Ho. Ho. Ho.

Though the Hollidays are a lovely reminder of those we love and the many blessings that have been bestowed upon  us, it's also a tragic flashback for many to all the shit that this time of year holds.It doesn't surprise me in the least that this is the time of year for the hightest suiside rate. I can understand the mother that drives into the lake with her car full of kids (figuritively) and the dad that shoots his family then turns the gun on himself. 


There's is just too much pressure on the poor people who are trained through peer pressure, media, and in-laws to strive for this damn Christmas miracle. The kids are to blame as well, I'm not letting them off the hook by any means. Why do I have to get you a present again; and hey! Who are you? The ridiculous
 notion that I have to get co-workers gifts is beyond fathomable. I can't afford to purchase gifts for the people I really love, but I'm somehow behoove to get crap for someone I kind of like.(For th record, I love my co-workers, AND they know they aren't getting squat.)


When did the dollar amount become attached to how much I care about you? This is madness! What kind of person even sets those horse shit limits?  That's definitely how I know someone cares about me; how many little green pieces of paper they give to a giant corporation that pollutes the environment with unethical factory practices and child labor.I would be appalled if my sister had the sheer audacity to give me a heartfelt letter explaining what she enjoyed about the camping trip our families took together this year with a couple choice snapshots enclosed. THAT doesn't cost enough!


I have always liked the family that spends the money they'd blow on junk for others and just take the money and run. That's genius; a trip you'll all remember without the trappings of what's socially expected of you. 


The whole deal disgusts me when you throw all the religious garbage in the mix. Are you seriously trying to put guilt on unsuspecting holiday revelers by reminding them that "Jesus is the reason for the season"? Yeah, I bet Jesus is like, "Well, Dad would you look at the Johnsons? They are going straight to Heaven since they have that really bodacious pile of gifts under their fresh- cut tree." I'm sure Darfur isn't much of a concern at "this time of year" on the other side of the pearly gates.


It's not white corporate America running this machine is it? Nah, they have nothing to do with the fact that we never see any other culture celebrating in any other way than what is played 1000's of times a day on the t.v. After all we don't want to know what they have going on anyway; it's un-American whatever it is they do. If we haven't already stolen it from your culture in the past, then we want nothing to do with it now.


Here I sit trying to remain mellow as the two week date looms like impending death over my head. I have kids, who I know damn well don't deserve half the shit they'll be hauling in X-mas morn, family that I'd rather just take a rain check on dealing with,and work that seems to be expecting me to show up time and again with that smile permanently engaged, while I know there is no hope of a decent Christmas bonus waiting for me.

(I set up this pic., but it's still cool. It symbolizes my X-mas bonus.)

Don't misunderstand me and label me as some sort of Grinch/Scrooge; I'm into the holidays. It's everyone else-not me. Though that sounds preposterous it's true. Our house is decked out and cozy and just waiting for Santa to come nibble cookies, sip our wine, and leave us stockings stuffed with all the Chapstick and socks we can shake a stick at. We listen to carols on the radio and watch White Christmas. We bake homemade goodies and re-read the stories from when I was a little girl. I just have a hard time keeping the rest of the world at bay, sometimes.

Even in times like these when there is so much good we could be doing, and so many that could really use the extra help, we sit glued to our televisions. We're wrapped up in the major problems concerning a boring golf pro and his deviant tendencies toward cocktail waitresses and porn stars.  As close as I can tell, that just reeks of Holiday cheer in our country. 

(my Christmas card~ don't get any ideas)

I say we make an effort to ignore all the shit that is hard to ignore. Pay more attention to the one's that deserve the attention. If you've never given to the Angel Tree; do it. It's one of those feel good things that pretty much anyone can kick down the extra cash for. Don't get the person in your life that you HAVE to buy for a gift! Screw 'em! Put your hard earned cash where it can be felt, in the hearts of one's you'll never see, but you'll know come Christmas morn that you did something wonderful. That will wreak~ in the good way.

 (This is my weird elf ensemble...I'm not the only one that own's strange elves.)

Where We Can Find It    

Delilah cranked the knob on her radio in the car car to drown out the endless stream of orders replaying themselves in her mind.

“I will take a 12 oz. caramel macchiato.”

“One blueberry muffin, warmed up, and a Grande’ chai latte.”

“Coffee. Black.”

She let the cemented smile slip off her face and drop into her lap where she’d plaster it on again tomorrow. She enjoyed the six other bubbly girls she worked with on a rotating shift at the “Mean Joe Bean”, but it was the nonstop grinning she would struggle with today. Delilah had turned the ripe old age of 21 over the week-end and still a touch queasy from the libations though today was Tuesday.

