Poor Little Bunny

I want my mommy.

I’m sick and I’m a mom, and I totally really want my mom. I want someone to “mother” me.

What is it to “mother?”

I think it’s to inherently know exactly what your child need’s at a given moment.

It’s a timing thing.

To know when to insert oneself into the flow of life and say “I know you better than you know yourself” and you need to REST.

Yeah. I think that’s it.

MAKE ME rest as only a mother can do.

I am Mother.  I can make me REST.

Right?

Hmm… deep thoughts on NyQuil.  Don’t try this at home.

 

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Love after Love and a Pregnancy Haiku

So, I’m not really sure when i started loving poetry but i think it was around the time I was at a loss for complete sentences to describe what was happening – so…. pregnancy perhaps?  I wonder what my pregnancy Haiku would have sounded like:

Plump and round…
Square circle
Weighing FAT 183 pounds

or

Cookie Cookie
Carbs and Baloney
Love you so… never lonely

I digress.

I’ve loved poetry since the moment i discovered what a beautiful way it describes the “in betweens” of life.  The intangibles of our emotional world.  It can weave words into beautiful life pictures.  It’s the artists pallet of the written word.

Take this image for example… in a sentence it would sound like this:

“yeah, this sunset over the water painting was so spectacular, and the colors were amazing”

or

“Sunset sweeps across the sky,

radiating color

warmth will spread from the hue of tomorrow”

Ok- who know’s if i am making any sense at all but the point of this post was to share the following with you:

I  love this poem a friend introduced me to about two weeks ago and wanted to share it with you and dedicate it to The Revelation Project and all the women who have come to the banquet of their own lives.  Also to those who dare to really discover who they are.  What inspiration-  wow.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.”

― Derek Walcott

Not In Candy Land Anymore.

Mr. Goodbar wants me to go through my photo’s today and par down.  He says that I especially have too many photo’s of our cats.

I disagree. strongly.  It’s important that I document their every precious cuddle, curl, and sprawl.

I will reluctantly comply.

He wants me to repeat: “I am a digital hoarder” each time I delete a photo or an email.

I love where our relationship is headed now….

We’re not in Candy Land anymore folks.

Image

Why I killed Michael Jackson

About a month ago I played a Michael Jackson tune for the kids.  They were immediately hooked and seemed to  know right away …they knew that they were listening to one of the world’s greatest of all time.

I never had to tell them- I just confirmed it for them by nodding my head- “yep” when they looked at me with their mouths open – in awe and then when I showed them who exactly it was that they were hearing by pulling him up on a music video from You Tube. Seeing is believing so if you thought he sounded cool… just wait.

Yeah… I know that look on their faces… I know it all too well.

I’ll never forget the moment.

Never.

The moment I realized that he existed- that I shared the planet with  Michael Jackson.  I was twelve years old and I saw him perform on Carrie Smith’s television set.  We had the house to ourselves- a New Years Eve sleepover and her parents weren’t coming home anytime soon. I screamed my heart out. In fact- It ached so badly at the sight of him- i was unable to ever recover the girl i was before I knew of him.

One minute i was a normal twelve year girl, and the next-  I was unable to think a complete thought without him in it.  Nothing in this world was more important than knowing every last detail about him.  I day dreamed endlessly about being with him, and then being him.  He embodied the word “cool” and he could dance and move and sing and look like nothing I had ever seen, or would, ever again.

I loved him.  No- I mean, I really loved him.

It was 1982 and it was just months away from the moonwalk debut when he sang “Billy Jean” – and “duh”, of course Billy Jean was not his lover- ugh!!!- she was just a girl that said that he was the one…  (the thought still gives me physical angina to this very day).  People are so stupid. I wanted to crack heads.

Unrequited love is very painful, and can be incredibly transformative when you are struck between the eyes with it at age twelve.

I was positive if he knew the depth of my devotion he would choose me.  After all, no one would ever love him like I would. ever.  I can’t imagine for how long I moped as I pushed dinner across the surface of my plate each night at the table.  Taking me away from my “boombox”  was like unplugging the life support system from my body.  I played my cassette’s until they warped. I practiced my moves privately. religiously.
I wore penny loafers.  If I stood on the tips just right and held my dresser’s corner edge and squinted as I looked in the mirror – my moves were getting closer… try as I might I would never successfully issue a moon walk.  Not even on my best day.  I was increasingly frustrated and forlorn but I would never.give.up.

I was obsessed.

