The host of golden daffodils

Here is some poetry to go with the first post of the day-- sorry I couldn't resist. All love stories must have poetry. If you hate poetry, if it makes your head spin, go to the post below.
This one is about my husband. When we were first married, we lived in a tiny cabin stuck up in the middle of nowhere.
It was so dreary in late winter. One year he surprised me with a 50-pound sack of daffodil bulbs-- and each spring when I return I look upon the meadow and see their yellow faces and can't help but remember. My inspiration also comes from Wordsworth.-- though my host is a person and not a daffodil patch.


I wondered as lonely as a cloud
to the host of golden daffodils
And though I couldn't see his face,
And I couldn't hear his voice-- I knew
he'd done it all for me.
Planted 10 and 20 thousand
against a sea of green.

No money for some diamond eyes,
No lasso for the moon--
Just a sack of sleeping onions
and a yard of frozen earth,
but he mixed it all together
and he waited with the sun

Until I wandered lonely as a cloud
and as wild as the sea
to his quiet patch of daffodils
all laughing at me.
And though I couldn't see his face,
and I couldn't hear his voice

I knew he lay there waiting
and let his bobbing bonnets--
the sweetest gift of spring--
tell his little secret.
He did it all for me.

I'm a first rate Lovenut

Love is the dangerous thing. Sometimes it sucks all the coherent brain cells out of your head and turns you into a drooling zombie with only one thing on your mind-- love-- love, love, love and of course that special someone whose name you write incessantly during class while you’re supposed to be learning trigonometry.
Yes, I’ve been on the crazy side of love. I’ve been the poet idiot who writes sing-song rhyming syrup (some call this poetry, but let’s not insult the masters) best left under the lint inside the closets of my brain.
As Valentine’s Day rolled around each year in high school I daydreamed about mythical candy grams, love letters, carnation flower bouquets and a date for the Valentine’s Dance. My eyes got all weepy. My smile was too large and desperate for a date. My posture went to hell in a hand basket. The weight of “love” or the possibility of love pulled my shoulders down and sent my head to the side in a permanent twitch.
I stalked the halls for my one true love-- the boy who would bring me the ever elusive candy gram.
I feel sorry for the poor objects of my eternal affection because if they took the bait, they had a long, hard nauseating road ahead of them.
Remember, I said love is a dangerous thing, and I loved being in love. I loved ignoring my studies just so I could think about love. It became my favorite topic. I wrote love letter after love letter just so I could perfect love with words such as these: “You are the breath that fills my body and beckons me from my sleepy slumber into a new day of possibility. The light upon your face draws me toward your parting lips, a simple smile, a slight curve. I am burned with the hopes of a kiss. I am left breathless.”
And I wondered why some boys ran for cover!
Yes, I admit it. I was a first-rate love nut, and I didn’t give up easily. I was poor, desperate and perpetually sad.
For girls like me, there was no hope.
If I happened upon a someone just as transfixed upon love as I was, I did as all other healthy teenagers do. I turned off the phone, pretended not to see him and was as mean as possible. I mean, this guy was a first-rate fatal attraction psychopath complete with a fuzzy bunny and a pot of boiling water.
Love does make you a touch out of whack.
Sometimes love is all about the chase. Some people just hate to be ignored, so in their desire to be seen, they decide they are in love with the person who doesn’t know they exist.
I’ve been there too, and I am incredibly ashamed with myself.
There was once this “Greek God” from Austin whom I met in high school. He was about the cutest thing going with curly gold hair, big brown eyes and perfect teeth.
He was smart too. I just loved to look at him.
And then one day he smiled back, and I swore my life was over. The “God” had noticed me in all my adolescent beauty complete with zits, bad overly big hair and trendy outfit.
He even called. Then he asked me out. Oh it was true love-- until one day I realized I was bored.
There was no chase, no excitement. He was after all an ordinary boy with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes.
He was still smart, but come on what fun is that when you’re 17?
And he called all the time-- like once a day. Come on, a girl has things to do. I wasn’t about to be there at his beckon call even if he didn’t expect me to be.
He had to go.
Today, I feel really bad about this one because he really was a nice guy. He didn’t deserve a mean girl like me.
Sometimes I think about calling him up-- more than 10 years later-- and apologizing-- but that would be absolutely nutty.
You, see in the end your conscience gets you-- so just be nice and always tell the truth.
Love makes you crazy, and I’ll be absolutely honest with you-- I think ***** is hot. I hope he sends me a candy gram.

Bye Bye Birdie

We had baby robins next to our house, and I loved to sit and listen to them sing and watch them arch their hungry mouths toward mama. I wrote this for them this weekend, but I am sorry to say-- nature reclaimed my baby birds and they never got to hear it.

Fly to the moon little bird
there is a man with bread and cheese
and a crater fit for a nest
of ribbons and leaves.
Come sit and stare up at the stars.
Their twilight twinkle
will lullaby you to sleep.
So fly, fly fly away little bird
the cat's in the tree watching you.

Don't stop til morning
when the warm sun wipes
dew from weary wings
and the flowers open their shops
of yellow pollen puffs and nummy seeds.
The bees are a-buzzing.
The worms are inching away,
so eat, eat, eat away little bird
'til dawn should fall upon your shoulders
and the moon does call you home.
There's a window to the world
and it's full of glass
so hurry, eat up and fly away.

Shopping for a vacation turns ugly

My children are plotting to ruin my favorite vacation spot. I had been expecting it for a while, but now I have real evidence they want to sabotage my little affair.

The grocery store-- a tropical paradise, artic adventure and safari rolled into one exciting afternoon.

Just think about it. Flowers, chocolate, spa comforts, gourmet food, a carving station, fresh seafood you can trust and tropical fruit.
Heck if you’re into it, they’ve even got prescription drugs.