Looking up at her reflection in the rearview mirror she held her placid expression, and ran her hand through her caramel highlighted hair. It had knotted up throughout her shift causing it to kink into clumps resembling half-cooked ramen noodles. It still had lots of spring to it as Delilah pulled bits up and out trying to give her afro more height on top. She preferred the soft, natural kink her hair had, opposed to the flat ironed look that was so popular with her generation.

From her radio a sad teen whined about her life being empty and filled the background with woeful cries and odd instruments. It was a c.d. of music her friend from L.A. had sent her for her birthday. “Bent Barbie” was Terra’s newest obsession and had been helping them book gigs at local coffee shops and dive bars.

Delilah felt a twinge of jealousy bite at her insides as she realized that Terra was probably enjoying her life more than she. She imagined herself laughing with Terra; walking arm in arm from club to club under the glittering lights of L.A. Bend, Oregon was far from glitzy or electrifying. Terra had gotten out, and Delilah was still working at the coffee stand they both worked at their senior year of high school.

She pulled her silver Honda Civic into the awning covered parking space that read “24” and turned the key to kill the motor. Her body curled around the steering wheel in utter exhaustion. Her head flopped forward to rest there on the cold red plastic wheel until her forehead couldn’t take the uncomfortable press of the solid surface. She straightened up and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips for a brief moment. The c.d. slid out of the stereo, she grabbed it and placed her middle finger through the hole in the center to carry it into her apartment. With her free hand she snatched her salmon- pink patent leather purse and tangerine jean coat with the fake wool lining from the passenger seat.

“Damn it,” she said as her feet met the concrete. She’d forgotten that her ten minute drive home from the coffee shop was the first time in over six hours that she’d sat down. Delilah, like the other girls she worked with, wore high heels every day to work, rain or shine. She was 5 foot 3 and when she slid into her heels she was a super model ready to strut her stuff down the runway. She felt a couple of the girls she worked with were already tall and the extra height made them look far too lofty, but when she was a 5 foot 7, slender but still curvy, cocoa skinned young woman, she just knew the world was her oyster. Right now, though, the oyster was a tight pair of shiny back stiletto’s clamping down on her toes and all she wanted to do was shuck the darn things off and give herself a nice pedicure.

Wobbling to her door, she paused as a car came into the parking lot and blinded her with its high powered halogen lights. She put her arm up to shield her eyes and tried to see who was pulling in. The cobalt blue Cadillac Escalade passed her where she stood on the slim stone path that led to her light green front door. She turned and continued down the path past the hedges that line the left side to create a small amount of privacy from the other apartments. Her door faced her neighbors’ door, but the shoulder height hedge kept out unwanted peering eyes. The hedge grew down the slightly sloping yard that held a low glass table flanked by two wooden Adirondack chairs she’d painted conch shell pink early this last summer.

Where she and a friend might sip vodka lemonades, was now slightly dusted with dried up pine needles that had fallen from the adjacent tree. Her undersized yard required less than a five minute mow and now it wouldn’t need another watering until after the snow melted in the spring. The thought of the snow that would soon be falling on her drowsy little town made her shiver from the top of her head right down to the tips of her toes. Turning her back on her mini yard she dug into her cold leather purse to fish out her house key. Since turning twenty-one she put her house key on a separate ring from the car key in case she left her car at the club.

She smiled at her efficiency, how much she’d always paid attention to details and that it was always the best plan to be one step ahead of the game. Delilah walked into her warm apartment, hanging her purse and coat on the rack, she turned to the window facing the tiny yard and closed her long navy-blue velvet curtains, all but a sliver of a crack. She was warming up to the excitement she felt thinking about the pedicure.

Holland sat in his over-sized car and twisted his wedding ring with his thumb. He turned the key to the “off” position and stared ahead with a strained expression he held screwed to his face. The endless number crunching was wearing his nerves thin these days. His accounting office was the busiest in town; which was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand he could afford the Escalade, on the other it meant more often than not, he was burning the midnight oil and returning to his family to find them all asleep. His wife wasn’t bothering with making him a plate of leftovers for him to reheat; she figured he was fine to grab something from the deli adjacent to his office.

It wasn’t her fault; Holland knew that it was her personality to not be overly thoughtful. Birthdays consisted of gift certificates, father’s day was a dinner out with the family, and Christmas was a tie and cufflinks. She didn’t need to be fawned over and she just felt that everyone else should conduct their lives the same. Every year Holland got his hopes up though, when his special days would roll around he hoped that she would find a way to make him feel secure and special. He’d resigned himself to the old analogy that opposites attract and that would have to be good enough for him.

He sucked in a big cold breath of air as he slid from the heated leather front seat out into the evening’s crisp air. He reached into the inner pocket of his leather “Member s only” style jacket removing a business size envelope. Though his fingers were stiffening up from the cold, he pulled out its contents to make sure it was in order. Four crisp twenty-dollar bills were reinserted followed by three tongue touches to moisten the envelope’s seal.

