Month: January 2014

My Soapbox Opera featuring “Debates”

Humor me as I climb up here on this rickety old over-used soapbox… And in heels, no less. The fading stability of the aged timber is far too often called upon by those that exceed the weight capacity due to burdens needlessly carried on their own, like martyrs. I’ll try not to bring too much up here with me for fear of the creaks and groans of the grumbling platform turning into painful shrieks as I become the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back. So now, with visions of my gangly alien limbs flailing from the midst of a pile of wooden wreckage, I cautiously, yet with an air of mischief, step on up.

Tap, tap… Is this thing on??

Ahem …
Ok, I understand that people have a desire to be heard, we all have a voice, speak your mind… Etc, etc. It is increasingly clear that social media sets a welcome stage for all that have a passionate, or even tepid, view on something … Anything really. From vaccines to felines to… *shudders*…Justin Bieber. Or, perhaps, immunizing cats to protect them from Bieber Fever? Don’t roll your eyes, this could be a real thing. I digress.
That said, go forth! Be passionate, people. Share, learn, teach. I’m all for pouring out what drives you, and even heated debate can be a healthy process that serves to enlighten and fuel progress. The knowledge that can be gained in the sharing of what we believe is without limit. And hey, wrap it in some clever wit and I, for one, will be a captive audience.


The desire to literally claw my eyeballs out and jam them into my ears overwhelms me at the sight or sound of parties of differing opinions throwing all dignity aside and resorting to petty name calling and idle threats… Like are we for reals right now?! If one feels compelled to tear a complete stranger a “new one” because they dress their cat in a sweater vest, they may be doing life wrong. This, of course, only being my opinion.

At this point in my perusing through the scads of ridiculous comments making up such a so-called “debate”, I assure you, “debaters”, I have no clue what the original argument is. You lost me at “tryn’a get this thru thare blankity-blank thick skull”. I’m now choking on the eyeballs that have rolled down my ear canals into my throat, tears of laughter running from empty sockets. The grammar becomes atrocious! There… their… They’re… Thare?? And did I miss the announcement inducting “tryn’a” into the list of legit contractions?

Any valid and honorable fact that may have been previously put forth has now been sullied, lost under a cloak of ugly words.

Consider this comparison:
It’s like wanting someone who is on a diet to try a piece of your delicious cake, but, when they decline, embracing the mindset that icing it in layers and layers of poo will somehow instill them with the desire to take a bite?!

Know what? They can keep thare cake and eat it, too.


Put a Sock in it

Little worse exists than the weekend’s end. That guttural “Mommy, I don’t wanna go to school tomorrow” groan … Only now my mommy lives 300 miles away (which would not spare me from a non-sympathetic “quit your whining” … good parenting doesn’t adhere to the boundaries of time and space) and my “school” now has way longer hours and, gosh darnit, no recess! So I wearily crawl into bed, much later than a sane responsible grown-up would due to a recent discovery of Merlin on Netflix, and pray for miraculously rejuvenating rest before my enemy called Morning sounds it’s battle cry at 6:00am.

But then, on rare occasion such as last night, my own brain decides to add salt to the wound of the weekend’s end by ensuring that sleep eludes me. It fires out nonsensical thoughts and questions like an incessantly chattering 3 year old.

What am I gonna wear to work?
I shouldn’t have had 3 … ok, 4 cinnamon buns.
Who is Merlin’s dad?
Gotta study for Tuesday’s quiz… tomorrow.
…. and on it goes (I obviously left out my really deep thoughts and earth shattering ideas for security reasons)

I lay there trapped inside my mind’s word tornado, the “me” standing in the middle of the chaos, reaching out to grasp onto the tail of at least one random thought as it flies past… Maybe if I can control just one of these runaways, it will calm the storm, since it seems that mentally repeating “please sleep, please sleep” has turned out to be a really weak offensive tactic.

