Hi Ho Hi Ho it's off to the woods I go

I will be on vacation from tomorrow until after the fourth of July, so please don't forget about me.You see, dear readers it is time for our Annual Fourth of July Fight (family reunion).I had hoped to make one last post and to visit all your blogs before I left, but I ran out of time.I did post the first draft of poem below-- comments and critques are greatly appreciated.Take care and have a great week.

The Garbage Heap

Don't let me open my eyes,
turn the corner at the old Outpost,
see Bigger's Glen-- my playground of yesteryear
its ground exploded
is now a war zone of soon-to-be houses--

Dozer tracks deep, jagged
twigs and branches
Old Coke cans-- rusted--
cigarette butts, Big Mac wrappers
an empty circle of a Skoal can
Why are you here?

Please, don't let me hear the roar of the chain saw
or the quiet snap of logger boots
Cover my ears.
The forest is quiet no more and
the birds have forgotten their song.
And all I can see are uprooted stumps
their dried bark falling
to sleep with the wreck
the loggers left behind
a nd bodies of lifeless
trees heaped into
a community grave.

I want to go back--
push sugar ants around on a stick,
mumble "Shoo Fly,"
find that time when I could wear overalls
and run heathen through the woods.

I want to go back
balance on rocks along Butte Creek,
suck on licorice and M&Ms,
grab the prickly arms of Douglas firs.
Let me find the days
when Sunday mornings came at six
and nighttime never seemed to end.

Just let me lie with daisies--
lie in meadows of yellow
centers and white petals,
smell evergreen
and sleep under the shade of dying trees.

I'm a pink lady now

The beige parchment do was making me feel monochromatic, and so I looked for something new. More color. More sparkle. More youthful. But when I changed my clothes and looked at the new self of me-- up, down, side to side-- I was lost in translation-- or was I found?

OK I am truly getting sick writing this post. It is clear I only had three hours of sleep last night because it was the first day in a millenium I had no place to go the next morning. The gist is I screwed around with my template because I was bored, and now I am a pick lady. Do I fit this category? I'm not sure. I mean I like frilly, happy saucy blogs, but am I saucy or am I more like parchment paper? How would you describe parchment paper-- old, refined, expensive and monochromatic? Not sure I like this new do. Not sure I like this post. Oh well, let me know what you think of my blog's new outfit.

Why Barbie Threw a Spoon at Ken

I've played the role of empty-headed
blow-up Barbie doll--
you know, the one with the big hair
yellowed wig,
skinny waist and pink plastic
teddy,
So, for God's sake,
don't look at me with those damned gooey-eyes.
It won't work.
I'm a new woman now,
and I don't want to play this game
anymore.
We are no longer
the Denny's pair of hot fudge
sundae* sharers.
I've found my own dish,
my own fork,
and quite frankly,
I can feed myself.

