18Mar

Somebody Loved

“Now my feet turn the corner back home;
Sun turns the evening to rose;
Stars turning high up above;
You turn me into somebody loved.”
~ The Weepies

You,
With the impossibly tiny fingers curled up like primrose petals;
With pure baby laughter floating up from your heart in iridescent bubbles;
With your snackable cheeks and ticklish tummy and nose like a dab of frosting just begging to be kissed;

Design by Natalie

You,
With dancing beams of multi-colored energy;
With the daily explosions of learning, bursting out of your hands, mouth, eyes;
With your baby innocence, your little-girl mischievousness, and your big-girl loveliness peeking out all at once;

Natalie attack

You,
With the eyes that send my stomach butterflies into delighted pirouettes;
With inexhaustible hope, optimism, and humor like prismatic wind chimes reflecting the sun;
With whole-heart hugs that engulf every unspoken emotion;

Dinner date

You turn me…

17Mar

Mortification Monday, Ch. 3

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0 (Disclaimers here)
Chapter 3: Man of my Nightmares

When we last left Bethany and Igor, he had just taken their physical relationship up a notch–in public–leaving her embarrassed, “surprized,” and generously resolving to still like Igor, him being the love of her life past two months and all. But will their passion stand the test of time? Especially now that, merely two journal entries into their relationship, Bethany finds herself considering marriage with another man?

Wednesday, February 19th (Age 12)
“Last night I had a very vivid dream about 23 (or so) year-old Darrell Pritchard wanting me to marry him. There had just been a confrence about dreams having significant meanings, and I’m scared.1 It didn’t help, either, that at the confrence tonight, Darrell sat right in front of me. I don’t know why, but it almost makes me sick to look at him.2 Some people just look like that to me.3 I really hope I don’t have to marry him, but that dream was very vivid and realistic.4 I pray that it won’t come to pass.5

1 Our church religiously followed the 14th Commandment of Southern Baptists (right behind [12] “Thou shalt respect the potluck and keep it overabounding, lo, in bakedeth beans,” and [13] “Thou shalt maketh no less than five altar calls during any one church function, including potlucks”): “Thou shalt conduct frequent conferences in which the congregation will [a] be slain in the Spirit, [b] doubt their salvation and thus rededicate their lives to Christ, or [c] learn about hidden spiritual meanings.” It was at one of these conferences that I learned red-heads have divine powers (::flexes muscle of divinity, no other muscles being available at the moment::). At another conference, I learned that being “slain in the Spirit” generally involves being knocked over the head by an evangelist with very divine muscles. At yet another conference, I learned that demons were living under my bed. (That particular conference turned into a year-long children’s Sunday School curriculum, during which I slept not, nor did I slumber.) And at the “confrence” described in the above entry, I learned that dreams are no different than real life. Think Freud with an oversized Bible, a paisley tie, and the lingering aroma of baked beans.

2 I did know, actually, but was too scandalized to put it in writing. Darrell had one of those blank journals churchgoers use to write down sermon notes or play MASH with their friends, and the cover of his featured Leonardo da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man.” Which has genitalia. GENITALIA! ::12-year-old self goes to throw up repeatedly::

3 People with genitalia, that is.

4 Oh crappeth.

5 It didn’t. In fact, I played in the orchestra for his wedding, babysat his children, and even worked under for him one summer during college. However, I never quite recovered from the shock of dreaming I would have to marry a man with genitalia.

(You really should see how hard I’m laughing right now.)

Next time on Mortification Monday: Wedding plans focus back on Igor, with underlining galore!

13Mar

Swampwater Poetry

I hate neediness, sometimes in others, always in myself. It feels like a sticky, leechy organism turning my control center into a swamp, wiggling occasionally out of my mouth in search of fresh blood to suck. It makes my bones extra-porous, as fragile as spidered glass. It makes me feel infantile, like some hideously anorexic, hormonal version of a baby. Helpless.

