Keep it Dark

The days are getting longer.
The days are getting warmer.

Unfortunately, all this new daylight is messing with my head.

The last couple nights, I’ve tucked Girl-child in her nightly bed while light still filters in through her blinds. And it’ll only get worse.

This morning as I drove to work, I could see the sun starting to wave its hands at the horizon line…”Goooooood MORNIN’, Mona!”, it screamed.
I am SO not a morning person.

I want to come to work in the dark.

I want to see the traffic lights glaring, streets and streets ahead of me…amber and ruby and jade set against blue-black backdrop.

I want to feel the orange glow of parking lot light, bathing the dull pavement as I drive in, bouncing off my face and making crazy hazy shadows in my car.

I want to know the world is still asleep, as I bounce in insomnia circles, spinning through projects and coffees and early bird conversations.

I realize I could have darkness on my way to work, but that would entail getting up at 4 a.m., and I'm not getting enough sleep as it is.

Stupid me, I couldn’t wait for Spring to get here.

Now that it is, I want some darkness back.

(Dammit, now I have that Genesis song in my head.)

Poetry Friday: The Word is CLOUD

Thanks to Irrelephant for sort of accidentally (?) offering up the Poetry Friday Word for today!

When I was a girl, I used to lie on the grass in the backyard and find shapes in the clouds. I was somehow convinced that each cloud was the spirit of something now-dead…a rabbit, a person, a car…whatever form it took in the sky. Even as a grownup, with knowledge of cloud formations and high/low pressure systems, I still harbour that fantasy…nothing dies…it just changes form.

Feel free to use the word CLOUD in your blog post today, in whatever form floats by your mind’s window…poem, story, photo, audio post of you on the phone with the cable company, statue of that naked guy in the park near your house, witty overheard-ism….

I wanted to do something a little different. I had used the phrase, “Let’s make a list of the clouds” in my blog post here. Well now…how can I use that phrase in a different way? How, linguistically, can that be presented? I tried a few…would have tried more had I had more time…and they are presented below.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


The Reading Chair

Bring your book here, my sweet girl,
And take this space in my arm.
What can we learn today?
Cirrus
Nimbus
Stratus
Cumulus
That one looks like a duck,
And that one a horse’s tail.
What?
Yes, it does sort of look like
Grandma Mabel.
Let’s make a list of the clouds
In formation
Soldiering across the sky.
I’ll write the words
And you draw the pictures
In
Crayola
Sky
Blue


Ten A.M., Conference Room

Let’s begin the meeting.
As you’ll see in
the document I’m
handing out,
(trees budding pale green)
first quarter
customer orders
are running
close to projections.
(robin, chickadee melodies)
Profits, however,
are up slightly,
due to increased average sale.
Depreciation on printing equipment
(sun oh god bring the sun)
has helped the bottom line also.
I called this meeting
to discuss ways we can
cut costs, hope
(grass sweet soft)
fully without taking
away from
the benefits we see here.
Let’s make a list of the
(clouds, fat and free)
ways in which each department
can contribute
at least ten
thousand
(breeze styling my hair)
dollars
in cost
cutting
measures.
(save me save me save me)


River Walk

Of the ways that we love,
Let’s make a list.
Of the clouds overhead,
Let’s inhale their mist.
Of the blue in reflection,
Let’s stop and walk in.
Of the spark in our eyes,
Let’s dig up some sin.

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, plus triple trouble

Irrelephant said it.

To my post on Tuesday.

“Let’s make a list of the clouds…” That one really caught me—poetic, surreal, and very enticing. You ought to save that for a Poetry Friday.

Alright then.

I will.

Per Irrelephant’s idea, the Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is…CLOUD. Feel free to use it in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever fluffy white pillow you choose…poem, story, photo, Gabcast, mashed potato sculpture of mountain ranges, airing of dirty laundry, recipe for triple-chocolate fudge….

These days are just packed. This is Hell Week for me, with appointments and field trips, birthday parties and volunteering, carnivals and soccer games, and enough projects at work to drown me. You should see my calendar…it’s the scariest gdamn thing. I have written on each calendar day to the minute when I have to be at work, around all the other stuff that’s going on. I got up before 5 a.m. today for work, to ensure I can make my dentist appointment at 8 a.m. (but haven't done a good job of flossing, and yes, the hygienist should yell at me, I deserve it). I have post-it notes lining my pc monitor, yelling out times and directions and call so-and-so and RememberThis!

