in the dark,
She reached out
and turned on
a small light.
Muted purples and pinks
snaked across the floor
Beneath a wall of
Black blue
That filled the expanse.
A curtain of smokey grey shadows
Gently took her hand,
helped her up,
and hid her
blushed orange body
As she dressed.
Finally,
She took the stage
In her most brilliant yellow,
a vibrance
man could not look upon,
And was a star.
As I sit here in my favorite Caribbean getaway, I am drawn to write about the 'sound of the water that softly calls out to me.
Ocean's lullaby
sings us quietly to sleep
music for the soul
o
Living with two persnickety, attention-seeking discs (C5, C6 and L5,S1) requires careful and thoughtful movements. They will go all out to steal the attention of any extracurricular events going on in your life. You can be preparing to leave for your 10 day dream vacation and dragging your super-stuffed, supersized suitcase out to the car when one or both of them will jump up and down screaming we want to go. Your knees will buckle under the weight of them, your body will do a momentary spasmic dance, and your vocal chords will chime in with a soprano-like call and response.
You call out, "Ah!"
Your spouse responds, "Are you okay?"
Because you are not canceling your vacation, you breathlessly lie, "Yes, I'm fine," and resign yourself to bringing the duo along.
Then, you engage the emergency tactical disc car entry protocol: Sitting Help Intervention Technique (S.H.I.T). You turn your body sideways, back up to the open car door, carefully sit, and gently lift one leg, then the other before slowly turning in the seat to face forward and begin to dig in your purse for a naproxen.
I'm writing to acknowledge the receipt of a comment that renewed my faith in writing. I write long. Some would say too long. Okay that would be my husband. But I do feel sometimes that we are being forced to write shorter and shorter pieces, while mine seem to be getting longer and longer. As I wrapped up my short attempt yesterday, I realized it had become my longest one yet, and I had resigned myself to knowing that no one would take the time to read it. As it turned out, not only was it read, that person left very kind remarks and it was clear that they did not merely scan it, she had read the entire entry, She renewed my faith in readers. I had been focusing on how to cut it back without losing the integrity of my writing, and now I know that I do not have to.
The older teacher arrives at school, a tad bit late, but before the bell. She moves slower these days and either cannot move fast enough to get out of the house on time, keeps going back for things she has forgotten like her i.d. or car keys, or simply doesn't care. Making a cup of coffee for the road outweighs the expectation of a prompt arrival by a landslide. Besides, she ponders, what are they going to do, (while we are in this era of teacher shortage) fire me? She giggles to herself at the joke based on a reality of after having spent the entire last year mentoring a brand new English teacher and creating sub plans for the constantly rotating substitutes for the other four classes.
She places her car in park and leans across the middle console to grab her puffy lunch bag overflowing with extra cookie filled containers for her co-workers, a Walmart bag of Jolly Ranchers and Dum Dums for the Kahoot game, and her giant purse jingling with a collection of keys carabiner-ed on and dangling off the side. It is also filled with candy: Smarties and peppermints for her own consumption.
She pulls, and it tugs back.
Somehow the strap has gotten tangled around the head of her umbrella and no yanking in the world will release it. So she gracelessly hefts her body across the console and around the tall cup of piping hot coffee in the center cupholder daring her to make a wrong move. Her legs jut outside the car. The cold rain splatter her bare ankles. She stretches and scootches until her finger tips finally reach the umbrella and free it from the space between the door and the seat. Could she have easily gotten out and walked around the car to free it. Yes. But why when you can start the day with yoga-like stretches to get the juices going.
She climbs out of her car, situates the bags and the coffee, and lifts the umbrella as she starts to traverse the parking lot in the cold dismal rain when she spots a young girl off in the distance "nakedly" clad in a cropped top and short shorts. There is no umbrella, no jacket, no hat. She has her arms wrapped around her mid area protecting or warming herself as she trudged slowly and miserably along. The teacher realizes this student, who is not hers, still has to walk the length of the building to the student entrance on the other side. She runs over, careful not to drop the coffee, and gives the child her umbrella.