*previously Sunday sharers, but I changed it because I didn't think it worked

Just a simple thank you

Sometimes life's great mysteries uncover immeasurable bounties.
I started this blog about a month ago-- on a whim. A friend of mine had a blog, so I read it and thought why not? I write for a living. This should be a piece of cake. I'll have like what 10,000 readers by week's end.
Yes, the ego of a small town columnist can be overbearing, but put her in the blog world and little miss ego is checked repeatedly and eventually (I hope) she (the ego) disappears all together.
She serves no real purpose other than to stifle my voice and to make me mistakenly think I know all the answers.
I know nothing. I'm a voice in a chorus of millions.
A lone voice screaming too loudly will soon develop a horrendous case of writer's laryngitis. And so, I couldn't write my deepest desires. I couldn't laugh at life's insidious misadventures because I was searching for something much more than a writing outlet.
I was searching for a community, and being of a shy nature I wrote with timid fingers.
Now, most people find their community through their church or synagogue, but I was utterly alone and didn't even know it until one day I was a woman on the verge of a very terrible scream. I poured my heart onto the page, and the next day I clicked on fellow blogger's blog and read.
The message was simple really-- don't make the same mistakes twice-- but it broke through me.
Suddenly I realized I had the power to not be miserable.
I realized I was alone or so I thought, and I didn't' want to be. I wanted that voice and a chorus of many more.
Now many voices do fill my world--actual voices, important physical voices.
Yes, I have my three adorable children-- my lifelines that keep me from falling into the stars. I have my husband-- my frustration, my love, the polar opposite of myself, my completion.
And yes I have God though I was too busy being miserable to listen to Him, but many of you have taught me to stop and listen.
And so, with one click the journey began.
I wanted so much to connect with people even virtual people, to learn how other people are making their lives whole, to laugh at misadventures in dating and parenting-- all of it.
And so, I wrote tidbits, shared a few ancedotes and did a lot of reading.
I learn more everyday. I'm starting to find my voice again. Though I must admit, I am having trouble writing this post, and so I will keep it short. Perhaps I will try it differently another day.
But I thank you for letting me into your community.

Conversations with Mama

You see me as a lump
of wax you can mold
and shape, fancy into your perfect
wax statue-- a seven-year-old
Madonna with wide eyes
and you look at me, and you say I look fat,
and I say, "No, mama, I'm just not seven anymore,"
but to you, my words are just newspaper print,
and you're too busy picking
lin toff my sweater to hear.
Like potter's clay, you spin me
round and round. And I turn
around, an dyou look at me, but you eyes
look past me like they want o pull me
back into the circle of you, start over again,
and you say I smell like baby's
breath, and I say, "No, it's White Lenen, Mama,"
and you pat my head,
and I swear, your fingers want to take me,
knead me like dough,
roll me out flat, shape me round,
into your candle,
your virgin
who speaks no more.

And now it is time for the weekend update . . .

(also known as the post you can skip if you are sick of reading weekend updates-- I never am:)

Paradise hosted its third annual Unity in Diversity Festival, a festival aiming to bring all cultures and races together as one in a town of 97.9 percent white people.

It is a festival with good intentions. We should all love one another regardless of our differences. I think most of us can agree on that.

However, (at least in the past) our little festival is bizarre at best. What usually happens-- and here is where in my opinion of it gets slightly offensive-- is that ethnic groups are bused in or invited to perform for the locals.

To me, this is like saying come let us stare at you-- and entertain us while you’re at it so we can feel good about being diverse when we are not a diverse community.

I wish we were. Sometimes I feel like I live in clonesville.

Sometimes I miss my hometown-- San Antonio, Texas-- a melting pot among melting pots-- where the fiestas are just a tad more grand than Oktoberfest. It’s odd that I ended up in wonder bread land.

Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe I should give the fest a break. You know at least the kids are being exposed to different cultures. I can’t argue the intentions for the festival are always good. Maybe it was better this year.

I don’t know.

I went to Lake Tahoe with the kiddies and the hubby this weekend. I was a wench, he a nicely dressed peasant and the kids equaled two fairies and a princess. This was a great day, but the trip there provided the best entertainment.

On the way to Tahoe, I got the prime opportunity to listen to my children talk.
Here is the conversation.

“Abby look at the buoys,” Maggie said, pointing to the buoys on the lake.
“What boobies?” Abby said.
“The ones on the lake,” Maggie said. “They are the white balls floating next to the boats.”
“I don’t see any balls or boobies,” Abby said. “What are boobies doing on the lake? You’re silly Maggie.”
“The boats are tied to the buoys-- they are the white balls,” Maggie said.
“The boats are not tied to boobies. They are tied to the balls,” Abby said.

I should have corrected herafter all this is the child who brought us the chicken eyeball, but I was laughing too hard. I will. I promise.

Match-making for socks

Finding one’s perfect mate is a torturous lifelong quest for what could be a single moment of happiness.

