Doing my part to disrupt the space-time continuum.

Posts tagged ‘mothership’

Awaiting Snow

Living in the South means that when the forecast calls for snow, everyone in my house gets REALLY excited! I am no exception!

I spent the day nesting and preparing. In my head, the dialog went like this:

ME: We might be stuck inside all day tomorrow because of snow!

ME: How exciting! Better tidy up so it’s a pleasant place to be stuck!

ME: You are soooo right! But what about food?

ME: Gosh! Let’s run to our local grocer and buy all the bread.

ME: Ok. Let’s get some of those little packets of hot chocolate, too. You know… the kind with those little mini-marshmallows.

ME: Isn’t it just STUPID the way ‘marshmallow’ is spelled?! It should be ‘marshmEllow’. How annoying!

ME: Yeah! I know what you mean. It IS stooopid. Now I’m mad. Let’s also get oatmeal. Oatmeal is a great breakfast for snowy days.

Then I cleaned all day.

Right now, we’re hunkered down in our tidy, snuggly home …. fireplace ablaze, marshmallows melting in hot chocolate … and we’re waiting – waiting – waiting for snow. It’s just so exciting … in spite of the minor spelling annoyance.

Happy Snow Day, Y’all!

 

 

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Her Belly Cried Hungry

Many years ago, I was introduced to the poetry of musician, author and poet, Joy Harjo. Her words are brilliant and her insight, astounding.

The poem I’ve posted here springs directly from the stirrings I felt after reading Harjo’s She Had Some Horses. While my poetry finds itself a mere ‘wannabe’ by comparison, I love to play and some of the best toys are words, as my mother once told me. So in the style of Joy Harjo, I present this work in progress:

Her Belly Cried Hungry

Her belly cried hungry after eating crow
Her belly cried hungry at feasts of self-indulgence on
shiny, silver platters
Her belly cried hungry devouring self-help books and
the splintered shelves that house them
Her belly cried hungry consuming the bounty
of a creek bejeweled with pebbles
Her belly cried hungry purging rage on skin-soft pillows
Her belly cried hungry ingesting pills from palms of torn, pink flesh
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry when she swallowed her tears
Her belly cried hungry chewing fat-marbled promises
Her belly cried hungry savoring promises that she kept
Her belly cried hungry as she licked the wounds
of the child inside her
Her belly cried hungry as she gorged at the table of sin
Her belly cried hungry at pristine banquets with bleach, white linen
Her belly cried hungry, full of swallowed pride
Her belly cried hungry relishing a strength she didn’t know she had
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry sipping holy wine and fresh, blessed bread
Her belly cried hungry rolling idle prattle on her tongue
Her belly cried hungry stuffed full of anger
Her belly cried hungry as she bit the hand that feeds her
Her belly cried hungry while eating her words
Her belly cried hungry, growing fat while growing thin
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly always cried hungry though never truly empty …
And her belly always cried hungry, though never really full.

The Fascination of A Dead Frog

We walked side by side after the rain stopped. The park was almost entirely empty. I guess no one wants to  go for a walk right after it rains. He ran on ahead toward the creek.

The thing about 10 year old boys is that anything that’s gross, sticky, bloody or puky is THE most fascinating thing beyond all human reason. “Mom! Mom!” he yelled,  “LOOOOOOK! It’s a FRRRROGGGGGG!”

By the time I’d caught up, he was knelt down on one knee. “It’s deeeeaaaad,” he said in a low, slow and reverent tone as he poked the remains of the decedent with a stick.

It wasn’t just dead. That fucker was flat. Flat-Dead. Squished … as if  he’d gotten trampled by an entire HERD of bull frogs.

My son was spellbound by the crime scene. “Ew” he whispered, “Look at the guts.” I leaned in closer looking more at my son than the remains.

“Oh,” I said, trying to lighten the moment, “I’m sure the little guy is fine!” I nudged my son gently with my elbow. “Looks like its just sleeping,” I tried to coax a smile.

Silence fell. Blink – pause – blink.

“Mom…” he began as his voice grew frustrated, “Really?! I mean … No. Just … ugh … No! It is NOT sleeping … It’s deeaaad!” Poke. Poke.

“Aw, c’mon now! Don’t be so negative Mr. Gloomy Pants!” I encouraged. “Give the poor little guy the benefit of the doubt! Maybe he’s just tired or maaaaybeeee….” I said trying to rouse his sense of humor, “Mayyybeee he just got back from a huge frog party and he needs some time to recuperate? You know … take a nice little shower? Maybe knock back a juicy quarter-pounder … with cheese?”

Blank looks on 10-year-olds are hard to ignore when they last 6 hours. It’s even harder when you can clearly see the wheels turning as they inwardly battle the inevitable, horrible truth: That they share YOUR DNA. Finally, he broke the silence,  “Do you SEE that gray stuff? I’m like a thousand per cent sure it’s his brains.” Poke.   

I was determined to make that kid laugh, even in the face of the gruesome scene that lay before us.  “Well … that doesn’t mean he’s not okay in a manner of speaking,” I began. “I mean, you could wear him as a hat or maybe you guys could hang out and play Wii? Look!” I said as I used a twig to lift what I think was a leg, “He’s flat enough that I bet you could use him as a Debit Card! You know …  you could do a little shopping…?”

I bit my lip and waited for a grin, a chuckle … a something… but no. He sat back on the concrete in utter defeat with his head in his hands. All hope was lost. His mother would never be anything other than weird and that frog would ever be anything other than dead.

I put my hand on my despondent little guy’s shoulder and proceeded tenderly, “Son … Seriously… Never mind what I just said … ” Slowly  he raised his head and met my eyes. “Honey … Dead frogs don’t make good Debit Cards … just trust me on this one.”

A Sunday Night Rant About Leggings

I did NOT brave the perils of Black Friday, but I did venture out into Crazy Shopping Land ever-so-gingerly on Saturday. It was disturbing.

In spite of the title, I do love Leggings. They rock. You put on a long shirt or sweater, slip on a pair of Leggings and some cool, hot, sexy boots or shoes and by golly, 48 looks GREAT and the world rotates more smoothly just so you can walk it without falling on your pushing-50 fat ass.

But when that sweater or shirt does NOT cover the bum that’s stuffed in tight Leggings, you catapult yourself and your Leggings into a world where Leggings become ASSINGS.

Leggings are called Leggings for a reason. They are intended to show ONLY your legs as opposed to the butt cheeks. I’d bet my 3rd child and every ounce of that left-over turkey rotting in my fridge that the designer of Leggings said to herself upon the day of the Leggings conception, “Hey. I shall create this tight, clingy, flesh-hugging leg wear for people who want to COVER the derriere with camouflaging outer wear. Rather than accentuate the butt-crack, flabby fanny flesh or sagging, flailing ass blobs – my creation will HIDE those great Continental Divides.” That’s what she said. She did. I just know it.

LEGGINGS ... not ASSINGS!!

While out shopping Saturday, I saw no less that 6 women wearing Assings where Leggings should have been! And I was only out there in the wild jungle of shopping hell for 1 hour and 46 minutes! And NO … I was NOT at Walmart where the Seniors at the entrance pass out Assings and request patrons to wear them while shopping.

I was not happy. Not happy at all.

Now look at what Assings has made me do …  I’m forced to drink heavily. See? I told you this was “Serious Stuff”.

photo by fliker’s kiwinky