Holy shit.

Plus there’s other stuff goin’ down that’s both elating and frightening…I’ll write on’t soon.


Need your input here….

Girlchild was invited to 3 birthday parties, all happening in the next week or so. THREE. For girls. Turning 7 years of age.

THREE!

Holy crap.

Two parties she can’t make (Hell Week for her, too), but they’re good enough friends that she wants to give them gifts anyway.

What can I possibly find that’s fun, affordable, unique, and age-appropriate for three girls? Suggestions?

Out of the Mouth of a Babe

What do you say in a day?

What words and phrases pass through your lips, over your tongue, with the blind intent of reaching someone’s ear and disseminating information?

This morning I was pondering what my verbal messages to the world were yesterday…the actual, physical expression of voice, and not just the voices in my head who try to tempt me with chocolate and the snooze button.

Here are some things that came out of my mouth yesterday. In sequential order, but not everything I said, I mean, what am I, a dictaphone?

“G’mornin’, Night Guy.”

“I’m leavin’ for a doctor’s appointment, back in a while.”

“ArrrrGGGHHHH!!”

“…it was as long as my arm!”

“I thought about you this morning.”

“I’ll look at that after I answer this email.”

“Let’s celebrate it on Tuesday.”

“You’re here!”

“Wanna walk?”

“Unless you WANT to get caught.”

"I told him fixes to make, and he wouldn't fix 'em."

"She's a bigwig now."

“Why didn’t she ask you?”

“No, they’re NOT gonna fire you. Shut up.”

“I love Lindsey Buckingham. Talented, and more importantly, cute.”

“Lookin’ out for loooooooove….”

“See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

“How was your day?”

“I hope you get it, too.”

“Yes, just this loaf, and a cup of brewed coffee, on ice, please.”

“Congratulations, buddy, I’m so proud of you!”

“Let’s make a list of the clouds, you can help me draw the pictures.”

“Thanks for dinner, hon.”

“C’mon baby girl, let’s tuck you in.”

“Meow. Now close your eyes."

"I love you.”

“Boychild. Go up and brush your teeth and pee. Now. When I hear you walk into your bedroom, I’ll come up.”

“Yes, I’m very proud of you.”

"I love you."

“I’d rather talk to him about sex than talk to him about Hitler.”

“G’night, hon.”

"I love you."

TMI (Guys, Cover Yer Eyes)

After Scarface week, my OB told me he wanted to do an endometrial biopsy, to rule out cancer as the cause of the Red Plague. He told me it would be a simple procedure, just a quick ride in the stirrups, and he’d know the results in a few days.

This morning I got to the appointment very cheery-like. I never have a bad time in the stirrups…hell, sometimes I LOVE being in the stirrups (recent ‘wand’ experience notwithstanding). The nurse took my vitals, handed me a sheet, and told me to strip from the waist down and cover with the sheet. Then as she was leaving to get the OB, she said, “It’ll only hurt for a few minutes.”

Hurt?

No one said ANYthing about "hurt".

I'm a big cry-baby.

Maybe she had the wrong patient.

My OB came in, we chatted about the next step in our little adventure (putting me on Super-De-Duper Low Dose Pill), and he had me saddle up.

While I was ass-over-end, before he started, he said, “I’m going to insert this thin tube (he held it up…it was as long as his forearm, with a grabber on the end) in your cervix, and take a sample of blood. (Gah, said my brain.) You’ll experience some cramping afterward, and it will hurt. It will. But only for a minute.”

Shit.

I’m really glad I didn’t know this before I came in, as I have a tendency to Freak The Fack Out over procedures I know will hurt.

Except childbirth, which I did freak out about, but not in the ginormous proportions I should have.

Anyway, he said, “Little touch”, clamped the spreader in my Lovey Hole, announced loudly, “Okay, it’s gonna hurt NOW,” and went in for the kill.

Mutherfackerholyjeebusshit.

He wasn’t kidding.

I pressed my fingernails hard into my palms, tensed every muscle and fibre of my being, and gritted through my teeth. I wanted a hand to squeeze, or a bunch of celery to twist, or a bullet to shove...er...or a wintergreen mint to make sparks.

