Red Writing Hood: Ad patres

This week's Red Writing Hood Challenge is an opportunity to attempt poetry. The topic is "Where I'm From" and it follows a template. It's like Mad-Libs, minus the poop jokes. As always, comments and feedback are most valued!

 


Ad patres


I am sidewalk chalk, the Crayola gasp of discovery. 

I am the dusty stucco parade of houses, the false lawns in a thirsty land.

I am the ocotillo, her prickly tentacles bewitching and true. 

I am scribbled margins and restless dreams; new houses and shadowy men.  I am dreaming Marion, knitting her black afghan in the shadows..

"Be the hands that are missing," they say. "Remember that you represent our household," they chide. 

The sublime grace of the Frozen Chosen.

The sun cracks the desert floor like a piecrust, but I am the prairie's relentless chill. I am tamales and green jello-- big sky and big shoulders.
 
I am my grandmother's education, cut short and tied like sausages. I am the square carpenter's pencils, these stern lead fence-posts. I am the evening snoozes in the armchairs, the silent, ponderous yearnings. 

I am their perfect, singular bubble. Drifting, iridescent, and full, they watch me, whispering their hopes into the wind.

I  float, as soft as a dream, until I meet them in the sky.

I Only Get to Do this Once

My oldest is going to be five in February, and hasn't napped with any frequency for almost a year.

I chose to ignore this fact and call two to three hours a day "quiet time." I banished him to his room with some books and toys, and told him that he couldn't come out until his little brother woke up from his nap.

This worked out marvelously for about a year. Baby slept. Oldest learned self-regulation. I got to write.

Alas, though, times have changed. For a variety of reasons too tedious to explain, Owen is now downstairs with me during Joel's nap-time. It was time.

I tired to write while he was downstairs for a couple of days. I couldn't concentrate.This may explain the preponderance of posts involving the Pope.

I found myself pecking at a screen while my son played by himself in the backyard. It was a breathtaking fall day---just a hint of chill in the air, sunshine, glorious light.

And here I was, answering emails and checking my Facebook account.

Such a waste. I will never have that afternoon again.

So, things are going to change. The computer will remain off during the day. After they go to bed, I will have a conversation with my husband before I log in. I will write at the end of the day, and I will probably post far less frequently.

I only get to do this once. If I'm going to write my life, I had better start living it.

***

That being said...I am the featured writer for the Red Dress Club. This is a wonderful group of women writers.

Their weekly red writing hood challenges have really kick-started my fiction. Please consider joining them on Friday. Also, go ahead and click over to read my profile. I won't mind that one bit.

Never Underestimate the Power of Creativity

The Pontify-my-Son contest has blown my mind thus far.
(See yesterday's post for background. )
Amazing entry #1 by Salt:

Amazing Enrty #2 by The Blogging Goddess:

Amazing entry #3 by my cousin, dek:

 

Seriously...the world is FULL of awesome. 

Contest closes tomorrow night, so you can still enter.

Winner gets either a can of Old Bay or an Eddie Murray bobblehead...or something else if you're not interested in a Maryland-themed prize.

I will have my husband and my non-blogging girlfriends determine the winner. It will be seriously challenging. For realz.

Pope. Popeity Pope Pope.

In the lobby of Owen's preschool, there are several framed photographs of the Popes throughout the ages.

Without fail, each day, Joel will point to the pictures and say, "Who Dat?"

"That's the Pope, honey," I say.

He'll immediately point to another picture, "Who Dat?"

"Another Pope."

And on and on it goes.

Yesterday, during lunch, Joel was saying "Poop! Poop!"

I frowned and said, "Honey, no potty talk at the table."

Owen, who often translates for his brother, said, "No Mommy, Joel is talking about the Pope."

I turned to Joel and asked, "Is that true, honey?"

He nodded his head vigorously, delighted to be understood.

Owen added in, "Joely wants to be Pope!"

I said, "Is that true, Joely?"

Again, smiles and vigourous head nodding.

I said, "Well, I have honestly never considered that idea. Ever. At all."

Besides the pesky detail that we aren't Catholic, I just cannot imagine my child hanging out in the Vatican, or waving from a Popemobile. I certainly wouldn't kiss his ring.

I mean, I know where that hand as been.

Owen said, "If Joel is going to be Pope, he's gotta learn to play piano!"