Holland shuffled his feet down the short stone path and settled into the pink Adirondack chair. He covered his graying hair with a fitted black fleece hat, wrapped a Burberry scarf round his thick neck, slid his long-fingered accountant hands into wool-lined leather gloves and settled back into the summer settee’.

Delilah sat on her couch facing the front window, preparing for her weekly ritual. She’d carried in a porcelain bowl filled with hot, sudsy water and placed it on the floor. On a thin coffee table she’d made from turquoise 2x4’s lain across two cinder blocks, was her kit. Laid out was: lotion, a white emery board printed with tiny pictures of cherries, “Corvette Red” polish and polish remover, cotton balls, a blue gel filled toe separator, a towel that resembled a pink baby blanket and a pair of anklet socks.

Her acrylic nails ran over her implements to settle on the cotton balls and remover. Her expertise began to show as she smoothly swiped at each toe and tidily removed the previous red. Placing the used cotton balls next to her discarded stilettos, she moved on to ease her feet timidly into the pot of steaming water. As they entered the bubbles some overflowed and splashed to the wooden floor boards. Delilah relaxed her body and leaned into her over-stuffed plaid couch.

After a few moments had lapsed, she pulled one foot out at a time and toweled them off. Turning back to the coffee table, she snatched the toe separators and spread each toe to fit into the contraption. The filling was more out of habit than necessity, as she kept her nails in impeccable shape. She shook the polish then turned the cap to release the wand dripping quick drying paint. Ten short strokes later, she returned the wand to its bottle and examined her work.

Smiling, she released her digits from their gel jail and reached for the pomegranate scented lotion. Squeezing a fifty-cent sized dollop into her palm she began rubbing it into her ankles, arches and finally lubricated each dainty toe. Delilah grabbed the socks from the table and rolled each one over her toes on to cover her feet. She got up, walked to the living room window and pulled the heavy drapes completely closed.

Holland gripped the wide arms of the low chair and propelled himself into an upright position. He ambled up the slight slope of the stone path and deposited the envelope into the mailbox by the awning marked, “24” and headed for his Escalade.  

This is to all my friends near and far
i know where you're at
who you really are
you changed me 
deranged me
shaped the person I am right now
i didn't get a chance to tell you how
do you know i owe it all to you
time spread it's wings and flew
tomorrow i will catch a second
say thank-you for the time we've spent

SMALL

WE ARE SMALL

FLOWING IN ALL DIRECTIONS

EXPLODING IN COLOR

  
MIRRORING PERFECTION

 RISING TO UNTOLD HEIGHTS

SINKING TO UNKNOWN DEPTHS

 RETURNING TO WHERE WE CAME

WE LEAVE OUR MARK ON OUR MOTHER

LISTEN TO THE WORDS OF OUR FATHER

PATIENTLY WE WAIT, SMALL, TO SEE WHAT COMES NEXT...

WE ARE SMALL

WE ARE SMALL.

Fox

His slender, index finger extended from its white tipped paw to reveal a claw whose length and sharpness was shocking. He ran it languidly across the deeply etched fine scroll work forever forged into the high backs of the sturdy oak dining room chairs. In the other paw he held a steaming, delicate tea cup filled with the aromatic juice left from the loose leaf oolong blend. He pointed his slim, triangular muzzle down toward the brimming cup and took a lengthy breath in through his narrow snout. With eyes rolling sensuously back into his head an uncontrollable grin spread across his face, twitching his long, wiry whiskers and revealing his jagged, diminutive fox teeth. How delicious his devilishly clever plan had played out.

The sunbeams snuck in, with their dusty tails hanging in the air through dainty tea-towel curtains. Round stained glass windows on either side of Fox’s kitchen held up these curtains, filtered cobalt blue and forest green through tiny glass panes, and illuminated his home. The glow of these colors reflected the swampy, overgrown forest and permeated the hollowed hull of an enormous redwood Fox called home. Greeting the day, wisdom crackled along Fox’s brain synapses where they shown themselves as sparkles in his eyes. A half-grin, once again exposing dangerous teeth, Fox was positively beside himself; this time he had outdone even his most wicked trick.

Tramping with agile hind legs on soft paws he walked around the sturdy natural oak chair. Reaching the front he backed up to place himself in the seat. How lovely, the way the craftsman had carved the perfect curvature of the back support, flowing down right into the seat that cradled his fox bottom with its fine, enormous bristling tail! The extraordinary chiseled design decorated the backs of the four chairs, matching that of the vining, swooping, lazy flower pattern across the table top. Admiring both his wit and elegance of the fine furniture, he leaned back confidently.