It was over in a minute, but holy craaaap-ola, that was not pleasant.

He put the seat back under my ass, lowered the stirrup chair, and told me he’d have the Pill prescription ready outside when I was dressed. He left, and the nurse smiled at me, handing me a sanitary pad in a box. “You’ll need this”, she said. Fack. “You’ll cramp for a while”, she added, “so take some Motrin.”

Indeed, yes.

I got the cramping, I got the bleeding.

But.

At least it’ll rule out the big ‘C’.

And.

I’m glad they didn’t tell me beforehand.

Or.

I would have been a pathetic excuse for a patient today.

Poetry Friday: The Word is SLIDE

Thanks to my lovin' man, Sergei, for offering up the Poetry Friday Word for Today...SLIDE. Feel free to use that luscius lil' nugget in your blog post today, in whatever fashion you choose...poem, story, voice-over, lucky lottery ticket, recipe for ravioli....

I have three today. I tried a poetry trick, using the alphabet, for the first one (hah...written frantically whilst the Night Computer Guy was hounding me about printer setting...like I care). Second is a video of one of my favourite slides. Third, an homage to one of my all-time favourite writers, Kurt Vonnegut.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

1) The Poetry Trick

Slide Side/Side

Amorous Alice
Beckoned Ben breathlessly
Carefully, coyly
Delicious, delectable
Effused erotic
Flirting, fluttering
Gushing
Hushed, hiding
Imbibing
Jiving
Keep kissing
Love, lust
Must
NOW
Ohhhh
Prone-postured, pondering
Quick
Rough
Sex, sex, slippery sliding silkily
Tender touches
Undeniable
Victory
Watching, waiting, wooing
XX XY
You, yes
Zzz

2) Favourite Slide





3) The first photo in the slide show, middle of the page, 1/3 the way down, is the face of Kurt I'll always remember...an intelligent imp, ready to kick ass, then sit by the fire with you and a bottle of wine to discuss space travel, politics, and how to draw assholes. So it goes.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, Plus Jazz Hands

I need a big ol’ sign for my butt that says “Kick Me”.

I can’t get my ass in gear early enough in the week to email all you beautiful people out there in the ether to ask for a Poetry Friday Word. Dagnabbit, what’s my problem?

Last night I begged the man who shares my bed to offer up the Word for this week, and this morning he delivered. (And tonight, dear one, I will repay you with flesh…yes, the Crimson Permanent Assurance has sailed out of port. Wheee!)

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is…SLIDE.

(Which got my mind thinkin’ dirty, no surprise.)

Please feel free to use the word SLIDE in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever shiny metal fashion you slip down…poem, story, drawing, recipe, clever use of woodwind instrument, favorite viral video clip of unicorns (Gary, that means you….).



I spent the morning with Boy-child’s class on a field trip. We went to a theatre and listened to Local University Professors talk about, play, sing, and stomp about Jazz.

(Jazz hands here...and chocolate...mmmm).

It.
Was.
Awesome!

Seriously, one of the bestest field trips EVAH! The kids were entertained and left the venue keyed up and snapping their fingers and talking about “syncopation” and Cab Calloway and how cool the trumpet is. Me…hell…I had a shitty grin on the entire time, ‘cause I loves me some jazz, and they played the greats…Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Louis Prima, Cab, etc. It totally made up for that other field trip we went on a few weeks ago where some of our kids fell asleep…in a Disney-themed show! Now I have “Minnie the Moocher” in my head and I likes it. A lot.

Storks, Cabbage Patches, and Other Fables

I'm trying to type quietly, as there is a sleepy man in my bed and I really must post as I missed Tuesday completely (a-cursed work) and Wednesday morning is spent at the kids' school. And when I don't blog, it's like forgetting to pee...you really want to, but it's almost too late, so do you wait? Til later? When the Brilliant Incredible Blog Idea arrives? Or just blog because it's Tuesday night and your mind is skewed in many directions? Which had NOTHING to do with pee, but the tangent was there and I took the road more traveled. Less? Skewed, I tells ya.

Boy-child is learning about Human Sexuality (one section of the Health series his 4th grade class is entering).

He thinks sex is gross.

His thinking it's gross amuses me.

Because in a few years it'll be hormones and facial hair and body odor and girls calling and him calling girls and being all ooshy-gooshy about Janelle or Heather or Kika or Tawnia. And I'll answer his questions and not take his door-slamming personally, and not pry too much for me but too much for him.

