Okay...it's getting late and I've had a glass of wine and I don't want to whine. But, I am. I'm not going to try to restrain myself. Because it's my blog, that's why. And yes, as a whole, I think our society is too self-involved. I feel we are too conditioned to the confessional, "let-me-tell-you-how-I'm-feeling" psycho-babble. Solution? I don't know. I'm a mess. So, let me confess. Because it's my blog, that's why.
I'm learning how to be content. In the midst of my life.
1. My son, his girlfriend, and her 7 month old baby (whom I adore) moved out today. Good, because they are young and stupid like I was at their age and need to dive into life and figure it out. Bad, because they have a seven month old baby and they are completely young and stupid like I was at their age and need to dive into life and figure it out.
2. I have two daughters who are 14 and 12. They think they are 20 and 21. Oy-vey.
3. I love my husband, but he is a man. I have a completely emotional day of my son moving out and ex-husbands coming to town and he's watching "Futurama". He says this is an episode that I will particularly enjoy because it's about cleaning, as he brushes his Dorito crumbs from my couch. Apparently, I have been reduced to a caricature of a cleaning woman that he finds slightly endearing. We have been married eight months.
4. My worst secret has been exposed this week. My best friend informed me that she has known for a long time and has never said anything. She never said a word. It's a pretty big secret. She never said a word. Never stopped loving me.
5. I challenged a thirteen-year old to "Dance, Dance, Revolution". I'm uncoordinated, very uncoordinated and extremely uncoordinated. I don't have a chance, but at the same time, I am very competitive and can't seem to stop the madness.
What is true...God sends people into your life that reflect his love. I am very competitive, even to my own detriment. I don't like teenagers. I have lost eight pounds. I love my "Futurama" loving husband but wish he were more like my best friend. She gets me.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Leaving
I read something today that talked about leaving. The author wasn't only talking about physically leaving, but about change. About leaving our comfort zones. He said that God wants us to constantly change, just look at the seasons. This feels true. So if it feels true, then why is it so hard for some? I've been thinking a lot about my purpose, how I want to make a difference. What is it that I really want do with my life? How can I make a difference? And can I make a difference doing something that I enjoy? Or am I being too literal, too self-serving in my effort to help others? Oh, how disgusting. My husband says that I think too much. Maybe he's right...maybe that's what God is trying to tell me. Enjoy...each day, every moment, each precious relationship, every sunset, every delectable glass of wine, each beautiful note of every song, each stroke in a beautiful painting...whatever it is, enjoy...take notice and give thanks. The same aforementioned author asked for forgiveness for being distracted by all of the things that reflect God's glory. He also asked for forgiveness for not noticing God's glory in everything.
Balance, grasshopper, balance.
What is true: I miss my first love sometimes...still. I've lost five pounds. Life is sweet.
Balance, grasshopper, balance.
What is true: I miss my first love sometimes...still. I've lost five pounds. Life is sweet.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A Day with Grandma
Today, I spent the day with my grandmother. I'm ashamed to say that I haven't spent any time with her, quality time, for about a year. Used to be, we were together at some point almost everyday. What can I say...life gets in the way of what's truly important (geez...what an oxymoronic, typically modern, meaningless statement). sorry, onward...
Grandma had a mastectomy two years ago and I took her for the yearly mammogram today. I realized how much I have missed her. Some stories need to be told...this is one of them.
Grandma is in a wheelchair. It isn't that she can't walk completely. She is fairly large, out of shape, bad ankles, bad knees, hip problems...you name it, she's got it. She is a product of the fifties. Fitness wasn't the trend. She woke up everyday, cooked a huge breakfast, complete with a pound of bacon, biscuits and lard gravy and whatever other saturated fatty foods she could cook. She worked at JCPenneys in the alterations department of the men's suit department for twenty some odd years. Her husband, Grandpa Elsie, died from heart failure at the age of 42 and left her with seven children.
What is true about Grandma....she truly doesn't care about what other people think.
Today, she dropped hints about how she hasn't bought a nice blouse in years. She's also a product of the depression and holds onto money like they've stopped making it. After her mammogram, where she proudly revealed she wasn't wearing a bra, I decided to take her shopping. Not completely altruistic on my part, I'm afraid. I was thinking I could make up for a year of neglect with a shopping trip and a nice lunch of fried chicken, her favorite.
She had a gift card from a very nice department store. Unfortunately, it was only for twenty-five dollars. This was unfortunate because in order for her buy anything, period, she would have to add a few dollars to complete the purchase. I was doomed. It could take her all day to part with a few dollars.
