Saturday, August 04, 2007
Itty and Bitty
The rain began to pelt the grass softly as two tiny toads, no bigger than a thimble, squirmed in the grass.
"Mommmmm!" one whined. "We're not going to go far!"
"We're just going to go to the fence," the second toad whined.
Buttercup the toad, Queen of the Flowerbed, pursed her lips and thought for what seemed like an eternity.
"Ok, but just the fence," she cautioned. "If it starts raining very hard, come straight back. And remember, don't eat the black spiders with the red hourglasses or big brown ones. Those are bad. Stick to gnats and flies."
"We know, Mom," the tiny toads groaned impatiently, bouncing up and down in the damp soil as the rain fell around them. With a great nod, the two toads bounced out of the garden into the vast world of the Front Yard.
"I'm going to the bush," the first toad, Itty, announced. "I found some delicious gnats over there last time." He licked his lips as he spoke.
"Forget food," the second toad, Bitty, said scornfully. "I'm seeing how fast I can get to the fence. I made it in two minutes last time. I want to beat it."
"Suit yourself," Itty said. The two toads hopped in separate directions on their individual quests. As Itty climbed onto the pebbles surrounding the bush, he heard a great rumbling noise.
"That thunder is getting really loud," he said to himself as his tongue lashed against the green leaves, capturing tiny gnats and retracting quickly into his mouth. As he happily lapped up the gnats, he heard a great booming noise behind him. He turned to see a giant nose breathing heavily next to him.
"AHH!" Itty screamed. "It's the Toad King!" He began to hop away as quickly as his tiny feet could. He wasn't sure what the Toad King did, but he was pretty sure he didn't want to know.
"Awwwwww," the voice cooed. "Look, it's a little frog!"
"Let me see!" a shrill voice cried. "Aww, they're sooo CUTEEEE!"
Itty clapped his webbed fingers over his ears. "That is an obnoxious voice!" he cursed to himself.
"Tell me about it," a deep voice said dryly. Itty looked up to see a lizard clinging to the wall.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Henry the lizard," the lizard replied. "Those are the Giants. They don't do anything. They just bob and weave and shout a lot."
"Oh," Itty said, secretly disappointed it wasn't the Toad King. He waited until the Giants were gone, then hopped quickly back to the garden.
Meanwhile, Bitty was hopping as fast as he could to the fence. Unfortunately, the rain had made the grass so slick he spent more time sliding to the ground than he did hopping. Still, he hopped on, determined to beat his time of two minutes.
Suddenly, Bitty saw a gigantic flesh colored hand sliding toward him in the grass.
"The Toad King!" he cried in terror, quickly hopping to the ground and hiding in the grass. He wasn't entirely sure what the Toad King did, but he didn't want to know. The hand brushed over the grass a few times until it revealed Bitty's spot. Bitty stayed frozen to the ground for a split second, than hopped out of the grass and sprung under a collection of weeds next to the brick of the house.
"See?" a loud voice boomed. "There's the other frog!"
"He's so CUTTTTEEEEE!!" an excruciatingly piercing voice squealed. Bitty covered his ears with his webbed fingers. "That's obnoxious," he scowled.
"Tell me about it," a dry voice said from the brick wall. Bitty turned to see a lizard slowly crawling across the wall.
"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously. The lizard rolled his eyes and sighed. "Henry the lizard. I just told you this. Those are Giants. I'm Henry. You're a frog."
"Toad," Bitty corrected. Secretly, he was disappointed it wasn't the Toad King.
"Whatever," Henry said. Bitty waited until the Giants walked away, then hopped quickly back to the garden where he found Itty and Buttercup waiting for him. He told them of his adventure, and found that Itty had seen the Giants too.
"There's only one thing I don't understand," Bitty said, as he dined on gnats.
"What?" Itty said, munching on a cricket shin.
"Who's Henry the Lizard? And why don't the Giants think he's cute?"
Thursday, August 02, 2007
A dog's day
A large yellow dog and a large black dog lay outside the office door in the shade next to a punch bowl full of water.
"Hot today," the first dog remarked.
"Yup," the second dog replied.
"Too bad the rain stopped," the first dog continued.
"Nope," the second dog said, shaking his head as drool dropped from his tongue to the ground. It evaporated almost immediately. "Too many mosquitoes."
"True," the first dog conceded. "But it was cooler."
"True," the second dog agreed.
After a moment of silence, the first dog rolled over and lied his head next the bowl. "So what are you doing today?"
"Chasing squirrels," the black dog said, yawning. "Slim pickings today. Not many trees round here without fences."
"I hear ya," the first dog said sympathetically. "I'm supposed to be looking for rabbits, and I tell ya, there just ain't much moving from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. ya know? Except the damn bugs."
"I know," the second dog said, shaking his head. "It's a shame."
Another minute or so later, the first dog looked up into the sky. "Anything else you got to do today?"
"Nope," the second dog said sleepily, his eyes shutting. "Too damn hot to get any work done. Feels like we're laying on the surface of Mercury."
"Yup," the first dog said. He looked at a rock and started to get up, than sat back down. The second dog looked at him. "Thought it was a rabbit," he explained.
The second dog nodded.
After another few minutes, the dog stretched and stood up. "Wanna go get something to eat? Thinkin' of that rabbit made me hungry."
"Sure," the second dog said, shaking himself awake. "Maybe we'll find some mud or water to roll in and cool down."
They trotted down the street, the sun beating down on them.
"It's hot," the first dog said, his tongue dripping.
"Yup," said the second dog, panting heavily.
"You still hungry?" the first dog asked.
"Nope," said the second dog. "Too hot."
"Wanna go back?" asked the first dog.
"Yup," said the second dog. They trotted back to the doorway and laid under the shade.
"It's a dog's day," the first dog said.
"Yup," the second dog said.
"Hot today," the first dog remarked.
"Yup," the second dog replied.
"Too bad the rain stopped," the first dog continued.
"Nope," the second dog said, shaking his head as drool dropped from his tongue to the ground. It evaporated almost immediately. "Too many mosquitoes."
"True," the first dog conceded. "But it was cooler."
"True," the second dog agreed.
After a moment of silence, the first dog rolled over and lied his head next the bowl. "So what are you doing today?"
"Chasing squirrels," the black dog said, yawning. "Slim pickings today. Not many trees round here without fences."
"I hear ya," the first dog said sympathetically. "I'm supposed to be looking for rabbits, and I tell ya, there just ain't much moving from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. ya know? Except the damn bugs."
"I know," the second dog said, shaking his head. "It's a shame."
Another minute or so later, the first dog looked up into the sky. "Anything else you got to do today?"
"Nope," the second dog said sleepily, his eyes shutting. "Too damn hot to get any work done. Feels like we're laying on the surface of Mercury."
"Yup," the first dog said. He looked at a rock and started to get up, than sat back down. The second dog looked at him. "Thought it was a rabbit," he explained.
The second dog nodded.
After another few minutes, the dog stretched and stood up. "Wanna go get something to eat? Thinkin' of that rabbit made me hungry."
"Sure," the second dog said, shaking himself awake. "Maybe we'll find some mud or water to roll in and cool down."
They trotted down the street, the sun beating down on them.
"It's hot," the first dog said, his tongue dripping.
"Yup," said the second dog, panting heavily.