I can make a trip to the grocery store for a gallon of milk last an hour and half. I'll just walk around, enjoy the florescent lighting, read labels or check out the produce. It's just so quiet and it's air conditioned-- and if you go there enough and they know who you are, they'll open up a check stand for you so you don't have to wait in line.
At least, in my fantasy world of grocery store wonders that’s what they do.

I’m special at the grocery store. Don’t want to get left with a sour cantaloupe. Ask the produce guy . Wondering if six hours is enough to thaw out your 20-pound turkey? ask the butcher. He’ll find you a fresh one and listen to how you ‘d been meaning to buy your turkey for six weeks, but you’ve been busy and the kids have been crazy and--- He’ll even give you pointers on how to make it extra tender and juicy.
Screwed up on Valentine’s Day-- well the florist can create the perfect get me out of the dog pound bouquet-- fast.
Liquor libations-- need I say more? Oh yes, you’d better take your ID because they card everyone.-- or maybe they just card me because I still look 19. Business owner take note: Flattery will get you a return customer.

But I’m sad to say the kids are sabotaging my rendezvous.
It was an hour after gymnastics on a Thursday night when we pulled into a the only Chico store that can make me stray from the one around the corner.
We pulled in next to a shirt-less man with tattoos and truck trouble. I felt sorry for him-- nothing is worse than car trouble in a grocery store parking lot.

“That man doesn’t have a shirt on” Abby whispered.
“It’s OK, Abby,” I said.
“But he’s got tattoos all over him,” she said a little louder.
“It’s OK, Abby. Get out of the car,” I said.
“But his pants are pulled way down and -- I can see his underwear,” she said a little too loudly.
“Abby, it’s OK. He’s just hot,” I said.
“But- but- but,” she stammered as I dumped her in the cart.

Once inside, Abby and Nikki, my 2-year-old, took turns wanting in and out of the cart while Maggie, my 7-year-old asked me if we could buy peaches-- then Hershey bars-- then popcorn-- you get the picture.

The trouble started when Abby informed me that she must pick out the produce and bag it.
“But you don’t know how to pick out corn,” I said as she tried to put some bug-infested, half-eaten ears of corn in my basket.
“No let me do it,” she said. “I wanna get the corn.”
I was too tired.
Notice to those coming to my Memorial Day barbeque: don’t eat the corn.

Next came the tomatoes. Now they all wanted to pick it out.
“Let me mom-- you let Abby get the corn,” Maggie said as she dropped one on the floor, picked it up and put the bruised specimen in her baggie.
“No. No. No!!! I do it,” Abby yelled. This time a tomato with a brown hole in its side went into the baggie.
“But it’s my turn!” Maggie shouted. Something must be done. People were staring.

“I need two heads of garlic,” I said. “You can each get one and give them to Nikki to put in the baggie.”

As I turned to pick out more attractive tomatoes, I heard a horrible scream and a man’s voice.
“I’ve got her,” he shouted.
Somehow in the excitement-- I mean this was like two seconds--, Maggie managed to pull the cart over with Nikki inside the basket.
Thank God, this man was standing right beside her and grabbed my little Nikkerbocker.
Everyone was OK., but I’ll never look at the grocery store in the same way.
Shopping with children is like going on a cruise line shore excursion. It sounds harmless enough, but it can leave you grinning like an idiot on their “souvenir video”-- or with a nasty virus that leaves you in the "confession box"(bathroom) for month.

(published 5-27-06 in the Paradise Post)

Kid Flower Power

“Princess Flower Flower!” sounded a round voice from a pie-faced girl.
It was Abby in all her glory-- an apple green puffed sleeved dress, purple stomps (snow boots), hot pink feather boa and rhinestone crown.
“Pl--ll--lay with me,” she said, tugging at my arm and dragging me away from my email.

Oh the email box-- food for my ego and proof I exist beyond these four walls. I spend too much time here, waiting for a bunch of hellos and the joke of the day-- when there is so much laughter and so many “good morning, Mommy”’s already in my house. It’s easy to take it for granted-- the childish laughter, the thudding feet down the halls and all those plastic farm animal adventures.

And so it's time to grab my feather duster and enter the theater of make believe.

“You can be the maid who carries drinks,” she said, pulling me out of the office. “But Mommy-- Mommy Pease put on red sparkly dress?”

The red sparkly dress is not appropriate for childhood play-- no matter how endearing the characters. Backless and slit past any measure of mommy hood-- this is not the dress maids are made of.
“Not today Tinkerbelle,” I said.

“Well-- well-- can you wear something pretty?” she said. “Dress-up Mommy. You’re the maid who carries drinks and Nikki-- she can be the maid who carries food on trays.”

I wrapped a beach towel around my head and put on some black mittens. Good enough.

Let the festivities begin.
Princess Flower Flower plopped on my bed-- one arm flung to the side and the other slung across her face.
“I need (gasp) I need (gasp)-- a drink,” she said.
"Anything else your grace?" I ask.
“And --uh?-- uh?" she searches for the word. "Ummmmm-- uh--Ham samich.”

I intercept Nikki in the hall.

She’s already got her uniform on-- her prerequisite for getting out of bed red toy firefighter hat, ankle-baring too short jeans, stripped tank top and purple caplet trimmed with sequins and marabou feathers.
In her hands is -- goo-- lotion. Her hands are white and smell of gardenias-- lots of gardenias.
My living room carpet-- it’s gooey. Finger streaks of white weave through the Asian motiff- and the room? Gardenias-- lots of them.
“Nikki!" I start and then catch myself and lower my voice. It takes a great amount of effort. "We do not play in the lotion."

A dimpled grin looks back at me and then onto the bed she climbs, throwing one foot up at a time, grabbing the comforter and pulling with all her might.