This is the part of the story where I need to mention that she is mostly blind. This is fairly recent, a couple of years at best, so she mentions this at least every five minutes. Things like, "I'd have hugged your neck, but I didn't know it was you because...I can't see," or "I don't know if my clothes match or not because...I can't see." Before you get all sentimental on me, let me mention the words selective eyesight. This is the same woman who notices I've gained weight...or "gotten big", as she so delicately calls it, or that I'm wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, or that I've colored my hair...an ever- so- subtle lighter shade of blonde. When you come near her, she feels your face like a desperate Helen Keller. I can't criticize her, though, because when I'm eighty-four, I'll probably milk it for all that it's worth.
Anywho, we're in the fancy department store and she's grabbing and touching everything in her path as I wheel her down the cluttered aisles.
"What's this?" she asks.
"A silver platter," I reply.
"And this?"
"A digital alarm clock that plays soothing sounds like the ocean or a thunderstorm and displays the time digitally on the wall with a laser," I answer.
"Thunderstorms aren't soothing," she says.
"Some people think so."
"What about this?" she asks, pulling a petite, pink, rhinestoned sweater from the hanger as we roll by. The hanger spins around the bar a few times before it thumps to the floor.
"Nothing, grandma, nothing," I say.
Finally, we arrive at the plus sizes. Polyester is in the air. Grandma wants to know the price of everything and is that the price after 40% off? She asks about the fabric blend and the washing instructions. "Too silky," she says, "Too bright," she huffs, "Too much trouble to wash," she says. I'm exhausted. Finally, I spot a blouse that has her name written all over it. Ninety-seven percent polyester, three percent spandex, red and black floral design, three quarter sleeve, button up the front, built in pseudo-tank top...a perfection of a blouse!
She agrees...yes, yes, she shouts! This is perfect! She even decides that she might buy two in different colors. "Amen! Live a little, Grandma! Want to try one on?" I ask. Instead, she grabs the arms of her wheelchair and heaves herself up to stand. Good idea, I'm thinking, I'll just hold the blouse up to her shoulders to see it if fits when I realize that she's unbuttoning her blouse.
"Grandma? What are you doing?"
"Just watch...you'll see."
"No, don't! Stop that! Not another button, I mean it! It's illegal! Grandma, for the love of God, please stop!" I throw down my purse, her purse, and various items of clothing I'm carrying in my arms but by the time I turn back around (maybe five seconds...who knew the woman could move that fast?), the blouse is unbuttoned and she lifts her hands up to her shoulders and says, "You better hurry and drop that blouse over my head, I'm about to be naked."
She drops the blouse down over her shoulders.
I can't see the front of her, but I know there is one low-hanging breast exposed on her right side and on the left, nothing but a scar. She looks so vulnerable that I want to cry but at the same time, I want to choke her for stripping in the middle of the department store. I drop the blouse over head and pull it down over her arms delicately, dressing her like a child.
"How does it look?" she asks.
"Beautiful," I answer.
Grandma had a mastectomy two years ago and I took her for the yearly mammogram today. I realized how much I have missed her. Some stories need to be told...this is one of them.
Grandma is in a wheelchair. It isn't that she can't walk completely. She is fairly large, out of shape, bad ankles, bad knees, hip problems...you name it, she's got it. She is a product of the fifties. Fitness wasn't the trend. She woke up everyday, cooked a huge breakfast, complete with a pound of bacon, biscuits and lard gravy and whatever other saturated fatty foods she could cook. She worked at JCPenneys in the alterations department of the men's suit department for twenty some odd years. Her husband, Grandpa Elsie, died from heart failure at the age of 42 and left her with seven children.
What is true about Grandma....she truly doesn't care about what other people think.
Today, she dropped hints about how she hasn't bought a nice blouse in years. She's also a product of the depression and holds onto money like they've stopped making it. After her mammogram, where she proudly revealed she wasn't wearing a bra, I decided to take her shopping. Not completely altruistic on my part, I'm afraid. I was thinking I could make up for a year of neglect with a shopping trip and a nice lunch of fried chicken, her favorite.
She had a gift card from a very nice department store. Unfortunately, it was only for twenty-five dollars. This was unfortunate because in order for her buy anything, period, she would have to add a few dollars to complete the purchase. I was doomed. It could take her all day to part with a few dollars.
This is the part of the story where I need to mention that she is mostly blind. This is fairly recent, a couple of years at best, so she mentions this at least every five minutes. Things like, "I'd have hugged your neck, but I didn't know it was you because...I can't see," or "I don't know if my clothes match or not because...I can't see." Before you get all sentimental on me, let me mention the words selective eyesight. This is the same woman who notices I've gained weight...or "gotten big", as she so delicately calls it, or that I'm wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, or that I've colored my hair...an ever- so- subtle lighter shade of blonde. When you come near her, she feels your face like a desperate Helen Keller. I can't criticize her, though, because when I'm eighty-four, I'll probably milk it for all that it's worth.
Anywho, we're in the fancy department store and she's grabbing and touching everything in her path as I wheel her down the cluttered aisles.