"Thank you, Mrs. Smith," she says with a genuine and very grateful smile. They all seem to know her name, though she only knows those of her own.
"You're welcome. Just drop it off in the office," she calls over her shoulder as she sprints for the nearest door, which happens to be the morning holding area -- the gymnasium where the other 300 or so sixth graders are waiting to be released to the locker area.
She weaves between bodies, bumping a few with her bags before hearing a boy pleading with some young teacher to be allowed to go to the lockers early to drop off his cardboard. Upon reaching the doorway, she sees him. The tiniest little fellow, a sixth grader whose body has forsaken him by taking its own sweet time to grow, is holding a display board taller than him by an inch and triple his width. Where do you even buy anything like that? she wondered before approaching him and prying it from his grasp.
"Who is your teacher?"
"It's Mr. K.," a relieved munchkin. "Thank you."
"Ok, I'll put it in his room."
She, now, with the skill of an acrobatic juggling act, balances in one hand the three bags and the coffee, (careful not to spill a drop) and carries the huge display board down the hall before pausing to shout back, "Hey, what's your name? I will put it on the sticky note for your teacher."
"Cayden!" he shouted back.
"Okay."
It's always "Cayden." They are always busy, needy little fellows she thought.
After dropping off the board with Mr. K, and then stopping to open up her own room while carefully setting down her coffee, she heads out into the locker area to yell at children: "Keep it moving." "Keep your hands to yourself!" "Stop running!" "Hey, you dropped something!" "Get to class!" No, it is not her duty; hers is in the afternoon, but the dean needs help, and the 300 plus will never make it to class without the supervision. The teachers whose duty it is to be there are never anywhere to be seen. They don't have the stomach for it.
As she stands there barking orders at those who need the cattle prod and giving greetings and acknowledgments to those who need the love, all the while getting bumped and stepped on, a new young teacher creeps out of her den to make a last minute dash to the restroom (their bladders are still in training). Suddenly, the crowd goes wild and the students come alive and are screaming and yelling "Hi Ms. - (pick a name)" like she is a superstar celebrity, and they are paparazzi.
It's okay though. The seasoned educator is not jealous. The neophyte needs the love to make her feel good and confident as a new teacher. And the older teacher revels in the fact that she secretly knows it is only because the newbie will play Roblox and Blooket against them, and understands their slang, and their jokes, and has more patience for noise, and will tolerate more tomfoolery. Heck, she would have been the vet's favorite teacher ,too... if her teachers behaved that way -- they didn't.
She knows she's loved in a different way. All she has to do is miss one day of school for a doctor's appointment, and she is suddenly interrogated by 75 nosey 11 year olds to ascertain why she was absent. And,... it helps that know her grades are always a little bit higher on assessments.
People steal
As they
Bring you
Silent cries for help.
They lay upon you
Their burdens.
Shocking
Words.
Nightmares.
Putting voice
To disturbing thoughts
growing stronger
as you
grow weak
And when you
reach out,
to help
uplift them,
They find fault
Everywhere
spewing rot
And disfunction
At you.
They want not
your help,
They want company.
Daisy was the queen of the house. This miniature schnauzer did not run to meet you at the door like other normal canine “companions.” Oh no! She waited for you to come and look for her. We should have been excited to see her lying there on the stair landing, close enough to see who was coming in the house, but far enough away to indicate her indifference. While other dogs jumped and leaped, and licked, and lapped bestowing all the love a dog could muster after a hard eight hour day of separation, Daisy merely rolled over and waited for us to bestow belly rubs befitting royalty.
They say a dog who runs away is an unhappy one. Well, she must have been ecstatic because if not for her walks, she wanted no parts of the great outdoors -- with the exception of the boat where she absolutely loved lounging in the sun. However, as for running around the neighborhood, she had zero interest. We could leave a door wide open and she would not even get up out of curiosity, so imagine our surprise when she disappeared from our townhome on moving day.
