Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Funny kid shit

Caden is a generally hilarious child. He is far too sarcastic for his own good and quite a little ham. He dances around the house in his underwear and usually has no shame. When he’s around people he’s comfortable with, that is. Around strangers, he hides behind me. Which is  exactly like me.  He is so much like me in personality, which I’m grateful for, because look-wise, he’s exactly like his dad.

Funny things he’s said in the last couple of days:
Child: Mom?
Me: What, kid?
Child: I want to get addicted to something so I can find out what withdrawal feels like.

 What the fuck? I have no idea where he gets this stuff.
The other day, he also nonchalantly told me that he couldn’t wait to go to college so he can eat donuts whenever he wants.
PS- I do not dance around the house in my underwear.


Monday, January 28, 2013

It's just a little bump, no big deal.

The school nurse called me today, and reported that child has a little bump on his head, from having a head on collision with another kiddo. He’s pretty dramatic about, well, anything, so I take his “injuries”with a grain of salt. I was all, he’s fine, he can stay at school.

This is what he looked like when he got over to my classroom this afternoon:



I was all, what the hell, hello concussion?

So this is what he looks like now. He's all tucked away with Bobs, (the tiger), his books, and an ice pack. I gave him tylenol, but I have a feeling it's going to be a rough night.  

I win.

I have to take amusement where and when I can get it, these days. Living with an ex can sometimes make for a not so fun time. So, I take my laughs when I can get em.  For example, there was a small fire on our campu this morning.  Students were evacuated....annnnnd fire trucks went to the wrong campus. Ha.  The first half of my morning was spent rounding up hyper students and trying to keep them quiet and docile in the football stands. At least it was in the upper 60's. It was almost balmy outside;  the air was thick and heavy with the promise of rain. The day is basically awash; too much excitement for middle school kids and they can't focus the rest of the day.

Caden was grounded all weekend. He wrote in permanent marker, all over his piano, "I HATE THIRTY MINUTES" and "I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS" while he was supposed to be practicing. Little shit. He asked me for a year to take piano before I let him do it. I told him if he wants to quit, he has to tell his piano teacher himself....which he will never do, so I win.

My students are working on advertisement projects today. I let them create a station on my Pandora and it basically sucks, so I just switched it to Van Morrison and they haven't noticed it yet. Again, I win. I always win.

Ohhhh I also just bought tickets to see Randy Travis, my hero, in Fort Worth, in March. Today is just an all around win.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

let's go, yo

Going through old boxes, throwing stuff away and packing things for my upcoming move and found this. I wrote this many years ago, when I was a sad, moody gal. The painting in the first part is called "The Blue Nude" and it was painted by Picasso in the early 1900's. It captured my mood then, and sometimes, it captures my mood, now. I have a print on my wall; it's one of the few things I own that made the cut and gets to accompany me on my move. I would love to see the original. I wonder where it is.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Babies are gross.

A coworker is having a baby. I don't know her that well, but I went ahead and signed the card. I hope she's not offended.

Fuckin' ninjas

it's funny
how those
who have the ability to crush you
sneak up
and then away.

like fucking ninjas

Ha, those fucking ninjas. Gotta stop trusting those pesky little shits. Ah well, ya live, ya learn.

Been dealing with interesting stuff in my life, lately. This is my last year teaching in this shit hole of a town. I've had writer's block the entire 4 years I've been here. I've come to the conclusion that you can't be creative and surround yourself with uncreative. Places and people. I've had a few months of self discovery, once I decided that enough was enough, and I'm excited about the possibilities. I've been writing a great deal the last few weeks, tweaking old shit, writing new shit. I dunno why I have no problem writing the words, but when it comes to extracting them from my mouth, I damn near have a panic attack. I have a hard time expressing myself in person, or when I need to. I have an off switch and I'm real quick to flip it when I feel like I'm about to be cornered or if someone is about to be emotionally needy. I can't handle that shit. I barely handle it with my adorable midget.

I'm still trying to figure out where our home is going to be, or even, if I know where it is, (Seattle?) am I ready to be home yet? This world is teeming with endless possibilities, and there are so many people to see, places to go, and stories to write. I have such a crush on that rainy town; will my crush falter once I'm there everyday? Is it like relationships? You have to learn to make it work? Do I really want to ruin the magic?

I have an interview for a teaching position in Uganda today. I told myself I would say no to any positions in Africa, but the more I dwell on it, the more exciting it seems. I can do anything for a year, right?