"You still hungry?" the first dog asked.
"Nope," said the second dog. "Too hot."
"Wanna go back?" asked the first dog.
"Yup," said the second dog. They trotted back to the doorway and laid under the shade.
"It's a dog's day," the first dog said.
"Yup," the second dog said.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Twirl
As I scampered across the soft grass, butterflies burst from the flowers around me while gnats and flies swirled about in a panic. My skirt swished and fluttered in soft ripples as my legs propelled me across the lawn.
"Come on!" I yelled, as he shook his head and smiled. "You go ahead."
Running into the warm summer evening, I ignored my itching feet and focused on the crunchy grass beneath them that tickled my toes and warmed my heart. My hands brushed against the trees as I ran through the field around the pond's edge.
"There!" I yelled, pointing. The ducks quacked in protest, nonetheless waddling forward to see what I was pointing at.
"What?" he squinted his eyes, unable to see in the deepening dusk.
"Wait for it," I whispered, sticking my tongue between my teeth in a mischievous grin. Suddenly, tiny bursts of golden light began a symphony in the air around us. Swirling through the air, the lightening bugs gently circled around our area. One duck quacked crankily when one flew by his head, another tried to eat him.
"This is it?" he asked, clearly trying not to smile. "This was the marvelous occasion? The most spectacular thing of all time? The end all and be all of amazement?"
Grinning at him, I fed the ducks some bread as I shook my head. "Not even close. Wait a minute."
He looked around worriedly. "It's getting dark, and the turtles have gone. We'll have to go home soon."
Ignoring him, I climbed on a large reddish brown rock and kicked off my shoes. And waited.
"Girl, we should go home," he said, absently swatting at the ducks who nibbled his fingers and loudly protested for more bread.
"Almost," I said, my toes tingling in anticipation. The ducks grew louder, pushing against his legs and pulling at his shorts with their curious beaks.
"Girl, I think we should"--
"Now!" I cried, and began to twirl. Pirouetting on the walk, a swirl of light burst around me as the tiny lightning bugs twirled in their own orbits. Spiraling from my head to my toes, my skirt burst into a small star burst as it spun around me, gently folding and swaying with my every move. As the stars emerged and the lightening bugs tightened their glorious dance, I twirled from the last burst of dusk to the falling of night.
Slowly, the lightening bugs dissipated like tiny stars over the water, fading into the night. Sliding my feet into my shoes, I took his hand and smiled at his hanging jaw.
"And that"-- I said decisively, "That is how you twirl."
"Come on!" I yelled, as he shook his head and smiled. "You go ahead."
Running into the warm summer evening, I ignored my itching feet and focused on the crunchy grass beneath them that tickled my toes and warmed my heart. My hands brushed against the trees as I ran through the field around the pond's edge.
"There!" I yelled, pointing. The ducks quacked in protest, nonetheless waddling forward to see what I was pointing at.
"What?" he squinted his eyes, unable to see in the deepening dusk.
"Wait for it," I whispered, sticking my tongue between my teeth in a mischievous grin. Suddenly, tiny bursts of golden light began a symphony in the air around us. Swirling through the air, the lightening bugs gently circled around our area. One duck quacked crankily when one flew by his head, another tried to eat him.
"This is it?" he asked, clearly trying not to smile. "This was the marvelous occasion? The most spectacular thing of all time? The end all and be all of amazement?"
Grinning at him, I fed the ducks some bread as I shook my head. "Not even close. Wait a minute."
He looked around worriedly. "It's getting dark, and the turtles have gone. We'll have to go home soon."
Ignoring him, I climbed on a large reddish brown rock and kicked off my shoes. And waited.
"Girl, we should go home," he said, absently swatting at the ducks who nibbled his fingers and loudly protested for more bread.
"Almost," I said, my toes tingling in anticipation. The ducks grew louder, pushing against his legs and pulling at his shorts with their curious beaks.
"Girl, I think we should"--
"Now!" I cried, and began to twirl. Pirouetting on the walk, a swirl of light burst around me as the tiny lightning bugs twirled in their own orbits. Spiraling from my head to my toes, my skirt burst into a small star burst as it spun around me, gently folding and swaying with my every move. As the stars emerged and the lightening bugs tightened their glorious dance, I twirled from the last burst of dusk to the falling of night.
Slowly, the lightening bugs dissipated like tiny stars over the water, fading into the night. Sliding my feet into my shoes, I took his hand and smiled at his hanging jaw.
"And that"-- I said decisively, "That is how you twirl."
Monday, July 30, 2007
The Sociology of Shopping
This weekend, I went shopping with my friend Candace at the mall. Sounds fairly mundane, right? Certainly, we weren't looking for anything exciting. She was looking for work pants, and I was on a mission to impose my fashionable style (or lack thereof) onto her by dressing her like a giant doll. It was the only way I could subdue the shopping adrenaline that was racing through my veins, particularly when I walked through the summer sale sections of stores (must buy sundress....must buy shirt....must buy sundress...must buy shirt).
After trying on a pink satin halter party dress at Dillard's for giggles, I was twirling around the dressing room waiting on Candace to finish trying on clothes. As I twirled and picked my nose hairs in the mirror, two little girls entered, about eight years old. One sat on the floor and blocked my twirling path while the other entered the dressing room. I continued to examine my nose hairs.
A few moments later, the second little girl pranced out of the dressing room in a halter top and short skirt. The first little girl cried, "Oh, that is so cute!" Alarmed, my head swiveled to look at her.
"I know," the second little girl cooed. "I really like this color on me. I think it brings out my skin tone. Plus, I think it gives me a lot of flair."
"Totally!" the first girl affirmed. The second little girl disappeared back into the dressing room to try on another outfit that I prayed was more age appropriate. I stared at the first little girl as she filed her nails and perfected her Paris-Hilton-bored look. When I was eight, I wore big t-shirts with funky graphics covered in rhinestones and matching shorts or skirts. I didn't wear halter top and pleated plaid school girl skirts that barely covered my butt. The only plaid skirt I had went mid-thigh and looked more like a kilt than something for a bar.
That wasn't even the most alarming part of the scene. The most terrifying part was in how the girls spoke to each other. Their voices sounded eerily adult and practiced, obviously expertly socialized in the ways of shopping. They already knew how to identify their correct colors and individual style, as well as provide affirmation no matter what clothing was put on. Just as I collected my jaw off the floor, the second girl came out again wearing a trendy top.
"So what do you think?" she asked coyly, posing with her hands on her hips.
"I'm not sure," the first girl frowned. "That might be last season."
"Do you think it's me?" the second little girl asked. "Like, do you think I can do this look?"
"I think you can do the look," the first little girl confirmed. "I just think this shirt's a little...old."
"Yea, like it's all the way up to the neckline," the second little girl agreed. "That's so third grade."
"Totally," the first girl agreed. "We're like fourth graders now."
I wanted to bang my head against the wall! These girls had mastered the art of not only affirmation, but style domination and the constant need to be accepted and beautiful! They were going to be mini-Paris Hiltons and Britney Spears before we knew it! Eight year old girls should be playing with dolls, not discussing the finer points of fashion and trying to wear sexy clothing. Fuming, I was glad when Candace exited and we could leave the dressing room.