We had rented a small truck for the big move from our little townhouse to our brand new spacious forever home. Unfortunately, we underestimated the size needed.We were going to need to make two or three trips to move the entire contents. This would be an all day affair. The door was propped open, and a one way train of furniture and furnishings headed down the stairs, out the door, and into the little truck. Meanwhile, Daisy lay quietly by. She made no attempt to run out. She never did. She merely observed.
After the little truck was filled, we all jumped into the car leaving Daisy behind as we headed over to empty the first load. After an hour or so, we returned to the townhome to load up again. The front door was propped open, and the box train began to move from the upper floors to the truck waiting outside. After the Uhaul was filled once again, we all headed over to unload -- again without Daisy. We did not want to leave her in an unfamiliar setting as we moved back and forth between properties.
There was not much left for the third trip. We quickly filled the truck with our final haul. This time we would be taking our girl.
“Daisy!” I called out.
The sound of my voice echoed throughout the empty space.
That's weird, I thought. I could have sworn I saw her lying in the corner by the window.
I ran upstairs and went room to room.
“Daisy!” we all began to yell while searching inside the closets and bathrooms on various floors. Where could she be? There were no hiding places; everything was gone.
I couldn't remember when I actually last saw her. Then it dawned on me that the door had been left open all day long. It never occured to me that she would actually leave. I dashed outside frantically looking left and right. I scanned the neighborhood for our silver skirted girl with her curly legs darting in between bushes and yards but to no avail; I saw no movement. Then I belted out her name as loud as I could – a frantic mother screaming for her lost child, “DAISY!”
All of a sudden, a head pop up behind the steering wheel of my Toyota Highlander. Apparently, while we were busy loading the truck, Daisy had loaded herself into the front seat of my vehicle where the door had been left open. The queen had determined that she may not know where this caravan was going, but the handwriting was on the wall, and she would not be left behind. It was time to go!
Tis the season
For snorting and sneezing.
Petals popping,
Pollen dropping,
Covered cars,
Green like mars.
Ah-choo!
God bless you.
Trumpets sound
All around
The running nose --
A fire hose.
Tissue please
For my next sneeze.
Oh dear,
I fear,
I believe that time is proof of a multiverse. As we age, we enter another dimension where time is a tad bit slower than it used to be. I wake up everyday at 6:45 and complete the same steps that I always have for the last 18 years. However, whereas I used to be in my car by 8:00, when I jump in my car now and look at the time, it says 8:20 am. Clearly, I have moved to a dimension where time has sped up.
Or maybe this is proof of Einstein's theory of relativity and time dilation where time speeds up the slower we go. Considering the 20 minutes I have gained, I must be going really slow compared to past years (though I can't tell -- I don't feel any slower.)
Or, maybe there is no multiverse, nor any noticeable time dilation. Maybe it's just the menopausal side effects of memory loss, and I am late due to running back in the house for the car keys, cell phone, coffee, notebooks, packages or anything else that I need and discover missing every morning when I get into my car. Moreover, these things are never where they are supposed to be which prompts a 10 minute or more... okay 15 minute search for said item.
No, it has to be the multiverse.
Why is it that you always run into the very person that you measure yourself by and are on the losing end of the ruler, when you look your worst? You know, she's the beautiful friend from college who got all the guys when you couldn't catch one. She partied seven days a week, was a cheerleader and a pre-med major and still made straight A's. You were an engineering major who was at every party with her and had no extracurricular obligations, yet you were all but flunking out. She went on to become a doctor, and you dropped out and became a flight attendant. During the bridesmaid season of our lives, when she was in residency, she was kind enough to tell me I "missed my calling" as a compliment when I helped another bridesmaid fix her hair. We met at an ivy league school, so cosmetology was not one of the majors offered. Maybe she did not know.
We are in the same organization though in different states, so we bump into each other every year at the regional conference. In 2021, the year that everyone timidly came out of COVID hibernation, we had to have proof of a negative test within 24 hours in order to attend. I was so happy to be going to be near other people. I had passed my test and was ready.
