Friday, May 4, 2012

Untitled Project - Part One (Revised)

This is my first revision, based on critiques I've received, as well as changes I've decided to make after rereading my original draft with fresh eyes.  Again, this is the beginning of a much longer story, and it is still in its literary infancy, so to speak.  I welcome any and all feedback, preferably that which is honest and harsh (if needs be). 





The monitor crackled to life, Liam’s voice filling the silence of their room.  Maggie rolled toward the night stand and watched the tiny red lights dance with the rise and fall of his whine. 

“Is it two o'clock or four?” Landon grunted from behind her. 

“Ten bucks if you go.”

“But he wants you.”

“You don’t know that.  Maybe this time—“

As if on cue, Liam’s whine took form, the drawn-out vowels of “mama” pulling Maggie from her bed.  For several weeks, her son had intermittently awakened in the middle of the night, crying for his mother.  Though she knew he would continue to beckon her if she continued to respond, she lacked the self control to lie in bed and listen to her child cry. 

As she walked across the house to Liam’s room, she averted her eyes from the stacks of laundry she had neglected to put away after dinner.  It would be difficult enough to go back to sleep without obsessing over her unfinished housework.

Liam’s door was slightly cracked, just as she had left it after she tucked him in at eight.  She pushed it open, reminding herself for the fourteenth time to oil the hinges. 

“What’s wrong, Bubba?”

“I seen him, Mama.”

“You saw who, Liam?  Something in your dream? Are you still scared from the dragon movie?”

“No, I not scared of dragon, Mama.  I seen him.  That man.”

“Baby, I keep telling you, the only man in the house is Daddy, and he’s sound asleep in bed.”

Lucky, she thought.

“He opened my door. He smiled at me. But I don’t like him.”

“Liam, you’re just having bad dreams.  Everything’s okay.  I’m here and Daddy’s here.  You are safe, baby.”

“I wasn’t sleeping, Mama.”

“Honey, sometimes you dream about being awake.  I know it seems real, but it’s not.  There’s no one in your room.”

“Can I come sleep with you?”

“Do you really need to sleep in our room?  Won’t you be crowded with Daddy and me?”

Liam didn’t say a word, but his eyes filled with tears as he shook his head.

She sighed.  Bringing her four-year-old to bed with her would ensure that she wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night, but Maggie knew that it would be less exhausting than getting up and down for the next few hours.  

“Alright, but we’re not making a habit of this.  You’re a big boy now, okay?”

Liam climbed out of bed, his favorite truck in his hand and his blanket trailing behind him.  He stopped as he reached the door and looked up at Maggie. 

“Mama, you go first. Make sure that man is gone.”

Normally, Maggie would have talked to her son about the difference between his imagination and reality, but she was too tired to attempt logic with a pre-schooler.  She opened the door, peeked out, and smiled down at Liam.

“All clear, buddy.  Let’s go to bed.”


**********************


At some point between late-night parenting and her alarm going off, Maggie had fallen asleep.  She woke up with Liam lying long ways across the bed, his feet propped against his mother’s side.  She gently lifted his legs and repositioned him.  He rolled onto his side, into the indentation left in the mattress by Landon.  For a moment she considered closing her eyes and trying to rejoin her sleeping son, but she knew that it wouldn’t be worth the stressful morning of rushing and anxiety that it would produce.  Maggie eased out of bed, hoping she could get a shower and maybe even dry her hair before the kids woke up.  She had turned Landon’s monitor off when she brought him to bed, but she took Mia’s to the bathroom with her. 
Maggie managed to start her shower before hurrying to the toilet.  How drastically her morning ritual had changed with the births of her children.  It hadn’t been that many years ago when she’d actually drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette before her bladder beckoned.   As she sat there, she ran through the agenda for the day.  Liam to pre-school.  Landon’s suits to the cleaners.  Grocery store, pharmacy, post office.  And all with an almost eighteen-month-old attached to her hip. 

Maggie continued her schedule in the shower, making mental to-do lists while she washed her face and conditioned her hair.  Wash Liam’s soccer uniform for Wednesday’s game.  Confirm with the sitter for Thursday evening so that we can go to Tally’s book signing.  Pick up a bottle of wine for dinner with Landon’s parents on Friday.  Homeowners’ meeting on Saturday afternoon.  Feed Tally’s dog on Sunday when she flies to Houston. 

