Day 12 of Napowrimo

This was almost too hard to even write. The prompt for day twelve is to write a letter that you could never say out loud. I wrote it down.
I can't share it yet. Maybe not ever.

Day Eleven- Tanka

Light wind from the fan,
cools the furrowed, sweat brow
and the sweaty bodies...
Fuck! The kids should be asleep!
No, we can't finish later.

Days 9 and 10 of Napowrimo

Day 9 had a prompt to write a poem in the noir style. All I could think of was the Steve Martin movie and now I can't think of anything else. Well, that and Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
Alas, I do not have enough noir to draw from so I've skipped day 9.

Day 10.
An Un-Love poem.
Not to be confused with a poem of hate.


These dishes
you've created for us are
delicious.
These dishes
you've piled in the sink are
vicious.
These dishes
fill me with thoughts
malicious.
Learn to
wash as you go or
sleep with the fishes.

Ottava Rima

I've tried my best to create a poem that has eight lines written in iambic pentameter. Then I gave up.
The rhyme scheme is a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c. That was much easier to accomplish.

Clicking, clacking- metal connects with ground
8 counts to learn, the rhythm does repeat
Scraping, digging- heels and toes make sound
1 moment is needed to find the beat
Stepping, stomping- Broadway bound
2 tap shoes worn on talented feet
Dancing, moving- a love for the stage
3 shows a year until death of old age

Day Seven

It's the time machine -past, present, future
It's the enemy -silent monolith
It's the most precious -questions and answers
It's the emotional pull -sorrow and elation
It's beckoning, waiting -liquid crystal display
It's time for my show-
WHERE IS THE REMOTE?

Day 6- A Valediction

This is the mountain I've created, all at once unfathomable and minute
The myriad display of colors, textures, all familiar in separation by together the whole represents an impossible task- to choose.
defining myself by deciding-
What of this mess? How will I pare down? (Pare! Ha, I make myself laugh)
this chaotic jumble before me-
so many varied sides of myself and yet too many carry reminders. too many are dirty, worn, torn, useless.
The more I study, the more I see what has to go. What I finally have to buckle down and do (buckle!)
It's you, I say to myself.
"It's you."
I say it out loud, pointedly staring at the glaring errors of my life. I'm ready.
Willing and able to say goodbye. I reach into the heart of the giant before me.
"It's you!" I say aloud, again. You, who had served me so well have become painful, even embarrassing.
Farewell to you!
Fare thee well, my neon-orange-platform-sneaker-Spice Girl shoes.

A Belated Day 5

The Didactic Cinquain

relationships
hard, easy
holding on tightly
love happiness pain fear
bonds

A grandiose and obscure salute to Iain M. Banks

Day four of napowrimo indulged me in my love for the almost useless grandeur of ridiculous vernacular that I have collected through my voracious appetite for books. And yet, while the poem has the title of of one of Mr. Banks famed ships, I have used it only to give a name. It took four days to write because I felt any attempt was too personal. Then I realized that's what my poetry is. Intensely personal. Lacking borders. Poetry is my personality. I'm nothing if not TMI.

"Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints"

Wallowing in the seven deadly sins
Relishing the gluttony and the greed
Priding myself on lust and need
Envying the happy, healthy, lovely, wealthy
Raging at the sloth dwelling inside
Fearing the wrath that I often hide
Floundering in these ever-present toxins

A Sea Shanty

A sea shanty is usually sung in a call and response format. Made up on the spot oftentimes, a shanty may be entirely nonsensical or it may tell a story. On this third day of napowrimo, I've decided to go with a story.

Daughters, can you hear me?
-Aye, mom, we can!
Who has made this mess out here?
-Aye, the invisible man!
Shall I be the maid now?
-Aye, grab your broom and pan!
What has become of my life, dears?
-Aye, it has been overran!
Children, where is your father?
-Aye, frying up food in the pan!
Have I scheduled life down to the minute?
-Aye, but we ruined the plan!
When will I get a vacation?
-Aye, when it's too cold to tan!
Would I trade all of this for anything?
Nay, you're the core of our clan!