"What's this?" she asks.
"A silver platter," I reply.
"And this?"
"A digital alarm clock that plays soothing sounds like the ocean or a thunderstorm and displays the time digitally on the wall with a laser," I answer.
"Thunderstorms aren't soothing," she says.
"Some people think so."
"What about this?" she asks, pulling a petite, pink, rhinestoned sweater from the hanger as we roll by. The hanger spins around the bar a few times before it thumps to the floor.
"Nothing, grandma, nothing," I say.
Finally, we arrive at the plus sizes. Polyester is in the air. Grandma wants to know the price of everything and is that the price after 40% off? She asks about the fabric blend and the washing instructions. "Too silky," she says, "Too bright," she huffs, "Too much trouble to wash," she says. I'm exhausted. Finally, I spot a blouse that has her name written all over it. Ninety-seven percent polyester, three percent spandex, red and black floral design, three quarter sleeve, button up the front, built in pseudo-tank top...a perfection of a blouse!
She agrees...yes, yes, she shouts! This is perfect! She even decides that she might buy two in different colors. "Amen! Live a little, Grandma! Want to try one on?" I ask. Instead, she grabs the arms of her wheelchair and heaves herself up to stand. Good idea, I'm thinking, I'll just hold the blouse up to her shoulders to see it if fits when I realize that she's unbuttoning her blouse.
"Grandma? What are you doing?"
"Just watch...you'll see."
"No, don't! Stop that! Not another button, I mean it! It's illegal! Grandma, for the love of God, please stop!" I throw down my purse, her purse, and various items of clothing I'm carrying in my arms but by the time I turn back around (maybe five seconds...who knew the woman could move that fast?), the blouse is unbuttoned and she lifts her hands up to her shoulders and says, "You better hurry and drop that blouse over my head, I'm about to be naked."
She drops the blouse down over her shoulders.
I can't see the front of her, but I know there is one low-hanging breast exposed on her right side and on the left, nothing but a scar. She looks so vulnerable that I want to cry but at the same time, I want to choke her for stripping in the middle of the department store. I drop the blouse over head and pull it down over her arms delicately, dressing her like a child.
"How does it look?" she asks.
"Beautiful," I answer.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
prufrock rocks...
all day long, all i can think about is a line from what i've come to realize is my favorite poem..."the love song of J. Alfred Profrock" by t.s. eliot.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...
I love this poem. it expresses so many things, but most of all, for me anyway, the beauty of everyday life...the mundane things. if we stop and think about it, there is a beauty, an art even, in our daily routines. maybe the word "coffee" sums it up...every day as a child, the first thing that greeted me every morning was first, the sound of my mother's percolator and then, the delicious, dark smell of coffee. that was morning...everyday brimming with hope and new beginnings. and even today, the first thing i do every morning, after my obligatory trip to the bathroom, is head straight to the kitchen to start the coffee. only after i've poured my first cup and had my first sip does the day feel official, hopeful.
there's more to say about this peom...maybe tomorrow after i've had my coffee...right now, duty calls. how mundane.
what's true...i need to, want to, should, lose 15 pounds. i have no patience for pets...even dogs. i feel like there's been a mistake in the fact that i've aged. i love barry manilow. i hate "csi"...any version, any city.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...
I love this poem. it expresses so many things, but most of all, for me anyway, the beauty of everyday life...the mundane things. if we stop and think about it, there is a beauty, an art even, in our daily routines. maybe the word "coffee" sums it up...every day as a child, the first thing that greeted me every morning was first, the sound of my mother's percolator and then, the delicious, dark smell of coffee. that was morning...everyday brimming with hope and new beginnings. and even today, the first thing i do every morning, after my obligatory trip to the bathroom, is head straight to the kitchen to start the coffee. only after i've poured my first cup and had my first sip does the day feel official, hopeful.
there's more to say about this peom...maybe tomorrow after i've had my coffee...right now, duty calls. how mundane.
what's true...i need to, want to, should, lose 15 pounds. i have no patience for pets...even dogs. i feel like there's been a mistake in the fact that i've aged. i love barry manilow. i hate "csi"...any version, any city.
Monday, September 25, 2006
monday blues
today is monday...thus, the title.
i lost my job friday. this is particularly disturbing because it was unwarranted and my employer was a friend. lesson No. 1...never work for friends. the lines between employer and employee and "friender" (i'm sure that's not a word) and "friendee" become blurred. so...today...i am unemployed, a newlywed of 6 months, a mother of three, and forty-one years old with no clear definition of the latter half of my life. My 20 year old son is lost...he and his girlfriend and their infant daughter may be moving in with me soon...the scripture about "reaping and sowing" comes to mind. My daughters are twelve and thirteen and will soon die if they do not receive a pink "razr" phone. i left the consonants out in the word "razor" because apparently, it is cool.