Maggie peeked into the bedroom as she dried off.  Liam had rolled over but was still asleep.  She closed the door as gently as possible and grabbed the dryer from the counter.  As she flipped her head over, she noticed the two-week-old polish on her toes.  She wondered if she might squeeze in a pedicure during the day.  Would it be feasible for Mia to sit still that long? 

She was still planning her day and week as she finished drying her hair and began getting dressed.  As she fastened the hooks on her bra, she heard Liam on the other side of the door. 

“Mama, I’m hungry.”

“Just a second.  Mama’s getting dressed.”

Ignoring her, he opened the door.

“My tummy made noises.”

“You know, you have another parent in this house.  Why don’t you go ask your dad to fix you a bowl of cereal?”

“He puts too much milk.  I want you to get it.”

Maggie closed her eyes for a moment.  Her morning had already been more productive than usual.  It was only a little after seven.  She was clean and dry.  Why waste the extra time arguing with a hungry child?

“Listen, bubba, I’ll make you a deal.  Go get dad to get your bowl and spoon and cereal for you.  Then I’ll come to the kitchen in just a minute and pour everything, okay?”

“Only a minute?”

“Only a minute.”

Liam galloped from the bathroom, singing an impromptu song about cereal.  Maggie dressed quickly and slipped on her house shoes.  She grabbed a clip and pulled her hair from her face, hoping that she’d have a few minutes to style it before she left the house. 

In the kitchen, Landon and Liam stood in the pantry door.  Her husband was, as usual, aggravating their son, insisting that the high-fiber cereal would taste better than chocolate-flavored marshmallows in his normal cereal.  Maggie set the monitor on the counter.

“You know, one of these days his curiosity will win out and he’s going to ask for my cereal.  He’ll never trust you again when you tell him something tastes good.”

“Just part of my ploy to make sure he keeps calling for you at night.”

“So glad we’re on the same team here.”

Landon leaned over and kissed Maggie on the lips, his grin instantly eliciting one of her own.  It had been almost ten years since they married.  Their union hadn’t been perfect by any means, but Maggie’s favorite part of the day was still when the garage door opening would announce Landon’s arrival home from work.    
She poured Liam a bowl of cereal and a cup of juice while Landon poured two cups of coffee. 

“Big day planned?”

“Could be worse.  Standard Mommy stuff."

“I should be off by 4:30.  Need me to do anything?  Pick up the dry cleaning?”

“Actually, I haven’t dropped it off yet.  It’s been riding around in my backseat for a couple of days.”

“Woman, how much am I paying you again?”

“Obviously not enough or I’d do a better job at this domestic thing.”

Landon slid between Maggie and the counter, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead against hers.

“Maybe we can discuss a raise tonight?  After the kids go to bed?  You can wear you sexy sweatpants.”

“Daddy, what are you talking about?” 

Maggie giggled as she gently pushed away from Landon.  She sat down across from her son, coffee in hand. 

“We’re just talking about mommy and daddy stuff, Liam.”

“Like kissing?”

Landon and Maggie exchanged a look as they tried to suppress their smiles.

“Landon?”

“This one’s all yours, Mom.  I have to get dressed.”

Maggie could hear Landon laughing as he headed toward the bedroom.  She sipped her coffee for a few minutes and watched Liam pick the marshmallows from his bowl. 

“You okay for a minute while I get sissy up?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Stay at the table and don’t make a mess, alright?  I want to leave on time this morning.”

“Okay, Mama.”

Maggie deposited her coffee cup in the sink as she left the kitchen.  She passed Liam’s room and shook her head, wondering how long this nighttime phase would last and debating whether or not she should start slipping him a dose of Benadryl with dinner.  At the end of the small hallway was Mia’s bedroom.  Sweet, quiet, sleeping Mia.  It was rare that her younger child woke her up at night or at any time for that matter.   Barring the few fitful nights while she was teething and an occasional bout of illness, Mia was a champion snoozer.  While Liam was a light sleeper who usually rose with the sun, Mia was like her mother—at least before children—she slept deeply and as late as possible.  Maggie almost felt guilty each morning as she pulled her sleeping toddler from bed.  She envied her child and hated to interrupt Mia’s peaceful slumber
Maggie eased the door open, hoping to wake her daughter as gently as possible.  She turned down the volume on the noise machine only slightly as to not jar Mia awake with the sudden silence.  She hummed a little morning song as she walked to the side of Mia’s crib. 

