges and making me sick.

The thing is, I have a wee bit of a temper. Logically, it would seem at this point I would just pass out, like a good little diabetic.

Nope.

I got all Rambo and went ape shit.

I’m told .....

When she grabbed for the bread in my hand I let her have it.

No, no, no ...as in, I beat her with it.

I beat an old lady, in the grocery store, with a bag of bread.

OK, two bags.

Bread doesn’t handle flagellation well, but it does produce rather surprising coverage.

Apparently I was screaming all manner of filth. It was probably a good thing my husband intervened at that point, holding me back by scrawny, flailing arms, or I may have eventually knocked those nasty dentures across the store. I’m sure it was entertaining to someone, so it wasn’t a complete loss.

I was “invited to leave”. It was requested I not return.

A proud moment.

My husband likes to brag about my old lady, bread beating skills, as do my children.

Everyone needs skills.

Real, redneck, grandmother-incapacitating, skills.

I’m sure Jesus is smiling.

Because I probably inadvertently killed her.

And now I’m going to Hell.

So that was one of my first inglorious moments of motherhood. Thankfully my child wasn’t there to see it in person. Nothing like a little hormone and sugar malfunction to cement my place in hell.

....And hey, if anyone knows how to personalize a Facebook Fan page - I could sure use the help ::grumble::

HINT ... HINT ...HINT

Please Hold

2011-07-09T01:29:00.000-04:00

I have been cleaning like ... well, like someone who doesn’t live in this house, and I have been performing this uncharacteristic task for the better part of the day. The kiddies have even helped!

I know!

But I did threaten them with abandonment and starvation, so that may have had something to do with it.

Now it looks like we’ve actually moved in, and its only taken us the rough side of a year. Which, to be honest, is pretty good for us. The irony to all of this, is when I first got married and was doing the whole babies and toddler thing, I was “that” mom. You know the one. The one who alphabetized her CD’s, and did laundry - daily. My house had that new house smell the entire time we lived in it. You could even eat off my toilet if you were so inclined to give it a go. That mom. Obviously I had no soul. Though to be fair, its been my understanding that you trade it in for patience when you get knocked into the family way. So that really wasn’t my fault.

But now? Well, now its a different ball game, because not only don’t I have a soul, but I just don’t give a hoo-ha. That’s where having patience will get you.

That’s not to say I don’t try to give a hoo-ha.

OK, your right. I don’t.

POINT BEING; I got a text from one of the sisterlings the other day,

“Hey Hi! Coming to visit this weekend! See Soon! Smooches and all that!”

Which was fine, except that meant I had to finally unpack all the moving boxes and put away the Christmas decorations tidy up a smidgen.

Anywhatwhat, that’s why I was cleaning. It wasn’t because I wanted to.

Pshhh! As if!

So now that the monsters have been shoved back in the closets, the animals have all had Brazilian waxes, and the children have been threatened with a social media black out ... Peace and cleanliness have settled over the abode. I expect it to last approximately 45 minutes. Because that’s how long it takes them to get out of the handcuffs.

It will be nice to visit with my sister. This is the one that lives in Walla Walla and works as a prison guard at the state pen. We have interesting conversations that somehow always loop back to the use of bodily fluids as an art medium, or the best methods and locations to make a body disappear.

Just girl talk. That kind-a thing.

I did have a few things going down in the hiz-ouse before I got the notice we were going to be having guests.

Whatugunnadoeh? Sometimes life gets put on hold, and frankly, I'm good with that at the moment. Because the sheep that just broke from the herd and ran screaming into the fan this past week was one I never saw coming. I hope to hell I covered it's tracks and buried it well enough. I threw lye on it and everything. Heaven knows I don't need any more cockamamie sheep right now.

(Screw you Clarice, let the sheep scream all they want!)

AND, just as I was finishing this post, Pubert was mucking around with the big dog and knocked a 300+ lb. marble, candy making slab over, and on to his leg. Nailed him smack flat to the floor. All 5 feet of me had to lift it off. I'm sure in some universe that was entertaining ... which also means I"M WRONG; We didn't even make 45 minutes.

:::sigh:::

So, after I check the ice on his leg and make sure it's not broken, I’m off to shave a cat’s butt.

The funny part? You probably think I'm kidding.

Welcome to my normal.

Bad Romance

2011-07-08T05:12:00.004-04:00

"What you know" doesn't necessarily always mean "your comfort zone." For this week, take what you know out of your comfort zone. Try a new genre, a new time period, a geography you've only dreamed of, fantasy or historical instead of contemporary fiction, try the male POV if you usually write women. Or vice versa.

Switch it up. See where it takes you.

I've thrown down a rough draft to see what would happen. Like extremely rough . I'm already finding issues.... ::grumble::
600 words? Well no, that didn't happen.

I wouldn't exactly call it a romance, because my brain just doesn't swing that way. A Bad Romance? Sure, that I can do.

No idea where it'll go, if ever. Just stepping out of that comfort zone of mine to give a shot in the dark for the prompt. It involves one or two colorful phrases, but sorry, no bow-chicka-bow-wow.

Suggestions, advice? Really. It could go anywhere, or nowhere, because this is SOOOO NOT my zone. In fact, I can't believe I've even gone this far.

OY.

To set the tone

Had the smoke not flushed every critter out of the cabin, they likely would have taken up residence in my mouth, because at the moment it was hanging somewhere between my untethered boobs, and the floor. From my cabin’s sole bedroom, Willie Nelson was bemoaning having woken up with a 2, when he was certain he had bagged a 10. The irony wasn't lost on me, because I thought I had gone to bed alone.

*************************

The morning started innocent enough; wake up, scratch the butt-cheek peeking from under my night shirt, and fumble yawning and stretching into the tiny kitchen. After lighting the two burner stove I plopped an old, cast iron fry pan over the licking flames with a clattering “BANG!” It was then the echos of a hangover introduced themselves.

“Sweet-Jesus-On-a-flap-jack!” I cried, wincing as a piercing burn started creeping it’s way across my forehead. Once it found shelter in the unkept birds nest atop my head, I reached up gingerly, raising a shaking hand to my brow. It was then I came across a twig of baby’s breath clinging to the mess. Turning it slowly between thumb and index I glared at it. Baby’s breath was not exactly protocol in a farm girl’s wardrobe. It took a second, but then it came to me,

“Erica’s wedding.” I muttered. And then, “Tequila.”

The events of last night fell into place like steel shot across a tin roof, and I cursed whatever heathen had brought Tequila to a church wedding. I hung my head between my armpits, moaning inwardly. Peaking one red eye open I spied a liquor store bag on the pine floor by my feet.

“Idiot.” I chided myself, before shrugging off the memory and tossing the flowers in the direction of my new, paper bag garbage can. It landed short, but I wasn’t of a mood to care. Turning my attention back to the now smoking pan I began a quest for butter. A half used stick sat in the 1950’s fridge adjacent to the stove, and I unwrapped it sloppily before letting it fall into the pan. The mass hit with a scream, spitting molten fat across the top of the range, and igniting a small, arson-like riot under the coffeepot.