Y'know...typical mom.

I was thinking tonight about how I learned about sex. It wasn't from my mom. ("The Period Talk" she gave me was the morning of The Film in 4th grade, and then she made it sound like you peed blood. That's it. The only other Sex Talk we had was the day before I left for college...she said, "If a guy asks you to come up to his room to see his etchings, Don't Go." I nodded knowingly. It's weird, though, because now that I'm a grownup, we can talk about sex or periods or most anything, with astonishing honesty.)

I learned about sex from my next-door neighbor, Polly.

I was 9, she was 10 1/2. She told me, "The guy has like a tube, the thing he pees out of, and he puts it in the woman's pee place, and squirts liquid up there, and then a baby grows, and comes out that hole."

Whoa.
Freaked me right out.

I had what I guess was the typical kid-response...every couple I saw after that, every man and woman holding hands, my aunts and uncles, teachers at school, my own (saintly) mom and (dorky) dad...all did THAT THING.

EEEEWWWW...GROSS!!!

It wasn't til after puberty that the idea of sex didn't sound like the worst thing a human had to endure.

Then, of course, in college, sex was ALL I thought about.

Now that I'm a grownup, I think about it, oh, not ALL the time, but a LOT of the time.

Do you remember when you first found out how babies were made? What was your reaction?

Domo Origato, Mr. Roboto

I’m not sure how it is in your city, but ‘round these parts, there are certain intersections, certain stoplight corners, where the engineers and construction guys thought to put pressure pads under the concrete. If the pressure pads sense a car on the ‘going east on Main’ pad, and senses no cars on any other pads, they’ll change the traffic light pattern to accommodate you…turning green so you don’t waste time.

I love this.

I can almost sense it. There’s a sort of ‘good-feeling’ vibe that comes off the concrete, and I swear the traffic lights wink…WINK…when they suddenly change pattern and bow to you, as if to say, “Dear lady, be of good cheer…as there are no other varmints or scoundrels in the vicinity, it is safe for you to continue. Have a pleasant day.”

And I continue on my merry way, no cursing or middle-finger-flipping to The Gods of Traffic Lights.

Now, why can’t they apply this sensibility to other things in my life? Other things that would make my life soooo much easier and less bird-flipping.

Such as:

1) Brain Wave Employment Monitor (BWEM) – measures the amount and strength of brain waves upon waking. If the user is sufficiently able to gather the necessary brain power to go to work that day, the BWEM lifts them up with hydraulic arms and walks with them, gently, a-la drunken-soldier-pose, to the bathroom where face-washing and teeth-brushing wake up the user. If the user can’t even muster up the brain-power necessary to remember either a) their own name; b) where they live; or c) the opening strains of ‘The Brady Bunch’ theme song, they are tucked gently back in bed, a call is made to their employer with an appropriate excuse (e.g., sick, cable guy coming, ‘feminine problems’), and the BWEM plays gentle ocean sounds until the user is fast asleep. (This would have been me this morning.)

2) Sick Child Assessor (SCA) -- when Junior complains of a headache, upset stomach, or other ailment, the SCA will determine 1) the chances of barf-o-rama; 2) the chances of the Five Day Fever Flu; 3) whether or not to take the child to the doctor or local ER; 4) what medicines are needed; 5) how many days off a parent will have to beg off work. Security settings ensure that the child cannot hold the SCA up to a bare light bulb and ‘fool’ it into saying the child has Terrible Fever and must stay home and watch cartoons all day.

3) Secret Ingredient Monitor (SIM) – does Grandma refuse to give you her recipe for Triple-Sexual-Chocolate-Cake? Aunt Beth won't tell you which herbs she uses in her Tater Tot Bake? Do mom’s recipes never quite work out for you the way they do for her? Don’t be fooled again…plug in the SIM, insert it in any type of foodstuff, and get an instant reading of the ingredients, proportion sizes, special baking instructions, and blender speeds. Comes with a handy Allergy-Distaste probe, so you can know if that buffet casserole has mushrooms in it or allergic-reaction-shellfish.


Got any other suggestions?

Poetry Friday the 13th

I want to thank you all for your kind words and emails, regarding the shenanigans of my body this week. You all rock. You know that, right? All of you…you there, and You, and YOU…. MWAH....

