Saturday, March 31, 2012


I love music. I listen to it all day. That is if I am all alone in my house.  When the other people who take up space in the home are home they like the TV on. I hate the TV. TV is so obvious isn't it?  And not obvious in the hipster kind of way.
I like folk music.  It's what all the cool kids are listening to.  Some would call it country and if they are calling it country they would be wrong.  Folk is back woods.  It's not structured.   It haunting without being depressing.  Folk makes you sit in a room wrapped in a big blanket and think about how beautiful the world is.  And how lovely life is.
Country is the story.
 Folk is poetry.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

luck and randomness.

*I was talking about luck and how unlucky I was, and still am.  This week about sums up my luck and it sits in the TMI catagory.
 I don't care I am going to share it anyway.
I have a cold.  A big one  With snot and coughing and sore throat and congestion in my nose and congestion in my chest and night time chills.  And sometimes I sound like a frog and other times I sound like a phone sex operator.  It basically feels like I have been run over by a semi and then the semi backed up and ran over me again.  And blessed be I also have my monthly cycle too.   Menses.  Period.  Aunt Flo cometh to town.  And now every time I cough it feels like my womanly innards are falling out of my vagina.  This is my life, because just when things couldn't feel any worse I have innards falling out of my vagina.  Not actually but it totally feels like it.  Bad.  Luck.

*I was reading a blog post about the right way and the wrong way to blog and lets not get me started on that.  I hate those kind of blog posts.
 One wrong way is to not including pictures on your post.
Because bloggers and people who read blogs have the attention span of a four year old on a sugar high.  Because I stopped needing pictures with my words two decades ago.
And how I would love to send the high and mighty person who thinks picture are so important with blog posts this blog post with a nice picture illustrating snot and coughing and sore throat and congestion in my nose and congestion in my chest and night time chills and womanly innards falling out of my vagina.  I paint a pretty picture, yes?

Thursday, March 22, 2012

it's the love: three semi-related random thoughts of motherhood

1 .I at one time held the delusion that motherhood would not change me.  Motherhood has changed me.  I held that delusion when I wasn't a mother.  I was probably just with child.  Before the morning sickness and the leg cramp and the baby crying at 3 am and me crying at 3 am.  My sister, a new mom, told me the other day "I didn't know it would be this hard!"  And I said "You are a real mom now!"  Because that is the delusion we hold, that it won't be that hard.  We can be a mom and do all the non-mom stuff that we did before we became moms.  All the preconceived notions fall right out the window.  They don't exist anymore.
2. This one time I was a non-mom and sitting with a mom sharing a fine meal and she was talking about baby poop and I was all like "What the hells lady I'm trying to eat here I don't need to hear about your baby's shit!"  And now that I am a mom I'd be all like "What the hells lady I'm trying to eat here I don't need to hear about your baby's shit!"  I hold no delusions about my weak stomach and hearing about shit when I am eating.  That is never okay.

3. I told my sister, a new mom, we never realize how hard being a mother is going to be.  Or how much motherhood is going to changes us.  But we also never realize the amount of love we can have  for our child.  How that love oozes out of our pores it is so overflowing.  That's what changes us moms the most, not the late nights and the talking about poo.  It's the love.  You can never prepare yourself for that.  And you probably shouldn't.    

Wednesday, March 21, 2012


I am a moody son-of-a-bitch.  Technically a daughter-of-a-bitch.  Not saying my mom is a bitch but she did teach me everything I know.  And all I try to forget.
 I call my dad an asshole.  He knows he is and when I say as much all he can do is agree with me.  Plus that's the type of relationship we have.  It is one were he drives me crazy with his unsolicited opinions and advice.  And I call him an asshole.  And we laugh. 
  I beg him to tell me about my childhood and he says "Why do you want to know about that?  You're better off not knowing."  Not those exact words but along those lines.  One day he told me his biggest regret was marrying my mom. Those exact words.   And I remind him he wouldn't have had his kids.  But in his weird head he thinks he still would.  I can't seem to explain it or get him to understand that I am part of him and part of my mother.  He only sees me as part of him. Part of me hurts when he tells me his regret.  The rest loves him, because in his own weird way he is only trying to see the good in me.  Or so I want to believe.

Monday, March 19, 2012


I've been blogging a lot lately.  I don't know what it is, it just comes to me in waves.  Some weeks I could blog a hundred times and some weeks I have no desire to write.  I usually just write what I am thinking and after I go back and read and edit.  Most to all the time it makes no sense.  Or it makes perfect sense to me and I have the understanding that it will make no sense to the people who don't know me.
I went back the other night deep into my archives and I saw that I have been blogging for four year.  Four years this month.
I have written about everything and everyone.  I have dipped my toes into a lot of different blogging waters.  I have made some friends.  Some have come and gone and some still have hung on with me.  Who I was four years ago is not the same person I am today.
 I have evolved.  Because everyone evolves in some shape or form.  It's called growing up and growing older. Changing, adapting to your surroundings, who you are and who you are to become.
 I believe in evolution.  How can you not.  But I don't see evolution scientifically, I see it poetically.  The miracle that the body can change and adjust to it's surroundings over time is a beautiful thing.  And I can believe that it is the way God intended and you can believe it is the natural order of things.  It doesn't matter what evolution is or what it was intended to be, it is still a miracle.  Always.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

She can see the sun even when it isn't there.