WHAT'S TRUE...I love being married to my man. My relationship with God is shallow (I'm working on that), and I want a drastic haircut. Also, I love spinach, canned or fresh. I desire to be a painter. I'm angry...Here is an angry poem from days gone past.
Tuesday Night
So I'm reading Roethke and I'm wondering
how he did it - how he could turn weeding
a garden into a grieving, death celebration.
And I'm thinking that I'll never be able
to do that, at least not with nature,
and then you drag into the room,
that familiar scowl on your face.
You've just read a poem that I wrote and you
want to know why it doesn't rhyme. You say it's definitely not poetry.
Definitely.
"A dreamer," you say, "Not well read," you say.
"It's all bullshit anyway, and how much does it pay?"
"Keep trying," you say. "Try reading James Michener,
and hey, did you know Jimmy Buffet writes poems, too?"
You're waiting for an answer but I
don't give one away.
You turn and leave, dragging your bad right leg
behind you, and I know
that you will pause...
before you slam the door.
i lost my job friday. this is particularly disturbing because it was unwarranted and my employer was a friend. lesson No. 1...never work for friends. the lines between employer and employee and "friender" (i'm sure that's not a word) and "friendee" become blurred. so...today...i am unemployed, a newlywed of 6 months, a mother of three, and forty-one years old with no clear definition of the latter half of my life. My 20 year old son is lost...he and his girlfriend and their infant daughter may be moving in with me soon...the scripture about "reaping and sowing" comes to mind. My daughters are twelve and thirteen and will soon die if they do not receive a pink "razr" phone. i left the consonants out in the word "razor" because apparently, it is cool.
WHAT'S TRUE...I love being married to my man. My relationship with God is shallow (I'm working on that), and I want a drastic haircut. Also, I love spinach, canned or fresh. I desire to be a painter. I'm angry...Here is an angry poem from days gone past.
Tuesday Night
So I'm reading Roethke and I'm wondering
how he did it - how he could turn weeding
a garden into a grieving, death celebration.
And I'm thinking that I'll never be able
to do that, at least not with nature,
and then you drag into the room,
that familiar scowl on your face.
You've just read a poem that I wrote and you
want to know why it doesn't rhyme. You say it's definitely not poetry.
Definitely.
"A dreamer," you say, "Not well read," you say.
"It's all bullshit anyway, and how much does it pay?"
"Keep trying," you say. "Try reading James Michener,
and hey, did you know Jimmy Buffet writes poems, too?"
You're waiting for an answer but I
don't give one away.
You turn and leave, dragging your bad right leg
behind you, and I know
that you will pause...
before you slam the door.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Meanwhile, back at the farm...
So two months later, hopped up on pain pills from a recent tooth extraction, I finally decided to post something. It's midnight and the moon is full...what more inspiration do I need? I've been inspired from reading other blogger's poems, thoughts and angsts...it's working. Here is something old. Hopefully, the wheels are turning and something new will emerge.
Lessons from Sunday School
"Remember, God is love."
This is what our sunday school teacher
told us at the end of every lesson.
She never realized these words
were lost to us. The words we kept
were wrath, jealousy and judgment.
They stayed with us until adulthood,
growing like weeds, choking love.
And who could blame us when our young ears
were told about monsters in the old testament?
What were we to think when Abraham
stood up in our dreams, knife raised, prepared
to kill his only son in the name of love?
(Isaac means laughter. God is big on symbolism.)
In the hands of god-fearing parents, we used
our prayers like garlic around our necks.
Years of therapy later, we've thrown out the old,
brought in the new, the testament those teachers
chose not to talk about for whatever reasons.
Now we get the symbolism, we see the foreshadowing
of another son, but I'm no closer to understanding
that kind of fatherly love.
Lessons from Sunday School
"Remember, God is love."
This is what our sunday school teacher
told us at the end of every lesson.
She never realized these words
were lost to us. The words we kept
were wrath, jealousy and judgment.
They stayed with us until adulthood,
growing like weeds, choking love.
And who could blame us when our young ears
were told about monsters in the old testament?
What were we to think when Abraham
stood up in our dreams, knife raised, prepared
to kill his only son in the name of love?
(Isaac means laughter. God is big on symbolism.)
In the hands of god-fearing parents, we used
our prayers like garlic around our necks.
Years of therapy later, we've thrown out the old,
brought in the new, the testament those teachers
chose not to talk about for whatever reasons.
Now we get the symbolism, we see the foreshadowing
of another son, but I'm no closer to understanding
that kind of fatherly love.
Friday, July 21, 2006
here goes...
i haven't posted anything, and yet, i feel exposed. i'm hoping this will be a place to post poems, stories, rants, etc. and see some feedback. we'll see...
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