Well, I arrived a tad bit late (as always), so I had to park at the waaayyy-back portion of the lot and hurry so that I would not miss my meeting. I grabbed my heavy bag, my hot coffee, and proceeded to walk-run. Unfortunately, I am at the age where the tiniest bit of stress (and that includes running late and running across the lot) as well as certain food triggers like hot black coffee will set off a hot flash quicker than you can say the word itself: menopause. So the last piece of the COVID approval was a temperature check at the door. I failed.
The nice ladies serving as door bouncers said for me to stand to the side, and wait a minute, then we will take it again. However, that caused more stress. And I was still drinking my coffee. I failed again. The ladies all immediately stepped back -- way back -- from me and told me I had to find a CVS and take another test.
I had driven four hours to get there and had paid 300 dollars for the conference; I was not giving up. I had to look up the nearest testing location, Waze the directions which sent me through scary sketchy neighborhoods, and pray for the proof I needed. I took the test again, and it was negative. By now, I was very late, and very anxious. I could feel the heat pouring off of me. I failed the temperature test, again.
This time I began arguing with these cruel creatures the guardians of the door who were too young to understand the mechanics of menopause. I had paid for two tests, and they were both negative. Since I fulfilled my requirements to attend, I was demanding to be let in and was practically crying with frustration. They decided to call the manager of health for the entire conference about this crazy babbling lady who was attacking them when she was the one with the fever or so their instruments said. And when the head of health for the conference came out, to see this "hot" mess of a woman, it was my friend. Yes, she understood the mechanics of menopause, stress, coffee, running, and well, me. So she let me in.
Well, yesterday, five years later, I was attending the conference again. I had decided to skip a meeting and sleep in. My roommate came in and said that she needed help carrying some items to room 304. Still in my jammies, I threw my velour crumpled sweats on top and was looking pretty tacky and about ten pounds over weight with the combination of flannel and sweats. I did not bother with my hair, and my eye liner had smudged from my nap. I didn't care, I was going back to sleep upon my return. I grabbed her little cart with the fancy silly little flags that she had cleverly tied on to announce her entrance with all of her donations and headed to the elevator. The door opened and who did I run right smack into but my friend. Will this humiliation ever end?
When we think of death, most people think of the person closest to the deceased. How will they feel? How will they go on without their loved one. Or are they some one who was tasked with (in some cases burdened) with the care of an elderly person as if they are the only child, while their siblings live a carefree life. And in that case, what will mean the most to them -- being set free, or dealing with that hole in their heart?
I was my mother's caretaker. Every Sunday for 10 years, was Mother's day. I started out shopping for her favorite candy and then I would head over the McDonald's for her favorite fish sandwich with no cheese and caramel sundae with no nuts. Sometimes I would surprise her with a take out order from Glory's Days. Once I arrived at the center, I'd wheel her into the dining hall. She would be so excited that she would stop everyone and introduce me as her daughter (again) and then brag to them that I bought her some food. I could see a jealous longing in their faces for the same (company or maybe it was the meal). Then we would play cards or watch a movie after she ate. If she were lucky, and I was not, I could come when the one-man-band was performing doing his best to make each resident feel special. Mom loved this day and wanted me to see that she was his favorite, so I couldn't leave until it was over. My mother lived in severe pain with various other incidents of extra suffering from Covid twice , to norovirus, to sepsis. When she passed, every one kept waiting for me to break down. But I did not. I was sad, yes, but I felt relieved. She did not have to suffer anymore.
Today, my husband called me to say that our neighbor that walked the dog everyday saw him and crossed the street to talk.
"Do you mean, Peter?" I asked.
"You know, the guy with the British accent or something. He has the white hair and is always walking the dog."
"Yes, that's Peter," I said.