Naturally. All the best Popes---Pope Elton John comes to mind---have tickled the ivories.

I suppose that's another roadblock towards Joel's Papacy.

Well, I suppose a mother can imagine. I mean, somebody rocked all those pontiffs to sleep.

For all those Photoshop experts out there, I throw down this challenge: Deck out my son in Papal Regalia. If you can include the pointy hat, that would be stellar.

The person who creates the most fantastic image of my son as pope will win an Eddie Murray Bobblehead. I won it at an Orioles game years ago, and it's probably worth some money. If you don't want that, I will send you a can of Old Bay.

The contest closes Wednesday night. Here's your subject. Have at it:

Red Writing Hood: Gaping Hole

Those dastardly ladies at the red dress club thought it would be fun to toy with me this week.

The Red Writing Hood challenge is:

Write a morality tale based on forgiveness but written with the fantasy genre in mind - create a whole new world comprised of supernatural phenomenon.

Seriously? Fantasy is not my friend.

That is, with the possible exception of  Orlando Bloom. He can be my friend anytime.

***
Gaping Hole 

"Look," I said, pacing back and forth,  "I've been a tooth fairy for three years. I've done bicuspids. Molars. Lateral incisors. I think I know what I'm talking about."

Sprite pushed down his glasses, placed his quill on his mushroom desk, and smiled softly. "Drake, nobody is questioning your talents. You  have harvested more teeth than any other fairy in the glen. You're good. Thanks to you, we had a record harvest of dentine and cementine."

He chuckled softly to himself. "Yet...I can't help but  remember your first trip out..."

Ah, this again. I forced my lips into a smile, and played along:  "I really thought I had found treasure in that glass. I was sure-"

"You were sure that plastic teeth soaking in green salts were going to make you King of the Fairies!' He laughed openly now, his gossamer wings shaking as he gasped out the words, "You said, 'We're rich, Uncle Sprite! We're rich!'"

I sat down on the acorn chair across from his desk. "What can I say? Rookie mistake."

He winked, and leaned forward, "My boy, those false teeth couldn't power a dandelion, let alone the entire glen! So, remember that, Mr.I-Know-What-I'm-Talking-About. "

I laughed, mainly for his benefit. Clearing my throat, I stated, "I believe I've more than made up for it." I ticked off each point with my finger, "Who tipped you off about the Osmond Family? Gary Busey? Hilary Swank? The National Hockey League?"

He nodded, "Yes, my boy. Thanks to Busey alone, we were able to power up the entire Redwood District. You've always had good instincts. It does, after all, run, in the family."

I stood up, puffed myself up to my full six inches. "You know, I have more ideas. Well beyond finding celebrities with unfortunate teeth. We could really take this to the next level! We've already started with harvesting the cemeteries....it seems logical that we would harvest the..."

Sprite held up a hand, "Don't say it. Just--"

"I'm not finished!" I said, "All those teeth...all that potential power...just sitting there..wasting away. I can't believe we are talking about this again! Or more specifically, not talking about it again."

I ran my fingers through my hair, gestured towards the bar, "Do you mind?"

Sprite opened his hands, "By all means, son." I poured myself a nectar, drank it in one swift gulp.

The familiar liquid softness did nothing to slow the pounding of my heart, the energy pulsing from my head to my wingtips. "Will you just consider the idea?"

He frowned, his eyes dark unrepentant caverns. "No, Drake. No I will not. We are fairies. We are not monsters. It's a---"

I pointed a finger in his face, my voice steely, "I know, I know, it's a business. We take the teeth when they don't see, we pay them a handsome fee. GROW UP, Sprite!"

I turned my back to him, my fingernails cutting into the palms of my hands, "They don't need them all, anyway," I mumbled. "Just a quick yank, a bit of blood, and the toothy riches could be ours."

I felt his rooty knarl of a hand rest on my shoulder, "You have had so much taken from you," he whispered. "I haven't forgotten. First your father's accident.. And then her. I'm so, so sorry that she never came back."

Mom. She left for England years ago. Seeking riches, seeking teeth. Plenty of both there. 

I turned to him, and whispered, "It's just not right." I bowed my head. "It's just not right at all."

He held me and said, "You're right. It isn't right." He pressed his forehead against mine and whispered, not unkindly, "But, my boy, learn from her mistakes.You can't take things from people. You can't take away a childhood. You can't take a living tooth.  It always, always leaves a gaping hole."