Fox jerked, suddenly brought out of his mood, to turn his head toward the persistent rap of an axe head on his front door.

Moods Are a REAL Bitch- First You Must Look At the Emotion- Or Some Nonsense Like That

@This is for a friend, and all my friends for that matter, who I use to find inspiration and get something worth a damn on paper.

I like to see what my buddies are following and where they are finding all their never-ending knowledge. I try to take a peek into the book, paper, and/or blog that people with generally sound minds are interested in. No offence to these friends, but they are really reading some boring shit. I’m looking to stumble across the next great inspiration and I get the equivalent of the daily newspapers police blotter: there might be something interesting in there- there probably won’t.

There seems to be no shortage of lukewarm writing. I am incredibly guilty of this, and I know why; future employers. Damn them and their peering eyes into your creative life. I say creative because there is nothing private about the lives we lead. This is the true reason I’m pissed about the shit writing, the writing that actual humans are getting paid to write. REALLY? Keep it gentle and we will give you a paycheck. There is no inspiration to be found in columns about the five easy steps to take to live a so-so life.

The guy who can teach you to be an early riser is quite the fellow. He throws words like “shit” into his mix and somehow he is automatically socially-acceptably-edgy. Boring is what we used to call it in my day. Again, I’m no better than this guy. I don’t want to go too far and write something that will give others the impression that I’m a bad mom.

@See above double hyphenated catch phrase.

I’m sick to death of myself with all my recyclables, organic food, bargain shopping, glass bottle drinking, plastic purging, mini-van drivin’, school involved in, teenage son hassling, baby raising, balanced meal eating, globally thinking, locally acting, open-mindedness, politically frustrated, sexually frustrated, mentally exhausted, thinking plastic surgery is creepy but using anti-aging crap, looking at everything I buy and sizing up the packaging, the damn dreams that are so hard to force to materialize, the loathing I have towards the assholes that don’t give a fuck about anything that really matters, laundry that consists of clothes I can’t stand to wear, piles of clothes that I can’t seem to whittle down, the whittling I can’t seem to pile up, and on and on and on.

I have become a damn product of the society I was always so against. Here’s how I know for sure; I was anti-education and I’ve been back in school for the last 2 ½ years. I never believed that anything could top the true life education, the kind you achieve by living your own life, throw in a little read intelligent writing, have intellectual conversations and there you have it. Now, in my mid-thirties I realized that the stupid piece of paper is important. It still isn’t to me, but it is to the ones who give you decent cash. A degree does help, but the sacrifices you make along the way to be a normal part of society sucks.

BUT WAIT… perhaps there is something to this normal society. Since I’ve spent my entire life rebelling against The Man and Government and Injustice, I actually found the only way to really stick it to ‘em; I am one of them. Not in the conventional way, but the even better way. The way the P.T.A. hates it when I attend their meetings because their husbands wish their wives wore as much make-up as me and showed their racks. They hate it that I have simple solutions to their lame problems, they hate that I can save them the money they so desperately want to blow. They despise the fact that I’m the bartender at the fundraisers they go to.

Normal Society wishes I was stupid so they could group me into an easy mold, then glares at me when I pay for my $100.00 grocery bill with a one-hundred dollar bill and not a food stamp card. They hate me as I get into my mini-van with Wu-Tang blasting, cracking-up with my kids, as we swill our all natural juices and look forward to dad/stepdad coming home from school.

It eats society up when they see all of us, ex-husband, step-dad, granny, sister and brother-in-law, and the WAY too many kids, all together having fun. They don’t think it should be like that- we are supposed to hate the exes and NOT be racially mixed. We stand like that together and watch our soccer star boot the only goals scored in the whole game and believe me, they really hate that! We cheer together and laugh, just hoping that tattoos aren’t cool anymore.

There are no “steps to take” to make your day easier, no magic formula, just a satisfaction you might be able to find hidden in everyday bullshit.

There. I found my inspiration.

Spokane Inhabitants

The shimmer of a far off sun ready to peek its head into the new day threatened to mess with Jay's mental state. He had been wandering back streets for an undetermined amount of time. He couldn't even remember when he’d started off last night and now his mind felt fidgety and a slight bit liquid. It had taken on this cherry jello form that rocked back and forth between his ears, yes he could actually hear it as it slid to and fro.

Even though the summer was completely gone, and the late autumn air reminded his gloveless fingers of that, he traipsed around the city with only the protection of a hoody worn thin from many washings. His fingertips were threatening to lose their circulation so he jammed them into the front kangaroo pocket on the navy blue sweatshirt. He thought it was odd that the rest of him was so warm, perhaps from the long ambling walk he’d been on while the rest of society slept. He’d make sure that he kept his fingers safe from the notorious morning frost that the inland North West was so generous with in late October.