Though we have lived there for 15 years, my husband had never talked to him beyond a wave and a hello. He is not a talkative, chat with the neighbors type. Moreover, Peter and I were on the same dog walking schedule. We would see each other every morning and would wave at each from across the street as my territorial schnauzer, Daisy, would unleash an angry barrage of barking in the direction of his Bruno. Occasionally we would chat above the noise from the two sides of the road about his wife or my son.
"Well, today, I waved, and he suddenly came over."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, he said his wife had a stroke four weeks ago."
"Oh, no."
"When I asked how she was doing, he said she died."
"Oh, no," I repeated, more emphatically this time.
"He broke down and cried. Right there. He just opened up and fell into me and cried. So, I wrapped my arms around him, and held him while patting and rubbing his shoulders. He kept saying that he didn't know what he was going to."
In that moment, my heart simultaneously broke for Peter and filled with pride for my husband. He may not be the chatty neighborly dog walking type. But he knew exactly what was needed. He dropped his manly A-type marine colonel, airline captain persona, and held another man giving of his heart without reservation.
Death truly can define us.
When I arrived home from work during the second wave of unseasonal 30 degree weather, after having had two tortuously teasing days of 85 degrees before plummeting, I looked up and saw god's promise and smiled. Resilient tiny perfect pink buds were silently adorning the winter bare arms of our cherry tree. A sign that spring was coming.
Tiny pink blossoms
Silently wakes and hums spring
Songs of warm kisses
I knew that I had a full night of packing ahead of me, yet I did not start until midnight. Unfortunately, it was then I discovered that I had purchased the wrong color gala dress. My sorority, as it often does, was doing this matchy thing and wanted everyone in black. So, I went to the closet to grab my long black evening gown only to find it missing. I then began a deep dive search at one in the morning that literally ripped my closet apart. I pulled out boxes that were neatly stored as quiet as I could so as not to wake my hubbie, only to have a stack of shoe boxes topple over at one point eliciting an irritated grunt. Eventually, I had a vague recollection of bagging it to take to the dry cleaners. Only it never left the trunk of my car. If I was correct, it is still there and was now a balled up mess of wrinkles beneath a pile of other balled up messes that I forgot to drop off two months ago.
Switching gears, I dug out my old trusty dusty funeral dress. I must admit that it is not as bad as it sounds. It was actually really cute with a velour color and buttons all way down the front. The problem was that it was tainted with bad memories as I have worn it to the last five funerals that I attended. However desperation trumps bad juju. All I needed to do was find some rhinestone, gold, or silver shoes.
I immediately attacked my special shoe collection and began rummaging and tearing apart the once neatly organized storage box of once in a blue moon – rarely used if ever – (some never) overpriced gems. By the time I was done, every shoe that had the least bit of gild or shine lay strewn about me. Because I rarely – if ever – had the opportunity to be adorned in such beauty, I had to take them all out. I couldn’t even remember what was in the box and may or may not have discovered that I bought the same shoe twice.
So it’s now after two A.M and my husband is sawing logs pretty good. I used my phone’s flashlight to navigate the room and try them all on together with my funeral garb to see which shoe would finally have the chance to see the light of day. I slipped the dress over my head and proceeded to button it up. And stopped, or rather was forced to stop. I did not need the mirror to see that those buttons absolutely would not ever make it across the chasm of my belly to reach the other side. What in the world? When did this happen? I swear I just wore it five months ago. Am I bloated? Was it something I ate? How does this happen overnight?” I quietly lamented to the god of girth.
I swear I have not increased my intake of food. I eat the same amount and actually am drinking less. I stood there in the dim flashlight lit room staring at what clearly now looked like a 4 or 5 month pregnancy halting the buttoning process.I was so distraught. Life is not fair. I just know that menopause and maybe the fructose in that glass of wine did this to me.
I disappeared back into my closet and began quietly and sullenly digging around again. This time I checked the semi-formal knee length flocks and hoped that society would not secretly admonish me for a perceived lack of knowledge of formal vs semi-formal while smiling at me in the face and blowing air kisses. As it turns out, none of them fit either. I know I had been straggling that invisible size line where you can still wear your old clothes, but in the store you were forced to go up. It seems I have crossed that line.