It took all my willpower not to rush in there and drag them off to summer camp when I heard the second little girl ask, "Do I look fat in this?"
After trying on a pink satin halter party dress at Dillard's for giggles, I was twirling around the dressing room waiting on Candace to finish trying on clothes. As I twirled and picked my nose hairs in the mirror, two little girls entered, about eight years old. One sat on the floor and blocked my twirling path while the other entered the dressing room. I continued to examine my nose hairs.
A few moments later, the second little girl pranced out of the dressing room in a halter top and short skirt. The first little girl cried, "Oh, that is so cute!" Alarmed, my head swiveled to look at her.
"I know," the second little girl cooed. "I really like this color on me. I think it brings out my skin tone. Plus, I think it gives me a lot of flair."
"Totally!" the first girl affirmed. The second little girl disappeared back into the dressing room to try on another outfit that I prayed was more age appropriate. I stared at the first little girl as she filed her nails and perfected her Paris-Hilton-bored look. When I was eight, I wore big t-shirts with funky graphics covered in rhinestones and matching shorts or skirts. I didn't wear halter top and pleated plaid school girl skirts that barely covered my butt. The only plaid skirt I had went mid-thigh and looked more like a kilt than something for a bar.
That wasn't even the most alarming part of the scene. The most terrifying part was in how the girls spoke to each other. Their voices sounded eerily adult and practiced, obviously expertly socialized in the ways of shopping. They already knew how to identify their correct colors and individual style, as well as provide affirmation no matter what clothing was put on. Just as I collected my jaw off the floor, the second girl came out again wearing a trendy top.
"So what do you think?" she asked coyly, posing with her hands on her hips.
"I'm not sure," the first girl frowned. "That might be last season."
"Do you think it's me?" the second little girl asked. "Like, do you think I can do this look?"
"I think you can do the look," the first little girl confirmed. "I just think this shirt's a little...old."
"Yea, like it's all the way up to the neckline," the second little girl agreed. "That's so third grade."
"Totally," the first girl agreed. "We're like fourth graders now."
I wanted to bang my head against the wall! These girls had mastered the art of not only affirmation, but style domination and the constant need to be accepted and beautiful! They were going to be mini-Paris Hiltons and Britney Spears before we knew it! Eight year old girls should be playing with dolls, not discussing the finer points of fashion and trying to wear sexy clothing. Fuming, I was glad when Candace exited and we could leave the dressing room.
It took all my willpower not to rush in there and drag them off to summer camp when I heard the second little girl ask, "Do I look fat in this?"
Friday, July 27, 2007
Sunshine Delirium
For the first time in what seemed like months, the rain not only stopped but the sun broke through the clouds and shone brightly to the marshy ground below. The flowers stopped cowering, the birds scoured the earth for worms and the butterflies were out in full. However, something still didn't feel right as I walked. Even as the sun warmed my back, something in my soul felt cold.
"It was not your fault, you know," the all knowing voice whispered as the tiny feet pranced across my ear. "Wallowing will get you no where."
"I could have saved him," I said hollowly, thinking of the tiny bat lying broken and shivering on the sidewalk. "If they hadn't made me put him back outside, I could have helped him."
"He was dying," the butterfly said in a matter-of-fact tone. "He was ill, and dying. Nothing could have saved him. At least he was cared for and warm in his last moments."
"That seems so cruel," I said, shaking my head at the injustice of it all. "It shouldn't have to be that way. He should have been saved."
"Nature isn't always nice," the butterfly said wisely, tiptoeing across the back of my neck and clinging to my ponytail. "Nor our humans. You also saw proof of that this week."
"But why?" I whined defensively, wishing I could shake the metal fence I walked by. Perhaps shaking it would shake free this sense of injustice and anger.
"People are born either good or bad," the butterfly said wisely. "For the most part, they will stay either good or bad. However, free will damages many of the good and turns them into bad. They are seduced by power or greed, or trapped by insecurity and fear. Being human, they act out in ways which spread the cruelty to others, continuing the cycle."
"I just don't understand how people can be so cruel," I whispered, letting the butterfly dip it's tiny foot in the tear running down my cheek."I don't understand how people do these horrible things to each other. I mean, what possesses someone to be cruel to another person?"
"People are much like animals in that they do what is taught and instinctual," the tiny creature whispered. "If someone is mean to them, they will be mean to others. It takes a strong person to resist the pull of anger, cruelty and power. That's why the good things in life are so important."
"It just seems sometimes that you spend your whole life fighting," I said tiredly. "For once, I'd just like to get something done without fighting."
"To not fight is to not live," the butterfly paused on my hand. "You must fight for what you love and care for, what you want. It is part of nature."
"That doesn't mean it's fair," I scowled, thinking of the tiny sick bat.
"Not immediately," the butterfly agreed. "But those who are cruel to others will receive the same treatment in return. Karma is alive and well."
"It just seems very frustrating and exhausting," I said, letting the sun warm my back.
"You can get as frustrated as you want," the butterfly said. "The important thing is to dwell on the good in life. Think of the happiness you have with Ben, with your friends, your passion for writing. Think of all the dogs you want to help, all the people you aid. You write stories for fundraisers for horrible diseases, about teenage girls with cancer and about companies working on cures for cancer. While you may just be typing words on paper, you're giving someone a fighting chance. You're educating the public about the good in the world. And when people see good, they want to do good."
"That's the thing," the butterfly continued, pausing on my outstretched fingertip. "To be depressed and sad is to give into evil. By focusing on happiness and positivity, we can defeat it. Life is what you make of it, so you might as well make it a happy one."
The butterfly gently flew and landed on my nose. As faint as an eyelash falling, the butterfly gently kissed my nose.
"Kind souls will always be surrounded by good," the butterfly said so softly my ears strained to here. "You just may have to learn to ignore the shadows around it. Everyone told you to ignore the bat--and you still fought to save it. He knows that. And trust me, he appreciates it. Don't worry--your time of thanks will come."
With that, the butterfly flew away into the lush green field, disappearing. As I walked back to the office, I felt my face grow warm as the sun beat down on my black t-shirt. This time, however, my soul was not just warm. It was glowing.
"It was not your fault, you know," the all knowing voice whispered as the tiny feet pranced across my ear. "Wallowing will get you no where."
"I could have saved him," I said hollowly, thinking of the tiny bat lying broken and shivering on the sidewalk. "If they hadn't made me put him back outside, I could have helped him."
"He was dying," the butterfly said in a matter-of-fact tone. "He was ill, and dying. Nothing could have saved him. At least he was cared for and warm in his last moments."
"That seems so cruel," I said, shaking my head at the injustice of it all. "It shouldn't have to be that way. He should have been saved."
"Nature isn't always nice," the butterfly said wisely, tiptoeing across the back of my neck and clinging to my ponytail. "Nor our humans. You also saw proof of that this week."
"But why?" I whined defensively, wishing I could shake the metal fence I walked by. Perhaps shaking it would shake free this sense of injustice and anger.
"People are born either good or bad," the butterfly said wisely. "For the most part, they will stay either good or bad. However, free will damages many of the good and turns them into bad. They are seduced by power or greed, or trapped by insecurity and fear. Being human, they act out in ways which spread the cruelty to others, continuing the cycle."