Earlier the night before he’d felt fine and slid out the front door as his wife and four month old baby slept in drowsy-dream land. He just couldn’t sleep was all. That was what he was telling himself as he pulled the hoody over his head and leaned down to tie his black, recently unused work boots. He told himself that he just needed to shake a little pent up energy, then he’d come home, slide between the covers already warm from his girls and float into nothingness. After a little walk he could sleep and wake up right as rain.

Now, the sun was shooting golden daggers into his eyes, not full blown daylight but frighteningly close to. He didn’t feel right, he knew it. Jay was trying to think rationally though the night as he walked past one house after another, each one sending him a minute message that only Jay could hear. The hot anger, the white madness, the ultimately alive rush of excitement was welling up in him; he knew it was out of his hands now.

He already knew when earlier, in the small hours of the morning, he’d started to hear the Halloween displays telling him what to do. Six blocks from his apartment the slow breeze pushed its way through the decaying corn husks a scarecrow now used as arms. It caught Jay’s eye and when he looked he could see the smile grow from the pumpkins mouth. Subliminally, it said hi. That’s all. Jay knew what would be coming next; more conversations growing more in-depth as he trudged past more and more yards with macabre inhabitants left out in the cold.

He was a little shocked at how many people in the Spokane Valley really went all out in decorating their homes. The thought of carving a pumpkin had passed between him and his wife, but they decided against the mess of a rotting pumpkin that would need to be thrown away if it didn’t get smashed on their porch on Halloween. House after house held expertly carved pumpkins, swaying ghosts and grey eyed ghouls suspended from porches, many had tombstones with names of favorite fictional characters’ on them: Freddy Kruger, Jason, Michael Myers. It was the displays that had scarecrows incorporated in them that really spoke to him. The husk of an imaginary man; now just some dried hay and rotting clothes, so incredibly susceptible to incineration, somehow Jay understood.

Jay moved his right hand into his Levi’s pocket and found his lighter. Ordinarily, he’d take one of these walks and it would end with him standing in an alley next to some unknown garage, confused and yet focused. He’d be unsure how he got there; he just knew what he was there for. Tonight had resulted in an orange and now pink morning sky, a distant dog monotonously barking in someone’s yard down the street, as if he was the lone alarm calling out for no one to understand his barks.

The lighter slid from his pocket now poised above Jays head, with a flick of the turning wheel he’d lit it and held it close to the straw farmers had that sat atop the scarecrows burlap sack head. It quickly went up, engulfed in flames with small black pieces of charred shirt releasing themselves to the wind.

N N N

Jay sauntered into the kitchen; his hair still wet from the shower and kissed his daughter sitting in a baby bouncer chair on the kitchen table. His wife smiled over her shoulder as she tended two thick cut pieces of ham sizzling in the cast iron skillet.

“When did you get in, Hon, I didn’t even hear you,” she said.

“I walked in just as Jimmy Kimmel came on, so not all that late,” Jay said.

The small television cut from the national news into its local news spiel for five minutes on the hour every hour. Nadine Woodward had a grave anchor-woman expression as she read the day’s top stories.

“A series of unexplained arsons continue as the toll of scarecrows burned tops forty-eight today. Though, the police have no solid leads they do ask that anyone with information please come forward and call crime checkers. The suspect is believed to be a teen (way off, went through Jays mind) and he may also have been responsible for the mysterious garage arsons that have plagued Spokane for over six years (bingo). We now go to Othello Richard who is live at a Spokane Valley home where the arson struck just last night, Othello,” Nadine said.

“Thank-you, Nadine. As you can see the house behind me had two scarecrows last night but the inhabitants woke to see them on fire around 6 a.m. apparently their dog had been barking and the family looked out to see what was going on, that’s when they saw the frightening scene. It’s just too bad we don’t speak dog, Nadine,” said Othello with a ridiculously serious look on his face.

“Thanks Othello, now we turn to Tom Sherry with the weather. Tom, what’s it lookin like out there?” her body angled to send a silly smile Tom’s way, he sends the same goofy grin back.

Jay’s wife turns around with the skillet in her hand and slides the ham onto his plate, joining the two over-easy eggs. They both sit to eat breakfast together, shooting each other Tom Sherry and Nadine Woodward smiles over steaming mugs of homemade cappuccino.

“What is on the agenda for today, Honey?” she asks.

“How about I take my two best girls on a little neighborhood cruise? It’s sunny and crisp and we can look at the cool Halloween decorations people put up in their yards?” Jay was smiling with enthusiasm and held one tiny baby foot in his hand, looking at his daughter as if she’d give the okay.

“You are such a holiday man, I love it,” she said and cleared their plates. “Spokane is a wonderful place to live.”