Eventually, I did find one that would suffice, thank goodness. It had a looser skirt and was styled with the most wonderful adornment. It had a peplum waist that could easily disguise that abomination of a belly.
I am going to have to go shopping after this conference. And I have a feeling a preponderance of peplum style skirts and blouses will be dominating my closet in the unforeseen future… And a regular workout routine with be dominating my time.
The following is a love poem to my husband. Today we celebrate our 21st anniversary. The following will mean nothing to you, but everything to us.
21 Years of Memories
Walking hand in hand in Munich
Real Estate Lessons, Snorkeling, Barbados, and dancing on a boozy cruise
Boston Marathon
Dancing on the plaza in Boston
Red shoes in Denver
Climbing the mountain to Boulder
Wrapping a scarf around your neck atop a double decker bus in Paris
London Hoghead
Snow Mobiling and Ski Lessons in Whistler
My 50th birthday party
Four wheeling and horses in the Dominican Republic with our youngest love
St. Martin with the Gilchrist's 2025
Wedding Cruise
Your 50th birthday party at Tom’s house
Our son's Birth Day
Falling in love with St. Martin in 2012
Our son's wedding
Ghana, Africa
Cruise with AV and the Rosario crew
Budapest
The Baby Shower: The Next Chapter.
"Houston, we have a problem."
Everyday now for 16 days, I could not wait to sit down and start writing. Sometimes it was at 5:00 in the morning, other times it was late in the evening-- always before 12:00 because I did not want to miss the deadline. No matter the time, the page called to me, and it ran through my thoughts until I could find time to breathe life into it.
However, for the last two days, I began to feel the pull. A giant Wile E. Coyote Acme Magnet had been pointed towards me and I could no longer resist the draw of other obligations. Wilted organic veggies lay dying a slow death in the crisper as I ignored them preferring to dine instead on Lay's Cheddar Chips while writing. In the laundry room, a third hamper was now filled and overflowing and my drawers were almost depleted as the wash waited patiently for me to take notice. And my poor husband gave furtive glances afraid to suggest any modicum of time or food be thrown his way. I realized it was time. I needed to fulfill my wifely duties.
I suppressed my new addiction to the keyboard yesterday and found my way to the kitchen. I cooked dinner and accepted my husband's invitation to watch a movie. It was nice. I didn't realize that I had actually missed it (somewhat), but was I thinking about writing the whole time? I plead the fifth.
Lastly, today I opened my gradebook and found, or rather did not find, grades. I had not added the last two assessments. "What? How in the world did I do that?" I pondered. Then it hit me. Instead of coming home, cooking and cleaning and then grading into the night, I was rushing to my computer to write all the stories that fought for my attention all throughout the day. And that is when it hit me, it's a trade off. If I want to write, I have got to give up something in return. Will it be dinner, grading, lesson planning, work, husband, children, friends, the house, the wash...?
What are you giving up to hone your skills?
There once was a school with no fear.
Helter-skelter their plan so I hear.
“Let’s not make a fuss.
Put your kids on the bus.”
“They’ll be fine in the hallway.” Oh Dear!
So, there was a huge mega storm predicted for our state. EVERY SINGLE OTHER COUNTY in the state preemptively called for an early dismal the night before. One even said if you keep your kids home, it will not be counted against them. NOT US. At 10:41 a message went out that said we are not going to dismiss early. Four minutes later, my phone began screaming to seek shelter.
We sat on the floor in the hallway on our knees with our heads against the wall for forty minutes. Later we actually saw photos of a funnel cloud that was 8 miles from here. Currently, a teacher on planning is serving as bookie taking bets on when round two of the storms arrives. Others are betting on how long we’ll be stuck in the building until the storm passes. I saved some of my lunch in case of the latter.This is the true March Madness.
Hopefully, though, it will miss us and stay away until after the bell, and we are all home safe and sound – even the teachers with one-hour long drives towards the impending band of angry clouds.