“Uppy-- uppy-- Mommy” she said. I leave the Oxyclean and push her up by her tushy. She growls like a tiger and pulls her sister’s hair.
“Mo-o-om, Nikki hurted me,” Abby says The tears-- the wailing-life is ending tears-- start flying.
“No-- Abby,” Nikki said. “No!!! Play with-- Me.”
“You’re the maid Nikki,” Abby whispered. “Water-- I need fairy water -- please-- please.”
She was fading fast.

“You’re the maid,” Nikki growls, mimicing her sister in the torture of torture games. “You're the maid- hmm.”
She pulls the crown off Abby’s head and jumps on the bed. Abby bounces like wounded popcorn.
“Nikki-- nice-- no jumping,” I shout-- forgetting all maidly manners..
“Grrr-- jumping, jumping,” Nikki growls-- jump-jump and then thump-- off she went.

Anyway we had a super time. I’m sure if you have daughters you’ve watched them twirl around the room, singing little songs to themselves. You’ve served them samiches on fake silver platters and waited for the fairies to come to their party.
Just a snippet-- that’s all I’ve got today. Besides Nikki is pulling all the floss out of the plastic container and winding the cinnamon- infused string around her wrist.

Abby's Turn

OK my 4-year-old is jealous of her sister, so here is her poem. I'd love to live in her world. If imaginations paid in dividend, she'd be set for life.
Abby is my middle kid with long, long brown hair and saucer-like blue eyes. She looks like a cross between a Hummel and a Cupie doll.
Abby is the reason I praise God each day because I know it will be filled with sunshine no matter the weather. She is squishy and cuddly-- with a round toddler body.
If you saw her at the park, she'd be the one dresed in a knitted snow cap, sequin dance top, knitted scarf, jeans and tutu throw on top for good measure-- and always, she has on her ladybug rainboots.
The sentences were her own-- though I did help her with arrangement. Come on she's four.
She calls this poem:

Fishy Garden of Me

Growing plants

dance round and round.

They want to go inside

the house in

Abby's trunk

and do ballet

while reading

"Winnie the Poe"

on their tip toes.

Flying round and round

they jump high into

the fishy garden of me--

a bunch of letters--

ABCD

and a cowboy riding a winged horse

"Giddy up Cowboy!"

inside Abby's trunk.

Santa Claus is coming

to see the little flowers--

blue, purple, orange, red, yellow, green--

do splits.

I read to them

"Starlight Fairy"

on a windy Monday

inside Abby's garden.

Abby- age 4

Don't Take Candy from Strangers-- especially old hags carrying a basket of apples

After a particularly disturbing Law and Order episode sent me running into my children’s bedrooms to make sure they were still there, I decided it was time to commence with daily safety quizzes.
“Do we talk to strangers?” I asked.
“No,” they said proudly.
“Good answer,” I said, thinking the subject was over.
“How do we make friends, then?” my oldest daughter asked.

Good question. In the parent manual that came with my children when they were born, it just has the catch phrase “don’t talk to strangers.” It doesn’t say anything about making friends-- except smile, be polite and introduce yourself with a firm handshake.

“Well, you can talk to other children if a trustworthy adult is nearby,” I said. “But only talk to adults if I’m there or your dad is there or an adult you really know is standing right next to you.”

I’m a little sensitive to the subject.
I remember the scare tactics my elementary school used during the 1980s to teach me not to talk to strangers.

This was during a period of heightened awareness of child abduction. Adam Walsh had been abducted and killed, causing most parents to hold onto their children with tourniquet-force strength.
Schools across the nation began launching “don’t talk to strangers” campaigns and went to great lengths to describe good touching and bad touching.

For many schools, this was probably nothing new, but looking back I think my school went overboard.
I remember my teacher saying with the most serious-- almost threatening voice, “It could be your dad, your uncle, your grandfather, babysitter or the nice man down the street-- bad people don’t have a look. It can be anyone, anywhere.”

I went home from school, thinking everyone was out to get me. I was terrified to leave my mother’s side, and though I had always been “Daddy’s Little Girl”, I would barely let my father near me anymore.

Gone were the days of childhood rough-housing. I was too afraid it would turn ugly-- like my teacher with the best of intentions warned me it could.

I certainly don’t fault my teacher for being zealous with the subject. It is a serious subject that must be taught. I am just saddened that it affected me so greatly.

Children shouldn’t live in fear, but they should be well informed and aware.
I decided to approach the subject with a light heart and some seriousness thrown in for good measure.

We went back to the basics and took out the parenting manuals of yesteryear “Grimm’s Fairytales.”

After reading healthy doses of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” “Hansel and Gretel,” “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” we learned not to talk to strangers or go into their homes because a man-eating giant, wicked witch or angry bears might live there.
“The Three Little Pigs” and “Little Red Riding Hood” taught us install security systems and not to answer the door because a wolf might be lurking behind the corner.
The fairytales have given way to our ever popular “daily quizzes,” which probably do more good than a little light reading of the darkest terrors of childhood (fairytales).
“What do we do if a stranger approaches you?” I ask.
“Don’t talk to him and yell for help,” they chimed in.
“OK that’s pretty good,” I said, “What if he’s lost his puppy and wants you to help him look for it? Do we help him?“
“No”, they said.
“What if he offers you ice cream or candy? Do we take it?” I ask.
“No,” they said.
“Well, what if he just wants directions?” I ask. “Do you go near him and give them to him or do you get an adult?”
“An adult,” they said.
“But what if you forget and he tries to grab you?” I ask.
“I’d scream and kick him in the knee,” my oldest daughter said.
“Yeah well, I’d kick him in the chicken eyeball,” my middle child shouted with great enthusiasm.
Now my dear readers I have no idea where the chicken eye ball is or what it is, but I can assure you that if you kick the Big Bad Wolf there, I don’t think he’ll blow your house down.