Escape

Oddly, as I walked through the light tinkling rain, I was overwhelmed by one of those brain nagging tunes that repeat itself to near madness. I have never been an adamant fan of the Beatles work, I just grew up with parents who listened to them and so by default I know all the words to all their songs. “Dear Prudence” kept rolling over and over without even the courtesy of including any more words than those two. The tune flickered in from some unknown place in my psyche and dug its heels in for the remaining five blocks to my front door.

Only damp from the precipitation, I slithered out of my parka before it had time to soak into my sweater beneath. My canvas jogging shoes didn’t fare as well and they, along with my soggy socks, were left to dry by the entry to my cozy home. I had burned incense and sprayed copious amounts of concentrated pineapple orchid spray around the living room before I lit out on my daily walk; it’s one of those self-serving pleasures that go a very long way in enhancing my day. Barely scanning the living room and adjacent kitchen area everything seemed in a relaxing order- then I noticed the pale yellow piece of stationery on the kitchen table.

The front door was securely locked behind me as it always is, so the probability of someone coming in and leaving a note was out of the question. None the less, there it was, and as I approached it I could see that it had some type of odd scrawling on the front of the first page and that whomever had left it had needed part of the reverse to get their message across. It was a letter penned in a hand writing I was not familiar with. For the most part, a letter lying on your kitchen table is usually recognizable after only a quick glance, but not this one.

It started out with an odd introduction and got weirder from there. As I read what appeared to be shaping up to be some strange form of a dear-john letter, I found it almost impossible to finish the note seeing that I was being distracted by a repetitive thud, thud, thud against my garage door. It may possibly be a neighborhood kid messing around near the door. The noise sounded steady and persistent, yet in no hurry, whatever it was. I continued to read as the letter held my attention much stronger than the low pounding on the rolled down metal flap.

The letter read:

To the Family That Has Held Me Hostage,

After living a somewhat dull little life in the living room of an elderly woman, I have given up at trying to transition to the “next chapter in my life”. I was a child of the 60’s and most of do not live on to see too many decades. I was in impeccable shape until recently-- your family has changed me forever.

Once, my curves were smooth and velvety; now I’m literally worn bald in places! The amount of abuse I’ve withstood at your children’s hands is nothing short of a miracle. If I am jumped upon anymore I’m afraid I will just give out. I’ve been pushed and pulled all over the place, and right when I think you will leave me alone, you move me again.

I have been scalded by your hot coffee for the last time, Madame, and for the record I’m allergic to dogs!

Sincerely,

The “Oh, That’s a Cool Crazy Green Couch”

p.s. I have always detested leopard print and thought that it was a very tacky thing to pair me with.

Then my head jerked back in the direction of the garage door—thud…thud…thud...

Scrambled Eggs

Margret Mallory sat beaming down at her plate of sunshine. That’s what she’d called the heaps of canary yellow scrambled eggs mother would serve her weekend mornings for as far back as she could recall. Her mother had this magical secret recipe she’d tell Margret was filled with at least twenty-four ingredients from all corners of the Earth. They each had an exotic name and now that Margret was in her late teens she realized that these names might actually be made-up. It didn’t matter where the recipe came from, and certainly it didn’t matter if it were part of an elaborate tale her mother had concocted many years ago for her little girl. Knowing that only made them taste better to her.

She propped her elbows onto the gingham table cloth and let a foolish grin cover the lower half of her delicate face. She was a slight girl with one of those heads that held up features just a bit too large for the face they resided upon. Eyes that bulged surrounded by lashes like feathers batted the stardust from in front of her face. Her cheek bones swelled out like enormous bee stings still rosy from the flying insect’s assault. Protruding below her cheeks in a perfectly tied bow, were her lips wrapping up an over sized set of cloud-white teeth all standing at attention in two neat rows.

The fork in her hand caught the Saturday morning light briefly as the fog started its coastal routine of burning off before noon. Margret dipped her fork into the eggs, not stabbing because that might deflate their puff; instead she chose to gently lift them up from under where they practically hovered above the plate. The misty steam preceded the eggs and climbed into Margret’s nose almost heavy from the spices that created the heavenly aroma.

“Tell me the main spice- just the main one, the one that tastes like the kitchen smells?” Margret asked.

“If I tell you that then you won’t need me to make them for you anymore." Margret’s mom held back a sly grin at the silliness of the power she possessed over a mundane breakfast food. She heard her daughter give up a little laugh of defeat, then the sound of the fork lightly scrape her teeth. She kept her back to Margret cupping her coffee in its “Worlds Best Mom” mug and went over the days mental check list she always made as the fog turned to mist then laid down as dew on the Redwoods.

First off that's not my kid!

Why is it that the little one can't get along with the big one; the middle one is arguing with the grown-up one and the female parent is pissed at them all! Sound familiar? Unfortunately it's all too familiar at our house. The best laid plans just blowing up in tears and screams- sorry Nigel.