But sometimes I can’t help being a choking, splintering, blood-sucking mess. (Look for Dan’s upcoming book: Vampire Wife: Why Mommy Lives on a Dustpan in the Basement Now.) I run through the checklist of “I Needs”:

  • A nap every morning.
  • A nap every afternoon.
  • Some illegal, trucker-endorsed substance to keep me upright between naps.
  • A maid.
  • Regular exercise.
  • The energy to begin contemplating the idea of potentially starting regular exercise.
  • The energy to get up early, and thus be dressed and hygienic before breakfast, and thus feel less like a flea-ridden hag all morning.
  • My own personal motivational speaker. (That means you, Matt Foley!)
  • A lobotomy, or
  • A happy switch.

I hate this list. It’s like a swampwater poem. It makes me crave a chemical bath for this brain that can’t seem to find its self-sufficiency. It makes me want to tattoo a disclaimer on my forehead: WARNING: Flea-ridden hag, four months post-partum. Take her words with a grain of salt and/or a hormone pill, and if you value your own blood, KEEP AWAY FROM THE FANGS!!!!!

The doctor we talked to says that yes, of course, not to worry, this is all perfectly normal for a pregnant woman. Which–and let me be perfectly clear on this subject–I am not. Please, someone, tell me that yes, of course, not to worry, this is all perfectly normal for me, in my definitely and completely un-pregnant state of non-pregnancy. Please tell me that you’ve been here, done this. Please tell me that daily life will get easier and that I will be able to do a whole sit-up again and that this squirmy, slimy neediness will abate before I suck my family and friends dry.

11Mar

Rabid Badgerish

5:00 a.m. is not a time I like to see with my eyes open.

Maybe in a previous life, I was an Amish farmer, greeting the dim morning with a sturdy cheerfulness, content in my pre-dawn liturgy of milking cows and slathering butter on thick brown bread. Maybe 5:00 was just a quiet friend, a strong and familiar face nodding thoughtfully in the barn.

Maybe I was once a sunrise junkie, Mother Nature’s confidante. Maybe my dew-dampened sun salutes woke each day in a meditative rush of energy. Maybe 5:00 was just a cleansing breath in my core, radiating through me like controlled calmness and eco-love and heightened awareness of my early earth.

Maybe I used to be a 2000-watt dancing queen, holding my liquor like a Mr. Martini himself and shaking what my mama gave me until I suddenly burned out with a POP. Maybe 5:00 was just another dazzling bit of a heavily-jeweled night, the Energizer Bunny still thumping out bass lines by the millisecond, an extended invitation for me to prove that my hips don’t lie and it’s bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Maybe in some alternate dimension I could face 5:00 a.m. without impersonating a rabid badger. I could go from 0 to upright in five seconds minutes flat. I could open my eyes, dislodge the sand therein, and manage a complete subject-verb sentence before coffee. But now, here, in this current existence of which I partaking? Not so much.

(Three guesses as to when I got up this morning.)

10Mar

Mortification Monday, Ch. 2

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0
Chapter 2: Getting Physical

When we last left our heroine, she had finally admitted for the first time in twelve years the depth of her feelings for Igor Dreamboat (his personality, his company, and his theoretical willingness to marry her being paramount). However, two entire months of daily journaling pass without another mention of her soul-mate. Have Bethany’s feelings abated? Has Igor dropped off the face of the earth? Have enthralling family events like the purchase of “Star Wars” on VHS and desserts containing sugar driven everlasting love temporarily from Bethany’s mind?1

1 Yes.

Not to worry. Igor quickly recaptures her attention with a bold move:

Tuesday, February 4th (Age 12)
“Today, in classes, Igor did something which totally surprized me (and embarrassed me a little). We were rehearsing our play for “[play title removed due to identifiable nature]”2 and I was standing 4line next to Igor. Mrs. Dreamboat told me to scoot a little closer, and when I did, Igor put his arm around me — in front of everybody.5 I’ve always6 liked Igor, and I’ve heard from other people that he liked me, but he’d never told me. It’s kind of nice to know that my feelings for him are mutual.7 I still like him just as much, though.8

2 Let’s pretend it was something impressive and culturally insightful, like “Fiddler on the Roof” or “The Vagina Monologues.”3

3 It wasn’t.

4 in

5 Oh, the embarrassment! Oh, the surprize!

6 For two whole months!

7 Those feelings being undying love and devotion, as evidenced by his physically touching my shoulders and my journaling about him incessantly twice.