By the 1990’s I’d resigned myself to my rank.  I was no different than the rest of them… I was just another number in a sea of endless fans. The frustration drove us all to the edge. It must have.  We needed to take him down- find something wrong with him to bring him back to our level and dispel the magic and mystery.  NO ONE can be that amazing. NO ONE.  HIT after endless HIT.  It’s like he was not even REAL.
ENOUGH ALREADY.

I know it was a drug overdose… I know all the media’s input on the subject… but I say that by the time we killed him he was likely relieved.  We all get left behind to simmer in our righteous stew with all the contempt we created for him. We thought he was weird?  I’d say we only made him as weird as we treated him.

He must have felt like an exotic endangered animal. We’d all wanted a piece of him- at any cost to him. We did what any angry mob of obsessed fan’s would do-   and he had it coming to him too.  We killed him because he was not one of us.  We killed him because his light was so bright we were afraid it would shine out the ugly in the rest of us.  We killed him the way we will kill anything we covet and can not have.

When my kids asked me why and how he died – I had to really ask myself how I would tell them what really happened.  I’m unwilling to tell them what popular culture would like to believe and so I will think about my answer carefully.

What really happened to Michael Jackson? Someday I’ll have to tell them why we killed him.

Right now, I’d rather they simply know that legends like him can actually “live” in the world, and that it’s possible to honor something impossibly beautiful and rare without destroying it.

And It Makes ICE!

Life is moving right along.  I can’t believe i’ve already been in the new house for almost three months.

I’ve been dabbling in cooking again… (no, not taco’s) just a bit though; nothing too fancy yet.

I’ve been cooking things like quiche, stews, broiling chicken, grilling steak dinners and pot roasts.

I enjoy cooking again.

I enjoy cooking again because I love my fridge.
I love the layout of the kitchen and the colors and the shiny equipment.
I love my counter- tops, and I love my fridge.
and I especially love my fridge.

I’m trying to let it come back to me gradually. It’s been about four years since I’ve really cooked anything.much.

To say that I detested the kitchen at my old house would be an understatement.  It made me mental.
The stove and range top were so old and gross they made me want to cry when ever I had to use them to cook, and don’t even get me started on the fridge.

I had this thing with the fridge- where I just could not bring myself to clean it very often because it was so gross it never got clean. Not ever after I had taken every cleaning product known to man and scrubbed it like the crazy bitch i am did it look an ounce better.  It had mold all over the exterior-that grew like, well.. mold-  and nothing on it,  or in it worked very well -if at all.

It was all broken and dark on the inside like a bad neighborhood and and stopped making ice I think around 1984 .  I would clean it though- time and time again.  I’d get up all my courage and pretend i was a frat boy being hazed and get er’ done.  Only to then repeat the dreadful cycle of avoidance and muster… over and over again….

I became like some weird woman that was afraid to go in her own kitchen.  I practically had to plaster the thing with magnets and kids drawings just to fool myself into thinking it was a nice place to go wandering to get the milk for cereal in the morning for the kids sake,  but inside I was screaming “NOOOOOO!”

I had massive aversions to eating (this does not bode well for your family when you are the mom who should be cooking yummy life sustaining meals for your small children.)  Yeah… I sucked pretty much at this portion of momdom in general while I was there but I’m feeling much more secure in my role now that I can actually cook a meal without having to drink copious amounts of wine just to “get through” or calling in a “buddy” to sit with me so I did not go awol while cooking annie’s mac n cheese. Less ingredients meant less trips into the abyss. My children suffered.

When we got to the new house my daughter and I just stood in front of the fridge – opening and closing the door like we had special needs.  We just stood, looking at the clean sparkling white interior. Feeling the cool clean stainless steel surface. Open. Close. Open. Close.  It has a built in ice maker on the side that has the freezer…” IT MAKES ICE!!!”
“MY GOD IT MAKES ICE!” We just stood there… looking at each other in a state of wonder.  It was obviously a very emotional and touching time for both of us.  It was transformational if you want to know the truth.

You think i’m over-reacting right? Well- I mean, truthfully I am an ungrateful bitch compared to many who do not have the luxury of any refrigeration what so ever so please, do excuse my complaining..but I was seconds away from digging a hole in the ground and keeping my food chilled in the mother earth instead.

I just want to share the magnitude of my appreciation for what I have now…

Before I left that big nasty stain on my soul-  I photographed it just in case I ever wanted to feel ungrateful about anything in my life- ever. again.

I hope you enjoy these as much as I did.

It had a mind of it's own.  It would decide when and IF it was gonna work.

Why do I blog?

Sometimes people challenge me about why I blog…
i kind of put some distance between this post and the event but today something similar came up so I went back to the draft on this post and I’ve decided to publish it.  I publish it for a number of reasons…

1) It makes me laugh

2) It makes me laugh

3) Some people are ignorant and… that makes me laugh.