While he is the level headed parent, that only means I get the extreme pleasure of being the total ass. I get to be the tyrant on a rant; as it were. It's all exhausting and usually ends with someone saying they are sorry to me. The end is fine, I suppose, but can't we just avoid the whole rigga-more-o?

To sum up these frequent interactions: it's like doing downward facing dog, keeping your mind clear and beautiful, slowly you open you eyes and there's the toddler smiling up at you from inside the curve of your body in it's positions. The most Zen places make the most wonderful spots for insane amounts of, well, insanity. Namastae.

THE POOR BEE REALLY WANTED THIS GINGER-TINI

HOW SWEET IT IS

Careful girls, one day you may wake up and find that life has rushed past your youthful face, leaving deep ruts where there once was taut skin. The bouncing boobies have been replaced with push-up bras lifting up whats left of the old milkers. Why didn't anyone warn us about the 35-45 box that has to be checked from now on? I also do not recall any solid advice about the toll one night of cocktails can take on a person. Why with all the "self-discovery"?

Be extremely cautious when it comes to living life. I honestly mean living, not just running around in your messy mini-van with the fast food wrappers curling around your feet like fall leaves. Be cautious because it too, will zip by faster than you can say, "Oh my God, look at Dallas taking his first steps!" (Please note the photo of 16 year-old Dallas).There comes the time when you are surprised at how many of your friends are dying; not how many of your girlfriends are having babies. To every season...

Take the extra time to go out of your way and be nice. You don't have to get all weird here and fake, you know you have it in you- let it out! Nothing is more beautiful than a woman at any age just oozing with genuine kindness. Lets face it, in times where T.G.I.Fridays is going tits-up we could all use some grassroots, free compassionate gestures. It keeps you young and feels good all the way around.

As a whole, we all could use a bit more of the deep-breath action. God forbid, something horrible should happen to any of us tomorrow, (insert your own worst fear here); we simply must live for today. Keep it simple. Straigthen up and fly right. Remember what it was like to live in the simpler days of our own childhood. We may not look like one on the outside, but we sure keep her in there, with all the other stuff inside that no one can take away. Smile to yourself and remember something fun about being a kid. Now recreate it. Dress-up anyone? And if you have little one's, I don't care how big your ass is, get it down on the floor and get to making some kick-

butt make believe, already!

I'm not 11 anymore-still love an ice cream cone!

We aren't getting any younger, but wow, we are getting smarter! I remember someone telling me that looks fade quickly and that an exceptional personality would far outweigh passing beauty. That's pleasing to me to know that there's always room for improvement for all of us to expand the ever-growing internal charm.

Bellies that scream for a tummy-tuck be damned! Greying roots can be ignored under a bandanna, and split-ends; please. Laughing with my friends, even if we don't get together nearly often as we should, far outweighs anything that damn bathroom scale keeps lying about!

I believe I just bought us all a round of deep breaths in this photo!

*Labor Day is just a friendly reminder of what is right around the corner.

The Last Hurrah

This week-end holds more pressure than a Swedish masseur. I mean, the fact is that if you aren't doing something wonderful for Labor day weekend, forget it, you're so lame. What no camping plans? Did you say you were just going to kind of hang around the house? Good Lord man, what is going through your mind?

Seems to me the whole idea behind "Labor Day" is that we all get a day off, or one prays we all get a three-day weekend. Along with the extra time off comes the obligatory "plans". I'm unsure where this started, I will guess in the '50's sometime when the American family was encouraged to hit the national campgrounds, hook up the round, silver travel trailer, gas up the boat of a car you were driving and make good use of the fact that you had a shortened work week. Well, thanks a lot grandpa and grandma, now we are stuck with this tradition and I think it's gotten out of hand.

Way too much effort goes into planning, purchasing, packing, setting up, tearing down, and finally unpacking again once you get home. Oh, did I mention this all takes place the DAY before school starts? That's what I want to do; be thoroughly exhausted before getting up to get the kids off on their first day of school, still wreaking of campfire smoke. Why bother?

It's a hassle, it's expensive and tiring, but what the heck; it is what it is. It's an American institution at this point in our history and I, too will be hitting the highway to find the perfect camp site. I just happen to be lucky enough to have a wonderful friend, who has a wonderful family who has property on the river. I will have to find my relaxation where I can amid the ciaos of Paul Bunyan Days, a camp site with 50 friends and family members, and a mini van stuffed to the gills with gear and kids galore. What's not to love?