8 How noble of me to continue liking him even though he showed affection to me. Sign me up for sainthood now!

Illustration Alert: This entry is accompanied by seven hearts, one of which is pierced by an arrow greatly resembling a fork, and two of which have faces [presumably Igor’s and mine, though the female heart has half a perm — wishful thinking?] accentuated by puckered, thrice-Botoxed lips. There is also, inexplicably, the word “HHHHIIIIIIII.”

Next time on Mortification Monday: My dreams foretell a romantic future of… nausea?

7Mar

Factory Guy

Factory Guy is somewhat of a legend in our little family. (I’m sure you’ve experienced his handiwork too. Those rolls of wrapping paper without a cardboard cylinder for support? Zippers that stop two inches down with half your pants in their jaws? Super glue that remains wet and sticky on your cracked vase five hours after application even though it permanently affixed your fingers together in .3 seconds? Plastic wrap that stretches and rips and ties itself into sailor knots rather than tear neatly? Juice boxes that erupt if you so much as breathe near them? Packages of fragile computer equipment that can only be opened with a chainsaw? Inanimate objects that fill you with such rage that you will go on a killing spree if you can’t find SOMEONE to blame? Factory Guy.)

He’s been working overtime this week in our household. We’ve had:
A broken car window,
A stolen GPS,
A snapped guitar string (as Dan was going onstage, of course),
A shattered teacup,
A shattered coffee cup,
A bathroom flood,
Defective diapers,
Lost earphones,
A suicidal laptop,
A suicidal MP3 player,
Computer viruses,
More computer viruses,
Still more computer viruses, and
A doorway that planted itself directly in front of my little toe.
And it’s only Friday.

I just figured I owed you an explanation of why, rather than blogging this week, I’ve been out spreefully killing. (Factory Guy’s next.)

3Mar

Mortification Monday, Ch. 1

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0

Disclaimer #1: Do not be tempted to enjoy the following saga of love and heartbreak; it is a tragedy of epic proportions and, as such, tragic. In fact, you will be begging me to end it after the 482nd straight week of teenage melodrama. I promise.

Disclaimer #2: In the interest of not getting sued, I have changed The Boy’s name to Igor Dreamboat. Frequent characters include his mother Mrs. Dreamboat, his younger brother Habib, and various friends whose names have also been changed to protect their identities. (Lucky twits.) Otherwise, just imagine a giant [sic] after every entry.

Disclaimer #3: I was the product of a family that made the Flanders look like hedonistic liberals. (I mean, the Flanders occasionally ate pork products which are specifically forbidden in Leviticus 11. Plus, they knew about beer, which is so heinous a sin that God forgot to mention it in the Bible.) Please keep in mind that I no longer call my parents “Mommy and Daddy” or believe God’s divine purpose for my life is for me to marry Igor Dreamboat.

Disclaimer #4: Editor’s commentary will appear in footnotes.

Disclaimer #5: This is much more painful for me than it is for you.

Chapter 1: In the Beginning
Saturday, December 7th (Age 12)
“Igor is number 1 on my list of boys.1 I’ve always liked him, admired his personality, and enjoyed his company. He said, out of all the girls in our class, he would pick me to marry.2

1Don’t get too attached to the brief and factual nature of this journal entry. I soon master the art of hyperbole. Also bi-polarism.

2According to his mother, who also happened to be my teacher. Please note that this qualifies as a formal proposal. At age 14, he was hypothetically willing to marry me! Out of all the girls IN OUR CLASS!

3, even though there wasn’t actually a 3Dan would like me to point out that not only was this my very first mention of Igor, this was an entire journal entry. Introduction, character development, conflict, resolution, conclusion. (See footnote #1 regarding brevity, etc.)

Next time on Mortification Monday: Igor publicly demonstrates his love for me!

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