Lie To Me

Second in the napowrimo series of prompts is to tell a lie.

The Big Lie
easy.
sure.
yes.
of course!
why not?
sounds great!
no problem at all.
fine.
OK.
good.

NaPoWriMo 2013

I have decided to join in for the daunting task of writing 30 poems in 30 days.
I am using prompts from www.napowrimo.net and have completed my first poem.
I've used the opening line from Maya Angelou's poem, "Insomniac".

There are some nights when

The pitch is deeper, darker, terrifying
The air is crushing, silent, desiccating
Pearls and diamonds of sweat create a sheen upon my brow, and breast- rivulets of panic streaming from my pores
Shivering
Anxiety, Panic
The abyss of night has forced me to leap into the sky
That is also too vast and I'm scared
The night knows how to keep me awake

Almost 23 Months Old

We've been saying it for a while now. Friends and family, even strangers have notices. The Toddler? She is a well-spoken one. The cognizance boggles the mind. We started using sign language (ASL) with her at about six months. She started signing back at eight months. Her first signed word was "more", her first spoken word was "uh-oh". This child of ours has continued to surprise us with her grasp of this difficult-to-learn language her capability of speech, and sentence structure.
Oftentimes we are left gawping at her, only to find ourselves staring open-mouthed at each other.
A week ago, she sang the entirety of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star". Yesterday, she made up new words to the alphabet song: "C, D, F, G, I Don't Wanna Pee, Q, S, T, U, X, Y, Z". Finally, today. She ran off, out of our sight yet again. Upon corralling her back to lunch at my favorite mall's food court, I asked her, "what would you do if you ran away and Mommy and Daddy couldn't find you and we go home, and have to leave you here?!"
She gave it a thought, narrowing her eyes, and then grinned up at me.
"I work."

Snurrrggghf.

That's the best way to describe how I feel, act, and look today.  Snurrgghhff.
The family got hit with Norovirus and I missed out on that fun*, but now I have a head cold.  The kind of cold that doesn't warrant missing work or school.  The kind of cold that means you can go about your daily life with some normality.  Save for the constant sniffing/snuffling/wheezing/whining, I'm fine!  I have done (some of) my Friday morning chores, and have even found some time to play a few games, talk with a friend, and plan a surprise dinner, all while sneezing in bouts of threes.  Side note- why do I sneeze like that?  Why three bitsy ones instead of one big scary one?
Sniff.
What was I saying?
Right.  I'm sick.
Who's gonna make my chicken soup?


*For four days, the entire household was S-I-C-K.  Lethargic, gross, sleepy, covered in yuck, sick.  Thankfully, it only affected the hubby for One Very Long Day.

Everyone is Asleep

Sometimes it's very relaxing to have a houseful of sleeping family members:
A Tuesday afternoon after a busy morning, and I can play word games on my phone in a quiet house, with a kitty purring at my feet?
Want.
At three am, after being awake for two hours, with no one to play games against because of the ungodly hour, with a snoring, drooling cat on my chest?
Do not want.

If I need to be awake at eight, so that I can clean house before my doctor's appointment and then go to work to come back to clean more of the house, should I just spend the next 180 minutes watching Netflix on my phone in bed and then nap in my car for 47 minutes?
Or should I close my eyes now, and listen to soothing piano concertos on my iPod before the baby starts crying for milk in 0.78 seconds?

Oof. Cat.