(previously published in the Paradise Post by the Blogger who goes by Bonnie B-- hey I'm too busy to write something new, so here is some old stuff)

Damn She's Got Talent

I am going to do a big no-no, but I can't help it. I'm a mother, and I've got three amazing daughters-- and for today, you can all groan over one of them.
I say groan because that is what I always did when my dad took in photos of me to his work. I swear he has a picture of me for each year of my life-- in every princess dress I've ever owned-- stuffed, and I mean stuffed, into his wallet.
But today, it's my turn-- brace yourself.
Miss Maggie Moo--What a child-- blonde hair, big blue eyes-- electric eyes, and a smile that could change the seasons.
And she is smart.
Last night while we were trying to figure out what she could bring in for show and tell, she pulled out some blank paper.
"I want to do what you do," she said.
"You want to interview the Magalia Beautification Association?" I said.
"No. Can I write a poem?" she said.
Poems can be short. They don't have to rhyme, and they don't even have to make sense because you could just tell the readers "the message goes deeper. Keep digging." Perfect for a 7-year-old.
This is her poem. She wrote it all by herself-- no help, except with spelling

My Mother's Garden

There are lots of flowers in a garden--
different types--
yellow and pink and
purple, white-- and
green leaves.

When I smell them,
they remind me of
flower candy.

Everyday I look out the window
and look at the flowers.
The pansy faces--
they smile at me.
In winter
they are sad.
They want a blanket.

By Maggie age 7

After the Fall

Get out of my garden-- you serpent,
you slivering snake never to have wings
and fly away
Get out haughty body-- looks
The half closed eyes of a seductive dreamer

Lure me in?
You taught me language, and my profit on it
Is I know the crunchiness of love, the choking peeling scream
Of red blood love slipping down my fingers
Feeding the plants sorrow for breakfast

After such knowledge, what forgiveness?
Think now
History -- she is little better than a strawberry
A sweet vine, a tart really
That chokes the life out of everything


Now get out
Before you unclothe my flowers
And make my nasturtiums your salad.

Court-- Proof that ponytails and the yearly bath never went out of style

I jumped out of the shower, gave my head three good shakes and stuffed myself into the thong-bearing K-mart jeans I'd bought especially for this occasion. Damn I look H-O-T, I thought as I flip-flopped out the door. I was officially under cover.

You see, as part of a Administration of Justice assignment I had to attend court for the day-- and I certainly didn't want to feel out of place. You've got to assimilate in these kinds of situations, and since I couldn't sit with the prosecution, I might as well look like the next one up for arraignment.

Jerry Springer never had it so lucky as about a hundred of Butte County’s finest eligible wife beaters, drug users, shop lifters and drunken crazy drivers proved ponytails (the mullet and greasy base of the neck variety) and the yearly bath never went out of style. Yes, these people do exist.
Their genes are in the gene pool, and they could be coming for your children (not yours or mine but the other “yours” of the world).

From my seat in the audience there were no big surprises. Everyone essentially wore their offense labeled on his or her shirt. In fact it was the nice shirt on the well groomed, good looking guy that gave away his offense. Shoplifting. Looking good in a courtroom either means you are first time offender who still has an ounce of respect for the court and wants to plead for mercy, a defendant who is guilty as sin and want to detract from your offenses or that you are a shoplifter who just scored some goods at the local JC Penney‘s.

He is not that smart. What shoplifter would actually want to look good in court? Aren’t you in a weird way proving you’re a good thief? Maybe not. Maybe you just have a good job and a lot of respect for the court, right? I don’t think so-- he was too slick and too calm and now he’s banished from Wal-Mart. Somebody better call Penny’s fast because they’ve got a hot one in the building stuffing his pants.

Another lady proved that some women really are stupid. Again a shirt gave her away as the stupid woman verified my suspicions that her husband was a wife beater. There she was in court, her fingers wrapped around her husband’s shirt sleeve like it was her last life line on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.“ Her head rested on his collar- pathetic. You aren't anybody's spaniel lady-- come on get some self respect. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
Stupid lady stood by her man, or more accurately hovered on the gate into the trial area. She was like a beaten cat in heat-- stupid, stupid, stupid. The verdict: fines, probation and the completion of a 32-week domestic violence course.

Oh, but wait-- here comes the excuse. They’re moving to Redding. Can’t he just pay a fine? No he can go to Redding’s 52-week course. Oh, bother he decides to drive back to Butte once a week so he can learn to stop using his wife for kickboxing practice. The judge tacked on something extra silly for good measure-- the “nice as pie” restraining order of the day. He was ordered to be nice to his wife and do nothing that makes her feel bad about herself, hurts her or leaves any visible marks upon her body. Now there is a woman with power only she’s too stupid to use it. And the loved ones left the building holding hands and (vomit) kissing. Life is like a box of chocolates and I wonder what kind he’s ordered up for her today.

But love is what court is all about, right? Every defendant facing jail time has a disabled loved one, a grandma or 10 feral children whom he or she cares for when they aren’t breaking the law. Their pursuit of Florence Nightingale-like attributes should excuse them from jail time (in their minds at least). Who can send a saint to jail? Think of the poor starving children and the bedridden grandmas. Don’t think about the fact that they have failed to appear once before and already have two other priors for drunk driving and possession of narcotics.

Though the worst excuse was this guy who said he was moving on the assigned day. He couldn’t go to jail because he was moving into another house down the block and has no friends or family besides his wife and two small children to help him. What ever is he going to do? Apparently go to jail for five days because this judge didn’t fall off the judge’s bench yesterday and bonk her head. She’s no fool.

Her patience ran deeper and was greater than the pocket lining of Exxon executives. I don’t know how her sanity remains in tact dealing with defendants whose brains stopped in time at the exact moment they started offending. Thirty-year-old men and women acted like prepubescent tweens sneaking a joint behind their parent’s back-- and these are the “saints” caring for the children, disabled and elderly.

