What Do You Love?

I cannot answer for all, but I know what I know:

*  I love the way the sky is sometimes pink and blue, sometimes purple, and sometimes new.

* I love the heart, the way it beats so kind, and though sometimes tender, it beats in rhyme.

(It beats in rhyme).

* I love that love can bring greatness forth and true, I love that I love everything it can do.

*  I love great spirits that interrupt my dreams; and I love my father, who has a way, it seems.

* I love that I wear jeans when I can, and when they're loose. . . it seems a great part of the plan.

* I love the idea that miracles are made, but I love even more that they happen every day.

(Every day).

* I love great writers, like my brother and some, who use big words, or nothing or none.

* I love the great stories of marriages bound, no divorces, no hurt, only happiness found.

* I love ampleness of love, to that be sure; but sometimes, I worry, that loneliness hurts.

* I love that I know that loneliness hurts, but am happy to know the loneliness cure.

(Love).

* I love that I love to write, no matter what.

* I love that I can, everyday or not.

* I love that I tried, and you read it all through; I love that I truly, honestly, love you!

(I do).

Pick a Topic

So, recognizing that it is fun to write, just to write, I sat down with the kids while they slurped and spooned rootbeer floats into their mouths, and asked, "What should I write about tonight?"  Paige piped up, "Oooh, write about how we're learning words every week!  Like, malev, uh, malevo, um, malevolent!"

I smiled, "Already wrote about that."  We all slumped, and thought.

"Oh, I know," Tony said, "you can write about how big my head is!"  That got a laugh, and I said, "Nope, already covered that topic too."  They both giggled.

"I could write about how poor Jack-o-Lantern (their pet caterpillar who refuses to make a cocoon!) is constantly ignored by his parents, and how your mom always has to take care of him. . ."  We all looked over at Jack-o-Lantern's habitat.  Then Paige grabbed the flashlight and ran outside to get him some fresh grass and leaves. 

When she got back in, she exclaimed, "Oh, you can write about how your bed doesn't squeak anymore!"

Back story:  my bed is a piece of crap.  I bought it cheap, shortly after the divorce, had two hoodlums from the furniture store put it together, and it has squeaked since I purchased it.  I got to the point, a couple months ago, where Gracie's fat ass tossing and turning some nights would make me think I was being attacked by a pack of machete-wielding mice, and so, on a Sunday afternoon, I grabbed all the spare screws I had lying around the house, plugged in my electric screw driver and screwed away. . . (not as fun as it sounds).  After a grueling couple of hours, I replaced the mattress, and had the kids test the squeaks.  They jumped on it, nothing.  So I invited Gracie up there and got her riled up.  No squeaks!  Awesome.  Right?  Yes, for a few weeks, even.  Then I decided to rearrange the bedroom, and in so doing, I loosened the thousands of screws, and though Gracie doesn't sleep on my bed too often, she did last night.  She shook her fat ass to get comfortable and the machete-wielding mice were back.

So, no, I couldn't write about that.

We sat and thought.  Thought and sat.

"How about. . . um, no." One of us would proffer, "Or maybe. . . nah."

"I could write about how yellow Tony's teeth are because he refuses to brush them unless I scream. . ." I offered.  Tony ran into the bathroom and started brushing.

"Or I could write about how it is 7 o'clock and neither of you are in your PJs, and settled for the tv show yet."  They both ran upstairs and got in their PJs.

Then my phone beeped, and a message came up:  "Cliff F. just played SongPop".

We all looked at the phone, took the turn, Paige screaming in my ear the answer she thought it was and Tony pushing whatever button he could as I glared at him.  After the loss, Paige said, "You could write about how you kicked Uncle Cliffy's butt on SongPop!"  I looked at her and said, "Yes, but I didn't.  He kicked mine."

"So?"  Then both of them giggled.

So, here I am still thinking about a topic to write about. . .  Any ideas?

You Never Know What You're Gonna Get

Sometimes, my brain hurts.  It's not a physical sensation at all.  It just gets muddled, and my thoughts move like ping-pong balls served and returned by Forrest Gump in the world ping-pong championship; and by the end of a day at work, after lobbing thoughts and ideas and answers back and forth, I just want to close my eyes and let my brain stop pulsating, bend at the waist, and breathe.  Breathe.

"Life is a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get."  There are days when I get the white, sugary kind, that taste like stale Reeboks, and then there are other days, I get a piece that tastes like filet mignon and mashed potatoes (I'm not much of a chocolate eater. . .  but oh, if there was chocolate that tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes, I sure would be).

Good days, bad days, happy days, sad days. . . 'tis the season, I suppose.

Last week, I was without the kids for the entire Thanksgiving break.  It ended up being six full days of no blankets left on the kitchen floor, no stacks of books left on the bathroom floor, no strewn clothes thrown on every floor, no name-calling, no popcorn throwing at Enzo, no giggles, no cuddles, no softness, no kisses. . . and it was sad.  And I was lonesome without the blankets, and books, and clothes, and insults, and popcorn, and giggles and cuddles and softness and kisses.

And I thought, - - - every time my phone rang, throughout every single one of those days, with a FaceTime call from Paige and Tony - - - "I'm taking this call."  It didn't matter if I had just gotten out of bed, out of the shower, was blow-drying my hair, was reviewing a contract at work, was in the middle of a meeting at work, I answered.  We would talk about crazy things like words or the weather, or the dogs, or the sky when it was pink or blue or purple. 

I was eating the stale Reeboks that, at times, tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes.

It seems that there are moments in every day, after my brain stops hurting, where I can see the pink or blue or purple. . . and it seems that there are moments in every day where I can see the clothes strewn about the house as well.

And I realize that Forrest Gump was not only a good ping-pong player, he was also wise.

Tomorrow, I just might get a piece of chocolate that tastes like a meatball.

Why Haven't I Written?

For the past two months, I've gotten emails or texts, or a phone call that asks me why I haven't written - - - from various people that span across seasons of my life.  All great.

And I've asked myself the same question nearly every day for a month.  Why haven't I written?

Too much time spending the millions of dollars I have beneath my mattress?
Too many days of vacationing in the sun?
Kids?
Work?
Dogs?
Boredom?
Self-abuse?

I don't entirely know why I haven't written.  Sometimes I think it's because I am afraid of what I will learn about myself if I do write. A lot of times I think it's because I am tired of digging deep and I just want to skate for awhile, along the avenues of mediocrity and ease.

Quite honestly, I am just tired.  Work, kids, dogs, boredom, self-abuse. . . they all take their turns at emptying the tank.  I think I might just need a few too many days of vacationing with the millions of dollars I have stashed beneath my mattress.

Yet, when I put pen to paper (which I've been doing instead of typing for all the world to see), I find happiness in words.

Paige and I have a thing going now. . .  when she acts up - - - talks smack, calls her brother a name, whines - - - I give her the "that is very unbecoming of a little girl. . . for your punishment, you must correctly spell the word pseudonym, define it and use it correctly in a sentence.  You have until Friday."  She did well on the first go 'round, I am now waiting for the word "malevolent" from her. 

She stumped me though.  We were at church and she looked down at a word in the song, oblation, and whispered, "What does that mean?"  I read it in the context of the song, and had no idea.  I shrugged.  "Looks like you have a word for Friday," she said.  "Looks like I do," I whispered back.

Oblation:  A solemn offering or presentation to God or a deity.  The oblations I make seem insufficient. . .

Why do I write?

I love words.

Thanks to my readers who have asked why I haven't written. . .  still don't know why, for certain, but will keep pushing. 

After a nap. . . ?