“Sheee-it!” I hissed, spinning around clumsily in the small space, blurry eyes searching for baking soda. There wasn’t much in the way of cupboard or counter space, so I knew instinctively it had to be nearby. And it was. Sitting on a crooked, split log shelf hanging above the flaming stove, just out of arms reach.

I ran for the bedroom, intent on retrieving my Remington from the wall. Slamming the bolt back as I ran, I ejected the ammo in one move just as I made the kitchen.

By now the shelf had caught fire, and I desperately swung the muzzle, clearing the shelf in one move. The bag of baking soda sailed through the air, exploding upon impact with the far wall. There wasn’t time for more than scooping it into another skillet, and overturning it on the flames until they eventually sputtered out.

Taking in the charred, soda covered kitchen with watering eyes, I felt rivers of soot running down my back and pooling in my underpants. I turned towards the bedroom, peeling off the filthy shirt just as my iPod shuffled to Willie. And that’s when I noticed it wasn’t mine. The shirt. Not only wasn’t it mine, but it was also a mens. Broad in shoulder, and Brioni. Willie clued me in as my jaw dropped.

“Oh my ...” I began, as both reality and the front door swung wide open. It was my neighbor, Josh, and his innocent boy next door looks were replaced with something more akin to ... was that victory?

“I’m impressed.” he stated, as if he had every right to just walk in my door. “Never took you for the type of wife to cook her man breakfast buck naked, but hey, I’m in, as long as you learn how. To cook that is.” he finished, nodding towards the kitchen.

“Oh hell no...” I whispered.

“Hell yeah!”, he replied with a wink, before waggling his left ring finger for my benefit. “It was your idea. Well, yours and the Tequila's.” he admitted. Then the bastard grinned.

Almost A Rant

2011-07-05T18:53:00.000-04:00

Do you ever get the feeling the entire world is stacked against you? That no matter what you do, or say, or how you behave, it’s never what the world at large wants.

Like Sanjaya.

Sure your a spectacle, but overall your kind of a talent-less nobody who melds swiftly back into obscurity, swallowed by the universe, and the masses flock to press you out.

Or how about the whole marriage thing? You reach that point where you’ve done the kid thing, and then your just faced with each other. The middle-aged, empty nest thing. Whomever you’ve turned into is a mish-mash of your spouse, the kids, and maybe the dog.

Remember that initial phase of crazy love, where you just can’t get enough of each other, and everything is butterflies and gold linings?

Fast forward 20 years. Do you find yourself sad over the knowledge that you’ll never get to experience that again?

Do you ever feel like you don’t even know who you are, never mind who they have become?

Somehow I believe there are more of us restless and sputtering married folk out there than we dare to admit.

What about you? Are you comfortable in your own skin? Do you find yourself wearing your clothes like an afterthought, or are you fidgeting and pulling, constantly aware of your age, your weight, and the fact you’ve lost your rank in society because you’ve somehow turned into the common “Ma’am”?

And then, sometimes I can’t help but wonder why women can bond so strongly, come together for their rights, and bend over backwards to accommodate everyone, yet when it comes to day to day living they divide, and single out the ones they feel most threatening. Even if it’s misperceived. Even if they have no reason. Even if they’ve been the one singled out before..... So they should know better.

It’s like elephants; the females flock in groups, running off those they perceive as not fitting in, while the males roam alone, possibly in doubles, but seemingly more content and at ease than their female counterparts.

I’m starting to think the guys know something we don’t.

Or maybe I’m just a rogue myself, only God put me in the wrong box, and somehow the other elephants sense I find their games, their gossip, their small worlds, ridiculous. I do better in pairs anyway, because other rogues are up for the adventure. No competition, no back biting jealousy; everything is out in the open for the world to see, and that’s just how it is, so nobody expects anything different.

Sometimes it’s really challenging to continue caring either way.

So I don’t write to appeal to everyone, or tell someone they’re fantastic when it’s clear they aren’t, even when everyone else is.

Kissing ass has never been my métier. I admit, I have trouble playing social games, because I’m the clear underdog. Some days I care, but mostly, not much, and I'm finding that really bugs some people. Why? It's not about them.

I’m always going to be too short, too old, too plain, too broke, too out-there with my thinking. My ability to hold status in this world has been reduced to being too “too”. That's really nobodies business to promote or rub in my face.

I mean seriously, don't they have lives of their own?

Isn’t it OK to be the person I was born as? Does one really have to conform and search for a compliment when asked their opinion, or presented with something they find lacking, rather than being honest, and thus possibly improving the situation, or at the very least opening the door to other possibilities? Why is that so threatening?

I’ll tell you what; Fuck It. All of it.

And those that’s aimed at know who they are. It’s that niggling sensation deep in your conscious admitting, “Yes. I found that threatening. It makes me less because I allow it to make me uncomfortable. And I’m uncomfortable because perhaps I did deserve it.”

That’s the funny thing about a conscious; you can lie to it all you want, but it’s going to know the truth. Actions don’t need words to deny they exist, or validate themselves. And who among us is so lofty that they haven’t been guilty of this very thing from time to time?

Not me.

So I leave you with this; I’m never going to be on the populars list, and I’ll likely offend people ... quite often. I’ve come to accept that. In the overall scheme of life’s duration, my actions, my mind, my words, are trivial in comparison to the people who affect others more profoundly, and on a much broader scale, with their inability to understand that it isn’t always about them.

Not about being Jewish or Christian. Not about being rich, or poor. Not about "currently popular and trending" v.s. "has-beens or wanna-bes". Not about anything we’ve labeled ourselves or others to be, so that we’re mentally somehow "better". Life, it would seem, makes room for all of us. Our egos, our actions, our social standing, or lack-there-of. So while I may be a gnat amongst horse flies, I’m not the only one. There are many of us out there; too plain, too old, too ... compelled to color outside the lines.

I’m willing to share my crayons, but that would require sitting next to me. On my level. There are a lot of us here, so standing out may have to give way to live and let live.

It’s a big world, and we have short lives, so I challenge everyone to grow a pair ... of legs. Evolve, and move from that small comfortable pond into the bigger picture. Sure you may find you’ve suddenly become smaller, but I guarantee your mind just expanded a hundred fold. Suddenly being “too” anything has become irrelevant, especially being too good to step into reality.

We all have choices.

We all have lives.

We all have worth.

We each create our own reality.

Prioritize.

Here’s a crayon to help get started..

Killer Show

2011-07-05T02:32:00.002-04:00

OK, I have been forced to offer a warning. If you lack an imagination, sense of humor, or easily get bent out of shape over The Catcher in the Rye.... skip this.

People always think something's all true.