For many it has become an obsession as people lurk in bars and single’s clubs. For others it has been reduced to good old fashioned match-making where grandma tries to set you up "with a nice boy."

But for my socks, it has been hopeless.

Maybe my socks are sluty socks, thinking that if they ditch their partner I’ll just buy them a newer model with better elastic. Maybe they’re predator socks who like to off their partners or hide them inside the couch cushions (no kidding I once found about 30 socks inside my couch). Or more likely they are just adventurous and like to take long walks to other locals where they can live in solitude in someone else’s house.

I know I’ve found my share of illegal immigrant socks.

But in an effort to make my more respectable socks happy-- these are the ones left behind, the child socks, the ones too pretty for their own good and the religious socks--- I’ve decided to use my blog to find them mates.

I’ll sock it to you with some good old fashioned personal ads.

SW tube sock still fluffy on the inside seeks mate for long walks across the tile and occasional tumbles on the spin cycle. Must not go too far up the calf as this is unattractive. Down to earth and slightly slouchy.

DB dress sock only worn at weddings and job interviews seeks a true black mate. Navy blue need not apply. Must be thin and not overly religious (I don’t want someone who is "holy").

Do you like a little bling? Well I’ve got a gold toe for you. If you can cover up an ankle, I’d be happy to play twister with you in the sock drawer. Do you prefer to fold over or turn inside out in a little ball? No preferences here.

Slightly snagged knee high seeks anyone who won’t fall down on the job. Prefer sandal foot, but I’m not above settling for a reinforced toe.

White crew sock- skinny ribs on the inside fat on the outside, fold over ankle length seeks like kind for everyday wear. Durability a plus. No soiled toes or heels please. Warning: monogamous relationship is highly unlikely. You’ll look like everyone else in the sock drawer, and we like to swap partners. Some even live on the wild side, teaming up with mates that only slightly match my stature and ribbing.

Barbie’s got her Ken. Why out get fluffy in my Kenmore? The 20-minute extra care is the bomb. I’m a fuzzy blue slipper sock with all my tread in tack.

Let’s separate her toes and make them curl. Stripy Christmas toe sock with jiggle bells seeks anyone who will keep him out of the Goodwill bag.

Must love dogs. Holy, stained sock seeks mate for some tug-o-war fun.

Mate left me to become a sock monkey. Brown is O.K., but please no red toes (you just aren’t trust worthy.)

Child-sized socks, various colors seek anyone who remotely resembles them from a distance of 50 feet.

One Tinkerbelle sock lost her shadow-- now seeks Peter Pan, or Wendy for complete collection. Hooks need not apply.

Let’s get frisky in my Whirlpool. Must enjoy long dirty hikes in stinky boots. No quitters. Stains OK. No one will ever see you.

If interested in meeting, go to the local thrift store and ask for unwanted matchless socks. I’m sure someone (not me, I’d never do that) has donated them.

(previously published in the Paradise Post By BS-- or shall I say me)

Come all ye faithful and lead me to the light

Do I have a sign on my back that says "This one's a sinner, come all ye faithful and by all means witness"?
I'm starting to get a complex, really.
This weekend as I sat on my front porch reading "Paradise Lost" in one hand and "The Thirds" in another, two cars of Jehovah's witnesses pulled up in my drive. Now I love a good Jehovah's witness. I"m not bothered by them visiting my house in the least. Really. They are just practicing their religion, so I can be tolerant.
Yes, yes, thank you for your literature. Now may I tell you about my God, and they're off-- well, sometimes they stay and we talk God talk, but usually they go. Everyone is polite. No one is bothered.
What I didn't understand was the ice cream truck that can rolling through at 5:30 p.m.-- just before dinner-- playing Christmas carols. What the heck is up with that? I pulling the chicken out of the oven and the pied piper of children is calling "Oh come all ye faithful." This is too much.
Here's a drumstick for your little drummer boy. A sundae for a Sunday. Have a bomb pop while we jingle some bells.
The worst part. My husband dished out $12 for some frozen religion. Fa-la-la-la----la-la---la---la.