Got some good news yesterday afternoon at the OB’s office. I had printed out a government document on the treatment of fibroids (I linked to it yesterday), and showed it to my OB. He read through it, looked at the results of my ultrasounds from Tuesday, ruled out a few procedures based on my current state, and wants to rule out cancer (a simple test, a week from Monday). Once cancer is ruled out, he will put me on The Pill…WOOHOO! One pill a day, low-dose, to control things…won’t shrink the fibroids, but will get me through the next few years when hopefully menopause will kick in and shrink those babies up ta nuthin’. If The Pill doesn’t police it well enough, we’ll do a UFE, where a radiologist will inject small plastic pellets into the fibroids, cutting off the blood supply…I’ll be off work only one week. THEN, last resort, the hysterectomy.

I don’t have to tell you I am extremely pleased at the options I have. I could have kissed that OB, I was so happy. Freaked-Out Mona has left the building.

So, it’s Friday, and a loosy-goosy DIY Friday here in Blogland. I have no poetry, other than this:

Hooray
Hooray
Kiss the doctor
Hooray


But I do have this song running through my head on an endless loop. It must have also been on a commercial, like maybe iPod?, something enough to cause me obsession. The beat is very sexy, very much like sex, very thumpy, yeah, we likes that in my house.




It’s also Friday the 13th. Pah. Whatevah. We should all drink and go shopping. Let’s go visit Gary…he gets free beer AND will sell us the most awesomest stuff imaginable.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Poetry Friday Spreads the Love, and Say Hello to My Little Friend

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have no Poetry Friday word for tomorrow, have not asked one of you lovely writer/bloggers for one, and have decided to leave the ball in all your respective courts for this week…if you so choose, feel free to make up your own Word for tomorrow and post on it. If you do not choose, please feel free to scour Teh Internets for the wackiest thing you can find, and report it. I’m always up for wacky.

The ‘circumstances beyond my control’? My body. In itself, wacky. Also unpredictable. And gross. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to blog this that won’t have you women grabbing your abdomens and you men running screaming from this blog for the entirety of forever.

Okay. Here’s the best I could come up with.

Tuesday morning, very early, my body decided to recreate the climactic final scene from “Scarface”…y’know the one.

I awoke wondering who stabbed me during the night. Then realizing it was the Crimson Permanent Assurance making it’s monthly cruise into port, but a band of cut-throat pirates had hijacked the ship, and what used to be a voyage on changeable seas became this ‘thing’ of epic, scary proportions.

Am I being vague?

Okay.

I was hemorrhaging.

Not just ‘Aunt Flo making her monthly visit’, but bleeding like I’d never seen. I don’t even want to try to describe it. Scarface. That’s it.

The on-call OB said that if the flow got “X” intense, and/or if I started to pass out, I should go immediately to the ER.

I corked myself up good and went into work Tuesday morning anyway.

Stupid work ethic.

Around 10:30 a.m., in the middle of a Projects Meeting, the room suddenly started turning gray, I couldn’t hear well, and I could feel myself slipping down the rabbit hole of certain pass-out-ed-ness. I had fortunately told my boss that morning what was going on, and when he saw me ashen, and mumbling, “Uh…I think I’m gonna pass out,” he rushed me to the ER, where my lovely and wonderful husband met us.

Oh baby, I got the workup…IV, foley catheter, pelvic exam, regular ultrasound, ‘interior’ ultrasound with The Wand. There was a lot of waiting. In the end, they didn’t have to give me a transfusion. I was stable, they sent me home with my lab results, and the directive to see my regular OB ASAP.

Wednesday I tried to go to work. Didn’t happen. I spent the day sleeping on the couch with the cat curled up at my feet.

It’s now Thursday, and I am at work. Sitting quietly. The torrent has let up, and is now a regular rain shower, partly cloudy, with chance of calm.

I see my OB this afternoon, where we will discuss my options. I have these, and the best way to get rid of them is this, but it’s just too extreme. For me. Right now.

At least the storm has passed. For a while, anyway.

Because I’m a %&$*#^! Crybaby, That’s Why

I feel like total, utter, and complete crap. That little tickle in my throat last week has turned into one of those horrendous spring cold/allergy/whatevers that makes breathing impossible. Sleep more impossible. Clear-headed thinking unthinkable.