One suggestion; salt, grain, take it with. I mean really. Like I preach condoning this character. Enough with the nasty emails about sacrificing morals and burning in Hell. Buy a funny bone, take a chill pill, and call me in the morning. BTW: It's a show on Showtime. I find Google handy .....

Don't take life so personally.

I'm just not that serious.

Really.

I don’t need you. Never have, but Oh Your Sirens Song!

I admit. I nurture a crimson crush that borders on obsession.

I even named my cat after you.

The play of your fingers across their flesh, it thrills me.

The look in your eyes when crime has crossed the line, my heart stops.

And in the end, it always does.

At first you were little more than a dirty secret,

Then you seduced me with your code,

And now when I see a gator .... I too want to feed it.

The four horsemen have nothing on you.

Neither evil brothers, politicians, nor even God,

Because now the world has started to ask .... WWDD?

It’s never good when you come knocking,

Nor when you go to sea, or adjust your air conditioning.

And through it all I sit watching, sometimes for hours, only to be left hanging.

What Will Dexter Do,

When the new season opens for hunting?

TV is something that people either watch a lot of or have definite feelings about. This week, we want you to think about a tv show from your past. Maybe you watched it, maybe you didn't and it was just something that everyone else talked about.

What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?

Keep it to 600 words

I decided to go this route because I was feeling lazy. More precisely, I'm hopped up on Benadryl, and my ability to commit declines in direct relation to how much I've taken.

I should have bought stock. It would have been cheaper.

If it's not your cup of tea ... try THIS.

.. and then you'll be thankful for this one.

Grace Has Nothing To Do With Aging.

2011-07-02T09:47:00.001-04:00

It has been forever since I posted anything remotely food related on my other blog. Which is a shame, because I’ve actually been doing crap. And by crap, I mean creating and baking .. Not, well ...

Anyhoot,

(Taking a line from The Boogey Man there - thanks Momma .. and like you need the advert. ;) )

The daughterling has officially turned 15. Aside from making me feel as old and dangly as some of the women in National Geographic, it has come to my attention that I am “officially”, officially off the “Cool People” list. Having never been aware I was ever even on it, never mind knowing that there is such a thing, I met the news with little more than a sigh as I scratched under my old lady boobs and hiked my grannie panties up to meet them.

I get to do that now; dress to fit the part. And have I mentioned the allergies? Well yes, at least I still have those, if not my dignity.

So let’s see, where am I with everything ...hhmmm? Well, due to my extraordinary ability to turn anything into a sloth-fest of laziness and confusion, I’m going the nutshell route. Again. (Suck it up and deal, I’m incapable of behaving at the moment. Benadryl does weird things with my meds. ~~And the fuchsia, lederhosen wearing elephant walking across my ceiling playing the part of a gay Maria in The Sound of Music is~~ ~~really~~ ~~starting to become a distraction.~~)

As I was saying; Nutshell.

Had job at bakery. Quit to work at tea house. Quit working at tea house to go back to work at the bakery because tea house owner was mad as a hatter - Bah-dum-dum. Discovered the more I worked, the less others were inclined to, which utterly stressed me out and forced me to consume mass quantities of yummies. Then I got fat, which made me angry, and I don’t do angry and fat in any sort of reasonable way, so either someone had to die, or find a job. Then I reasoned being angry, fat, and incarcerated probably wasn’t much of a solution, thus I did the only sensible thing I could; I quit my job. Now I can’t afford food, and the afore mentioned individual, whom I’ll call Bupkiss, could likely escape should a foot pursuit take place, because now I’m so weak I couldn't catch Bupkiss if he was both lame and blind.

Problem solved.

That last bit may have been a lie. Maybe. The thing I’ve found with men is they are biologically geared to block out a woman’s voice .. Unless she’s saying something like,
“I ruv you rong time! You rike-a boom, boom, yes?” ... But where does that get me? So I’ve gone the Greek route ... now say it with me, “The man is the head of the family, but the woman is the neck, and the neck can turn the head any direction it needs.”

The head needed turning. I turned it. Beats breaking it. Everybody wins.

End of nutshell; The head turning has been effective to an extent, and I still have the option of going back to the bakery.

Which, if anyone read back a few posts, might leave one wondering how that’s possible.

Answer; I'm freakin Wonder Woman.

Truthful Answer; Situations were hammered out and I agreed to finish out my two weeks. We even went to dinner, which I slopped all over myself because I ordered a spicy noodle soup, and all they gave me to eat it with were chopsticks. That’s not even the odd part .. because it was a Chinese restaurant. The thing is, I typically use chopsticks at home to eat, so you would think I could pull it off without looking like a convulsing manatee.

Nope. Didn’t happen. Score two on the uncool scale.

The chopsticks at home? It’s a thing. You’ll get over it, my husband has. In my defense; did you know they sell packages of disposable chopsticks for super cheap? Well, they do, and now I won’t waste a fortune in missing silverware my children insist they’ve never touched. (And judging by the carpets, they may be telling the truth.)

Though to clarify, by silverware I mean; Made In China --which translates into "tin, and possibly lead silverware."

At least the chopsticks don’t contain lead, cause I’m not needing anymore crazy.

Anywhat,

(Really, thanks Momma, I’ve expanded my vocabulary.)

Made nice with boss lady, and am sitting around rotting. Also sneezing. Possibly drooling. Most definitely looking like a glazed over crank whore, only without the “whoring” perk.

(Yes dad, that was a joke. Me make funny rong time!)

So, back to the point. Daughter 15, been baking, turning heads, no whoring. (At least none I’ve been conscious of.)

I made Wednesday (daughter) an ice cream cake for her birthday, because let’s face it, what they sell at the store is NOT cake. It’s rabbit poo ensconced in a robe of shortening and red dye #5. My girl had a chocolate cake with French vanilla ice cream and a chocolate ganache, Swiss butter cream.

That’s how I got fat.

I’ll make another and post the recipe and how to’s. Because my ass really needs it’s own zip code, and fat loves company. I would love for someone to try it and tell me what they think.

I also have to apologise to Wednesday. She didn't appreciate my comments on her texting a few posts back.

Because she's 15, and I'm uberly unfunny, and she will totally only text to two people at a time, and doesn't need any one's approval. Just FYI. Now you know.

(... unless she wants a purse from a shop too girly for her to be seen in... so she makes someone else go get it for her. But that's an inside joke, and likely just as unamusing as ever.)

Hhhmmm. My bad.

And for those of you with visual needs;

The Last Card

2011-07-01T04:28:00.001-04:00

You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad. What does it say? How does it affect you or your character? What is done with it?

Keep your posts to 600 words.

I write about him far too often. Probably. The thing is, sometimes the holes people leave in your life are louder than the actual person, and when their voice is silenced, the echos remain. These echos cling to personal items, old cards, photographs, like cobwebs on your heart. Invisible tickles you grasp blindly for, desperate to locate their maker.

My brother’s echo is growing fainter, so I cling to every last thing; cards, old shoes, photographs; straining to find every lost word, and protect it. Forever.