Damn I feel dirty.

The Chorus of Ten Thousand Sperm

Storming the beaches of Norma Jean
Category 5 white water and nobody’s got their helmet on
Cruising the eerie canal
Necropolis down under or
Adam and Eve’s last resort
The spawning grounds of one--
One lone survivor
Outwit, outlast, outplay
That’s what they say.

And they’re off
An army of Ben-Bob’s finest, ten thousand wiggly whiskers
“I’m bigger”
“I’m longer”
“I’m smarter”
“You’re stupid, but she’s pretty and you’re ugly.”

And there it is
a round fuzzy orb, a full moon,
a pearl just sitting there
waiting-- will somebody please fulfill my destiny?

A thousand tails turn at once.
“Hey Bob, I’m hungry. What’s that ahead?”
“Baby come to Papa.”
“Ain’t she cute?”
“It’s not a she, Bob.”
“Oh, don’t be disgusting. I can’t eat that.”
“It’s not a he either.”
“Oh.”

The race is on.
“Hey, Bob I’ll race you to it.”
“Last one there is a rotten egg.”
“I’m faster.”
“Well, I’m-uh?- I’m-uh? I have better balance.”
Caboom! Crash!-- into the wall.
“That’s not the mark, you idiot.”

Convergence.
One thousand attack
Tight packed and tails flying

The “men” circled their wagons.
“Alright men here’s what we need to do.”
The “women” just went to the door.

Chomp-chomp, wiggle-wiggle.
“Hey, where’s the door?”
“There is no door, Jan-- gosh.”
“Knock, knock.”

For a moment -- a hush on the war zone.
Tails stand in salute
And Jan sneaks in.
“Told you so.”

And they all go marching down to the ground,
To get out of their shame.

Salty Days Ahead

I've always dreamed of winning a can of salt, but I'd always assumed that if I won said can, I would have been much younger and most likely drunk.

Such is life, no seedy story here to last a lifetime.

No I won the can in a poetry decoding contest which just proves I am the big nerd some of my friends profess I am.

I can't help it. I'm a sucker for poetry, and I'm even bigger sucker for winning. Try as I might to resign myself to an afternoon of fingerpainting and dusting, I couldn't. I heard Yeats and Donne, and goodness they are two sexy writers -- the stuff made for a good date and a bottle of wine.

And so the story goes, I tried to stay in my place trapped in the yellow wallpaper of my post college life, but I couldn't. I had to travel, and it was a arduous travel, into the files of my brain and pull out the goods.

It was a fantastic afternoon. I wasn't a mom. I wasn't a doormat. I had a brain (at times) and I got to use it. Those of you whose life has become a ritual of Cherrios and nights waiting by the phone for a call that may or may not come, who have sacrificed year upon year those dreams you could dispose of for the family's sake may understand how precious this afternoon was to me.

Thank you amishav.

As for the salt-- whatever am I going to do with it? Are there salty days ahead? Should I put it on my mantel as a reminder of the day when I was not in hock to my kids? Should I cook up a storm and relish each morsal of my victory? Is it inspiration or just a can of salt waiting for a fish?

Sorry I lied-- I couldn't help it

I feel the need to poeticize--- What a fantastic day! Here goes:

Why I Hate Roses

I slammed the door and threw

a fat bloody rose supported by a weedy fern

all wrapped in cheap green paper

tightly bound with a thin plastic bow.

*

You'd come over again

this time with a peace offering--

the ever popular

big-haired, curly red head

with a straight shapeless body

and long fingernails to break through

cheap clothing and scratch.

*

I don't need your fickle flowers filling my house

with their heavy sugary perfume.

Take your blossoming bimbos wih you.

Maternal lobotomy

Damn my brain aches. I'm too old for this. My children have leeched all the brain cells out of my head and replaced them with "Goodnight Moon."

You know, I'll admit it, I liked the book the first 15 times I read it-- how sweet "Good night noises everywhere." I just didn't realize I might as well have been bidding ado to my power to reason.

Here is my dilemma. I logged onto amishav's blog where he's got this poem you're supposed to decode-- tell what works it draws from. Now, way, way back before Dr. Suess told me to eat green eggs and ham and watch out for the cat in the hat, I knew something about literature. Literature puzzles-- what a fun way to spend an evening.

So I took the challenge. I read the poem and pieces of it sounded so eerie-- I've been here before-- long before my kids lobotomized me. O.K. I know it's not derived from Stellaluna or The Giving Tree. The Sidewalk does not end here. This is serious business-- grab the masters and start reading.

Reading is impossible. During my hours of short-sentenced, single plot reading, I've lost the ability to comprehend anything more than a grocery list.

I skimmed on.

The first one was sort of easy because the name Porphry stuck out like a hair in a salad-- where, where, where have I heard that before? And there somewhere in the recesses of my brain, buried under a load of dust was the Enneads of Plotinus. I don't know why-- took a wild guess and bingo.

Irish poet? Joyce, do I have to revisit Finnegan's Wake? James and I were buddies my senior year, but we have a falling out over feminism-- and I can't remember who won.

Fortunately someone else had already gone there and James is not the man of the hour in the poem-- and so, I'll take another wild guess.
Oh I recognized Yeats-- pitter-patter, pitter-patter-- these are the that words are made of. I just thought I was nuts to think of Yeats at a time when Porphry was doing summersaults in my grey matter.

Though I will admit had I been alive and in Ireland in the late 1800s, I would have been strutting by his abode. Which poem now? Who the hell knows? Love him, don't have time to relive him right now.

Where to next? Someone mentioned Divine Comedy and it made sense. But, sorry to say my copy is gone, imagine that? I decided I'd just wing it-- now I realize return visits could come in handy when you are competing for a half a can of seasoning salt.

And so dear readers, if you are looking for some fun or feel the need ot take a refresher course in Literature-- amishav's blog is a wonderful, if not frustrating, challenge.