"I just don't understand how people can be so cruel," I whispered, letting the butterfly dip it's tiny foot in the tear running down my cheek."I don't understand how people do these horrible things to each other. I mean, what possesses someone to be cruel to another person?"
"People are much like animals in that they do what is taught and instinctual," the tiny creature whispered. "If someone is mean to them, they will be mean to others. It takes a strong person to resist the pull of anger, cruelty and power. That's why the good things in life are so important."
"It just seems sometimes that you spend your whole life fighting," I said tiredly. "For once, I'd just like to get something done without fighting."
"To not fight is to not live," the butterfly paused on my hand. "You must fight for what you love and care for, what you want. It is part of nature."
"That doesn't mean it's fair," I scowled, thinking of the tiny sick bat.
"Not immediately," the butterfly agreed. "But those who are cruel to others will receive the same treatment in return. Karma is alive and well."
"It just seems very frustrating and exhausting," I said, letting the sun warm my back.
"You can get as frustrated as you want," the butterfly said. "The important thing is to dwell on the good in life. Think of the happiness you have with Ben, with your friends, your passion for writing. Think of all the dogs you want to help, all the people you aid. You write stories for fundraisers for horrible diseases, about teenage girls with cancer and about companies working on cures for cancer. While you may just be typing words on paper, you're giving someone a fighting chance. You're educating the public about the good in the world. And when people see good, they want to do good."
"That's the thing," the butterfly continued, pausing on my outstretched fingertip. "To be depressed and sad is to give into evil. By focusing on happiness and positivity, we can defeat it. Life is what you make of it, so you might as well make it a happy one."
The butterfly gently flew and landed on my nose. As faint as an eyelash falling, the butterfly gently kissed my nose.
"Kind souls will always be surrounded by good," the butterfly said so softly my ears strained to here. "You just may have to learn to ignore the shadows around it. Everyone told you to ignore the bat--and you still fought to save it. He knows that. And trust me, he appreciates it. Don't worry--your time of thanks will come."
With that, the butterfly flew away into the lush green field, disappearing. As I walked back to the office, I felt my face grow warm as the sun beat down on my black t-shirt. This time, however, my soul was not just warm. It was glowing.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Dear Mr. Cloudman
Mr. White Cloudman
Senior Vice President of Rainy Day Inc.
Somewhere up there
The Sky, Cloud 89768
Dear Mr. White Cloudman,
I admire your tenacity of watering my garden during this wet summer. Not only have you let me go without watering my yard for two months, but the flowers we planting are bursting in joy and health! I want to thank you for your diligent work and attention to the landscaping of the entire Pond.
However, I would like to request a change in schedules. Currently, you seem to have an erratic rain schedule. Sometimes it rains at 2 p.m., sometimes at 10 a.m. and sometimes at 3 a.m. in the morning. While I enjoy the blackouts the rain causes me at work (though I don't enjoy the false hope I might get to go home before the lights flick back on 3 minutes later), I don't enjoy your afternoon rainstorms. Your afternoon rainstorms are interfering with one of my daily walks during the day.
Now, I would not mind compromising and agreeing to a light sprinkle at 3 p.m. The problem is, you see, is that it POURS at 3 p.m. like an ocean has opened in the sky and is falling to the ground below. While I enjoy twirling and prancing in light rain, heavy rain does not make for an enjoyable walking experience. For one thing, I get wet. I don't like getting wet. Another issue is that my hair frizzes out and ramps up my already anxious and high strung personality.
The biggest issue, however, besides the risk of being struck by lighting or being splashed by a car, is that my shoes get wet. Now, I'm sure up there in Cloud that your shoes are always slightly damp with condensation so it's not a big deal to you. However, when you live in the Pond, which is hot and dry, and then work at a old factory that's surrounded by concrete and essentially a giant ceramic oven, I'm used to dry shoes.
Walking in wet, squishy shoes that make noises and stay damp for hours is not amusing. Therefore, I have a proposition. How about you continue all your pleasant rain during the hours of 5 p.m. to 5 a.m.? That way, I don't have to water the yard and it doesn't rain during my walking time. I can have the benefits of a pleasant sunny day with the joy of green grass and lush landscaping.
Please let me know if that's possible for you. I am agreeable to negotiation.
Sincerely,
The Blonde Duck
Senior Vice President of Rainy Day Inc.
Somewhere up there
The Sky, Cloud 89768
Dear Mr. White Cloudman,
I admire your tenacity of watering my garden during this wet summer. Not only have you let me go without watering my yard for two months, but the flowers we planting are bursting in joy and health! I want to thank you for your diligent work and attention to the landscaping of the entire Pond.
However, I would like to request a change in schedules. Currently, you seem to have an erratic rain schedule. Sometimes it rains at 2 p.m., sometimes at 10 a.m. and sometimes at 3 a.m. in the morning. While I enjoy the blackouts the rain causes me at work (though I don't enjoy the false hope I might get to go home before the lights flick back on 3 minutes later), I don't enjoy your afternoon rainstorms. Your afternoon rainstorms are interfering with one of my daily walks during the day.
Now, I would not mind compromising and agreeing to a light sprinkle at 3 p.m. The problem is, you see, is that it POURS at 3 p.m. like an ocean has opened in the sky and is falling to the ground below. While I enjoy twirling and prancing in light rain, heavy rain does not make for an enjoyable walking experience. For one thing, I get wet. I don't like getting wet. Another issue is that my hair frizzes out and ramps up my already anxious and high strung personality.
The biggest issue, however, besides the risk of being struck by lighting or being splashed by a car, is that my shoes get wet. Now, I'm sure up there in Cloud that your shoes are always slightly damp with condensation so it's not a big deal to you. However, when you live in the Pond, which is hot and dry, and then work at a old factory that's surrounded by concrete and essentially a giant ceramic oven, I'm used to dry shoes.
Walking in wet, squishy shoes that make noises and stay damp for hours is not amusing. Therefore, I have a proposition. How about you continue all your pleasant rain during the hours of 5 p.m. to 5 a.m.? That way, I don't have to water the yard and it doesn't rain during my walking time. I can have the benefits of a pleasant sunny day with the joy of green grass and lush landscaping.
Please let me know if that's possible for you. I am agreeable to negotiation.
Sincerely,
The Blonde Duck
Sunday, July 22, 2007
The Duck-a-tron
I saw Transformers yesterday with my Mom and sister for a belated birthday celebration for my Mom. Going into the movie, I figured it'd be mildly amusing. After all, I am a My Little Ponies enthusiast. Why would I like robots? After all, I didn't like I, Robot and spent weeks fearing Steve Jobs or Bill Gates were going to create a robot for every home that would take over just like the ones in the movie and turn us into mindless drones, taking down society and ruling in a technological dictatorship.
I never said I wasn't imaginative.
Anyway, I loved the Transformers movies, particularly the Bumblebee transformer. He was so cute and devoted to the boy. While I still don't like the idea of robots taking over the Earth, I decided I needed my own Transformer: the Duck-a-tron.