He was never one to send a birthday card, but he kept every one I had ever sent. Every letter, every token. I hold them now, tied in a ribbon and secreted away. I’m thankful I’m a card sender, because the knowledge that they were precious to him renews that connection.

There was a card he participated in once. That last birthday of mine before he died. A scribble alongside my parents signatures, “I hope you have a good birthday. Have fun, and I’ll see you soon.”

I never saw him again.

His suicide was 9 days before Christmas; 3 months after turning 28, only 58 days after mine. His life has become a calendar of events; buried 11 days after he died, 2 days after Christmas. He’s been gone 2 1/2 years. It feels like forever; it feels like yesterday. All I have left are cobwebs, and that card. I would run into a burning house to save it because I know there will never be another to replace it. Priorities shift when life grabs your attention.

I’m still a card sender, and I keep everything now. Photos, tokens, memories, and I pity the individual that will someday have to sort it. But let it not be said that I didn’t give as much as I got, because I understand now the significance. Better to have cobwebs to contend with than nothing. Better to have echos, than no voice at all.

Pourquoi?

2011-06-30T19:31:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I ask myself why I can’t seem to wrangle even 200 readers, but then, it’s never been about the numbers, and I certainly don’t feel I have enough going on to warrant a daily post. Like a lot of people, I don’t like reading those blogs that are always overflowing with “My life sucks, here is ANOTHER pic of my child, and link up! ... But only if your a ginger with glandular disease who’s parents wear socks with their Birkenstocks. (AKA: GGDPSB syndrome / disease.)” ... Or similar, because it seems that everything now connecting us to people outside our own home seems to be due to a disease or syndrome, or other such tragedy, and never just because we moved in next door. And yes, I’ve been guilty of blathering on about mental health, unemployment, crap jobs, and my brothers suicide, but not on every post.

I guess my point is, why do we blog? Are we just trying to connect in this digital age where social media has retarded our ability to interact face to face? Or are we just so busy now trying to do and be everything that we have no time for those old neighborhood BBQ’s or events? I mean, ask yourself, do you remember when every family knew all the other families in a neighborhood, and some even interacted regularly? Anymore, block parties have gone the way of the VHS. You remember them, but you haven’t seen one in ages, and your kids lift puzzled eyes when you try to introduce the concept. Why would they engage in anything where they have to make a physical effort to entertain themselves when they have “family plans” and streaming Netflix 24/7 on their social media umbilicus; the cell phone?

For instance, my daughter is incapable of carrying on a conversation with only one person at a time. If she doesn’t have 3 or 4 other people on a textversation she feels slighted and ignored. I’ve even watched as her and her friends sit in a group and text each other ... Right there, in the same room! Instead of the hum of conversation all you hear is the clickity-click-BUZZZZZZ of texting. She even "meets" people texting. .. I have no idea. Ask her.

W.T.F.? Really? (And don’t get me started on people incapable of writing an actual sentence that doesn’t read like; R U goin 2 mall? K thx! OMW.)

But there I go off on a rant. Hypocrisy, thy name is moi.

I think I blog because for much of my life I had no voice, and while raising my kids I have been on my own. There was no help from neighbors, or family, and the isolation drove me mad. Connecting with a few other women in the same situation gives me something to look forward to. (Fellow GGDPSB’ers, for example.) Then there are the obnoxiously funny bloggers I love to read, because many times it’s the highlight of my day. I honestly had no idea you could make friends blogging, and the few I’ve made are that tiny last thread of sanity sometimes. In my offline-life I struggle to make friends. I’m an odd bird, that’s for sure. I observe and watch, saying little until I understand those I’m dealing with .... Because it’s been my experience that my personality isn’t for the manicured masses. Things come out of my mouth that amuse a few, but horrify others. That, and I'm a horrible liar anymore. If it's ugly, makes your butt look fat, or I simply don't like you, you're going to know, no matter how hard I try to contain it.

I sit in barns, like playing with paint and clay, hiking in the back country and jumping off piers if the mood so strikes .. Sunday school dress be damned ... It’ll dry .. And it’s not like I made it to church anyway ... Far too many distractions along the way .. And what was I doing wearing a dress in the first place? Like I said, I'm not for everyone.

I have to wonder what my bloggy friends would think if they ever actually met me. OY. Maybe I don’t want to know. The few friends I have that I actually interact with personally are as varied as pebbles on a shore.

Jojo; Pippi Longstockings. Her goats and chickens, cats and bunnies, sometimes a pig and always the parrots, are as common in her living room as they are in the barn. A drinking wine out of a Mason jar redneck with a talent for design and a heart as big as anything. If I didn’t have a husband I would probably be living next door, so we could share animals.

Kim; The Chicago girl. Her vocabulary is as big as the Louvre, and she actually knows what that is. A fellow painting friend from my studio days. A current clam stomping walker of beaches. The things we find amusing .. Sigh. But she’ll jump off a pier with you, and you can’t beat that. NYC, Madison Square Garden, the Sting concert ... Traveling with you is awesome! When I win the lottery we’re going to Russia.

P.B. Currently in Ecuador, he travels the world, sometimes with a boyfriend, sometimes not. I almost met up with him in Nepal ... But I had babysitting duty. A heart as funny as a unicorn wearing fishnets with a talent for flatulence involving rainbows. And that Viking funeral. Lordy! We spent hours constructing a paper boat driven by paper clips and rubber bands only to set it sailing and ablaze at the marina. (It may or may not have contained a body.) ... I was so young then. 30.

Sarah, Jenn, and Courtney; I can’t believe we never got expelled. All geniuses in a bakery. Southern Sarah and I can gab for hours, and I’m not a gabber. Jenn and her quest for fun; saran wrapping chef’s Mercedes, classroom water fights, and a Key West lifestyle. Courtney; an educated redneck with smiles to share. Tattoos and bikinis, yoga wear and chef jackets. How you do it is pure talent.

L.R. The gypsy. Or steam punk. Take your pick. Intellectual, modern, yet her heart is traveling in a wagon. Another studio maven capable of staying up all night painting and laughing. You really need to move out of the city and closer to us. We have haunted houses here .... ;)

Stacy; Military wife, chef, club goer and Ikea shopper. Given unlimited funds we would live at Ikea, and I'm not a shopper. Some people you meet and just fall into friendship. She wears formal dresses and attends balls. I wear overalls and seldom wear shoes. She's a classical beauty, I'm average on a good day, provided I brush my hair. Fun, silly and sweet to my overboard, odd, and blunt. Somehow it works.

I understand that this post is an utter contradiction in and of itself, but I’m not trying to debate any point here. I’m just wondering, why do you blog, or read blogs? Is this the new global block party? Do you feel you have no voice, or are you one of those individuals with a loud, far reaching voice? Maybe just a social butterfly on a large scale?

Though this will probably be one of those posts that quietly melts into the archives unread, I am curious.