“Oh me, Oh my, good morning, Mia…”


****************************


Landon was pulling on his socks when he heard Maggie calling him from the other side of the house, her voice distorted as it came across the monitor in the kitchen.  He walked from the bedroom and met her as she entered the living room.

“Did you get Mia up?”

“No, I’ve been in the bedroom.”

“You didn’t get Mia up?” 

“I said I didn’t get her up.”

Without another word, Maggie turned and ran toward the hallway leading to the children’s rooms.  Landon followed her, the first low wail of an alarm sounding in his head.

“Maggie, what’s wrong?  Where’s Mia?”

Maggie ignored him, increasing her pace until she crossed the threshold to their daughter’s room.   

“Mia?  Mia!”

“Honey, talk to me.  What’s going on?”

When Maggie turned, Landon felt his heart stop for a moment.   His wife wasn’t one for theatrics or melodrama.  He could only remember two times he’d seen her panic in their decade together.  But the woman standing before him now was on the verge of hysterics.  Her hands fluttered in front of her as she gasped for breath.  One word found its way past her trembling lips: gone

Landon looked into Maggie’s eyes as they silently begged for help.  He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed as if he was securing her to the spot where she stood. 

“Honey, listen to me.  She’s climbed out of her crib and is in the house somewhere, okay?  You have to calm down and help me look.  Check her closet and then check Liam’s room.  I’m going to go back to the kitchen.”

Maggie nodded.  Landon ran from the room, calling for his daughter.

 “Mia?  Mia, where are you, baby?  You need to come here. Come drink your chocolate milk!"

In the kitchen, Liam still sat at the table. 

“Daddy, I ate all my cereal.”

“Liam, have you played with Maggie this morning.”

“No.  I ate my cereal, Daddy.”

 “Son, listen to me.  Have you seen your sister?”

Landon had tried to mask his fear but his control over his volume had betrayed him.  Liam jumped from his chair and ran down the hallway toward his room.  Landon wanted to pursue him but quickly decided he’d apologize once he found Mia.  He continued his search, looking under tables and inside closets.  He searched the kitchen, the living room, their bedroom, the bathrooms, calling his daughter’s name over and over.  Over the monitor, he could hear Maggie doing the same across the house.  They converged back on the kitchen at the same time.   She was crying, her voice broken by her sobs.
“Did—did you find her?”

He didn’t have to answer. She could see his answer in his face. 

“Where’s Liam?”

“In his room.”

“Go get him. Take him across the street to the Brysons.  I don’t want him in the house when the police get here.”  


*******************************


Landon and Maggie returned to their daughter’s room and waited for the next chapter of their nightmare to unfold.  Landon sat in the glider, his hands pressed to his temples.  An unnerving calm had overtaken him, and he wondered if he was going into shock.  Maggie stood at Mia’s empty crib, her hands clutching the railing as she rocked back and forth.  Landon looked at his wife and searched himself for some way to comfort her. 

“We’re going to find her.”

Her body started to shake and she moaned as her chin dropped to her chest. 

He stood and stumbled forward, reaching for Maggie. He eased her hands from the crib and turned her toward him.  She resisted at first but he refused to let go.  As the sobs overtook her body, she buried her face in his chest as she clasped his shirt in her fists.  They stood there for several minutes, swaying in their desperate dance of grief. 

Suddenly, Maggie grew quiet.  She pushed away from Landon and staggered backwards.  Her face contorted, overtaken by terror.

“Oh my God.  Oh my God.  No, no, no, no, no—“

“What, Maggie?  What is it?”

She shook her head wildly, her hair falling from its plastic clip.  Backing against Mia’s crib, she sank to the floor.

“No, no, no, no, no—“

Landon dropped to his knees and crawled to his wife.  Her eyes were squeezed shut and her hands covered her ears. 

“Maggie, listen to me.  You have to talk to me! What is it?”