As I ponder new strategies to quiet my oppressor, a side scene begins to take shape… in the little thought bubble above my head lies a snorer, the ultimate sleep thief, played by my brain. Drool crusted mouth falls open, emitting a rhythmic grating, like a dirtbike on the pillow next to you … kickstart, braaaaaaaap… kill switch… kickstart, braaaaaaaap… kill switch. Bloodshot eyes twitching, teeth grinding, the victim, played by a sleep-deprived me, plots a silencing. Quite handily, from the nearby drawer of my imagination, I pull out a super smelly sock and a roll of duct tape… oh, how inviting that open mouth looks now…mwwahahaha! With ninja-like agility, the sock is introduced to the dried out cave of Brain’s mouth as I guarantee the sock’s extended stay by generously applying the duct tape… not in strips.. no,no.. one continuous mummification of the entire head. Ha! Chew on that, Brain!!

Aaaaah…Sleep in heavenly peace.

editor’s note: in light of a freak oxygen deprivation accident, please forgive the author’s scatterbrainedness

Blood is Thicker Than… Snot?

Tuesday night’s waffle soup clean-up inspired a perusal through the annals of time… Well, more specifically, my Facebook timeline… To remind myself that vomit is a mere inconvenience, I’ve encountered MUCH worse. In fond memory, through vision blurring laugh-tears, I read the following post aloud to my toxic substance producing offspring.

One beautiful morning last spring, as I drop my child off at daycare, I reached to wrap him in a loving embrace at the exact moment he convulses in a sneeze….slinging the biggest, grossest, most vile blob of slimy snot directly onto the back of my hand at great velocity, ensuring maximum splatter and coverage ….. *GAAAAAAG* …. Very little grosses me out, including waffle soup, but this gooey green substance stands smugly at the top of that podium, resulting in all rationale fleeing the scene… Making horrific dry heave actions, which are beginning to frighten the little bystanders, I grasp for the nearest Kleenex box…. EMPTY!! In the background, I recall vaguely hearing my dear child’s profuse apologies as I stagger to the sink, with my cookies fortunately untossed, where I am able to finally free myself of this dripping disgustingness.
“Sorry, Mommy” – I go in for round 2 and come out unscathed. Time to start the day.
Good thing I love my baby.

Did I Give Birth to a Robot??

The question that itched my mind as I came upon an intriguing scene last night. Lounging in the living room absorbing the silence of the day’s end… a victorious silence, probably something akin to that following the reverbing of final gunfire in battle (cinematic battle, of course… with settling dust & a dirt-smudged weary soldier gazing across the carnage)… I sit and assess the day, do a body count.  Zero again. I bask in the relief that patience spares lives.

A quick, but faint, new sound across the house breaks the coveted silence. I wait and do that thing where you cock your head, eyes peeking upwards like you’re searching for better reception…. nothing. Peculiar… perhaps it was a fabrication of my chaotic brain. Hubby inquires in a sleepy drawl… “What was that?” … Bugger! Confirmation that it was real and I do, indeed, have to peel myself from my cozy post battle reprieve. I stumble up my menacing stairs (still sensitive to an old feud between us), mentally drawing conclusions as I see the bathroom light on and match that fact with “sore tummy”, found in my mind’s Rolodex of the day’s kid conversations . A little perplexed about the complete silence following the mysterious sound, I approach the open bathroom door.  As my unsuspecting feet are greeted by a threshold of  warm gush, the mystery sound instantly floods back into my mind…Kind of like a full pot of creamy waffle soup, should such a thing exist, cascading out onto the clean kitchen floor.

And I am standing in it.

In the bathroom I witness my seemingly mute boy, oblivious to the surrounding ruckus, dispensing one last small serving of waffle soup onto the floor, still not quite having found a container that suits his purpose. He looks down, shrugs his shoulders, and turns to leave the bathroom. Noticing the sink and an empty cup on the way out the door, he pauses, turns on the water and proceeds to drink. Paralyzed on instinctive tippy-toes in my mire of yuck, grasping the door frame for support as though I will melt into this stuff, I can only watch in awe as he operates without expression, robotic… the boy’s lights are on but ain’t nobody home.  Water still running, he places the empty cup back on the sink and turns off the light. nope… something is amiss. Light back on..hesitates… then off again. Water still running, he repeats the light switch toggling process. I’m bursting trying not to laugh, after all, my baby is sick! My little robot baby that is peering coldly right through me. Finally the right synapses fire for the brain to convey the message that the water will stop running by pushing down the tap, not the light switch. On that note, he staggers quietly past me to return to his interrupted sleep. During the entire escapade not one word or sound escaped this child… only gobs of chunky fluid.  For a boy that wails and shoots fire from his eyes (another possible robot trait, oddly enough) when rudely awakened, this has me baffled!