Why do you blog?

Attention? Human contact? A way to be heard? Looking for friends? What?

Forgiven

2011-05-20T14:30:00.001-04:00

Another week, another deadly sin.

For this week's prompt, let's talk about sloth.

Please write a piece - fiction or non-fiction - based on Sloth. Word limit is 600.

I adore slothfulness. If my husband had a job I would indulge in such an act at least once a week, maybe twice, letting one idle day linger into the next. In fact, I think there should be a day every year set aside and endorsed by all nations, for this very sin. It’s something that transcends culture, race, religion, or political beliefs. By it’s very nature it is likely one of man-kinds most beloved and enjoyed activities, and it’s good for your self esteem.

Stay with me here.

On International Slothfulness Day, sleeping in would be standard protocol. There would be no “getting ready”. No phones would ring, highways would be deserted, and if a baby cried the tellie would blink on thanks to a special ISD version of The Clapper. (I’m working on it as I type.) There would be no pressure to work, eat right, or look good. People like Gisele Bundchen would unleash pot bellies, Oprah would start an Oprah’s Muumuu Club, and even terrorists would take the day off for fear of mass virginal retribution.

“No Ahmed! We must not to blow ourselves up this day, or all our virgins will look like camels!”

“But Abbud, I find the camels to be very enchanting ..”

“Ahmed! I am not talking about Arabian camels, as these are indeed very enchanting, I refer to Camelus bactrianus, the infidel camel of Eastern Asia.”

“Are these camels laden or unladen ...?”

Sloth is very distracting. As demonstrated, this can be a positive thing. Quite simply, sloth-dome is uncondusive to bullying, vanity, gluttony, lust, greed, and politics. (Correction, slothdome is the very essence of politics.) This makes everyone happy, even the camels, but possibly not gold-diggers and prostitutes. I dare say even God endorses sloth, because this whole Day of Rest thing was his idea.

Aside from these positive aspects, I can think of no better motivator for today’s youth.

“Drop out, start smoking, eat McDonalds and get someone pregnant!”

In this instance rebellion could actually spark a positive trend in this country.

“Hell to the no mom! I’m going to Harvard, swearing of partying, converting to Mormonism, and becoming vegan!”

...OK, maybe that vegan part was a bit much.

Regardless, my point has been made. Sloth by it’s very nature has more positives than negatives in my view. We are born, hit middle age, stress over everything we failed at, get old, and then die. Life is nothing if not a rapid slide into eternal sloth-dome. (Does the term “rest in peace” ring a bell?) What would our lives be like if the main goal was to remain in our natural states, fat as a baby, happy, and content with where we’re at?

I endorse sloth. Whomever decided it was a sin had obviously never given it a fair shake. Sloth is the primordial ooze from which we crept. We gravitate towards it to find release and inner peace from the havoc of this world and it’s trappings. Sloth is nothing if not nirvana.

Don’t believe me? Then ask yourself this, what are you doing right now .... And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.

A Mother Nose

2011-05-17T08:20:00.001-04:00

I think we've been too nice to you.

It's time for another image prompt.

Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see this:Keep it under 700 words, please.

And remember...Memoir means memory. It's all about you and your life. First person. NO fiction.

I’ve a nose that can smell the stink on a fly a mile away. When you hear the term “Mama Bear”, they’re referring to the mother’s ability to sniff out trouble her cubs mistakenly believed they have hidden. Thus it was no surprise I immediately detected the scent of old smoke in a cheap hotel the second my son stepped into the house. Make no mistake though, I had seen the signs, and read them like a shaman stalking invisible demons. The lighter. The pack of some random “friend’s” smokes. The cologne in his car, and the growing pile of gum wrappers tucked between his bed and the wall. I may have lost a few brain cells as I pushed him into this world, but I had a few left, and dang if they weren’t all filled to the rim with Bloodhound DNA. It’s God’s way of keeping Mama one step ahead of those cubs.

He was out with friends when I came to face his reality, the scent of this new habit still clinging to the air outside his bedroom door. Brow furrowed, I had tapped his door open with angry fingertips, inhaling stale air uncleverly veiled with Fabreeze and incense. In through my nose it rolled, then across my tongue before I snorted it out, a warning huff. Like some X-File freak of nature I had crept across his room, snorting and huffing my way to a dresser I knew was void of clothes. I pulled the first drawer open slowly, as though the unseen demon that had seduced my child might jump out, confirming my fears.

Nothing.

I opened the next, and before it had fully opened it unleashed its secrets. A belch of brimstone and Vegas hanging naked in the air before me.

Rage. Fury. Frustration. All joined the stale pout of cigarettes that now cloaked me inside a well of hurt. I had taught him better. Had protected him with my life, in fact, given him life. My heart broke as my hands reacted, searching for this thing that had infected my son. They found them secreted away inside an old prescription bottle; crinkled black butts gently tapping against the brown plastic. There were eight of them. Cautiously I popped the lid, and was struck with a deluge of rancid smoke cavorting with certain death. His death.

He walked in the front door just after 3 a.m. as I sat waiting for him, the offending bottle given a good shake to turn his attention to the corner where I sat in my own darkness.

He vomited excuses my ears no longer heard.

I had but one response, “I don’t care how, or why, but I do care about you, and you’ve broken my heart.”

A mothers heart is a powerful beast.

We talked until the sun rose. He deflecting, dodging my every point and question. Stating he wasn’t allowed to smoke was no longer a tool in my motherly arsenal. He was 18, and shame alone was no longer a viable threat. I had to resort to psychological warfare, and I had to play fair or I would loose him. My tactics turned from search and destroy to listen and learn. I told him I wasn’t asking if he smoked, but rather I was letting him know I knew, and here’s what we’re going to do about it. It’s a hard transition for a mother to make, this turning of a life’s page, when your child becomes his own person, an equal on life’s stage. I acknowledged he enjoyed them, while he admitted they were a bad choice. We discussed our options, and tried to find a mutual agreement. I would help him in any way possible, but he had to put in the effort.

I would like to say its been a success, but tobacco is a greedy friend. There are good days and bad, but as long as there is honesty there is hope. For now that has to be enough, and I watch as a mother watches. Fretting, worrying, and hoping this cub can find his way back out of the briar patch and into my eager arms.

Remember to Have Fun

2011-05-16T17:58:00.000-04:00

The rabbit hole is full of worms, because the great cosmic jokers have opened several cans of them. Though worms are useful, I still find the whole situation turning my stomach.

Here’s the low down on life as it is at the moment. I initially put in my two week notice at the bakery. The distance I drive didn’t make sense with the days and pay I was getting. So, while out trolling about town on our 19th wedding anniversary .. because we had $8 available to spend, we happened upon a Tea House / Chocolate shop. The Gomez wanted a chocolate, so in we go. Aside from the gratuitous draping of lace everywhere, every floral print ever made was smeared around like sweet jelly. It was pretty hard to stomach. Anyhow, after picking out one chocolate each Gomez begins engaging the cashier in conversation. I wandered off. Then I hear Gomez asking if they were looking for help, because his wife is a chef and a baker, and they need me. So somehow I was wrangled into agreeing to work for them ... We’re broke y’all. I really didn’t have a choice.