“No, oh God, no—“

He pulled her hands from her ears and cradled her face in his own hands. 

“Baby, tell me.  Tell me!"

Maggie opened her eyes and blankly stared at Landon.  He touched her cheek, trying to open up whatever was inside her that she couldn't let out.  He heard the sirens from the squad cars turning on their street as she whispered something he couldn’t understand.  

"What is it?"

He leaned closer as she spoke again.

“The man.  Liam saw a man.”






















Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Always Stay, Mary

In the past years, I have developed somewhat of a fascination with Mary, the mother of Jesus.  It began while I was reading Anne Rice's Christ the Lord, Out of Egypt.  A fictional account of Christ's childhood, the book is narrated by the young Messiah.  The book raises thought-provoking questions:  what happens when a "human" child has the power of God?  At what point did he begin to grasp his destiny?   But throughout the book, it was Mary I found myself thinking of as I would turn off my bedside lamp and reflect on what I had read. 

How was she treated by her family and peers when she became pregnant? 

What was it like to shoulder such responsibility, to be the mother of the Savior?

How much did she tell him about her pregnancy?  His birth? His father? The prophesies of old? 

How did it change her relationship with Joseph?  Did he have secret doubts?  Resentment?  Was he afraid to touch the vessel that carried the Christ?

It wasn't very long after reading the book that I conceived my own child and became the mother to a sweet baby girl.  Having a little one of my own has changed the way I perceive and react to a great many things:  women who miscarry, parents who lose children, children who are abused.  These are things that have always saddened or angered me, but now I experience a different degree of heartache than before.   I am also now acutely aware of how physically and emotionally exhausting motherhood can be, even in the best of times.   I constantly question decisions I've made as a mother, praying I haven't somehow damaged my child.  On a daily basis, I experience an entirely new level of worry and anxiety as I simultaneously  try to keep my daughter safe and allow her to grow and explore new experiences.  I lie awake at night, contemplating everything from her own individual future to the future of our society and how she will be affected.   And it's all because I'm completely in love with this little person, in love in a way I cannot begin to put into words.

Which brings me back to Mary.  I have to imagine that she struggled with her own anxiety throughout the pregnancy and during her son's childhood.  Did she lie awake at night worrying when she didn't feel him kick for awhile?  Would she sit beside him as he slept and watch his little chest rise and fall as he slept?  Did her heart quicken as she saw him climbing trees with other boys?   Did she scold him for neglecting his chores?  I mean, how does one go about disciplining the Son of God?   Did she struggle with favoritism for Jesus over his half-brothers?  Was she more protective?  More tender? 

But more than even those challenges, I think Mary faced a very significant struggle.  This son that she carried, that she birthed, that she loved--did she ever feel he was actually hers?   One might assume she'd feel proud and blessed that her son was the Messiah, that she was "highly favored" and chosen as his earthly (and only) mother.  But I can't help but wonder if it was bittersweet.  I look at my daughter and imagine the life I hope she'll have, a life full of learning and love and adventure and fulfillment.  I think about my grown up daughter and the relationship I want to have with her.  I wonder if she'll marry, if she'll have children of her own.   As Mary looked at her son, did she fully realize that his future was already planned?  That there would be no weddings, no grandchildren?  At what point did she understand that she would bury her child and not the other way around?  
The lives of our children are never certain.  It doesn't matter how well we parent or how much we love them, in the end, it is mostly out of our control.  They may live long lives, lives that make us proud or lives that cause us pain.  Or, as Mary did, we may find ourselves burying the man who was once our little boy.    



 
This woman was chosen to carry the Son of God.  She raised him, watched him grow into a man.  She followed him, believed in Him.  She accepted that she was not as important as his ministry.  She watched him die, stood quietly as he gave her another son. 
 
And then... what?
 
The majority of her life had revolved around  the miraculous birth that produced a miraculous man.  I can't imagine what it would be like to physically stand in the presence of God in human form, to hear him speak, to watch him heal.  But I also wonder if in her heart she sometimes wished--perhaps just for a moment--that they could be a normal family.  Did she secretly long for her first-born to need her, instead of the other way around?  By the time her son left this world, I have to believe she was weary--and a bit lost.  Her questions about his life, his destiny, had been answered.  She no longer had to wonder, Will this be the day I see him last?  That I touch him last?   What did she do at this point?  Was there a sense of relief?  Or was the hole left in her heart overwhelming?  Did she begin a new stage in life, a more mundane existence?   Was it unfulfilling?  Or a welcome change?
 