I’m quaffing copious amounts of tea this morning hoping it will open me up so I don’t have to mouth-breathe all day.

Yes, yes, I should be home in bed.

Should.

I should also have won the lottery a few weeks ago.

But that ain’t a-happenin’.

Got work to do and my OB to call (ovaries are totally overrated) and my headlights to get fixed and kids to run around and oh yeah, my boss to pounce on as he gets back from his 10-day vacation and meanwhile all hell broke loose with his pet project and thanksahellovalot, dude.

I’m sorry. Now I’m just ranting. I don’t mean to take it out on you. We only hurt the ones we love, right?

Could you at least give me some suggestions how to make it through the day? Is there some magic concoction I can mix up using office supplies and bad coffee and Monday Morning donuts that will give me the energy I need to make it through? Or some chant or other I can rock to? A bit of Magik you can throw my way? Good juju? A good slap in the face?

Poetry Friday: The Word is SPRING

In the panel on the right side is a section called "Poetry Friday Archives". This collection was written back in the summer/fall of 2005, when I was just a kid in the blogosphere, and was a different kind of Poetry Friday altogether. It was more onanistic. Just me, playing wid my bad self. One day I decided to write poems based on a theme...a theme of a body part. And plagiarize a few good writers, write in their style, take a poem or a song lyric and see if I could tailor it to my theme. I enjoy a challenge like that. (Go see Nancy's recent challenge...I'm still obsessed by it.)

I decided to revisit that style within the realm of our current open-source/group-circle-jerk that is Poetry Friday as we now know it. Today's offerings are based on writers I know and love...or at least like...or have at least read for English 101. I guess I should warn you...when I write like this, I tend to get...uh...sexual. Not pr0n sexual, just situational, and talk about breasts a lot, and I still don't know WHY, except maybe that I choose to copy writers who 'turn me on' to a degree. Some curse, eh?

Please feel free to use the word SPRING in your own blog posts today, in whatever sweet yellow cluster of flowers you choose...poem, story, song, mashed potato sculpture, chocolate deity, other food reference.

Have a good weekend, y'all, and don't eat too much chocolate...but DO eat some.


(With all apologies to T.S. Eliot...and his poem, "The Waste Land")

The Waist Land

April is the cruelest girl, eating
chocolates out of heart-shaped boxes, licking
every drop from every sugary cone, stirring
fudge and men’s desire.
Winter I kept busy, measuring
cups of green beans and ounces of chicken breasts, reading
South Beach and Atkins like an addict.
Spring surprised us, coming in over the mall,
with “Bathing suits for sale!”; April and I stopped in,
and chose several fetching ensembles, in Macys,
and entered the changing rooms, and stripped to panties.
Gott in Himmel. Oy Vey. Mon Dieu.
When we were children, very very active children,
April, she and I were skinny little things.
And then we matured. April said, “oh Mary.
Mary, don’t worry. Size 14 isn’t so bad.
In that corner there, there you’ll find my size 2.
Hand it to me, please? I can’t help the way I am.”

What is the problem, o body, what foulness is this
that has befallen my midsection? Son of a bitch,
I cannot understand, or guess, what I have to do to lose weight.
Perhaps, o heaven, it is in my choice of friends,
and their cheerful disposition and strong metabolism.
My dear April may find a dagger in her back
(soon...very soon).



(With all apologies to ee cummings, who knows I love him endlessly.)

on Just-
spring break when the world is drunk-
wonderful the little
lame bartender

whistles Last call for alcohol

and eddieandbill come
running from body shots and
dubious hookups and it’s
spring break

when the world is sexy-licious

the skeevy
old bartender whistles
Last call for alcohol
and barbieandbritney come dancing

from wet-t-shirt-contests and test-tube-drinks and

it’s
spring break
and
the
bare-footed
bartender whistles
Last
call
for
alcohol


(With all apologies to Papa Hemingway...The Nick Adams Stories.)