The Duck-a-tron would be a giant (you guessed it) Duck robot. When not a robot, he would be an aquatic car--one of those cars that is also a boat. He would be painted a bright yellow with an orange face, and have webbed metal feet. When he quacked, the sound waves from his quack would shake the earth around him. If he ever got mad at another Transformer, he could kick them with his giant webbed feet or fly away.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, life would be glorious. I wouldn't have to sit through an hour and a half of traffic just to get home from work. My Duck-a-tron could take me home in ten short steps.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, he could fly Ben and I to my in-laws house and anywhere in the world we wanted to go. Cruise? What cruise? We'll just cruise in the Duck-a-tron.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, he could go on walks with me around the neighborhood or while I was jogging. Seriously, who's going to mess with me with several hundred feet of robot?
If I had a Duck-a-tron, I could go waterskiing behind him on the lake.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, I could go to the pond within the Pond and have him communicate with the ducks there. It would be hilarious.
And finally, if I had a Duck-a-tron, maybe he could build a pond for the ducks living in my bathtub.
I really want a Duck-a-tron.
I never said I wasn't imaginative.
Anyway, I loved the Transformers movies, particularly the Bumblebee transformer. He was so cute and devoted to the boy. While I still don't like the idea of robots taking over the Earth, I decided I needed my own Transformer: the Duck-a-tron.
The Duck-a-tron would be a giant (you guessed it) Duck robot. When not a robot, he would be an aquatic car--one of those cars that is also a boat. He would be painted a bright yellow with an orange face, and have webbed metal feet. When he quacked, the sound waves from his quack would shake the earth around him. If he ever got mad at another Transformer, he could kick them with his giant webbed feet or fly away.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, life would be glorious. I wouldn't have to sit through an hour and a half of traffic just to get home from work. My Duck-a-tron could take me home in ten short steps.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, he could fly Ben and I to my in-laws house and anywhere in the world we wanted to go. Cruise? What cruise? We'll just cruise in the Duck-a-tron.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, he could go on walks with me around the neighborhood or while I was jogging. Seriously, who's going to mess with me with several hundred feet of robot?
If I had a Duck-a-tron, I could go waterskiing behind him on the lake.
If I had a Duck-a-tron, I could go to the pond within the Pond and have him communicate with the ducks there. It would be hilarious.
And finally, if I had a Duck-a-tron, maybe he could build a pond for the ducks living in my bathtub.
I really want a Duck-a-tron.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Friends
Whenever I spot two animals, I often say they are friends. If we see two puppies while driving down the road, I exclaim, "Look, they're friends!" Solo dogs get the sad remark of "Oh, they don't have a friend." This has been my sole argument behind why I need two puppies instead of one.
Today on my walk, I saw two butterflies.
"You're friends!" I cried. "How sweet."
"Yes," one said as they brushed by my cheek. "Why does this surprise you so?"
"Well, because you don't normally see two butterflies flying together as you two are," I said.
"We disagree," said the other butterfly. "Two is the best number there is. Three leads to competition and unfairness, four is two many and five is the perfect amount for bands or superhero groups."
"Or sheep," the other one added.
"I suppose that's true," I said. "But normally when you see two, they are a couple."
"Why does that matter?" one butterfly asked as he settled on my shoulder. "Can a couple not be friends?"
"Yes they can," I said, "But then they're not just friends, they're a couple."
"But couples are the best of friends," the other butterfly volunteered as she perched on my hair. "They know everything about each other in ways that normal friends couldn't dream. They are the most intimate of friends. Couples can't survive if they're not friends."
"True," I said. "Very true indeed."
"Why is it so important to you we are friends?" the first butterfly asked. "Why is that better to you?"
"It just seems like you're happier than a butterfly on it's own," I said.
"Not necessarily," the second butterfly fluttered next to my ear. "Perhaps the first likes being alone. Maybe they get happiness from that. Happiness is different for different people."
"Well, you've got a point there," I said. "But you two seem happy."
"We are," the first butterfly whispered.
"We're friends," said the second butterfly, smiling. I smiled back as they fluttered through the lush green grass.
"Friends," I repeated softly to myself. "They're friends."
Today on my walk, I saw two butterflies.
"You're friends!" I cried. "How sweet."
"Yes," one said as they brushed by my cheek. "Why does this surprise you so?"
"Well, because you don't normally see two butterflies flying together as you two are," I said.
"We disagree," said the other butterfly. "Two is the best number there is. Three leads to competition and unfairness, four is two many and five is the perfect amount for bands or superhero groups."
"Or sheep," the other one added.
"I suppose that's true," I said. "But normally when you see two, they are a couple."
"Why does that matter?" one butterfly asked as he settled on my shoulder. "Can a couple not be friends?"
"Yes they can," I said, "But then they're not just friends, they're a couple."
"But couples are the best of friends," the other butterfly volunteered as she perched on my hair. "They know everything about each other in ways that normal friends couldn't dream. They are the most intimate of friends. Couples can't survive if they're not friends."
"True," I said. "Very true indeed."
"Why is it so important to you we are friends?" the first butterfly asked. "Why is that better to you?"
"It just seems like you're happier than a butterfly on it's own," I said.
"Not necessarily," the second butterfly fluttered next to my ear. "Perhaps the first likes being alone. Maybe they get happiness from that. Happiness is different for different people."
"Well, you've got a point there," I said. "But you two seem happy."
"We are," the first butterfly whispered.
"We're friends," said the second butterfly, smiling. I smiled back as they fluttered through the lush green grass.
"Friends," I repeated softly to myself. "They're friends."
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Happy Birthday Mom!
Since I did a mushy post for Mom's birthday last year, I thought I would do a fun post for her birthday this year. I thought about giving you a fun story for year she was born, but then I figured she'd kill me for revealing her true age.
So dear Invisible Friends, here are the top ten fun stories for Mom's birthday. Happy Birthday Mom! I love you.
Always,
The Blonde Duck
So dear Invisible Friends, here are the top ten fun stories for Mom's birthday. Happy Birthday Mom! I love you.
Always,
The Blonde Duck
Top Ten Birthday Stories
10) The most recent funny story occurred when I was getting married. We were trying on my wedding dress and my sister's bridesmaid dress when a putrid smell filled the room. While the small Mexican seamstress pinned my sister, wafts of sulfur infused methane wafted from my mother's direction. To make matters worse, my own bowels were protesting loudly and emitting squawks and exclamations from my bowels. Between the smell and the sounds, the poor seamstress lasted as long as she could before excusing herself from the room, where we burst into laughter. The funniest part? The room still smelled half an hour later when girls refused to go in there because they thought a baby had a dirty diaper.
9) My mother has a mole on her neck that is very soft and flexible. It's called the squishy mole. Our favorite thing to do was to reach around from the back of her car and squish her squishy mole and and watch her squirm. Her squeals and tortured expressions are the funniest thing in the world.
8) When we used to go swimming, Mom taught us how to fly. She'd squat down in the pool and we'd climb onto her leg. She'd place her hands under our armpits and send us flying through the air.
7) Apparently, Mom used to do Jane Fonda workouts when we were little. I tried to sabotage those workouts by clutching her legs and having her drag me around the living room. It gave new meaning to the term "weight lifting."
6) My mom used to make costumes for the plays in my pre-school and kindergarten. The principal, a nice elderly woman, told my mother that she "must have black in her" due to her love of sequins, rhinestones, feathers and bright colors. This would be like Laura Bush walking up to you and tell you that you're a pimp. It was that shocking.
5) Being a trekkie, nothing thrilled my mother more than lunch with a Ferangi. Well, until I got into a huge argument with a Klignon that ended in applause. It was her greatest joy.