As for me, I know when I'm way, way,way out of my league, and so I throw in the towel. Maybe after a glass of wine, I'll feel lit enough for lit.

Oh, bother I think I'll take a stab at "One Fish, Two fish" instead-- at least then the kids aren't coloring on the wall.

My head hurts from all this nonsense.

Crayola Kisses

Biker girl with a rough edge and tied on shirt, I am not, but I must confess I have quite a few tattoos.

I know, it's scandalous for a mother to wear her artistic side in public, in full view for every Tom, Dick and "park mom" to see.
But it's gotten to the point where I can't cover it up anymore.
A red squiggle into a capital "A" on my right hand gives me away. I've been marked by my middle daughter Abby.
Abby is 4-years-old and enjoys drawing flowers and practicing writing her name backwards and upside down. Someday she will make a great navigator for the Navy where writing backwards on Plexiglas comes in handy.
In her spare time, she colors herself lime green and swears she is Tinkerbelle.
She is the squishy middle child and enjoys being "the good one"-- though I secretly fear she's practicing to be the shy quiet girl who is wild on the side in high school. I need to watch her extra closely.

If you look closely, purple circles wrap their wiggling bands around my calves. Even my neck has been kissed by Crayola-- this would be the work of a fine budding artist called Nikki.
Nikki is 2-years old and dabbles in everything messy. You want splattered mud design. I've got a dose with some grass clippings smeared in for good measure.
The child is perpetually dirty. If it's not mud on her face, then she's unlocked the cupboard and stolen some Ovaltine.
She is addicted to the stuff and will have fine bones and teeth when she is older.
In her spare time, she redecorates my walls with abstract art and muddy handprints.

Look a little lower-- like onthe bottom of my feet, and you'll see a lady bug staring up at the stars.
This art comes courtesy of Miss Maggie, my 7-year-old daughter.
She's the one who first introduced me to Mulan's arm notes. When she was barely 2, she'd scribble in black marker all over her arm and pretend she was reading her notes before her matchmaker.
Now, that she is 7, things aren't so innocent. Her dream is to get a real tattoo someday when she's a big girl-- a scrollwork on her lower back with flowers would suit her fine.
She's my mouthy child who thinks she's running a marathon to teenagehood.
But she's my Maggie Moo, my first born-- the parental guinea pig.
And so, I indulge her and let her draw trees and flowers, ladybugs and stars all over my feet and arms.
Hey it washes off--and at least this way it stays off the wall.
Well, sometimes it doesn't wash off and that's when I go grocery shopping with a red squiggly A on my right hand.

Sluty Socks Seek Respectable Mates

If I were a sock, I don't think I'd want to be the orange and white polka dot one or the one with the pink trim and Hello Kitty face because quite frankly being such a sock will leave you lonely and mate-less.
Better to be as plain as possible-- a boring white crew sock-- because that is where all the fun is

You see, in the world of socks, the world as we know it is turned upside down --unless you are perpetually dirty of course. Nobody, including other socks, wants to hang out with a dirty smelly sock.
Here is how it goes: Victoria Secret black fish net thigh highs might make for a saucy night for their owners, but, for the stockings, the life is either short lived when they are ripped off in a moment of unimaginable passion (sock translation: destined for the trash) or a rather dull monogamous life spent folded up with its mate and rarely if ever slipped on for action.

For the most part, sexy socks mate for life. Sure some may live as spinsters when their partner decides to crawl under the bed at the local hotel.
But the best mate-less thigh highs can hope their owner will see the benefit of a three some and buy a new more elasticized pair to help draw the lone thigh out of its depressive singular state.
If that doesn't happen, consider their "life" as a sock over-- into the recycle bin you go.

Of course, this spinster rule only applies to women who do not own multiple pairs of black fish net thigh high stockings. If the owner is a real slut, then the thigh highs can act in kind. The options are limitless-- hook up with another black fish net stocking every night of the week, roll around in the dainties drawer with a sachet and a hundred other thighs.

I guess I could be a naughty thigh high, but I'd have to find the right owner-- and quite frankly I don't think I'd want to be a stocking on such a thigh.
I don't want to be a novelty sock either.
Novelty socks get the same treatment as sexy lingerie only they usually must suffer the owes of living on children's feet.
But for the plain Jane white crew sock-- oh now there is the life.
When the going gets tough, the laundry room executive always buys more mates, newer improved models, whiter, nonslouchy and ribbed for your comfort (so they don't slide down into your shoe, you naughty folks).
White socks aren't particular. They're perpetual settlers, mating with good enough matches-- ones that are a little taller, a shade off white, have secret holy heels or toe port holes. They'll go with ones from different makers, different textures-- just as long as they are white and can be folded to an appropriate length.
Some are widows thrice over. All have been lost at some time in there lives whether it be in the couch, under the dryer or stuffed in a shoe headed to Goodwill. None are monogamous. It's forbidden. It's the sad casualty of the laundry room.
But the good news is there is a crew out there for everyone, and if you are really lucky, you might end up with a big old thick athletic tube sock-- whether he or she is a respectable mate, now that is another story.