After spending more of my life within those walls than I ever should have, I get an offer from the bakery. Full time, $1 raise (be still my heart :P) and the offer to pay for gas. So I agree to that and bid the Tea House farewell. Aside from never being paid, the gossip, sociopathic mentality, and utter stupidity on menu planning .. I come to the realization that I’m not going to work there long. (The owner told me how she has a break down about twice a week, so I better expect to come in on my days off ... AND she HATES the food industry ... AND if her new ideas to turn the Tea House into a Bistro don’t work, it’s ALL MY FAULT. Aside from the fact she’s crazy, her idea of a menu is completely off track, and the concept was ridiculous. That’s another story.)

So back to the bakery I go.

And here I am. The gas help was cut in half .. Seems it’s pricy these days. :::really?!::: I’m just an hour or two short of full time so no benefits. Least of all, I’ve been assigned the 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. bake. NOT what I had agreed to. Not. At. All. To say it’s taken a toll on a marriage and family that has already been through the wringer is a colossal understatement. That, and my body is toast. Trying to sleep in the day in this house is not an option. Besides, the concept of 8 to 4 is lovely, but it’s not reality. I’m not allowed to come in earlier, and with the work load I’m lucky to get out by 5 / 6. The hours spent commuting don’t help. I have time to get home, sleep for a few hours, get up, eat one meal a day, take a shower, and go back to work. Which is why this week I’ll give my second notice. I’m done. Out of three adults in the house I’m the only one who has worked since we got here about a year ago. Suffice it to say I’m done. Time for someone else to get a job. So, by June 9th I’ll be unemployed. Again. But, I don’t care.

I really, truly don’t.

I understand it sounds like I’m ungrateful and discontent. I’m not. The fact is, life is short. Busting my butt to work this hard physically at my age isn’t an option anymore. When I first started culinary school I had a wonderful Chef my first quarter. He told us again and again, “Remember to have fun. Do your work, but remember to have fun. Life is too short to not enjoy what you’re doing.” I typed it up and printed the saying, “Remember to have fun”. I posted these little notes all over my house, and during the next three years I had those staring back at me when I wasn’t. When the classes were hard and the pressure was intense. When we were cheated out of our company by the “buyer”. When my dog and favorite goat died, when my brother committed suicide, when my husband lost his job, when we were forced into bankruptcy, when we lost the house, the cars, my goats, our dignity. When the kids had melt downs, or were arrested, or rushed to the hospital due to drug use. When many friends abandoned me, and some family, and when I nearly lost my battles with depression. Those little notes made all the difference. Hope really is that simple.

Since the move I only have one left, but I have it stuck to my bathroom mirror. Every “morning” I see it, and am reminded that no matter how horrible things have gotten, it’s still my choice whether I have fun or not. It doesn’t mean being irresponsible, and I don’t intend to be, but I do need to reclaim this life of mine. The last time my life held even a smidgen of “normal” was back around 2000. My 30’s have been a nightmare. This Summer I turn 39, and in my mind it’s time for a change. The jail sentence is over. I’m done being the reliable one, the responsible one, the only one. I need to start focusing on what I enjoy doing. Writing, painting, walking barefoot, laughing. I’ve already lost most everything, so I have little to lose. (See, a positive!) I’ve lost the roof over my head once, the clothes off my back, family. I can’t fix all of it and I’m no longer willing to try. I’ll mend what I can, work on the important things in life, and go from there. I’ll still be “mom”, the wife, a sister, but no longer will I be the scared scape goat. I took a huge gamble in moving across the country during all the above, and it hasn’t paid off yet, but we’re still alive. I don’t know if we’ll be able to make rent next month, or how we’ll buy groceries or pay the utilities. Worrying about it won’t change it. I know this fact better than anything. It’s my new “normal”. So I’m letting go of the chips and letting them fall where they will. Sometimes when your house of cards has been crushed, burnt, spit on, and scattered into the winds it’s time to let go. No amount of glue or tape is going to restore what’s been lost, sometimes it’s simply time to buy a new pack of cards. Maybe this go round I’ll get medicine cards instead of poker.

For the time being I’ll work out my days until I’m done in June. I have to look at it like a learning experience. At least I’m learning something, and I’ve already learned that I’m tired of settling. Nothing is worth killing yourself over. Literally.

Life is short. It’s time to have fun, or at least enjoy what you do. Now.

Kidding

2011-05-10T09:13:00.001-04:00

So this week, we want you to write about sand.

Yes...sand.

It doesn't have to be summer-related.

The buzz of cicadas vibrated off shimmying waves of heat, rolling across the bone white sand like whispers across an ocean. There, and then not, vanishing like ghosts into a cloudless aqua sky. It was kidding season, and my doe sat sleepily under the Florida scrub pine, quietly chewing her cud and bleating softly to her unborn babes. The air was thick and heavy across my brow, drowning each breath with buckets of humidity. I didn’t envy this girl for what was waiting to happen. From somewhere around the barn the echo of chickens scrapping for prime roosting spots interrupted the calm, punctuating the heat with indications of the chaos about to ensue. I was pulled from my half-sleeping state to alertness, absently brushing gnats from my face as I toed the soft earth. It was here this mama was going to be giving birth. Here, in this silky southern sand under acres of sky. I could think of no better place to be on earth at this time than with my gentle goat, and her liquid brown eyes.

Once the sun had fallen from it’s pedestal and begun it’s westward journey I knew it would be soon. I knew this girl just as sure as I knew this land. We were all a part of it, this great circle of life thing. I could almost hear it whispered amongst the tree boughs..

*“ Si-yo Nqoba! In-go-ny-ama-ba-ba!" .... From the day we arrived on the planet, and blinking, step into the sun ..”

I started humming to myself, “There’s more to be seen than can ever be seen, More to be done than can ever be done...”

I had it alright. Baby fever. Not human babies, but pygmy goat babies. Goat babies that were already making themselves known in the soft groans their mother was now susurrating. I went to her, crossing patches of crab grass and coral sand until I stood quietly by her side. We had a connection, Buttercup and I. As I squatted to rub her boney head she softly welcomed me with a a questioning, “Maaa-a-a-a?” She knew something was up, and I like to think I comforted her. So, sitting cross legged I now held her head in my lap, grit and stickers making themselves at home in every crease. There we sat, herdess and mother, waiting for nature to gift us with innocence.

