Wednesday, February 19, 2014

hitting home

Guys, there has been some good internet out there lately. So good that I haven't felt the need to taint the web with my nonsense, not a bit of it. That's what Instagram is for (yikes I've been overgramming).

oh look, a non-grammed photo. Weston is unabashedly wearing his sister's tracksuit.

I have to say, it's pretty amazing going to these blogs for my stories on the daily or weekly, and reading something to which I can only nod and say yes. Yes. YES! I totally KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

This one by Kate nearly had me in tears with the solidarity of it all. She writes my feelings better than I could ever hope to express. In fact, next time a similar scenario occurs between Sean and I, I'm just going to shut up and open my browser to Blog de Rhodes.

This one by Dwija from a couple weeks ago was SO PERFECT. It came right at a time that I was starting to change my nightly prayers from "please Lord, let Weston sleep well tonight" to "please Lord, give me the patience and energy to deal with the crap Weston is going to dish tonight." And do you know, that tweaking of intention has helped immensely. Who am I to expect this to be easy?

This one from Chalayn about the recent snowstorm they had was so beautifully written:

I sat outside Saturday night and stared; soaking it all in and wanting to remember it forever - the beauty, the light, the silence. The change of pace, the traffic gone, the people inside keeping warm with their families, and - what intrigues me most - the fact that God made each snowflake unique, intricate, and fleeting. Much like us. All those delicate edges get lumped together on the ground, so much detail that most people can't even see, and the intricacies that gets completely lost in the night. He takes the time to create all that, how much more are we to Him?

Chalayn, you're making me feel guilty that approximately 100% of my content is vapid and/or grumbly.

This one by Katrina had me totally lol-ing because guess what I did only just last night? Sat in the McDonald's parking lot with a fat M&M McFlurry. There's something about a vat of faux ice cream laden with 12,000 candy-coated chocolates that brings zen to my frazzled existence. It just works.

Jenny's whole Wellness Project and her posts therein have been completely inspiring. It's something I, as a woman, should already know right? If we put a smidge extra effort toward our physical appearance - hell, a coat of mascara that monopolizes all of four of our precious seconds - we generally feel that our lives are slightly more...together. External order produces internal order, and all that. Yet I rarely set aside fifteen minutes to hair and makeup myself because I can't justify it. Diapers, you know. And breakfasts and breastfeeding. The clothing of the children and the fetching of the groceries. But when I do it, when I just DO it, my outlook on my day is better for it. I put effort into the people around me, why shouldn't I give even a minimal amount for myself?

This one by Ana was another one where I was like, yep. I do that; that happens to me:

The other night at the grocery store I was buying some trash bags and pushed aside a box that didn't look like the right kind to reach for the kind I wanted. When I pushed the unwanted box aside, I heard myself whisper an apology to it. I apologized to the box of trash bags for moving it aside and because it was not to be my trash bag of choice that night. Who am I?

Ha, oh Ana, I get you. Or I'll apologize to someone for the stupidest things ever. Like some kind person comes up and says "you dropped your keys!" and I'm like "oh I'm sorry!!" What?? I think the proper return here is, "oh thank you!"

I'm sure most of you have already read these, and if you haven't, get thee hence. So worth it. And I apologize for my lack of originality in just directing you elsewhere but I've been kind of SpongeBobby about blogging lately. The episode where the food critic stops into the Krusty Krab and SpongeBob* serves him the sacred Krabby Patty and the critic accuses him of forgetting the pickles, sending SpongeBob into a desperate spiral in which he questions his whole existence if he can't even make a Krabby Patty properly.**

Ok I haven't with the underwear on the head but I have stepped into my bra straps before.
And come to think of it, this is vaguely reminiscent of my apartment lately:
My analogy here should be translated thus: if I can't keep the living room toy-free for ten minutes straight, multiple sentences I construct on a webpage will likely be subpar or unintelligible.
*Blogger autocorrected my spelling of Spongebob to SpongeBob. This is America.
**my extensive knowledge of SpongeBob comes not from allowing my kids to watch it (if they started doing that obnoxious machine gun laugh I'd surely perish) but from my younger brother watching every season he could get his hands on back to back a few years ago. He was fifteen at the time. Seemingly overnight his preferences changed from the above to Breaking Bad  and Dexter. Ummmmm.
Have a good one, dear e-friends.

Monday, February 3, 2014

"i got the black lung, pa" - a poetic narrative

'Twas 3 o'clock last Monday morn
when Jordan stumbled out,
clutching a clean diaper
with a face all full of doubt

that the pain within her tummy
had anything to do
with the feelings that would normally
accompany a poo.

She shuffled toward the couch,
where her wakeful mother lies
these last few weeks in vain attempt
to flippin' ferberize.

And as she crossed the threshold
to the living room - my perch -
I heard that ghastly, loathsome sound
that made me up and lurch

toward Jordan, did I hurry.
Alas it was too late;
the tired gross beige carpet
by now had met its fate

by way of Jordan's insides
spilling out upon it.
Yes, it is of puke and wretched sick
that I now pen this sonnet.

Over hours four and twenty
(that felt a month or more)
Jordan and the toilet
engaged like ne'er before.

(And oh, that is your update
of how potty training's faring.
No big girl panties worn.
No triumphant trumpets blaring.)

It passed. It passed. It finally did -
as stomach flus will do.
But if you are not vigilant,
it'll pass right on to you.

So Tuesday night at half past ten:
here I set my scene.
Having settled nicely into couch,
I felt myself go green.

Most of you don't know me,
so I'll tell you in this breath:
puking tops my Fear List,
beating public speech and death.

I reassured myself
"It's the nightcap that you had.
Though I don't remember So-Co*
ever settling this bad."

*Southern Comfort & Ginger Ale. Never again.

I stalled for fifteen minutes;
'twas the longest I could hold.
I braced for the inevitable
and off the couch I rolled.

I tip-toed to the bathroom
(if Wes woke up, I'd die.)
and back and forth I went
as the gruesome night slipped by.

A couple things I noticed
from my stint on tiled floor:
toilet hinges look like goal posts,
so is throw up, like, a score?

And I think I like my hair
parted better on the left.
Which I never would've known
had hair-gathering not been deft.

Third, I glom to lyrics
that narrate my situation;
just one line ran over as
I manned my porcelain station.

(It was The National
that sang my plight, so dire
as I "live[d] half awake
in a Fake Empire.")

The flu has since abandoned
this apartment in the 'burbs.
I cling to hope that no one else
it seeks out to disturb.

I've met my throw-up quotient
for a decade at the least...
This has been the story
of Pansy and the Beast.

scot free
(therefore embarrassing photo publish sans permish.)