Btw, the aforementioned poem was written in my head while on my knees during that tornado drill – wait, what do you call it when it's not a drill but not actually a tornado?
I kicked and I screamed as I taught,
But now I am feeling distraught.
They still used AI
I said as I cried,
And now I’m just grading a bot.
Twenty years ago a scream pierced the room. Blocked by a solid white shroud across my knees, paralyzed from the waist down, and surrounded by various bulky equipment, I could not see it but could hear that it was moving clockwise around the space. The banshee-like yell was incessant, and I feared for my future with this new thing. I could tell the bearer of the bundle was stopping at various stations and talking with other facilitators as hushed muffled conversations could be detected just beneath the reverberating assault on our ears. Occasionally a word reached me: "Seven pounds eleven ounces." Occasionally the sound roared even louder as if in indignant anguish at whatever probing attacks it was under. Eventually the screaming neared me. I saw a nurse lean over me smiling into my face as she brought the still wailing tightly wrapped bundle "of joy?" up beside my head to enable me to see.
My eyes fell onto the pale colorless emitter of all sounds inhuman with his eyes squeezed tight and mouth opened wide, wrapped like a burrito in a white blue and pink blanket... and my heart melted.
I smiled, and softly said, "Hi!"
Immediately a hush fell across the room. Silence filled the void that once screamed bloody murder. It had stopped. Two goo filled eyes opened and stared at this creature (me) whose voice he seemed to recognize. He no longer cried. He knew I was there for him.
And twenty years later, he still knows. Happy 20th birthday to my heart.
Sting once wrote a song about “all four seasons in one day.” He was referring to a young lady who he deemed to be suffering from mood swings. It was a metaphor, or so I thought. I never dreamed his words could ever truly come to pass in a 24 hour period and actually relate to weather.
After having risen 20 degrees or more to reach 85 degrees yesterday for the first time in five months, I awoke to Alexa’s proclamation that it was 6:30 A.M and 60 degrees. I went into my closet and pulled out a long thin flowy skirt, thin white blouse and a short waisted blazer and wondered how high it would get today.
At 8:15 I headed out without a coat and found that the temperature had dropped to 41 degrees and had joined forces with a pounding pouring rain and heavy whipping wind. It was raining and blowing so hard that I was mentally writing a poem for today about the power of rain during my drive.
I parked in the “late again” section about two miles (felt like it) from the building and grabbed my umbrella, purse and lunch bag while hefting my heavy computer bag onto my back. I then began my long trek across the parking lot running like an American Gladiator between cars and across puddles while battling a sideways rain whose sole mission was to turn my curls into an Angela Davis afro. As I entered the building, I noted streams of distraught coatless children soaked in tee shirts and shorts who obviously didn’t check the forecast either.
At 12:10, one of my “Weather Watchers,” (a child who deems it his job to only look out of the window and alert the class by shouting out in the middle of a lesson of the slightest bit of precipitation) shouted out, “It’s snowing!” The other children then looked up and ran to the window to see as if we did not have a snow week off just a month ago… and a day off for snow last week. I assumed at first that he saw light flurries, but to my surprise, it was more like giant squalls.
By 2:30 the grass and our cars were completely coated in about a half an inch of snow. By the time the bell rang at 3:40, the sun was out, and it had all but melted. By 5:00 P.M., it was sunny and 53 degrees. Currently it is 10:00 P.M. and is forecasted to drop to 29 degrees tonight.
In a moment, I am about to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. I will lay out my blue cashmere sweater, white tank top, wool houndstooth blazer, blue jean booty shorts, sheer floral pink and green flowered skirt, suede thigh high boots, yellow bikini, flip flops, and my mink coat… just in case.
Do you know who your audience is?
As a middle aged... or rather seasoned... or should I say I'm in my prime? then again, there's half past autumn?... Um, honestly, I'm not quite sure where the sixties fall when you still feel like you are 45... -ish, albeit an impatient, achy, sometimes creaky cranky 45. Anyway, as an older woman, I consider my posts to be for parents, moms, dads, grandparents, teachers, and anyone else who has experienced enough in life to now laugh at it.