4) Holidays were always wonderful. The entire house would be decorated elaborately from top to bottom, creating everything from a winter wonderland to a haunted mansion. Mom's greatest glee is hanging spiders that pop out from trees or tombstones that say, "I told you I was sick!"
3) During my birthday one year, I got a VCR. Ben pointed out that the price tag was still left on, and she gave him a look that could kill. Ever since--no gift has ever gotten open without her pointing out the price tag is not on it.
2) She taught us how to dance around the living room wildly and collapse into giggles on the floor.
1) Three words: Chicken Fried Steak. Oh my God.
Happy Birthday Mom! I love you!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Kids and Spas
Here's an editorial I wrote at work for the medical newspaper. It's about spas and spa services marketed directly towards children. The Blonde Duck is not amused.
For some kids, an M&M isn’t a candy—it’s a massage and manicure, silly! Forget Build a Bear and Chucky Cheese, the newest craze among the tween and pre-teen set is to join the spa set. While some set up manicures, pedicures, massages and facials for birthday parties or special events only, some children consider the spa a basic health necessity and go as much as once a month.
According to the International Spa Association, over 4 million teenagers in the United States have visited a spa. Southern California is booming with spas for children, offering everything to Mommy and Me spas to children-only spas. Depending on the spa, treatments range from the typical manicures, pedicures and facials to the more elaborate make-up applications and “up-do” stylings. Parents and business owners defend the kiddie spas, claiming they teach their kid about health and hygiene. They believe spas are simply fun outlets for their child and shouldn’t be taken seriously. And I do mean child, since many patrons are between 2 and 8 years old.
But don’t scoff it off as California nonsense. The Wildflower Hill Country Spa at the Hyatt Regency Hill Country Resort and Spa off of 1604 offers a spa just for children so adults don’t have to worry about being disturbed. At SPAhhht, the special kid’s spa for those 17 and under, children are treated to manicures, pedicures, facials and massages. Don’t worry; the kids keep their clothes on during the massages.
Since the Hyatt opened the SPAhhht, “Time” reports that nearly 700 children have indulged in 25 minute facials at $40 a pop and henna tattoos that can cover their precious little faces for a mere $4 to $20.
Why does a 4-year-old child need a henna tattoo and facial? I’ve never gotten a facial. Well, parents believe that children are so stressed out from their overscheduled lifestyles that they need to relax like the rest of us. Plus, spas not only help their children relax, they give them the extra benefit about teaching them important things like health and make up application.
The entire idea of having a spa for children is ludicrous. The first time I hear a three-year-old child tell me they’re stressed out, I’m going to send them to work with a single parent with three children who is living paycheck to paycheck and struggling on their mortgage. That’s stress. SATs or a science fair project is stress, but it’s not adult stress. If kids get stressed, they should go outside and play. They should hang out with friends. They shouldn’t go to a spa and expect people to wait on them hand and foot (literally) while they drink “mocktails.”
All that is doing is creating another generation of self-absorbed narcissists who believe the world should be handed to them on a silver platter and that hard work and sacrifice are passé. We’ll just teach children to demand whatever they want whenever they want because “they deserve it” and because they’re the most important thing in the world. By God, Baby Jane studied all week for the big bad final! She needs a medi and pedi, stat! No one should have to use their brain!
As soon as parents start being self-absorbed nitwits, their children won’t be self absorbed nitwits either. Stress is part of life, and relaxation is necessary. However, relaxation doesn’t have to cost money—breathing and taking a walk around the block are free activities. By teaching children that you can buy relaxation, you’re teaching them to buy happiness. Last time I checked, happiness was free. Manicures weren’t.
Kids and Spas
For some kids, an M&M isn’t a candy—it’s a massage and manicure, silly! Forget Build a Bear and Chucky Cheese, the newest craze among the tween and pre-teen set is to join the spa set. While some set up manicures, pedicures, massages and facials for birthday parties or special events only, some children consider the spa a basic health necessity and go as much as once a month.
According to the International Spa Association, over 4 million teenagers in the United States have visited a spa. Southern California is booming with spas for children, offering everything to Mommy and Me spas to children-only spas. Depending on the spa, treatments range from the typical manicures, pedicures and facials to the more elaborate make-up applications and “up-do” stylings. Parents and business owners defend the kiddie spas, claiming they teach their kid about health and hygiene. They believe spas are simply fun outlets for their child and shouldn’t be taken seriously. And I do mean child, since many patrons are between 2 and 8 years old.
But don’t scoff it off as California nonsense. The Wildflower Hill Country Spa at the Hyatt Regency Hill Country Resort and Spa off of 1604 offers a spa just for children so adults don’t have to worry about being disturbed. At SPAhhht, the special kid’s spa for those 17 and under, children are treated to manicures, pedicures, facials and massages. Don’t worry; the kids keep their clothes on during the massages.
Since the Hyatt opened the SPAhhht, “Time” reports that nearly 700 children have indulged in 25 minute facials at $40 a pop and henna tattoos that can cover their precious little faces for a mere $4 to $20.
Why does a 4-year-old child need a henna tattoo and facial? I’ve never gotten a facial. Well, parents believe that children are so stressed out from their overscheduled lifestyles that they need to relax like the rest of us. Plus, spas not only help their children relax, they give them the extra benefit about teaching them important things like health and make up application.
The entire idea of having a spa for children is ludicrous. The first time I hear a three-year-old child tell me they’re stressed out, I’m going to send them to work with a single parent with three children who is living paycheck to paycheck and struggling on their mortgage. That’s stress. SATs or a science fair project is stress, but it’s not adult stress. If kids get stressed, they should go outside and play. They should hang out with friends. They shouldn’t go to a spa and expect people to wait on them hand and foot (literally) while they drink “mocktails.”
All that is doing is creating another generation of self-absorbed narcissists who believe the world should be handed to them on a silver platter and that hard work and sacrifice are passé. We’ll just teach children to demand whatever they want whenever they want because “they deserve it” and because they’re the most important thing in the world. By God, Baby Jane studied all week for the big bad final! She needs a medi and pedi, stat! No one should have to use their brain!
As soon as parents start being self-absorbed nitwits, their children won’t be self absorbed nitwits either. Stress is part of life, and relaxation is necessary. However, relaxation doesn’t have to cost money—breathing and taking a walk around the block are free activities. By teaching children that you can buy relaxation, you’re teaching them to buy happiness. Last time I checked, happiness was free. Manicures weren’t.
The GLUG has an announcement
Hear ye, hear ye. The GLUG of the Pond (the Ginormous Lime Green Unusual Gnat) would like to announce that the literary world has finally caught up to his brillance.
That's right--Merriam and Webster announced that "ginourmous" would be an offical word in the dictionary.
The GLUG is pleased that all his years of campaigning have finally been successful.
"EXCUSE ME!" the GLUG bellowed in a statement. "Is this thing ON? Oh, HELLO! I am absolutely delighted that my first name has been officially inducted into the dictionary. After campaigning for 50 years (3 days in human time), I am pleased one of my life's goals has been accomplished. It's about time!"
The GLUG then turned to a reporter and asked if she had anything tasty. When denied some tasty leaves, the GLUG pouted until a second reporter asked what his future plans were.