No More Poetry-- for now

OK, I've played the role of poet for the past couple of days, and while I do enjoy a good rumba with rhythm and sound-- I want to get back to blogging.
I always wanted to be a poet, a regular Elizabeth Barrett Browning or edgy Sylvia Plath. Some people want to be rock stars, I just wanted to be poor. Few writers ever really make it, and yet so many starve for their fix. For writers sound-- the feel of syllables upon their tongue and the seductive curve of a lower case "e" just begging you to scratch it upon a piece of paper-- is heroine for the soul.
When I was a kid, I couldn't stand empty paper. I colored hard with bright obnoxious colors-- lime green, orange and clown-nose red. Pink elephants, purple lakes and fiery skies--Oh the innocence of youth. I'm getting to live it again through my little ones, and it is so hard to let their coloring book people have green and blue faces. Children-- now that's music for your blood. Sometimes it's a jolly Joplin jazz. Sometimes it's like listening to an orchestra of 5-year-olds alone with an untuned violin and a piano. And sometimes it's Norah Jones, a cup of coffee and rainfall.
And so, sometimes I dare to go back to my roots-- those days when poetry filled my brain with mush and I doodled during trigonometry. My kids are my inspiration and the tethers that tie me down (but that is OK-- it's a path I chose and wouldn't trade). They remind me all is not lost, each day is a new adventure, and yes I have the rest of my life to be a poet and a writer and a mother. They remind of how many stories a I haven't written and how many years past since I first dreamed the dream. The "if only" in my life hinders the pragmatic side of living.
We're here to live, but dreaming is so much fun.
I know I will never be a poet in the bookstore sense. I haven't the talent-- all the love and none of the "stuff." But I don't write for stores where in someone might stumble upon my book and might read a page or two. I write to feed something inside myself.
And the poetress has been fed. I'm full for now. The tax has been paid, and so no more poetry for now.

My Boyfriend Ate My Hair

Was it good?

The Rapunzel locks and curly-Qs

A daisy mane dangling gown

The spider's nest where his fingers rest

I wonder-- did he like it?

Tasty hair

A salon souffle of honey hay,

an over cooked gourmet dish,

a regular combo of mouse and spritz

chemically fit for him.

He must have.

Brunching upon my bushy bonnet,

snipping lips clipped half an inch.

this munching mower hacked the hair

down the neck and over the ear.

MeMe first

Thanks for tagging me kasamba!

Accent: a slight southern drawl ya'll when I get fired up
Booze: Sheridans
Chore I hate the most: changing nasty toddler diapers
Dogs/cats: meeeeeow
Essential electronic:
Favorite perfume: baby breath or just clean baby smell
Gold/silver: 18 karat gold with an alexandrite thrown in for good measure
Hometown: Paradise
Insomnia: I've got three kids. What do you think?
Job Title: Domestic slave-- where is Abe when you need him?
Kids: Three of the most beautiful girls in the world
Living Arrangement: squished
Most admired trait: cleanliness and organization
No. of SPS: one, I think, I hope
Overnight hospital stays: three for the kids, a week with a sick kid, a couple here and there for kid born problems (they were big kids)
Phobia: waking up a waitress again-- waitress nightmares still haunt me after 11 years
Quote: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."
Religion: Methodist
Time I usually wake up: seven
Vegetable I reuse to eat: canned peas or canned boiled spinach
Worst habit: procrastination
Yummy foods I make: If it's baked, I can do it- but I'll have three little helpers so you might not want to eat it
Zodiac: I'm a ragging bull (Taurus)
Who's next?

Thought Museum

Old photo albums
take breath upon a stage of sounds
each syllable a different shape,
giving form to flat surfaces.
Life through cells of sounds---
rhythmic pulses
picture a memory transformed
by tone.
The flow of words upon lines
like waves to my senses
back files in my mind--
remember the calloused fingers of Papa
the smell of dying Christmas trees,
the soft square sleeve of a lover retreating,
Through words I live
they are the sanctuaries of the soul,
the temple's testaments
and the visionary's passion.

Youthful Dreams

I don't know when they left, but they did---
those words, those sounds upon my lips
and the feeling.
It's gone now-- a shattered memory of youth.
I do not know her.
She is a scarce memory, a stranger,
someone who held onto the dreams of words and sounds
whose thoughts went deeper, whose meaning was concrete and yet so sad.
She held to the dream, held it crumpled in her fist.
Some day. It's there. I can see it. I can hear it
her thirst for it.
And yet, she left me.
I don't remember when.
She scarcely closed the door
and tiptoed out unnoticed.
She was gone
long gone and the sound of her voice and the thrill of the sounds
quieted by time.
Her voice was written upon a page
and the book was closed
unfinished.

Can you hear me now?

Hello from the late night laundry room. It's Wednesday night and nobody is listening-- and that is exactly what I like about this little process.
Does blogging fulfill some inane desire to talk to one's self?
Just think about it. Nobody cares. Nobody listens. You can write or say whatever you damn well please because nobody knows who you are.
I'll bet all the therapists out there with their uncomfortable couches and yellow legal pads are popping pills they're so worried about blogging taking over their businesses.
It's the therapy of the future. Don't see a shrink. Just turn on your computer and let it all out.
I can see it now. Pretty soon, they'll have computer programs that actually read your blogs for you and send you nice little comments, or if you're into abuse, hate mail.
Maybe you could program your blogger program to give you Heloise household hints for all your dilemmas.
We could have secret bloggers for paranoid people who need computer therapy because HMO's no longer cover "real" therapy since this new age therapy is the generic equivalent to someone sitting in a chair and shaking his head.
The secret bloggers would have special protection so no one could ever read their blog-- though by this time, I'm sure no one really cares what Beninhim in Misery is doing to get "him" out of his mind once and for all.
We can all keep dirty little secrets, right?
Here's one-- I can't stand long toe nails.
Two out of three of my daughters actually chew their toe nails-- which makes me wonder if they are trying to make me crazy or if they just like the taste of dirty, sweaty slivers of hard nail material.
Maybe it reminds them of toasted coconut?
I don't know. I'll have to ask.
But you know they actually fight over who gets which toe nail-- until I, struggling to keep my tuna sandwich safe in my tummy, knock it out of their hands and lecture them on hygiene.
Kids. They'll make your hair gray and your skin crawl.
Well, Doc Presario my 15- minute session is coming to a close. I'll diagnose you with a slow harddrive and too much virtual memory.
It's time to go out and make some real ones-- too bad for you you're just a bunch of wires filled with everyone else's thoughts and none of your own.
I hope I can boot up tomorrow.
This computer can be so temperamental.
I just don't get it.