Some consider Mary a saint.  Others see her as a woman whom God loved but who was ultimately just a vessel.  Regardless of one's theological beliefs, it's not difficult to identify with and admire this beautiful woman.  As a mother, I find her remarkable.  I am inspired by her faith and her courage and her strength, even if I can only base it on my assumptions.  She was human, a woman like me. 
 


A woman like me. 
There's a song I love by Patty Griffin entitled "Mary."   Some listeners may only interpret the song literally, about Mary, Mother of Christ.  If I'm not mistaken, Ms. Griffin wrote the song for her own grandmother, presumably because the two women shared a common past.  It's a beautiful song, both musically and lyrically, and describes so many strong, sacrificial women who have influenced and enriched the lives of those around them while putting their own needs second.


Mary
Lyrics and Music by Patty Griffin

Mary, you're covered in roses, you're covered in ashes
You're covered in rain
You're covered in babies, you're covered in slashes
You're covered in wilderness, you're covered in stains
You cast aside the sheet, you cast aside the shroud
Of another man, who served the world proud
You greet another son, you lose another one
On some sunny day and always stay,
Mary

Jesus says, "Mother, I couldn't stay another day longer"
Flies right by me, leaves a kiss upon her face
While the angels sing his praises in a blaze of glory
Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place

Mary, she moves behind me
She leaves her fingerprints everywhere
Every time the snow drifts, every time the sand shifts
Even when the night lifts, she's always there

Jesus says, "Mother, I couldn't stay another day longer"
Flies right by me, leaves a kiss upon her face
While the angels sing his praises in a blaze of glory
Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place

Mary, you're covered in roses, you're covered in ruin
You're covered in secrets
You're covered in treetops, you're covered in birds
Who can sing a million songs without any words
You cast aside the sheets, you cast aside the shroud
Of another man, who served the world proud
You greet another son, you lose another one

on some sunny day and always stay...

Mary





Monday, February 20, 2012

Photo Dump

It's been busy since the first of the year. 


 A friend got married.


My sweet mother celebrated 65 years on this Earth. 



Peanut celebrated her "half birthday" and ate her weight in ice cream. 


Half birthday binge

Post binge

Love has been in the air



 And I fall in love with this little girl more and more every day. 






Can't wait for the rest of 2012.  I sure am loving life. 




Opening Up

So James Lipton and I were hanging out at Burger King the other day, splitting a Whopper Jr. and a jamocha shake we snuck in from Arby’s.  Jimbo has been hounding me for months to answer the questions on his ridiculous Proust-esque questionnaire, so I finally acquiesced to his wishes and gave it a shot.  What follows are my mostly truthful and uncensored responses.  Please direct all complaints and grievances to management. 


What is your favorite word?  My toddler would swear it’s “no” and “stop.”  Based on my blog, it’s “ridiculous.”  To be honest, I use that word entirely too much.  It’s ridiculous how much I use the word ridiculous.  I also like variations like redonkulous and Rickdiculous.  Oh, and re-damn-diculous for special occasions.  Considering my previous profession, I should probably find a more impressive word to label “favorite.”  Or at least choose something that’s super fun to say, like “fiduciary” or “homogenized.”  What about “bifurcate”?  That sounds a little dirty. 

What is your least favorite word?  “So?” (but only with the question mark) 

What turns you on, creatively, spiritually or emotionally?  Rawness.  Music that is raw.  Art that is raw.  People who are raw, who will rip out what is inside and display it for the world to see, especially in an attempt to promote solidarity or understanding. 

What turns you off, creatively, spiritually or emotionally?  Celebrated ignorance.  It makes me want to strap a bomb to myself.  Or to someone else.

What sound or noise do you love?  My child or my husband laughing.  If they’re both laughing at the same time, there’s a chance I may explode from sheer happiness (which is much preferred over exploding due to having a bomb strapped to me). 