Question: “Why do you blog?”

Answer : I don’t know- why does anyone?

Then they asked: “Don’t you feel kind of vulnerable when you expose your personal life?

My response : “yes.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because blogging makes me feel alive, and happy, and challenged to get better at expressing myself as a writer, and besides- I love the interaction with my readers”

Them: “I could never do that”

Me: “Why not? ”

Them: “Because I don’t want “them” to know my business…”

Me: “Ok… then don’t do it, and …. who’s “them?”

Them: “Well doesn’t it bother you that other people know your business? (lets blatantly ignore answering the other question)

Me: “no.” and then:

“it does not bother me”-

“what sometimes bothers me is when people read my blog try to use it against me, or twist the words to fit their own needs… that kind of bugs me- but for the most part that’s only ever really happened as it relates to my Divorce…like sometimes my Wasband tells me that people will go out of there way to tell him that they’ve read about him on my blog – I call those people “shit stirrers”… but I don’t really think that’s about me or about him- I think that’s about them”

Them: “oh.”

Then…. “Well… perhaps you should not write about your personal life…”

Me: “Does it bother you?” ( oh, NOW we’re getting to the heart of the matter)

Them… “well- I just get “concerned” for you” (uh huh- )

Me: “Well how bout you don’t read it?  and then you won’t feel the need to be concerned….

Them: “Well… I just feel like someone should warn you….”

Me: “OK- I’ll consider myself “warned…”

So… now I’ll ask you (readers…) what do you think? Why do you read blogs? Why do you like them? What’s important to you about the blogs you read?

Playmobil Is A Little Different In The Childerness

The finger is healing up.  Now it just feels like a massive callous and kind of “thick” where the stitches are.  It’s pretty gross. I’ve decided I don’t much like stitches or knife wounds and still cringe every time someone wants me to cut them some apple wedges.
I think I need therapy.

While being home on pain killers I’ve wisely invested the time looking into my children’s latest obsession Playmobil.  

Now- per usual, I can completely get into a toy created in Europe and although there are a ba-zillion tiny parts to them, they are kind of amazing. I mean, the detail is INCREDIBLE.  The little farm with the tiny little apples in the tiny little bucket… However, THE PRICE! Maybe it’s the fact that I was in retail and get how inflated some things are in terms of cost- (& I know they are imported) but still!  So I’ve been on the search and lookout….

Consignment Stores, Craig’s lists, eBay, Facebook shout outs…

I did win an auction on eBay but in doing so have learned much more about people who are not my tribe but non-the-less know how to make a living collecting and buying from garage sales and “lots” to resell in auctions like the one I was suckered into winning.  It was of course down to the wire… you know, like I discovered the “massive pile of playmobile” being auctioned off in the last 2 minutes only to discover after winning that there are like , oh say 2,716 such “lots” that get auctioned off daily.  I thought i was bidding on a bunch of sets.

NO.

No that’s not the case at all.

I was bidding on a bunch of “pieces” in order to complete the sets I do not own (Vicoden is not my friend.)

SO, $60.00 and 640 pieces later I think I actually managed to find enough pieces to create a jalopy playmobil motorcycle.

My kids were initially so excited to open the box and I anxiously awaited the praise and accolades that were sure to follow , but while i was busy patting myself on the back for such a clever find they started sifting through the mess (packed in a black garbage bag inside the box= never a good sign) and I started realizing as they pulled out handfuls of pieces – little.tiny.pieces. that we were going to have to make the best of this situation.

The cries of joys were soon followed by cries of disappointment and me, Pollyanna trying to make the best of a dismal situation.

Thoughts started to race through my head.. what can one do with such a mess and tangle?

This afternoon they continue to play Hoarders and Sanford and Son Playmobil  (the lastest and greatest of all Playmobil collections) complete with a junk yard, a junk yard Dog, old tires, A jalopy jeep,  a bath-tub on the lawn and several other yard ornaments.

Instead of them emulating a great zoo, pirate, or farm scenario with the tiny little buckets of perfect red apples they were dreaming of – they’ve instead accessed the underground imaginative world of transients, the deeply disturbed, and garbage collectors.

There’s nothing wrong with this picture. Nothing at all.

love Playmobil.

Cutting Butter with A Knife: A Survival Story.

Sooooo.

Mr. Goodbar left for a business trip and for the first time since we’ve moved in together (it had been approximately eight weeks, 6 days, 16 hours, and 22 minutes) I found myself completely alone (kids with Daddy)  and starving.  I thought I’d make myself a bowl of brown rice with chicken and cut some cold butter with a knife (for the rice) and….

cut my left index finger to the bone and stand there bleeding profusely all over the kitchen. Did I say all over? Did I say bleeding? Profusely?