If I had a chisel, I'd build myself a waist.

Once upon a time, I had one-- a nice cinched in circular wonder that some boys liked to wrap their hands around. Now, don't be naughty. I had a waist-- a 24-inch waist to be exact-- a size 4 with room for a baked potato.
Then one day I thought I'd get happy. You see, happiness has this grand way of eating away at your waist. For some people, happiness is the pill to make them forget all about eating. For others, it's a cause for celebratory whipped cream kisses and a big old piece of chocolate cake with two spoons.
When I met my husband I was so happy, I made graham cracker and frosting sandwiches and put them in the freezer. The frosting was homemade-- vanilla, a stick of salty butter and two to three cups of powdered sugar. The graham crackers were honeymade and ready for a healthy tablespoon or two of the rich, buttery frosting.
I'd pile them up on a plate in a swirl pattern, stacking them so they looked like modern architecture, and then we'd read to each other and eat them. I must have eaten 15 pounds of butter while lounging on my husband's lap and listening to him read "The Brothers Kincade"and "A River Runs Through it." We explored fly fishing while we licked frosting from around the corners of the crackers, working our way down the stacks to the bottom of the plate.
And at the bottom, I noticed I'd lost half my waist.
I banished my shirts to the outside of my pants. The style took and the next thing I knew motherhood was the fashion of the day.
I traded the pants for a sack sailor dress and waited for my first born-- who took what was left of my waist with her when she arrived.
I'd like it back-- the little thief. She's a blonde 7-year-old with eyes too big and blue for her own good-- too smart.
If she had my waist, she'd know what to do with it- thank goodness she's only 7 going on 13 and not 13 going on 25.
Her waist will spell trouble ahead.
I can see it by the way she winks at the boys and gets them to play. The wrinkles in the corners of her mouth when she smiles, the crinkle in her nose when she gets her way.
She gives me that damned smile everyday as I look for a full coverage T-shirt and grunt at the thought of wearing low rise jeans in public.
She'll always be my little thief.
There really is no excuse for me allowing her to keep it. In seven years, you'd think I would have found some way to pry it from her fingers. But she's got two other sisters to help her hold on-- you know a mother cannot be prettier than her children.
If I had a chisel, I'd build myself a waist.
I tried at the gym-- two hours a day, seven days a week until I found my waist, went on a cruise and it jumped overboard.
This time I'd know what to do with it. I'm nine years older than when her daddy and I first met, and I've learned a few things about men.
You don't need to be so happy to keep them. You don't need to eat the frosting and whipped cream kisses. But it sure is fun-- it's the magic that jumpstarts your heart.
I've learned that in the long run if a man loves you and you lose your waist in the checkout stand at Wal-Mart, you will miss it more than him. A waist is a small thing in the world of a man, but to a woman it can mean the difference between a pair of pants staying or sliding down your ass.
If I had a waist, I'd know how to use it. I'd wear halter tops and silhouette enhancing slinky dresses-- and then I'd see what magic I could conjure up in the room.
Would my waist entice my husband into staying home more and forgetting about his fishing trips?
Would my waist be so intimidating, I'd be excused from the next parent-teacher conference?
Would my waist get me help in a department store full of teeny boppers?
Probably not because my waist comes complete with a set of muddy footprints just above the belt loop-- and really, who can take a waist seriously when there is mud of the kiddish variety involved.
Still a waist is a terrible thing to waste. (sorry I couldn't help it-- I know that is just terrible).

Lonely at Midnight

The only time I can have any peace is between midnight and 2 a.m. on Tuesday. The house is finally sleeping-- the cat, the kids are just lumps under covers-- and the husband is no where in sight. He is a firefighter, and part of the contract you make with yourself when you say "I do" to a firefighter is resign yourself to loneliness three to four nights a week during the winter and all summer long.
Tuesday is the day when I can be assured the kids will wake up and wonder "where's daddy?"
And I have to answer for the umpteenth time, "at work."
I should be sleeping because they never sleep in on the night before he goes away. They pop out of bed at 6 a.m., hoping to get a kiss goodbye, but he's gone.
I should be sleeping, but I can't. My bed is too cold.
The hum of the computer speaks to me. It's a rather utilitarian temptress with so much naughtiness inside. If I wanted to, I could wander over to a naughty sight and watch barely legal teens do it with donkeys, but please-- that is just gross.
It tempts me with "post" motherhood thoughts. I do job searches. I plan out my post mommy graduate degree program. How many units will I need? How long will it take? If I major in this, then what can I do and do I even want to do it.
I search for the perfect Christmas gifts in June. I redecorate my house or at least I plan it all out from the energy efficient windows to the sandy colored carpet.
I give into my nutty side and catch up on reality TV tidbits.
And I just can't help it. Yes, this is my darkest confession.
It's pathetic, but I'm obsessed with Michelle Kwan's career. Maybe it's because she's been around so long. For so many years, the critics have said she needs to retire, and she keeps lacing up her skates. Way to go! You may be older than most of our American skaters, but you're still the best.
I guess she gives me hope. If she's not too old to follow her dreams, then maybe it's not too late for me.
And so from midnight until 2 a.m. I give myself permission to dream and be 21 once more. I "google" the things that used to keep me upright.
Where are the old boyfriends? Where are my closest college friends, the ones who "got" me? They've all become characters in the chapters in my life, and it's hard to turn the page on the book. But they are gone, moved on to other lives.
What would they say of mine? Would they laugh? They all thought I'd be a starving writer in New York or Seattle. I would probably be the last one who'd get married-- much less have three kids.
But I did, and they were shocked. Few came to the wedding. Only one sent a card.
I miss them anyway-- probably because it's midnight and the house is sleeping.