What sound or noise do you hate?  In my past life, it was the sickening sound of the copy machine malfunctioning.  It was usually either THUMP or squeeeeeaaal followed by the three beeps of death followed by groans and not-quite-under-their-breath cursing from the teachers behind me.    These days, I’ll go with any loud noise during my child’s nap time.   

What is your favorite curse word?  I’ll give you a hint:  I didn’t learn it from watching basic cable.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?  Prop mistress.  Or professional napper.

What profession would you not like to do?  Storm chaser.  [Favorite curse word] a bunch of that.  I’ll be in my hidey hole if you need me. 

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?  “I won’t hold that against you.” 


Sunday, February 19, 2012

Needing to Want

“Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say.”    --Edgar A. Poe



I’ve been struggling to write—to start writing, to finish writing, to post what I do write.   At the risk of sounding smug, this is a personal hazard of being happy.   I’ve said for years that writing is my best therapy (and it’s cheaper).  At least 90% of anything substantial I’ve ever produced was a result of some sort of tumult in my life.  I hurt, so I write.  I rage, so I write.  I’m lost, so I write.  Right now, though, I’m in a good place, and it doesn’t feel temporary as it has so many times in the past.  I don’t feel like this peace and contentment is a fluke or something precariously hanging in the balance, dependant on a set of carefully constructed circumstances.  It feels real, tangible.  The downside, of course, is that my writing is suffering.  Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade my life right now for the ability to write the best-selling book of all time.  I do miss writing, though.  It’s frustrating to sit and stare at the screen, the cursor blinking, taunting me.  When I do finally manage to slap a few paragraphs on the page, I can’t finish.  I either find myself overwhelmed, unable to organize my thoughts into anything coherent, or I hit a mental wall and give up altogether.  The two or three times lately that I’ve finished something, I’ve lacked the courage—or maybe the conviction?—to post it for others to read.   

When I’ve experienced writer’s block in the past, I’ve just ridden it out, knowing that a time would arrive when writing would be both possible and necessary.  But this time, as cliché as it sounds, I feel like I’ve started a new chapter in life.  Hell, maybe I’ve started a new book.  It’s not that I’m so near-sighted that I believe life will be hunky dory from now on.  I know there will be pain and heartache and challenges and trials.   I just don’t plan on bringing all of that shit on myself and on those I love anymore.  Being happy and peaceful is the best high I’ve experienced.   Life is hard enough without me making drama and discord.  

So here is where I stand as far as writing: do I set it aside and only return to it as a crutch when life does get difficult or do I somehow find a way to channel these feelings into words? 
I can barely remember a time in my life when I didn’t write.  As soon as I learned to put letters together and form words, I was scribbling songs and stories.  And while I don’t consider myself to have any kind of remarkable talent, writing is my only ability for which I have even an ounce of pride. It is a gift passed on to me by my father.  What right do I have to just pretend it no longer exists?

No, I can’t just stop writing.

But on the other hand, I don't know if I can write just for the sake of writing.  I have to feel it.  Anything significant or meaningful that I’ve ever produced—anything I’ve composed that spoke to even one person—poured out of me.  Writing is liberating for me, my sidewalk back to sanity.  It’s how I deal with darkness and doubt.  Whether I am raging or drowning, writing saves me.    It’s a way of talking to myself without feeling like I’m losing touch with reality   I am thankful that I have the ability to write when I need to write, when it is crucial for me to stay grounded through words.  But why, when I am at peace, is the rope on my creative bucket too short to reach the water in the writing well?  Why, when I so desperately want to write, am I unable to do so?   The emotions I’m feeling right now—the joy and fulfillment and serenity—are just as powerful as what I’ve felt in darker days.  I’ve longed to experience these emotions, to feel this alive.  My heart feels like it’s going to explode sometimes. Why can’t I channel this into my writing? 

I’ve always written selfishly, drawing from whatever is going on in my life in an effort to get through it.  It’s never my intention to produce something that speaks to someone else, though I feel blessed when another person connects with my words.  Maybe my writing needs another purpose, one that isn’t so damned self-centered.  Maybe I have something to say, something to share. 

I just don’t know where to begin. 