"Look mom,'  she said "you have to see this."
"Isn't the sun beautiful."


My favorite poet is Shel Silverstein.  Uncle Shelby the kids call him.  He is a children's writer.   He is a beautiful writer.  It is his simplicity that gets me every time.  I like simplicity, always.  Did you know Shel wrote the Johnny Cash classic "A Boy Named Sue."  He was also a cartoonist for Playboy.  That's the funny thing about children's writers, they are also adults.  Adults who have adult feelings and urges but in their free time write books for children.  It's a crazy thought.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Person. Me.

Past and present.  I have been thinking a lot about the two.   And how they are different and the same and so far apart and so much together.  How much I try to change one in the other and how it never works out.  Or how I try to live in one and forget the other and that never works either.  I can't think of a way to properly marry the two to live happily ever after.

 I can never decide if I wear my heart on my sleeve or if I bury deep with the recesses of my chest.  Past the bones and the marrow.  Wrapped up in skin.   I guess it depends on the moment. 

I am not a thesaurus type of person.  Red is red damn it.  Don't confuse me with big fancy words.  Get to the point.  Talk down to me like I am a three-year-old with a box of eight chunky crayons.   There is no scarlet in that box.  No ruby.  No crimson.  Just red.  Plain old red.  And blue and yellow.  And green.  Red.

I listen to this song called 'How to Grow a Woman From the Ground."  It is the most lovely song.  It's about love and blood.  It's about growing a woman from the dirt, dirt that was turned to mud by his blood.  Or so I believe.  Or I like to think.  I am a girl and a romantic and no matter how much I want to believe I can do anything and everything all on my own I still want a man to lay on the ground, turning it to mud with his blood and watch me grow from that ground..  It's a beautiful thing for a person to do.  Is that a lot to ask?

Thursday, March 15, 2012


In my state, and when I say state I mean the state I live in not my emotional well-being. In the State I live in they are talking about opening up wolf hunting.  Because the wolf is becoming over populated.  They are coming into the places where people live and becoming a danger to our very existence.  So we will decide to come into the place where they live and become a danger to their very existence.  We shall decide to turn the fear tables on those overgrown beasts.  We are the masters of our domain.  We are giant dogs lifting our proverbial leg and marking our  territory with guns and bullets.
This of course is because man would never survive in hand to hand combat with a wolf.  Because we are the weaker animal.  We might be the smartest.  We are the weakest.
I have no damage with hunting.  I have feasted on the spoils of many a family hunter.
 Man.  Meat.  Good.  Beat chest.  Meat.  Good.
You just won't find me sporting a gun shooting animal.  I have nothing to prove.  I don't have a penis.  But if I did I'd be self-confident in it's size not to have to carry around an extension of it in firearm form.
I kid.
I'm actually not kidding.
Men have this need to provide and put meat on the table.  Some with gun.  Some armed with a credit card in their local grocery store's butcher shop.
Man.  Meat.  Meat.  Good.
In the state I live in, again the actual State I live in not my emotional well-being, they are talking about hunting wolf.  Overgrown untrained puppy dogs because they are overpopulating us.  US.  Actual people.  We can not let that happen.  We are too smart for that.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Closet

Once upon a time, long ago when I was younger I had this music teacher.  His name was friendly like Mr. Griswold or Mr. Claus or Mr. Happy.  He had a beard and a belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly.  He was like a grandpa, like the grandpa in the Werther's commercial.  He had a booming voice and if you were a kid you liked him and if you were an adult you liked him.  He was just that kind of man.  Friendly.

Not one of us students hated music.  We sang and fought over who would play the triangle or the mini-cymbals.  No one wanted to play the sticks because they were sticks.  Glorified building blocks.  They cost five times more than the building blocks that sat in the kindergarten classroom and that somehow made them magical musical sticks.

It was all fun and games in music until someone was caught doing something wrong and then they went into 'The Closet', an understated chocky if you will.  A dark, small room with shelves to the ceiling that housed all the music books and the triangles and the mini cymbals and the magical music sticks.  If for some reason you were caught talking out of turn or being disruptive he would point to 'The Closet' and you would sit in a small red chair with the door closed, in the dark, till class ended or he saw fit to let you out.

I sat in 'The Closet' once.  I being so young and so not afraid of the dark.  I took my punishment like a man.  Or a very brave, sad child.  I never told my parents or my teacher.  Not that they'd say anything.  How could they not know about 'The Closet' and the dark and the dust and the small red chair and the magical music sticks?  My small mind went on the notion that if a few knew then everybody must know.  And it didn't matter much anyway.

Until one day when our music teacher wasn't in school and people were whispering and news trucks were at our school and a helicopter flew overhead and we all learned someone found out about 'The Closet' and they didn't like it very much.  The dark was too dark and the books were too high on the shelf and once removed from the light of day magical music sticks were just very expensive building blocks.