Party All The Time

Invitations come in all forms: verbal, written, hand gestures...
I love everything about parties. Planning, hosting, going. Shopping, decorating, cleaning. Chatting, laughing, entertaining. Isn't that what parties should be? I have to admit, I stress the eff out during every part of a party when I have a hand in it. I break out my Simple Soirée app, I get out my google doc spreadsheets, I update all my contact info and I plan the crap out of whatever needs to be done. I am what one might call an "anal-retentive, bossy-bitch-queen, she-beast", but I'd say I'm efficient. I have things to do and I'm going to get them done even if it means I ruffle some feathers. Usually, it's just my feathers that are ruffled and I lose sleep but I love it! I have a delusion that I was meant to be a wedding/party planner, event coordinator, interior designer type but went into the dental field instead.
Which brings me to the last few months and the next few months.
I have been and will continue to be busy as shit.
I went to, am going to, or am hosting a party every weekend since the week before Thanksgiving until the middle of March. At least, that's what I have on my calendar so far. If another invite comes to host, help or attend during this time, I'm going. After April, though? I'm taking a nap. Until Cinco De Mayo.
I have big plans for Drinko De Mayo.

Family Traditions

Coming from a diverse family, our traditions are a big deal: besides our SciFi Christmas, we all try to participate in Tamale Day. Usually between Thanksgiving and Christmas, we gather at 6:00am at an aunt or cousin's house to go to task and make at least two dozen tamales per family.
In order to do this, every person over the age of ten has a specific job.
The first thing anyone learns to do is how to spread masa evenly over the oja and to do it quickly. Everyone who comes to tamale day must at least learn this task, if not spend the entire time doing this. These are the "spreaders" and it's usually made of children, teens and women.
The men over the age of 16 get the job of preparing the masa by constantly kneading boiled lard into it until a piece floats in a glass of water. Women and children are not "kneaders".
The eldest brother and only sister are in charge of the kitchen. She is the "cook" and is the only one that knows the recipe for the pork and chile spices, handed down by Grandma, and she will hand it down to her eldest daughter. He is the "filler" and has the job of placing the right amount of meat in the ojas before handing them to an optional "olive placement" person (who may just be taking a break from spreading or otherwise can't be trusted to do anything else) and folding then placing them in large pans for cooking under the watchful eye of my aunt.
As of last year, I had been a spreader for 21 years. I am so quick with the ojas: the masa is even, not too thick, not too thin, and I clear out my pile of ojas in quick succession. I have watched my cousin move into the kitchen, my brother become a kneader and last year, in a shock that he bypassed his own son, my dad tapped my husband to be a filler. We all gawped until my dad asked him about photography stuff and we knew then that is the only reason my husband owns Nikons, to be out of spreading and onto filling. I may have been a little jealous. I have steadily complained about spreading for the last, oh, decade.
This year I showed up late because the preschooler had dance class and most of the spreading was done. I was at a loss for what to do. I knew I couldn't help I'm the kitchen and just before I started washing dishes, my uncle asked me if I'd like to be a filler, with olive placement as well.
I jumped at the chance, literally. I squealed and hugged him and jumped up and down and shouted through the whole house, "I'm a filler! A filler! Olives, too! Screw you, spreading!"
I sat at the table, watched my uncle make one, and with some encouragement from my brother's girlfriend, I embarked on my journey of being seen as an adult on Tamale Day. I grabbed an oja and it was lumpy. The masa had stuck to one side and left a section bare, it had a split down the middle, it didn't go up high enough. I had to respread it. I looked through the pile and it was more of the same. Subpar ojas, and I was devastated. I wanted to make tamales but I had to redo so many I worried I would be blamed for the sorry state of the remaining ones yet to be folded. Instead I complained out loud about the crap I had to deal with as a first time filler and I was met with a chorus of well wishes. No one would be upset, I was doing great, blame another uncle- he can't spread for his life.
Then I realized, as I spread and filled and olived and folded, "I'm a spreader. I have to be. I'm damn good at it."
So next year?
I'm Head Spreader.

