Hey Seth, Don't Help

Two little girls from Riley's school go by on bikes, just as we're getting out of the van in the driveway.

"Riley where were you today?" One of them asks. I'd kept her home from school.

As Riley tries to tell them she was having a bit of "tummy trouble"(again), Seth stands on the edge of our yard, and yells innocently across the street,
"SHE WAS CONSTIPATED!"

That oughta help her make lots more friends, don't you think?

Earthquake in China

Jennifer asked me to pass this on. It is an email from her friend who is experiencing the earthquake from inside China.

The death toll is beyond my ability to comprehend.

Fred Rogers (Mister Rogers) advised us to tell our children to "look for the helpers" in times of disaster.

Seems they are finally going to let some helpers in.

Brave souls, those inside and those trying to help.

Love.

Ask a Blogger!

The best thing about Ask a Blogger, from my vantage point, is it forces me (and by me, I mean HT...then me) to learn how to do bloggy stuff. Thus, the Lion King video in the post below. Sure, I (HT) might not like having to figure out things (like how to post videos) based on your questions, but I'm always happy once I (we) do.

File this under blatant plug for friend's awesome new product!

You know how hard it is to estimate your clearance with your kayak strapped on top of the car?

Me neither.

But if I had a kayak; if I'd ever even been in a kayak....I would totally need this product.

But it's not just for kayaks. It's for keeping an eye on lots of things; skis, surf boards, unruly children(I'm not suggesting strapping little darlings to the luggage rack, it has velcro for use inside the car).

Wouldn't it make a great Father's Day gift?

Look at all the cool colors !

I might have to buy one.

And then, of course, I'll need a cute little kayak to go with it.

Hakuna Matata

"Oh the shame!

Thought of changing my name.

And I got downhearted

Everytime that I....

Pumba, not in front of the kids."

She glanced at me, a glint in her eye, then busted out laughing. The kind where the little flippy floppy thing hanging down in the back of her throat was exposed. The kind where her eyes turned to slits and her neck was completely bent back, face toward ceiling.

Riley was finally brave enough to watch The Lion King on DVD and she got the joke.

Last year she didn't even know the word "fart."

We couldn't be more proud.

Thanks folks, we're back in business!

Does anyone know, why, on some days, (like today) my blog has something called "enclosures" under the title where I am trying to write, and all my editing tools are non-existant? No italics. No spell checker. No hyper-link. No fonts. No nothin.' Just a big blank space that says URL and another littler blank space that says MIME Type, above the actual page you type text onto.

Usually when this happens, it corrects itself, but I don't know if there is a way to deal with it rather than put up with it and wait?

I tried "Asking a Blogger," but she didn't know.

WWJD?

???

Inoculate Me

Inoculate me.

From sounds of children shrieking,
covering their ears
in department stores
and restaurants.

Inoculate me.

From mothers crying
bleary eyed,
hoping their children
die
before they do.

Inoculate me.

From stranger's stares
and glares
and pointed fingers.

Inoculate me.

From ten year olds
who cannot wipe
their own asses.

Inoculate me.

From pleading eyes
and voices
that cannot reach
the lips.

Inoculate me.

From the arrogant
and ignorant who
turn their heads.

Inoculate me.

From hatred,
and blame.
and victim hood.

Inoculate me.

Give me something,
for not being
enough.

Monday Morning Inspiration

Here.

Excavating

The following scene came to me during a homework assignment at Jennifer Lauck's recent writing workshop in Cleveland. It was not in my memoir, but I might add it. I was out of the querying loop for a while, getting settled after our move in March, but I've started up again and have received two more requests for sample chapters. And lo and behold, my thyroid is acting up. Hot flashes and mood swings, again. This is so psychosomatic it isn't even funny.

So I think I have to start posting some scenes, and just get used to the feeling of being exposed. Really explore it as it comes up. Keep asking Little Thyroid what she's afraid of and what she needs.

Three fears, right on the surface:

1) Fear of being pitied.
2) Fear of readers wanting me to take care of "their own feelings" that might come up after reading my work.
3) Fear my writing sucks and no one will be interested in my non story.

In the meantime, I dip in my pinky toe and give you this little bit:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------


Bare wooden 2 x 4’s separate the kitchen from the dining room, it's always been this way. Exposed electrical cords hang down between the 2 x 4's and we stand in the door frame of what isn't really a wall.

His scratchy wool lumberjack shirt itches my nose and I breath in the smell of wood chips. Already, I come up to his chest. He hugs me, then lets go, but I keep clinging.

“Daddy, please don’t go.”

“C’mon.” he says peeling me off of him. He rolls his eyes and tries not to look at me.


He’s going to the Pine Inn.

He goes to the Pine Inn almost every night, but this time is different. Someone was killed there.


“A beer brawl,” Mom said.

“He was hit over the head with a bottle.”


The Pine Inn is a quarter mile down the road and it used to just be the place where Daddy peed all our money away. Sometimes we go in for cokes and he lets us play the juke box or gives us a quarter for the pool table.

But yesterday, Daddy’s friend was hit over the head with a beer bottle and got his skull cracked in two. The doctors tried to save him but they couldn’t, so he died.


All day I’ve been imagining Daddy’s dead friend. The one with the red beard and the round face. I think he was married. I think he had one kid, a baby. In my mind, I see him, blood drippin’ down his face. His tongue hangin’ out. Skull cracked right in two.

Lunging forward, I throw my arms around Daddy again. I try to meet his eyes. If I can just keep his eyes, he won’t go.


Keep lookin’ at me Daddy.

He takes me by the shoulders, shoves me aside, walks through the kitchen, and out the back door.

Standing there, between the wooden beams and the electrical cords I blink my eyes and swallow hard.


If only I were more lovable.

~~~

Om...

I took down this morning's post because I want to be more conscious of what I put out into the world. Perhaps wishing death upon the husbands of certain friends is not the way to go. I was trying to say that it is sometimes hard to meditate. And it is sometimes hard to forgive those who hurt people we love. It is sometimes easier to be cheeky than to admit how hurtful it is that women are still so denigrated in our society and in the world.

Sometimes, death wishes temporarily feel better than victimhood.

And then you move on.