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Tales from the Laundromat

gray machines
from the 70’s, i’m sure
moaning, spitting

sit on top
as my clothes swirl and bubble
legs hang over
toe-nail polish is chipped,
faded like the paint on my old car

an old lady is here
folds of skin tumble down her arms
like an avalanche
eyes down,
she mutters
to no one in particular

wonder where she came from

a black man comes in
asks me if i want to dance-
says the leaves are carpeting central park
and it’s prime time for lovin'
two girls kiss at the coin machine
their tongues unabashedly doing
some ancient indian tribal dance

wonder if their mothers know

gaze out the filmy window
and see her
all legs, red lips
climb into an 86’ crumbling v

breath catches, but only for a second
i’m not even surprised.

i wonder if she knows that his wife knows?

they drive away in my old-rusted car
i toss in another dryer sheet
i’d rather buy nail-polish than paint, anyway

So I wrote this about a woman who, like me, likes to watch, and observe, but doesn't really feel comfortable participating. She is at the laundromat, doing her thing, and spies her husband cheating on her. I'm not happy with the last stanza though; sometimes, people don't "get" it, so I need to clear it up. Consider this the unedited version. Will come back to it, later.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Those arms

snow day

Beginning again without ending is hard when you’re not sure where the beginning is. Becoming something again is hard when you’re not sure what you’re becoming. Or what you’re leaving behind. Loving again is impossible when ice drips where scarlet is meant to run. It’s easy to fuck things up, when that’s all you’ve ever done.  

Monday, January 7, 2013

Regards to Montego Bay

cheap rum
flows freely and blends
with cool, twilight laughter
sun fades
air’s balmy and
thick with humidity
warm hues paints their flushed faces
they tip their glasses,tongues search for that last
icy, beaded droplet 
of tangy sweetness

highway lure

the decision to leave wasn't made by me.
it was made by this skinny,
sickly girl,
slouched on her parents' crumbling back porch
smoking half a cigerette
watching an ant crawl across her toe
she thought of him and her breath stopped.
it seemed
she could only breathe when she smoked
and didn't think of him.
so she smoked and didn't think of him.
until she was lying in a dorm room,
somewhere in denver,
face pressed against the pane,
oblivious to the chill
against feverish cheeks
it was snowing as she drifted
memories lacing her dreams 
weak strains of filtered, gray dawn brought no peace.
but the highway did,
stretching, reaching 

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Night Queen

crimson lips glisten
lids are painted shades of silver
searching the streets for dinner tonight
neon lights make her blond hair blue and red
patriotic, almost

puddles of oil and grease beside the cracked corner
where she stands,
waiting for the iron smile of the perfect man.
sucking on smoke to pass time,
tendrils wafting up, settling into well
weathered cracks
she painstakingly covers with chalky paste

she checks again in the splintered glass
and smears on more
she knows tonight is the night.
she will send him to his knees, begging,
and she will be his queen.

night slows down
she stands, staring into blinking
lights of the dying town.
last one lefts, counts to a hundred one more time,
the victim of another wretched song.

she turns on her highest heel and slips away,
shielding her face from the coming dawn

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

over the Mississippi

in 1983
we drove all night
our lumbering van puffed and heaved
much like my grandmother’s smoker’s cough

my father,
hands at 2 and 10
eyes slit, intent upon the road

my mother,
slumped against the window,
lights painted her doughy face
harsh red, oranges 

huddled in the back,
nose pressed against cold glass,
we paused at the light, and
I desperately stared into a polished window,

those perfect girls,
pink leotards,
swirled, stretched
slim, young mothers
sat against the smooth yellow wall
cringed, winced with each jump, leap
light changed and I watched,
until it was nothing but a speck
and even then, I strained,
tried to make it still there 

my father swerved to miss
smashing into a tattered rag-clad thing- person
hunkered down, wolfing the remains
from a discarded mcdonald's bag
his worldy possessions tumbled together
into a safeway cart

“Bastard”, he muttered
woke my mother, who in turn,
shook out another cigarette,
blew smoke in his face

then we crossed the Mississippi,
lights on the bridge diamonds
to my six-year old brain

I was rich in that moment,
the swollen river surging beneath me
reflecting tiny sparkles 

I was wearing a leotard,
and I was dancing
and my mother and father,
they were dancing, too