Nick Adams, President

Walking around the hardware store in the fluorescent light, Nick passed the electrical supplies sitting in neatly packaged rows. Rod Stewart was playing on the Muzak. Scotty VanSlooten adjusted his red Home Depot apron and put on his best salesman smile as he approached.
“Hey Nick, “ he said, “Whatcha got planned this weekend?”
“Nuthin’...just putterin’”
“That so? Well, you might be interested in our workshop on Saturday. “Build your own nuclear reactor.”
Nick idly fingered a package of small springs he’d picked up earlier. He didn’t have a reason to buy them, but they were cheap, and they might be the right size for fixing that clock he’d found in his dad’s garage after the funeral.
“Tomorrow we got a class on birdhouse buildin’,” Scotty said. “Martin houses. And houses made from gourds and household appliances.”
“Well, that sounds like a right stupid thing to learn,” Nick said.
Scotty laughed and muttered in Swedish under his breath. “Well, that may be. But I earn enough teaching the durn thing to buy a bigger boat every year.”
“What kind of boat?”
“A big-un. Bigger than your house.”
“You teach the nuclear reactor class too?”
“Naw. They got some guy coming in from the university. Pain the ass professor.”
Nick fingered the vial of plutonium in his pocket. He remembered Scotty’s wife from that picnic last summer, how her blond hair glowed on the beach, and the way her bikini barely clung to her round breasts. She smelled good. He wouldn’t mind getting in good with Scotty, just to get a look-see at that woman again.
“I’ll pass on the birdhouses, Scotty. But I’d sure be up for the nuclear reactor one. How much is that?”
“Two hundred dollars!”, Scotty said through a broad smile.
“Well, let’s go fill out that form then,” Nick said.
I rock, Nick thought to himself. I so fucking rock. I will be king of the world. Just you wait.


(With all apologies to Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, The Artilleryman's Vision.)

The Drunkenwoman's Remembrance

While my husband snores at my side, and the smell of stale beer fills the room,
And the world spins around my drunken head, and I no longer feel like throwing up,
I think in the darkness how the word “spring” came up so often tonight, spring, in
all it’s glorious meanings.
There, at the party, when I leaned over the table and my breasts did spring forward, out of my tube top, and how they did surprise John, and Mike beside him,
Who did lick their lips and not tell me about the emergence at first, but let their eyes linger and their minds wander, and their trousers inflate to great tents.
The smooth metal spring popping out of the great red overstuffed chair, when Mike did dare me to straddle him, to make my husband jealous, and his wife,
and the combined weight and repetitive gyrations did urge the cushion to give way, startling Mike, creating a rift in the action, and a great tear in his pants.
The spring of water which erupted from the faucet, when Jim led me to the bathroom, pushing me to the sink, the kisses insistent, the accidental turning of the handle, my bottom under the spigot, making the wet even wetter, the hot hotter, o my soul.
The spring I felt my body make when my husband entered the bathroom, a catch in the action, which I hastened to hide by pushing Jim into the empty shower stall and feigning a stain on my skirt.
The spring in my step when my bleary-eyed husband failed to notice anything besides my once-again-emergent breasts, which I pointed toward the door and led him out, while Jim fingered the gash on his head.
How happy I was that my husband offered to spring for drinks, for everyone, and two more shots of whiskey made the evening complete.
(The tequila, oh, someone remind me next time to avoid that concoction, which spins my brain and makes breasts pop out of strapless blouses.)

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, & Happy To Me

I stayed up later than I wanted to, watching a movie (La Dolce Vita), and woke up before 5 a.m. to snow…not much, mind you, but enough to rattle my sleepy brain. The roads were spotted with patches of ice, the wind bit my skin through my heavy wool coat, and I walked into work cursing the Arctic winds and my own foolishness for believing it was finally Spring.

Ah…Spring.

That’s the Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow. You may, of course, use any meaning of the word…the season, the coil, the bubble of water, the leap, the free drinks…oh thank Ye Gods of Teh Internets for giving me online dictionaries….

Feel free to dust your blog tomorrow with powder pink and sweet using the word Spring, in your current creative form…poem, story, photo, pottery throw (uh...Gary?), room arrangement, fashion line, conga line, dotted white line….


Today is my Two Year Blog-a-versary. Huh…seems like forever. In case you’re interested, here’s my first lame post…where I say nothing except the obvious. Y’know what’s weird? I still don’t think I have a ‘theme’ for this blog…it’s not quite ‘Mommy’, nor ‘Writer’, not ‘Sexy’ enough and not-so-much ‘Work’…. I think in the Blogosphere that’s illegal…innit? Can I chameleon myself into shape-shifting blogger form without incurring some sort of fine? What would you call this here blog? And do you have a description for your own blog?