"I'm going to Disneyland!" the GLUG bellowed. "And then to Hawaii! And then..."
The GlUG paused dramatically.
"I'm making WAFFLES!"
All further information and questions can be directed to the GLUG's representative, the Blonde Duck, at theblondeduck@thisisnotarealaddress.com.
To see the orginal article, please go here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19698856/
That's right--Merriam and Webster announced that "ginourmous" would be an offical word in the dictionary.
The GLUG is pleased that all his years of campaigning have finally been successful.
"EXCUSE ME!" the GLUG bellowed in a statement. "Is this thing ON? Oh, HELLO! I am absolutely delighted that my first name has been officially inducted into the dictionary. After campaigning for 50 years (3 days in human time), I am pleased one of my life's goals has been accomplished. It's about time!"
The GLUG then turned to a reporter and asked if she had anything tasty. When denied some tasty leaves, the GLUG pouted until a second reporter asked what his future plans were.
"I'm going to Disneyland!" the GLUG bellowed. "And then to Hawaii! And then..."
The GlUG paused dramatically.
"I'm making WAFFLES!"
All further information and questions can be directed to the GLUG's representative, the Blonde Duck, at theblondeduck@thisisnotarealaddress.com.
To see the orginal article, please go here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19698856/
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Excuse Me!
While walking through the parking lot, I heard a commotion of squawking coming from the trees. Curiously, I wondered over and stood outside the branches. Apparently, there were several testy bird ladies inside.
"Excuse me!" one cried. "I was here first!"
"How dare you come into my room!" another bellowed.
"Wait your turn!" a third snapped.
"Someone's in here," a fourth voice snapped.
"Mom, where are you?" a shrill voice called.
"Second branch on the right. No, on the right. There you go."
What is going on? I wondered to myself. Are there tiny bird apartments or a bird dormitory housed in this tree? As I continued to listen, the truth was revealed.
"How many items do you have?" a perky voice chirped. "Ok, try the third one on the left. It should be open. Let me know if you need help with anything!"
"I'm not taking these," the bellowing voice from before informed Perky Bird. "Thanks."
"No problem," chirped Perky Bird. I heard rustling and knocking. "Can I help you with anything?"
"No."
"Doing ok in there?"
"Yes."
"Need a different size?"
"Actually, yes. If you could get me a 7 instead of a 10 that'd be great, thanks."
As I stood beside the tree, stunned at what I was hearing, a plump grey bird emerged. She looked at me and placed her tiny wing on my hand. In a serious voice, she advised, "Honey, there ain't nothing but crap in there. Try the oak tree three feet down. That's where I'm headed--big sale, you know." She fluttered to the oak tree and disappeared in the branches.
"Sale at the Oak Tree? For how long?" another voice gasped excitedly.
"Sale?"
"Where's a sale? I heard there's a sale."
"These pants make my butt look soooo good."
"Hurry up and ring up! There's a sale at the oak tree!"
In one frenzied blast, several birds burst out of the tree and immediately disappeared within the branches of the oak tree. Scratching my head, I grinned and walked away as I heard an indignant bird squeal, "Excuse me! That's my room you're fluttering in!"
"Excuse me!" one cried. "I was here first!"
"How dare you come into my room!" another bellowed.
"Wait your turn!" a third snapped.
"Someone's in here," a fourth voice snapped.
"Mom, where are you?" a shrill voice called.
"Second branch on the right. No, on the right. There you go."
What is going on? I wondered to myself. Are there tiny bird apartments or a bird dormitory housed in this tree? As I continued to listen, the truth was revealed.
"How many items do you have?" a perky voice chirped. "Ok, try the third one on the left. It should be open. Let me know if you need help with anything!"
"I'm not taking these," the bellowing voice from before informed Perky Bird. "Thanks."
"No problem," chirped Perky Bird. I heard rustling and knocking. "Can I help you with anything?"
"No."
"Doing ok in there?"
"Yes."
"Need a different size?"
"Actually, yes. If you could get me a 7 instead of a 10 that'd be great, thanks."
As I stood beside the tree, stunned at what I was hearing, a plump grey bird emerged. She looked at me and placed her tiny wing on my hand. In a serious voice, she advised, "Honey, there ain't nothing but crap in there. Try the oak tree three feet down. That's where I'm headed--big sale, you know." She fluttered to the oak tree and disappeared in the branches.
"Sale at the Oak Tree? For how long?" another voice gasped excitedly.
"Sale?"
"Where's a sale? I heard there's a sale."
"These pants make my butt look soooo good."
"Hurry up and ring up! There's a sale at the oak tree!"
In one frenzied blast, several birds burst out of the tree and immediately disappeared within the branches of the oak tree. Scratching my head, I grinned and walked away as I heard an indignant bird squeal, "Excuse me! That's my room you're fluttering in!"
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The Blonde Duck enjoys posing more than sparklers.4th of July Fun
For some reason, Blogger is not letting me put a title. Fine, I didn't want to put a title anyway. Jerks. Anyway, I know it's a bit late, but here are the pictures and tales from the 4th of July.
The 4th of July began with cloudy skies, humid air and lots of rain. Early in the morning, I went jogging underneth omnious dark clouds that foreshadowed the early afternoon to come. Later in the morning, the skies opened and rain poured from the sky, making the Pond actually look nice and green in July rather than brown and dehydrated.
My parents came over later with my sister, bearing gifts of ground beef, hamburger buns, tea, chips and three different pies. That's right--three different pies for 5 people. Ok, ok. To be fair, one of the pies was half gone. But still--it was a diabetic's nightmare and a sugar addict's dream. I was in heaven.
I made potato and fruit salad and we spent the afternoon lounging and watching T.V. My dad and Ben immediately retreated to the garage where they participated in important tasks like scratching their butts, belching, passing gas and changing my battery.
Then, a crisis fell throughout the Pond. We had no fireworks. Fireworks? We hadn't ever had fireworks at any 4th of July I'd ever been at with my parents. We used to go downtown to see the fireworks at my dad's building, where we would stand on the 33rd story and my mom would hyperventilate. But fireworks in the yard? We'd never done that before. What was the big deal?
Oh, duh. Ben and I live outside the city limits. Whoops.
On a mission, my father, sister and Ben set off in search of gas and firework stands. My mother grilled hamburgers while I spastically danced around the living room. I had important things to do, after all. Dancing is much more fun than doing cooking. Isn't that what moms are for?
The troops returned victorious with several bags of fireworks bursting with sparklers, black cats, roman candles and the Cone. The Cone was my favorite.
After stuffing ourselves with burgers, potato salad, fruit salad, chips and salsa, Ben pleaded for mercy and asked that we let our stomachs settle before we attacked the pies. He suggested we shoot off the fireworks.
Before I knew it, someone stuck flaming stick in my hand sprewing red sparks. My automatic reaction was to hold it as far away from me as possible while sticking my body as far as I could in the opposite direction. It looked as if I was trying to feed an alligator. I was then informed it was a sparkler.
"What do you do with them?" I yelled unelegantly. I was not sophisticated in the use of firecrackers and resented that everyone seemed to think I was supposed to know what to do with them. After all, my sister didn't know any better than I did and she was waving that sparkler around like she was a fairy godmother with a magic wand.