Well, just the other day, I was looking at one of my posts from earlier this week called, "The Elusive Occasional Migratory Pattern of the College Student Man-child," when I realized there was a new comment that I had not seen.
He said he was a college student staying in a dorm like my son and that his mother is always calling him almost everyday. He went on to add that after reading my post, he “got it.” He said he had never before thought about how she was feeling, and now he sees things differently.
This really touched my heart because it was supposed to be a funny piece where I'm making fun of myself and my husband as worrywarts. However, this college student was able to read between the lines and take with him a deeper understanding of what his mom goes through with him so far away at college.
So regardless of who we believe our audience is, be aware, you never know who is watching.
Nooooo! I yelled, eyes closed, head tilted skywards to the god of Murphy Law as I stood there already late with my purse on one shoulder, lunch bag on the other and computer bag dangling from the forearm. Inches away, steaming the aroma of burnt Cafe Domingo Keurig Coffee into the air is my travel mug. Thankfully, it was not in my hand when it happened.
You see, my six feet four husband (typically the focus of blame as I am his) likes to store pills on the top shelf. No matter how many times I tried to lower mine, in a few months he would deem the cupboards cluttered and rearrange them -- again, conveniently finding so much more space on the highest of high shelves. So I gave up and learned to deal. Thus, this morning as I stood on my tippy toes (ok, yes, I admit, I may have had too many bags in my hand) when I pulled down my bottle which may or may not have been screwed on lopsided, when all hell broke loose. Pills flew everywhere. I surveyed the situation wherein a new prescription bottle of 90 tiny little white methimazole pills lay strewn across the counter, the stove, and yes, the floor.
I do not know what is worse, being already late when it happened, the spill itself, or the fact that I have no recourse but to pick up these new now contaminated lifeline pills and still ingest them knowing that they are now fused with who knows what. Yes, my counter looks clean, and yes, I do wipe it down every night, but as I test it and rub my hands across the mottled granite design, I still feel the invisible crumbs of salt, spices, and bygone meals that are ever present no matter how hard I try. The pills are too little to pick up individually with my always tad bit swollen hands, so I must sweep them all together along with the invisible crumbs into a collection container. I must also pull out the oh-so-cute but dusty bric-a-brac and oily bottle of olive oil from against the wall to get to the ones that secreted themselves away behind them in the oily, cruddy mess .
Next, I notice the Olympians, those that made the giant leap onto the stove navigating it like an obstacle course and now lay proudly surrounding the closest eyes clearly awaiting rewards for their herculean efforts. The pathetic less athletic ones that made it half-way, find themselves stuck -- wedged between the greasy grate and the stainless steel. Though wiped down nightly, I suddenly see the spots I missed as I pluck the pills from the tiny greasy glue spots. Hmm? Was that catfish grease and collard green juice from dinner two days ago?
Lastly, I look to the floor and cringe. It's too many to ignore. My doctor surely will not give me a prescription that early to replace them. I must have heart, dig deep and suck it up. I begin gathering them one by one and mentally wiping each one on my dress, and kissing it before holding it to the sky while repeating the old childhood cleansing and sanitizing mantra for dropped candy, "God kiss it, devil miss it!" I silently begin to wonder when was the last time I actually mopped. I immediately make a mental note to add it to my to-do list, while privately thanking God that we do not have a dog to further muddy the waters.
Once the last of my thyroid medicine is secure, cap tight, and placed back on the highest of high shelves, I take my daily dose, grab my too many bags and now cold coffee and head out to work late. Very late. Meanwhile I mentally hope that my failing menopause memory kicks into overdrive and forgets this ever happened to prevent me from gagging for the next thirty days when I must take my daily dose of kitchen crud pharmaceuticals.
As she quietly rose in the dark, She reached out and turned on a small light. Muted purples and pinks snaked across the floor Beneath a wa...