And all at once those adults who we thought knew about 'The Closet' were horrified.  And the children were escorted into rooms to talk about their experience in 'The Closet' and how we felt and what we did.  Was the dark too dark and was the red chair too red.  And to judge if we were forever damaged by a small dark room with shelves so high.

Weeks past and our friendly music teacher came back and never again did one of us go into 'The Closet'.  Life went on.  And today I think about the child who came home and told their mom or their dad.  And how that mom and dad felt.  What made that parent take action?  What made that parent know that it wasn't okay to stick a small child in a dark room, in a red chair with books and shelves?
 Because a hundred parents must have heard about 'The Closet' and a hundred parents didn't feel it was worth the effort.  Or that it was a big deal.  Children play magical music sticks and make up stories about dark closets with red chairs that are too red.  And if a child had to sit in 'The Closet' well there probably was a good reason for it anyway.

God and Standing Mixers

There are those few moments when we are young. Or old.  Or just yesterday where we think we can change another person. Or a group of people. Or the whole world.  We want to play God.  Or be like God.  When I was younger I was told to be God-like but not try to be like God.  It's a fine line.  There is a gray line there.  Or a grey line.  I never know which way to spell gray/grey.  When I look up that TV show that has Gray/Grey I always get it wrong.  I don't watch that show anymore.   I hate how they think they are God.  Not God-like but they are like God..  They are Doctors.  All doctors need a like-God ego.   Otherwise they'd be horrible healers.
I saw a painting once of a Doctor helping a child and Jesus was leaning over the doctor's shoulder.  Like the painting of Jesus walking with the small boy who plays baseball.  And if you put that Jesus in jeans and a rock t-shirt and dirty up his hair a little it's a painting of a small boy who plays baseball with a pedophile walking behind him.  It's all about how you perceive things. And what type of rock t-shirt you wear.

Today I made bread and in my mind I put away the standing mixer five times but never actually put it away.  And I stood there at the counter in front of the standing mixer and I yelled at it "I put you away in my mind like five times."  And my children laughed at me.  And I laughed at myself. I will remember that forever.  Or at least I hope I do.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Windows and Sliding Doors

They had Christmas lights on their house every year and I would lie in my bed and stare at them till my eyes hurt.  My eyes would close and I could still see the lights reflected on the back of the lids.  They didn't like us very much, those neighbors with lights on their house every Christmas.  I couldn't say I blamed them, I hated us too.  I imagined their lights on their house and me in their house commiserating about the people next door and how bad they were.  And I could be a part of that world and not the world I was.  I would lay in their bed and look out their window and see a house that didn't have Christmas lights and I'd be happy.

The bed I laid in, to watch the Christmas lights, always gave me splinters.  I was fast to leave and the backs of my knees scrapped the rough wood.  I never minded much, I had better places to be.  Better than that bed that gave me splinters and scrapped the back of my knees.  Better than that bed that reminded me there was a better world right outside my window.

Right now at this very moment I can close my eyes and see that bed and those Christmas lights.  And that neighbor's house.  And sliding bedroom doors.  And crooked hallways.   Because life is not much if your bedroom doors slide.  And your hallways are crooked.  Doors should open and close with hinges.  And hallways should always be straight.  Hallways should you walk you straight into the arms of the rest of the house. 

And sometimes I lay in my children's bed and  look out their windows to see if they see something better.  And I hope their life is better with doors with hinges and straight hallways. I hope their windows never look out into something more.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Random Thought #2,349,654

I was reading my tampon box and they had a little 'True False' question on there.  You are probably asking yourself  "Why are you reading your tampon box??"  To that I have no real answer other than that I read everything, cereal boxes, shampoo bottles.  Tampon boxes.
This quiz informed me that during a woman's menstruation cycle she loses about 4-6 tablespoon of blood.
Right? Gross!  And an utter and complete lie.  Unless they are using a giant's tablespoon.  Or a tablespoon for an elephant.  Because giants and elephants use weird forms of measurements.   Like the Europeans.

Friday, March 2, 2012

That Urge

Today, just a few short minutes ago, I was driving home after dropping off the kids at school and all of a sudden I had that urge to keep driving.  I have the urge once in a blue moon.  And I know others have had it, because they have told me so.  It is a choice that stays in my mind for a split second.  In a beat of a butterfly's wing I am back on course, pulling into my driveway, going into my home, hanging up my coat in the front hall closet and cleaning the breakfast dishes.
And I know I made the right choice for me and my family but all day the guilt hits me.  Because I even thought for a moment that I could leave this.  My family.  My home.  I have an overwhelming need to cry because I realize all the things I thought I were 'over' are not over at all.  That all those times I told myself to be strong for.  And hold on for.  And that were okay were not okay.  And that maybe crying is the best idea because you are sad for the way things are.  And the way things aren't.  And for the way things should be and for the way things have turned up.
And mostly it's okay to let go.  And it's okay to be sad.  And every once in awhile it's okay to let yourself be weak.


I never knew much about my Grandfather's job.  I knew he was a police officer.  A Sergeant on the Chicago Police Force.  When he came ho...