As I do a final tally, body count is thankfully still zero… but, gosh, that’s a whole lot of carnage.

Opportunity knocks… Moms Lie in Wait

As any colossally awesome mom knows, there is an illogical amount of entertainment provided by skulking, at stealthy ninja volumes, just outside a locked bathroom door while on the flip side of that door sits your completely relaxed and unsuspecting 10-year-old. Though I’m certain a sudden solid slap on the door at about 3 minutes in would be fairly effective in achieving the desired result, I tend toward the visual and am willing to exercise patience (which, as a general rule, I carefully ration) so that I may indulge in the illustrated fruits of my labor. So I wait. Bated breath, adrenaline rising as the sequence of aural cues loudly herald the impending moment when the door knob clicks to unlock. Patience…just a bit longer… premature action will only give rise to a brief awkward exchange (making it super creepy that mom was lurking by the bathroom door).

Timing. Is. Key.

Tension rises, hunter instincts take over as the knob slowly turns, the door pulled open by an unwitting oblivious boy. Before recognition takes hold, I pounce with a fierce ROAR! Behold… my efforts have today borne fruit… his heart launches, like a rocket, into his throat, shoving out a girlish shriek on it’s way up, rising with such force he’s momentarily lifted off his feet, but then, somehow simultaneously, the fleeing heart plummets to the pit of his stomach (his subconscious utterly grateful that he is in post void condition) before bouncing safely back up into place… all within a split second. Munus Explendum! (Or “Mission Accomplished” if you prefer …but the precise process here is nearly an art form so likely deserves a little Latin)

(NOTE: Role reversed skulking not recommended… colossally awesome daughters should NOT creep up on napping dads, but that’s a painful story for another day)

Then, of course, I help my boy pick up the composure he spilled all over the floor and we laugh and hug and all is right with the world…

Nonsense makes the heart grow fonder.


Life. It’s taken in through a mosaic filter of emotions.  The view altered, as through stained-glasses, by the depth or absence of color, the opacity, the obscurity of the feelings with which we filter each exchange. From dark rippling to smooth transparent clarity.

Case in point, My Keags gets along with morning like a hurricane gets along with coastal cities. Left unchecked, the chaos that ensues could easily necessitate MDS relief. On this particular morning, his eyelids grudgingly peek open to reveal a filter of, what seems to be, a dark intense loathing for all things great and small. The task of making lunch clearly a very inhumane request. Options: Pulled pork – served as a taco or as a sandwich. Neither option seemingly favorable, he disdainfully spews forth his choice, “sandwich” (which comes out in muttered growl, but, luckily, I’m fluent in Morninglish). Presented with the container of pulled pork, immediately vexed, he glares at it as though being presented with a camel that he is to fit through the eye of a needle…”What do I take it out with??!!” … When your brain in so tangled in loathing the world, “fork” is obviously a trapped thought lost under the rubble. Thus progresses the painstaking preparations for the day. During backpack rummaging, he produces (with agonizing movement) a note from school. I beam over this note which announces that my tiny offspring has been specially selected to participate in the Art Enrichment Program. “Oh, my amazing boy!”  Proud mama’s exclamations of her baby’s artistic talents seem to have a ‘smack to the face’ effect in which Keags’ filter snaps to a delightfully rose colored shade, suddenly an advocate for joy and sweetness!  A transformation so stunning, my foggy morning lenses have been cleared up, and with a bonus pink tint at that. As I nudge those stained-glasses back up on the bridge of my nose I ponder…  Bet that pulled pork won’t taste too bad after all.