An hour or more passed before I saw the shift in her body, the promise of impending birth. It was time to make that walk to the barn, so standing I heaved her onto her feet. It was a slow walk, interspersed with stops to nibble on squeaky grass and stare at the sky. Mothers in labor are like this. Dreamy, hungry, and not all there. By the time we had made it to her stall she was squatting and pushing as she walked, offering bleats of displeasure to anyone willing to listen. I left her for just moments to run back to the house and get my daughter. Four hands are always better.

“MAAA-A-A-A-A-A-A!!” “Where are you going?”, she cried, no doubt shaking her head at human timing.

Upon returning to the barn, Buttercup was presenting a growing bubble from her back-end. It was time. Now. The pushing began, and I checked as two tiny feet and a nose played peek-a-boo. Next it was wet, sandy, and pine shavings covered everything as three babies came into this world. A girl, a girl, and then a boy. Each was dried by eager hands as Buttercup licked her hello’s in help. By the time the moon had brushed aside the heat of the day, all three were running on wobbly stilts across the stall. Trying a side jump here, a short sprint there, and the occasional head butt to mama’s udder. The circle was complete. Day had become night, and there in the soft shadows of the barn I nodded sleepily. Three little bodies soon joined me for a quick nap, legs folding in unpracticed collapse. Feeding time would have us up soon enough I figured, as the soft puff of Buttercup’s kisses pulled us deeper into slumber. Five warm bodies on beds of sand; happy, content, deep in dreamland.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Thanks for stopping by. I've got a crazy new graveyard schedule that's running me ragged. I will get by commenters blogs, just not until Friday, when I'm able to think straight. Thanks for your patience.

*ba-ba emphasis added.

Baby Want Back

2011-05-05T04:15:00.000-04:00

Aaah...jealousy. We all have it. We all feel it.

And now we'd like you to write about it. We'll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.

And it can be fiction or non-fiction. Word limit is 600.

Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at her butt ....

I could have gone several directions with this, because I’m a troll seething with the desire to break every known commandment. Thus I choose a lighter tone, because I feel jealousy is utterly human, a product of the frivolous side of humanity. As such, I have chosen a superficial jealousy; this baby ain’t got back.

A product of anglo booty-lacking ancestry, I genetically resemble an angel fish with boobs. I have no butt. None. Hips? Oh baby! I have hips to spare, but how that’s physically possible without even the slightest hint of a booty? Well, God has a strange sense of humor, and he’s also quite the magician.

I was in first grade when I first noticed Latina girls had butts. I remember being glad mine was so small, because that must make it harder to spank. Then came high school, and suddenly it’s all I wanted for Christmas.

“Santa, please give me a bubble-butt.”

I was consumed with butt lust. Heck, even my sister has a tiny bubble-butt, and it drove me insane.

"I want a bubble-butt. Where’s my butt?"

Life was so unfair. I was like Pee Wee in the midst of his stolen bicycle obsession; everyone had one but me.

I would like to claim I’ve gotten past that phase, but as JLo is my witness, I still desperately cling to the belief that at some point my hind end will wake up and be all,

“OMG! I totally missed puberty! So sorry-so sorry, I’m on it!”

Then POP, a bootalicious hiney bursts forth from some long dormant gene. I start “Lalala-ing” like Snow White, bells ring, and birdies flit about chirping their praise to God now that all is right in the world.

Whenever I see a woman with a butt that fills out her jeans I quietly hide my flat, wide butt behind my hands in shame. My eyes turn into dewy Precious Moments Character eyes, and I cry like the anti-litter Indian.

:::Silently mouthing "Why?!!":::

However, whenever I see a woman with a butt you could serve tea on, all I can do is hiss to myself, “You have no idea what you have lady!”

.... Acting like having a popper butt is a bad thing.

*scoff - pish*

“Oh I just can’t find jeans that fit.”

“I exercise and exercise, and it just gets perkier!”

Wah. That must really suck lemons.

See this space behind my back? No? EXACTLY. It’s where Zwicky first discovered Dark Matter. I was at a Dairy Queen in Pasadena when he got in line behind me, next thing I know he’s ranting, pointing, and jabbering in Swedish.

“Inte där! Inte där! Det finns inte!”

.. Or something like that. Point is, I have no butt, and I desperately want one people can detect with the naked eye. It’s a shallow desire that could be alleviated by a trip to the nippy-tuck, but that’s not the same. Like Pinocchio, I want a real butt.

(Maybe that’s stretching it, but it’s my vice.)

So all you babes with back, be thankful for what the good Lord gave you.

Shake it, shake it ....

Little in the middle but she got much back

:::wook-wooka-wook-wook:::

Enjoy your rice and beans ... damn Kallipygos.

I have some lemons that need tending.

Shouting at the Devil. And Popcorn.

2011-04-29T09:59:00.001-04:00

This week, we want fightin' words.

Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions?

Show us. Use emotion. Description. If it's a fist fight, what did it feel like to hit someone - or be hit? What does it feel like to be screamed at - or get the silent treatment?

This can be fiction or non-fiction. Your choice.

Come back Friday and link up!

Upon opening my eyes I was face to face with Nikki Sixx; mouth frozen into an angry snarl, and the sign of the devil as much as flipping me the bird as it was proclaiming “I sold my soul, because I’m a 20-something mental troll.” This was, I realized as I rolled away from the newest poster to grace my wall, all my sisters doing. She was in 8th grade, while I rotted in 7th; a wickedly potent age for hormonal explosions.

I hated Mötley Crüe as much as she worshiped their mile high 80’s whore hair. If I wasn’t under the firm belief the basement was haunted, I would have happily taken up shelter amongst the dusty bottled fruit and power-saws occupying the creepy space. As it was, I was currently imprisoned with a being who was once my sister. With puberty came the pleather studded belts, painted on jeans with strategically located rebel rips, and eyeliner applied according to gross weight, as opposed to a reasonably sensible location. Aqua Net was as essential to survival as was air, though if push came to shove, the Net ruled with it’s “Extra Super Hold Fresh Fragrance”, iron fist.

::PpppppPppSsssSSSSsssHhhhhHhHhhhhhttT!::

::cough, cough::

I was the jock. T-shirt and sweats adorned, my choice of lifestyle was the catalyst for numerous clashes between good and evil .. evil being anything remotely related to Mötley Poü, and this, this invasion of the Sixx onto what was OBVIOUSLY MY wall space left me with no recourse but to assemble my mental SheRa and get all Grey Skull on her willowy ass. This, despite the full foot advantage she had in height, because in 7th grade I weighed a mighty 65 lbs., standing well under 5 feet. But I was scrappy, and she was constricted by pants that only allowed for minimum exertion and 40% mobility. (BTW: thanks boob-high Jordache!)

As luck would have it she was already gone before I ripped his stapled mug from the wall, and rolled out of bed to get ready for school. It was the usual routine; she set the shared alarm clock so low that unless you were in bed with her, your weren’t going to hear it across the room. She was up, ready, and gone with her gaggle of glaring, obnoxious friends before I even gained consciousness. Missing the bus was my usual routine. But it had snowed again that night, and the two mile hike to school wasn’t warming my cockles to the prospect of her survival beyond 14.