Thursday, January 5, 2012

Recap

Since I’m a terrible mom, I totally dropped the ball this year on keeping up with Amelia’s baby book/calendar.  However, I did document pretty much everything on Facebook, so I went back and started pulling important dates and events from there.  In the process, I’ve reached the conclusion that pretty much all I talk about is Amelia and the weather.   I have also decided that if someone only knew me through Facebook, they’d think I’m pretty weird (then again, most people who know me outside of Facebook think I’m pretty weird).   Just for fun,  I compiled a few of my random, non-Amelia/weather related statuses from last year.  I also threw in a few completely unrelated mobile uploads I posted to Facebook.  Enjoy… or completely ignore.  I’m okay either way.

Amber …

...is going to celebrate National Cheese Lovers Day. What's the equivalent to a cheese hangover? Oh yeah... constipation

…is counting the minutes until either John wakes up or Amelia naps. Between her fussing & my coughing, we kept the sleep fairy away last night. I'm so tired.

…is full of greasy goodness and Coca Cola. Not my finest moment but definitely a tasty one.  

…learned a few things tonight: 1) even vampires have hearts, 2) some people SMELL crazy and 3) dry humping is not always a safe alternative to sex.

…needs a nap.  And a drink.

…is conducting an experiment on the correlation between bladder fullness and perceived cleanliness of gas station restrooms.

…just heard the guy beside me at the red light sneezing. Neither of us had our windows down.

…is a bit puzzled by the young lady in Kinkos who requested her resumes be printed on pink paper.

…thinks the world needs more Asians.  Wait…what’s that you say? Oh, I see.  Well then, the world needs more DAVES.

…has Hobbit feet.

…has bedazzled boobs.  

…thinks there should be an entire movie of nothing but Paul Rudd dancing and looking adorable.

…just ran into a cashier who is so helpful she's completely inefficient.

Did that pickle flip me off?
…is hiding in the shelter with John, Amelia, Momma, Daddy and all the dogs.

…is finally going to bed. Still laughing about air bunnies and Tijuana prostitutes. 

…just finished getting her monthly dose of conspiracy theory.

…is covered in hand sanitizer.

…is now going by Fantasia Silverwhip.

…appreciates the city of Medina for sending me a ticket for driving six miles over the speed limit. Enjoy my 50 bucks.

…insists you cannot punch the handsome off of Anderson Cooper.

…hears the wind howling.  Oh, wait, that’s Amelia.

…is getting the hookup on some skinny pills.

…saw a ninety something year old woman. On her cell phone. In her car. Stopped. AT A GREEN LIGHT.

…was just on the receiving end of a toilet intervention. 

…don’t practice Santeria.

…is giggling at “nudist flutist.”

…has only been tempted to commit arson once in her life. Until now.

…wants to ticket the cop who’s texting while he’s driving.  

…thinks the a-holes on The Weather Channel right now need some solemnity and decency beat into them.

…is in the storm shetler with her farting dog.  We may not survive.

…wishes this old lady would get out of my dance space.

…is in a pissy mood and has no business being in public or around any other human being for that matter. Too bad for me and everyone else that it's grocery day.

…wants to punch Mother Nature in the colon. 

…believes there is no shame in anyone hiding in a bathtub.

…survived the Rapture.

…was mistaken for a meth head earlier today.

…refuses to apologize to the lazy a$$ bank teller just because I have $20 in quarters included in my deposit. 

…sometimes feels like the guy from Looney Tunes who found the singing and dancing frog.

…insists she isn’t trying to force feed her toddler soylent green.

…is gonna be overbese if she don’t stop nomming on these here cheese balls and donut holes.

…bleached the shower. Mutating now.

…is gonna crap rainbows from now on.

…is trying to figure out which parts don't hurt. So far it's right ear and butt cheek.

…has no use for booty sweat. 

…finally owns her kid!

…wishes Kroger wouldn't play "Puttin' on the Ritz." People look at me funny when I channel Young Frankenstein.

…doesn't trust people who always look constipated. Or like they smelled a fart. Or any other permanent facial expression related to fecal matter.

…is digesting a kidney.

...still insists that “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is the stripper national anthem.

...has been eating her feelings all day.  Even my fingernails are gone.

…needs an IEP in decorating Christmas trees.

…needs a hug so much that I almost got out of my car and tackled Santa while he was ringing the Salvation Army bell.  On a related note, where's my Prozac?


...has a holiday hangover.  I just barfed up some tinsel.