Not Letting Go Without a Fight

I am not one of those people who are all fuzzy-sweater on the inside to greet the changing of the season. I am a summer person, always have been, always will. I'm sure it comes from growing up in North Idaho where the summer is a mere blip on the radar of weather. When it comes; it's here immediately. You often hear Idahoans talking about the fact that there is no acclimatizing for our poor winterized souls, we go straight from 37 degrees to 80. It is truly a bit of a shock, but who gives a rip? Nothing says summer like 65 and sunny with most of the town's population roaming around half naked. Big deal if it's really just late spring weather. So elated are we to shed the multi-layers that I want to go on strike against cruel mother nature, how dare she make me cover up my Coppertone tan!

The long days and nights are shrinking and as they do they are rusting the leaves. I have a keen eye for that-I noticed a couple of leaves on someones yard about a month ago and ran straight for the beach. Today was 95 degrees and I lounged around in the blazing golden heaven for hours upon hours. Yet, I feel cheated. Is there a way for me to cram extra hours filled with sunny memories into my suitcase overflowing with fleeces, Sorrel's, mittens, hats, scarves, wool socks, jeans loose enough to allow long underwear to fit under, earmuffs and puffy coats?

I guess the best way to snuggle down with these warm sparkly thoughts is to wrap them close to my body, maybe under a layer of cocoa butter, then hold them close and cover them up with the endless layers of winter protection. Then when the snow is up to my waist and school is closed for the day, I can stick my nose inside my collar and close my eyes to breath in the sweetness of my sacred summer.

I am now going to officially blame my mother for all this. Growing up we would spend every waking hour at Rocky Point. We were usually the first ones there with our cooler of snacks fully stocked, then after swimming in the lake all day, we'd be one of the last families to leave. I remember my skin would have a new weight to it as if heavier from all the water I'd absorbed over all the hours. She'd tell us to get out of the water, that we were water logged and it was time to go home. I'm not sure I've been water logged like that in my adult age, but my kids certainly have.

*The symptoms of being water logged is an unrational reaction to the fact that it's time to leave, the uncontrollable urge to show your mom "just one more thing", hair resembling seaweed, and the failure to identify that the sun is hanging just barely above the trees.

My mom would lounge on the pebbly sand and chat with friends, take a long swim out to the logs, and usually take a nap. Every year she had a golden toasted tan. I loved that we were never in a hurry to get home like so many of the other families that would flit in and out throughout the day. We had nothing but time and when you're a kid time means nothing.

Now I'm the mom on the beach into late September. It's usually early October because the kids and I love to brag into the winter about how we got in in April and then the last swim was in October. We always remember the dates too, just in case someone doesn't believe us. At least I'm not alone in my battle against the slipping away of summer. For now I will not think about it too hard, mostly because I have to get to bed. We are, of course, meeting my mom at the lake early.

*Photo is from the 70's@ Plummer Point

Another Fine Mess

It's a lovely Sunday and I was feeling easy like it, but all that went out the window after too much coffee and grand plans for changing the house around. My crew of three children were ready, if not a little forced into the project, and standing at attention. Yeah right, they were fighting tooth and nail with me and each other, of course.

First things first; we needed to get rid of the darn lazy boy. It served its purpose on the pregnancy front three years ago, but now it is just taking up space and is a makeshift jelly catcher of sorts. It reclines way too far back and is a virtual black hole for remotes. My sixteen year-old was in charge of placing it in the front yard with a sign that read, "$20- two years-old-needs tightening". (A little embellishing never hurt anyone, it's not like we are offering a guarantee.)

The hassle that ensued involved a broken light switch, a smashed Lego house sister had been working on, many tears, dragging it out the back yard then to the front, and the 2 1/2 year-old finally hiding in the bedroom with a soothing Peter Pan video for comfort. All this for a hopeful $20! It barely seems worth it.

The living room looks no better; laundry needs to be folded and put away, the shelf I dragged into the back yard is cooking in the sun only half painted and I'm pretty sure metal paint isn't the right stuff for a wooden shelf. The garbage bag of broken toys got spilled in the madness of shuffling around and the toys to donate slowly got redistributed around the kitchen with new-found excitement. *sigh. Now it's lunch time; time for another mess.

Through all this, the song, "Easy like Sunday Morning", taunts and twirls and seems to only make the whole ordeal worse. Perhaps a nap might help to refocus and give some new found exuberance to the situation. At this point I'm over the whole deal and would like to just head for the beach for a swim and some rays. (Sun not sting).

Maybe I was destined for failure from the get-go. My crew of 16, 10, and 2 1/2 might not have been the manpower I actually needed. A nanny, a handy-man and a cook is what I really need. An interior decorator would be extremely helpful as well. I'm very good at tearing it up, but the rebuilding is where I run into trouble. Why, oh why, can't I just fold my arms and nod my head and the mess just cleans itself up? On top of everything I just took a break to thoroughly frustrate myself by not being able to figure out how to get pictures from my phone to my computer. That's it-nap time.