Cuts and Scrapes

Ask my friends, I'm great in emergencies. I've been to all the CPR and First Aid classes. I have a sense of what needs to be done, and who's going to do it. I am quite, let's say confident, in a not-scary, domineering way. I will spring to action and remember all my training whether you or your child, or even a stranger needs help. I am at the ready, with a first aid kit, and CPR mask in the diaper bag.
I have called 911 so many times, I think the CHP is tired of the sound of my voice.
Until it comes to my daughters. Then I am a squawking, arms flapping, chicken with the head cut off, mess. I screech and panic and freak out and can't make a decision and yell and cry and then hyperventilate.
My only thought at these times?
"I made this, and she's broken and I can't make a new one and I need her fixed and I needsomeonetofixHER! Don't touch her, give her to me, I'll fix this, I can do this, where's my whatchamacallit, the thingy-withthestuff, the thing I NEED, Where Is It?! Is she broken, is she bleeding, what happened? Call a doctor, no let me see it, does she need a doctor, call an ambulance, does she need a- NO! Don't do that! Don't scrub it, don't wipe it, that looks like you're hurting her! I made this, IWILLFIXIT!"

Ahem.

Tonight, such an episode occurred. I remained true-to-form and still feel sick. My husband kept his calm and took care of the baby.

The picture shows how bad it really was.

Math

I like math.
I like plugging numbers into my Google Doc budget planner, and watching it do calculations for me. I like having my calculator at the ready, to double check the figures, and to see if my own brain carried the decimal over correctly. I like sitting at the computer while Frasier plays in the background. I like taking a break to paint my nails. I like folding the laundry, making the beds, running a load of dishes, sweeping the floors, ironing the tablecloth, wiping down plastic toys, cleaning out the refrigerator, calling my grandma in Modesto, dusting the houseplants...oh cripes.
I hate math.
I hate watching the numbers in the withdrawal section add up and get dangerously close to the deposit section. Threatening to topple all, to make my entire spreadsheet turn red. I hate the unexpected expense that throws my budget off and forces an early extraction. I hate the projected end balance when it doesn't make an upwardly mobile jaunt. I hate the smell of this nail polish. I hate this black spot on the wall that even the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser won't scrub off, the sticky spot under the baby's highchair, the layer of cat hair on the rug, the dust on the lamp shades, the squeak of the ironing board, the churning of the washer as it struggles to rinse, oh crap.

If one SAHM with two kids drives 35mph for four miles, while another SAHM who is pregnant with her second drives 65mph for seven miles, what time will they arrive at Target if they both leave right now?

Play Dates

Oftentimes in my busy SAHM life, I forget what it's like to talk to an adult. I find that when I am singing nursery rhymes, I try to amend them so as to utilize my SAT words.
Twinkle, twinkle petite asterisk, I am perplexed by how you exist...
Thankfully, I am not at the mercy of Raffi radio on Pandora everyday. I have other friends that are also SAHM/Ds or have time off during an otherwise normal workweek and we have play dates. I've heard talk of play dates being for the socialization of our children, the betterment of their character, to teach them manners and interaction but I know that is merely a front to get more people to engage in them. Yes, the play date, when done well, is actually all about getting Mommy out of the damn house and away from another chorus of Old MacDonald, and into the arms of another feverish parent whose cup runneth over (with wine, and gawdhelpme, they are willing to share).
How fortuitous, advantageous, beneficial, these play dates have been to me!
To enter someone's abode, sans worries, with only a diaper bag to my name and to be guaranteed conversation, communication, discussion! The only time we are filled with urgency, haste, hustle, is when we are trying to show up on time.
I am indebted to you dear friends, that allow me to bring my progeny to your charming, cozy, safe sanctuary so that I may find some of my own.
And for allowing me four whole minutes in which I can hide in the bathroom and play my turns on Words With Friends with no interruptions.

Promenade

Perhaps you may recall my issue with those parent/baby newsletters that made me feel as if my infant was doomed to a life of mediocrity?
Well, that precocious, amazing, tiny twee baby is now a toddler! Walking is her preferred mode of transport now, and I am beside myself with glee and fear, happiness and trepidation, those bittersweet feelings that pepper every new thing learned and accomplished by my two beautiful daughters.
My two big girls.