After a day of blatantly ignoring each others existence at our antiquated education facility, we came home to an announcement; the parentals were going out for the evening, and Aqua Lungs and I were stuck babysitting the five other siblings until they decided to come back. In my defense, I did try to avoid her. But.

After having fed, changed, and rounded up the little ones, we tried to settle into an amicable bundle of youth on the living room couch to watch Christmas specials. Rudolph was found, and the popcorn popper was brought out, filling the house with contented wafts of holiday merriment. That’s how it started. Popcorn. Aqua Lungs insisted we coat the popcorn with roughly three pounds of Lowry’s seasoning; the rest of us just wanted butter and table salt. Back and forth it went until “Lungs” opened the bulk container of Lowry’s and heaved it into the bowl of still steaming popcorn. From somewhere in a far corner came a wail of dismay from behind the youngest’s binkey.

I remember snatching the bowl from the counter, hugging it to my chest and getting a nose full of Lowry’s. The resulting sting crept up my sinuses like a fiery caterpillar before zombafying my brain and painting my vision red. Then there was the invasion of ratted hair as it came at me, fueled on by a chorus of mentally orchestrated demons singing “Shout at the Devil”. I became uncorked. Well seasoned, but uncorked none the less.

Lungs was a slapper, and the pitty-pat flapping bounced off my head and shoulders like a wet fish dying on hot cement. Sure some of them stuck, but for the most part she was doomed. Years of Tomboy wrestling and uncle taught fisticuffs were unleashed. The fight had just gone from barnburner to below the belt. Naturally I bum rushed her, but what I saw was the image of Nikki Sixx that had stared back at me from the wall that morning. I steeled my wrists and drew back, leveling a solid cross. Her body in that instant became frail in my minds eye; delicate bones protected by only the thinnest ribbons of flinching muscle. This was not the seemingly solid wall of flesh I was used to meeting when goofing off. This was different. This is what it felt like to hit a girl. While I stood there with the sudden realization of how cowardly a guy had to be to beat on something this soft, this “frail” Nikki returned, and sucker punched me in the chest.

Now, I’m all for reaping that which you sow, karma, and what goes around coming back around, but we were both girls, and she deliberately crossed that line. Without a second thought to delicate bones I rammed her with my shoulder, running her backwards from the kitchen and into the living-room. She was no longer just a girl, she became ground zero to 65 pounds of temperamental fury. I the Tasmanian devil to Popeye’s Olive Oil. Pinning her squirming, thin frame between my runners legs and sitting atop her, I went pound for pound. The popcorn bowl that was somehow still in my arms exploded, sending greasy snowflakes all about the living room. The little ones wavered between cheering us on to crying confusedly. It was chaos; screaming, smacking, kicking, crying.

Marsha Brady would have wet her pants.

I don’t know how long the fighting raged before I felt myself being lifted bodily from her squirming afroed self. Still kicking and swinging like an alley cat hopped up on blow and set afire, I was quickly rotated towards the very angry face of my dad. Now, imagine if you will; Grizzly Adams and Dirty Harry have a love child. The resulting progeny would be my dad, and at that moment he was somewhere between royally ticked off and jail bound. Thankfully the hide tanning was less involved than the cat fight. As for Nikki and Aqua Net; life has a way of erasing ugly details, and thankfully my sister and I get a good laugh over our misspent youth. It’s been many years since our last fistfight, and from all indications we’ll be able to go many more without reliving the night of Devil Shouting and popcorn.

ROCK ON!

Yeah, I get that it's the royal wedding today, and I probably could have taken more time with this .. BUT. I'm now working 7 pm to 5 am .. and guess when I had the time to do this.

Night y'all.

Chosen Legacy

2011-04-26T04:33:00.001-04:00

Forewarning: Not everyone is going to be comfortable reading this. Though there is nothing graphic, I've found that in writing about some aspects of mental health, it can leave many people uncomfortable, and they run screaming from it. What I wish to get across here is the reality of it. The need for people to stop running and face the reality so may of us live with. I hope you can overcome the "ugh, not this .." factor. Because it's life, and it's all about perspective and knowledge.

My biological father is seductively malicious, as evil has a warped sense of humor. From him I was bequeathed my demons, and in turn I unknowingly imparted them upon my children. Such is the lineage of mental health; a force of nature, ironic, survivable.

The first time I was 12, and out of sheer ignorance I lived to see the sunrise. And again, at 13, 14, 15, continuing to now; my existence is the suicidal burden of mental health. Unsuccessful, but sincerely attempted each time my demons became unreasonably loud. In my right mind I would never gift the pain of suicide onto anyone. However, when compulsions lay waste my resolve I am at the mercy of my mind. Because suicide is never about the burden of grief put upon family, but an all consuming force, as natural as the body’s drive to heal itself; your soul must put right that which threatens it. The only answer; escape, because unlike the body, souls aren’t auto-mending.

Irony is an inclination towards hope and joy housed within the same vessel as depression. A sunflower planted amongst thorns can still thrive. The fact I’m as drawn towards light as I am into darkness isn’t lost on me. It’s the radial reach of darkness I find unforgivable. Its biological beginnings, the contagious bruising of friends and family, the scratch which my children now bear. The fact that I, the committer, am a survivor of not just my own, but also of my brothers suicide. I’ve experienced both sides of that coin; driven to destruction, then surviving to feel the sting of his loss. It’s something I’ll ruminate until the battle ends.

With this great weight of depression has come knowledge, and initially my heart couldn’t grasp this blessing. Only through time and trial have I come to discern the value of my shortcomings. Without firsthand knowledge of the how’s and why’s there would be no recovery from his death. Anger, and a feeling of soul-clenching amputation will always persist, but unlike many others I have an understanding that it wasn’t my fault, and essentially he is at peace. His death was a portal over which I became the gatekeeper. It’s been my charge to lead family through the murky waters of mental health, so that they might better understand his choice for themselves. More importantly, this knowledge has alerted me to my children’s distress. Without knowing where to walk, or how to proceed, I would never have seen their own mental demons screaming down the pike. Because some things have to be believed to be seen; to live it is to know it, and understanding is the key to believing in the unseen. It is only through my experiences I have the knowledge that suicide is avoidable, survivable. That despite how deep a depression can go, and how consuming it becomes, there is always a chance for hope. The natural progression from hope is to joy.

Consequently my weakness has become my strength. So despite its weight I hope to bare this burden with grace, to assist my children onto the platform of hope. Because hope is immune to evil, and not all trials can steal your joy. Mental illness will follow me to the grave, I understand this, but it is hope I choose to endow as my legacy.

For this week's prompt we want you to recall something in your life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought you something wonderful.

A positive from a negative experience.

But WARNING: Avoid cliches like "blessing in disguise" or "hindsight is 20/20".

Be creative, but succinct. Do this in 600 words or fewer.