* This post is in no way meant to be disrespectful to any religion or ice cream truck drivers.

Naughty Thursday

Welcome to Naughty Thursday. It’s a day to celebrate love, eat all the chocolate cake you want without feeling guilty and of course do whatever makes you feel just a little bit bad.
For me, it’s my last complete day of the week before my husband comes home for two days and leaves me again-- so it’s my time to just breathe.
In his honor, I’m posting two poems he can’t believe I-- “his pure as the driven snow” bride-- wrote-- and that is why I have Naughty Thursdays because I can be this naughty side of myself-- not quite so pure and not quite so nice.
We all have some saltiness in our lives, so why not let it out.
The first one is a performance piece of poetry I used to perform in college. It is in need of a new title and I’m not crazy about some of the lines-- plus the last stanza doesn’t work. But since we are all just a little bit naughty today, I am hoping for some help-- any help because I do like this poem.
My husband’s response, “I can’t believe you actually read that in public.”
Yes, I did and my mother was sitting in the front row -- amused.
I’d read it to you, but I don’t have the technology.
The second poem is one I wrote in response to Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress.” If you haven’t read that poem, it’s quite a little steamy morsel of words-- perfect for Naughty Thursday.

The sweetness of it all sickened me.
Oh, I dreamed of it
The thick, rich fudge-filled piece of heaven.
A delicacy best enjoyed with a friend,
But I’m a big girl now.
I think I’ll do this one solo.

Six layers
Creamy chocolate cake kissing
Fudgey frosting-- all thick and sticky.
Moist spongy pores promising
Ooey bursts of chocolate goo,
A mountain of white swirling up
Surrounding the chocolate,
Winding its way around-- each circle tightening
Its grasp upon the sweet treat,
locking it in place.

Masquerading beneath a mountain of white,
Icy vanilla cream sweats against a fudgey inferno.
Sweet cream seeps into chocolate crevices,
a vanilla creek flows over an almond back,
down the kissing cake and off the plate.
It’s cool drops staining the floor.

I imagined crunching the nutty back
and inhaling the aroma teasing my tongue--
with saltiness.
The succulent satin slipping down my throat
leaving its scent behind.
It won’t be easy to take it slowly,
but I am up for the challenge.

That first bite
Shoveling through the mountain of white,
My trusty fork penetrates
the colossal cake below.
I scoop up a load of ice and goo
and raise the overloaded fork to my lips.
Slowly I encircle the treasure
to scrape the sticky with my teeth.
For a moment I sit savoring.

Hot sticky syrup clings
Comforting every inch
As the cool icy cream caresses
and tickles against my cheek,
flirting with the salty.
It’s too much.
This hot and cold confusion
intensifies the flavor
And the sweetness of it all makes me sick.
It’s an all too familiar flavor.
Hot contentment left cold
A facade of sweetness with a bitter aftertaste.



And now--- poem number two-- if you are up to it.

To Her Lusty Lover: A Response to Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress

Were you man enough and mine,
this lustiness might sway
and we could
Linger in love’s liquor-- You-- the master
powerful and dominating teacher.
Me-- your seductive slave
naïve little girl
because that’s what you want.
My eyes would grow heavy,
half-closed-- focused
on you--
a fragile lamb, my body
awaits-- hot hands.
Sacrifice my body with
burning embers-- Brand
each inch with your scent.
Run-- your fingers upon
tingling flesh-- Lips
pay homage to each breast
Tender within, a crescendo
like you said
wrap ourselves in flames
make the sun run
Up-- but time
We live for today, remember?
You must-- your flame died just as
mine began.
Therefore, sit in your lusty chair,
offer a thousand I love you’s
And if by chance we should ever
burn as one before--
How did you put it?--
The Jews conform
Well then count yourself
lucky
the worms didn’t brunch
upon my virginity.