The Most Pointless Build Up to a Cookie Recipe Ever

After yesterday's insomnia post, I decided to drink a purely medicinal glass on Pinot Grigio (Mommy's Time Out, if you're curious) before bed.

I woke up nine hours later, fresh as a daisy, and channeling my inner Miley Cyrus. I was both shaking my hips and nodding my head like yeah. Good thing that Britney song wasn't on, or I could have injured myself.

(Thanks, MamaPop, incidentally, for bringing that song back from the dead for me.)

We had a busy day today.

I decorated for the Fall Holidays:

Awesome

TERRIFYING. 

Other highlights include Owen eating a carrot: 

Also, me pretending to eat his carrot, much to his amusement and my dorkosity:

Joel felt compelled to share that he was enjoying his peanut butter:

He also ate my face.

As you can imagine, all this pouring candy corn into jars and taking blurry pictures with a cell phone can take the Miley right out of a girl.

So, I did not make delicious cookies, as I had planned. Trust me, they are really good. Have I let you down yet?

Don't answer that.

Awesome Cream Cheese Cookies
1/4 cup margarine or butter
1 package of cream cheese
1 egg yolk
1/4 teaspoon of vanilla
1 package of yellow or chocolate cake mix.

Cream butter and cream cheese. Blend in egg yolk and vanilla. Add cake mix (just the dry cake mix) and cover and chill for approximately thirty minutes. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Roll dough into balls and roll in sugar. Flatten on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 8-20 minutes.

They are to die for. Check in with adrienzgirl if you want to see other delicious cookie recipes.

Insomnia Fails

Every night, while my husband blissfully slumbers, I lay awake.

I won't bore you with the details. Instead, I will bore you with my coping strategies.

Coping Strategy #1: Extreme Home Makeover

When sleep alludes me, I pretend that I have an unlimited amount of money and resources, and mentally remodel my home.

Step one is always knocking out this wall. I picture myself swinging the sledgehammer, like a pint-size John Henry. I hear the crack of the drywall, and my imaginary self barely breaks a sweat.

But then it derails. Where would I put the blue Hoosier cabinet? It simply doesn't work in a living room! Perhaps we would need to tear out ALL of the cabinetry! And add a garage...and a sunroom....and a walk-in pantry!

We would have to get new carpet---or better yet---hardwood! We would have to rewire....where would we put the furniture? And we would have to paint! God, what color should we paint? Do we need a chair rail? Crown molding?

And what the hell would we put on the walls? How do people know how to do this? Bunch of show-offs, if you ask me.

And why do we live in a 1200 square foot house anyway? How the hell are two teenage boys going to live here someday? Why can't we have nice things? And where is my VERN YIP, damnit!

Somehow, this is all my husband's fault. I am wide awake, heart pounding, furious that he is wasting valuable painting time by sleeping...at three in the morning.

Coping Strategy #2: I Become Pretty

When you're tired, you're not at the best place emotionally. Therefore, what better time to imagine unlimited money and resources for a full plastic surgery Mommy Makeover?

I think of this:

And this:

And just like that...the woman who believes that that there is nothing lovelier than a face with character imagines carving herself into something like this:

There's no sleeping after that.

Coping Strategy #3: I Think About the Blog
This is dangerous territory indeed. I imagine possible posts. At the time, they seem brilliant. Surely, THIS POST will be the breakthrough which will lead me  to the book deal and the booking on Fresh Air with Terry Gross.

Sometimes, I actually get up and write them. This results in nonsense like Magic Juice and Dibs and Drabs.

At othertimes, I writes notes to myself. I stumble out of bed the next day to see snippets like "Talking Sex Toy" or "Big Lebowski Sweater" scribbled on the backs of grocery lists.

Rarely is the reality as good as the idea seemed the night before.

Occasionally, in these wee hours of the morning, I imagine that I got a comment right at that moment. The idea nibbles at my craninum. I attempt to ignore it until, finally, I hoist myself up to feed the beast.

Usually, I'm right. There's a comment. You would think such validation would lull me to dreamland.

Instead, I sit in my bed and think, "Maybe I got another comment."

Clearly, I need help.

I am running into doorjams and forgetting to turn on the microwave.

So, Internet, how do you go to sleep? My strategies are big fat fails, and if this keeps up, I really will look like Gary Busey.