Machine_Check_Exception

Heh.

The one thing I really didn't need to see this morning was a blue screen with the words...

Physical Memory Dump Complete

...when I was checking blogs and submitting a comment.

Now I believe I'm facked, and not in a good boom-chikka-boom-way, but in an "Oh My God, I've Lost All My Files" sort of way.

I suspect one of the pc guys was fiddling with my machine last night. Either way, I'm gonna be kickin' ass today to get a new computer.

Please leave good juju, mojo, chants, and charms that I can back up my files before all hell breaks loose. "...complete hardware failure" my lily white butt....

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

Every human being needs sleep. It’s a basic necessity, along with air, water, food, shelter, and clothing. (And sex. But we won’t get into that here.)

There are certain commonalities with human sleep patterns. We generally lie flat or slightly elevated. Our breathing becomes heavy. Our eyelids close. (Unless you’re my Uncle Paul. But we won’t get into that here.)

What I find fascinating, though, are the little things…the precursors to sleep, or the positions of sleep, that define us. Those things our mothers can point to and go, A-Ha! I know you’re sleepy now!

The comforts.

My brother would twirl a lock of his hair when he was sleepy, turning it around and around his right index finger. He still does, and he’s 40-ish.

My college friend J would insist on sleeping with a blanket edged in satin binding. She would insert her middle finger inside the open end of the binding and rub the binding between that finger and her thumb. Again and again. Til she fell asleep.

Co-worker (Suicidal Guy in Loveless Marriage) can’t sleep unless he plugs in his ambient sound-maker, and plays at least 20 minutes of ocean sounds or rainforest.

Me, I have no precursors. I have positions. If I turn on my right side, I fall asleep quickly and have a hard time waking up (so I rarely do it). Also, if I let myself recline in the Lazyboy, with the little foot thingy propped up and the chair stretched out, I will doze off. Especially if there’s something warm like a kid or a cat or a blanket anywhere near me.

Lately, any time spent in a dark room puts me to sleep. Tucking the kids in is hazardous to my ‘Post-9-p.m.-Free-Time’. So are movies…I took the kids to see “Meet the Robinsons” last Friday and I fell asleep in the darkened theatre. I don’t think I snored. I hope not.

What about you? Do you have any childhood holdovers that are a dead giveaway to your impending sleep mode? Does sleeping on your back (The King Position) knock you totally out? Can you only fall asleep while thinking of yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked men screaming and throwing little pickles at you? (Wait. Uh. Let's NOT get into that here.)

Bacon

1) Nutty White Russians were a favourite drink of mine in college. (White Russian w/ Amaretto) This morning I’m listening to Nutty White Russians, also known as Limpopo. Yes, they sing in Russian which, as you know, gits me all tingly. They take old Russian folksongs and groove 'em up. You get the sense that if they were playing in your local pub, you’d be slowly getting drunk on very good vodka. And eating salty fish. And kissing the very red cheeks of the bartender.

2) Boy-child stated this weekend, “I want to be a vegetarian.”
“Okay”, I said. “So what sort of vegetarian? What sorts of protein will you eat?”
“Fish,” he said. “Fish and eggs and nuts. Tofu. Cheese. And bacon. And sausage. And ham and hot dogs. And chicken nuggets. But no beef. Yuck. But I’ll eat lots of bacon.”
I have no idea what to call that sort of diet…lacto-ovo-seafood-porkish-nugget vegetarian? Suggestions?

3) I was tucking Girl-child in bed this weekend, and she suddenly said, “Oops! I stuck my hand in your bra!” I had to look down and s-l-o-w-l-y realize that yes, she had. “I didn’t even notice!”, I said, and we both started giggling. I s’pose it’s natural, as I breastfed her all those years ago. But to not notice? Should I be concerned now that in some meeting-or-other, one of my co-workers will suddenly blurt out, “Oops! I stuck my hand in your bra!”, and I won’t have noticed?

4) I took last Friday off work, so this morning it was nigh impossible to shake off the bliss of a Three-Day-Weekend. I had to git down wid my bad self. And Eagles of Death Metal. I’m linking to some . Videos. Here. In case you need a sexy kick in the pants this morning. Sexy. Yes. So don’t let the boss catch ya.