I stood there for a moment – it was in slow motion and a detached voice said:

“Oooh, that SUCKS!”

and “Damn… that really HURTS.”

When i was done realizing that this was not a superficial wound I gathered my wits about me I ran around the house yelling:

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

“Oh Shit.”

to no one. but myself. because, well.. no one was home and because the situation called for a cool head and quick action.

Blood. everywhere.

I rushed around trying to figure out the how to stop the bleeding and find my phone was so i could… could what? text? tweet? Interesting how I may very well lose a finger but I am concerned of the whereabouts of my i-phone (at all times apparently)

How ridiculous. I did not need my i- phone !!, I needed my FINGER! I needed my car key, I needed gas, I needed a tourniquet, a rubber band to hold it on,  and I needed stitches so that I can operate and function like the mentally impaired adult that I am! That much was as clear as mustard.

I continued “Oh shitting” out loud as I made my one handed drive to the ER in my ever practical family car: the Mini Cooper stick shift. Holding my hand above my heart well over my head (It has a sunroof)   Not really sure how I got there. at all.

I walked into the ER and the Triage Nurse station was directly in front of me.  I said to myself:

“Self?”

“Triage= YOU”

The little nurse there was all business and demanded I take off the rubber band from around the roll of sullied paper towel that was once my finger (blood trail on floor to mark entrance) so she could re-dress the “laceration” (her words) .

“Oh yeah- this is gonna need stitches for sure” she said as we unwrapped it and although I looked through squinty eyes that really did not want to look but totally needed to see I promptly vomited on the floor.

She seemed unimpressed, but I’ll tell you, I was was just the opposite… the body is completely amazing- you know?  My finger looked ALL KINDS of WRONG and my stomach intuitively KNEW THAT and so it just kind of rejected the whole idea (along with the spoonful of rice I managed to shove in my mouth before the stabbing).

While I was sitting in the waiting room of the ER sexting with the Goodbar (got to keep things spicy) I took a quick glance around the room and it became clear why the nurse seemed so lesefaire about my revolting finger wound “laceration” (her words). – Every guy in the waiting room had one!

No kidding.

There was a big guy to my left who’d done it with a Ginsu cutting bell peppers while preparing dinner for a party of 30 and really working at a clip when …. well, needless to say thank god his finger nail got in the way.  Another who’d gotton the top of his finger pinched off (OWIE) when a dude dropped a massive weight on his hand while at the gym.   Then two more guys who’d been in minutes earlier (being stitched up ) who were both in gourmet kitchen accidents. I felt like part of a brotherhood- (except i was like the sister in the family of wounded hands- like a middle child who’s just stuck with brothers all around her just making the best of her life with men everywhere) we all silently sat there – sharing this horrible event that would make us closer- just so that we could never see each other. ever. again.  of our sliced appendages…we were survivors. i was not alone. (Did I mention that I was totally checking out the size of their finger dressing and comparing them to mine?)

(Mine was the biggest.) 

The guys seemed super impressed by the amount of blood coming from my new tourniquet and the fact that I was able to keep my wits about me with such a terrible “laceration” (her words) and asked me:

how did it It happen?

….and then,

all of my wounded hand brothers were focused on me….

They were all looking at me.

Quietly.

Waiting.

“I, um, I… er, I…”

“I’m not sure..”

“I mean… ”

“I… I didn’t get a good look at the guy… ahh… I mean,  ahh…”

“butter. It was dark… everything happened so fast… I…. I…”

“I..”

“blonde.”

“and I bleed-ed.”

“Bad.”

“Butter.”

“Bad.”

Six stitches.  I am home now, eating my chicken and rice dinner (sans butter).

Can’t be left home alone. again. ever.

Un-Pinterested I’m NOT.

What the H E Double hockey sticks- the Pinterest search bar is gone again !

I wonder if I am being punished for over pinning?  I admit- it’s gotten out of control but what is a visual hoarder going blind in the left eye so can’t read till i get glasses due to age gal gonna do?

While anxiously awaiting (ie; wringing my hands by the computer) for my search bar to be returned back to my loving arms I will just take the opportunity to pin a few of my all time faves….

Oompa Loompa

Since Mr. Goodbar and I live together now,  I’m a little worried about my waistline.

I usually have great self control, unlessthereiscandyandchipsandsodaalloverthefreakinghouse!

It’s like living with Willy Wonka… and if he does not stop soon he’ll be bedding an Oompa Loompa.

That’s hot.