"Wave them around, draw pictures, write your name," my parents suggested helpfully. Gingerlly, I waved the sparkler around. It roared and only sparked more. I decided I would stick to holding it as far away from my body as possible and getting ready to drop it and run like hell if the flame came within inches of my fingers. "You're supposed to have fun with them," Ben said dryly. Whatever. Flaming things aren't fun to me.
Ben, and Danielle, however, were not having this problem.
My sister, the Rat, seemed to think we were training for Iraq. She was delighted to set off black cats and take off running in the opposite direction, screaming, "It's going to blow!" and hurling herself behind the car. The first time I heard that I nearly dove into my car. I thought a damn gernade was going off. Oh no, just an overdramatization of something that sounded like a hyperactive cap gun. Sparklers didn't faze her either--she swirled those suckers around like it was a baton and she was in an orchestra. She wasn't the worst however.
Then, there was Ben. You see that mischevious grin? That's right. This little twerp, my dear husband, harbored a secret love of fireworks I never knew about. I thought he was bad with the candle lighter? I hadn't seen nothing yet.
The boy used roman candles as cannons, aiming at coffee cans and various debri in the driveway to make it move, threw black cats in the trashcan to see it go "Boom" and held his own mythbusters experiment to see how many fireworks he could put in the trashcan before it exploded. He set off the cone, set off various sparklers and ran around with a "punk" seeing if he could capture the smoke on film. When he wasn't doing any of those activities, he was twirling the candle lighter on his finger like a gun, looking for the next thing he could set on fire.
So as the fireworks raged throughout the night, we fell asleep stuffed with pie, burgers and every kind of salad imaginable. And on top of everything, we had fireworks! Only 6 more months until New Years....who knows what other toys we can drag home?!?!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
New Work Out Routine
In my utter brilliance and insanity, I've discovered a new work out routine. For you ladies who prefer Pilates but still need some cardio, this routine is wonderful. Plus, you get to enjoy all of nature's wonderful gifts! There's three different sections: Rain Walking, Umbrella Arms and Stair Hiking.
Rain Walking
Wait until it begins pouring outside and becomes as windy as possible. Slide your feet into patent leather mules and set out into the rain with an umbrella. Keep your knees high and march through the puddles, splashing muddy water all over your shins and soaking your shoes. With your shoes retaining more water than a 3 weeks overdue pregnant woman, continue to walk for ten or fifteen minutes. As you attempt to walk in your soaked shows, your leg muscles will tense as they try for dear life to hold onto the slippery leather and prevent you from falling on your butt. The effort of keeping your feet in your shoes and on the sidewalk is great for both toning legs and raising your heart rate. Alternate between sliding or crawling on the sidewalk and marching through deep puddles.
Umbrella Arms
When the rain eases up a bit, wait until the wind starts. It should be windy enough to power a wooden ark the size of the Titanic across the Pacific Ocean. Again, go outside with your umbrella. As you propel yourself through the wind, force your umbrella through the air from side to side in front of you. The umbrella should be opened and held straight in front of you as you move it from the left to your right side of your waist and repeat. This works your abs and arms. Next, raise your arm from a downward position towards your feet in an arch up to your head. Repeat several times, then move to the other side. If the umbrella flies out of your hands, run after it in a dramatic fashion shrieking, "Don't leave me!" That counts as cardio.
Stair hiking
Put your slippery rain soaked shoes back on. Climb a flight of stairs as rapidly as you can, keeping your hand near the banister for safety. On your way back down, try to go down as quickly as you can without falling or losing your shoes. Repeat half a dozen times until shoes either fly off or you see a mountain goat.
So for those of you stuck in the house this rainy Fourth of July, never fear! Just try these new work out routines and before you know it, you'll be wet, muddy and best of all, fit!
Rain Walking
Wait until it begins pouring outside and becomes as windy as possible. Slide your feet into patent leather mules and set out into the rain with an umbrella. Keep your knees high and march through the puddles, splashing muddy water all over your shins and soaking your shoes. With your shoes retaining more water than a 3 weeks overdue pregnant woman, continue to walk for ten or fifteen minutes. As you attempt to walk in your soaked shows, your leg muscles will tense as they try for dear life to hold onto the slippery leather and prevent you from falling on your butt. The effort of keeping your feet in your shoes and on the sidewalk is great for both toning legs and raising your heart rate. Alternate between sliding or crawling on the sidewalk and marching through deep puddles.
Umbrella Arms
When the rain eases up a bit, wait until the wind starts. It should be windy enough to power a wooden ark the size of the Titanic across the Pacific Ocean. Again, go outside with your umbrella. As you propel yourself through the wind, force your umbrella through the air from side to side in front of you. The umbrella should be opened and held straight in front of you as you move it from the left to your right side of your waist and repeat. This works your abs and arms. Next, raise your arm from a downward position towards your feet in an arch up to your head. Repeat several times, then move to the other side. If the umbrella flies out of your hands, run after it in a dramatic fashion shrieking, "Don't leave me!" That counts as cardio.
Stair hiking
Put your slippery rain soaked shoes back on. Climb a flight of stairs as rapidly as you can, keeping your hand near the banister for safety. On your way back down, try to go down as quickly as you can without falling or losing your shoes. Repeat half a dozen times until shoes either fly off or you see a mountain goat.
So for those of you stuck in the house this rainy Fourth of July, never fear! Just try these new work out routines and before you know it, you'll be wet, muddy and best of all, fit!
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Women are Rude
Before some feminist decides to blast me with this post, let me remind you--I am female. Therefore, if I say women are rude, I'm not being sexist. Duh.
With that out of the way, I can continue on with my story.
I go to a special little HEB hidden away from the large roads in the Pond. I like it because it's less crowded and usually filled with old people on Saturday and Sunday mornings, rather than the larger store on the Road. The Road store is filled with all sorts of issues I'd like to avoid. The first group to avoid is the twenty something roommates and couples filling up their carts with beer, snacks and all the proper ingredients for grilling hamburgers and hot dogs. They tend to stand in the aisle forever, dial their cell phones and ask their mom if jalapenos count as vegetables.
The second group to avoid is the hyperactive mothers dragging their children and husbands behind them with two carts per family screaming, "Get a move on! We've got soccer in 2 hours!" If you see these women coming, duck behind the nearest display quickly. They'd sooner roll over your foot than stop for 6 seconds for you to walk to the next aisle. And avoid the children--they bite. The husbands are harmless--they just oogle.
After dealing with those horrors, I was delighted to find my small HEB. For six months I have enjoyed leisurely steering my cart through elderly couples bickering over the bananas, mothers with well behaved children that don't make me fear the need for a rabies shot when I pass and the occasional bumbling husband and father who is bewilderingly roaming the aisles looking for maxi pads and has gone through the baby section seven times.
That was, until I went to the store Saturday. I had a pleasant experience shopping until I hit the cereal aisle, where the crowds started. There, some overzealous mothers were steering their carts through the aisle like an ocean cruiser on a canal. Still, their lack of etiquette wasn't enough to bother me.
I ignored the woman who shoved me aside in the cheese aisle, and the woman who stared at me until I moved over five inches so she could get the Triskets. In the lotion aisle, however, I had an altercation.
The right side of the aisle was blocked by an older man trying to decide on the proper shaving equipment. Not wanting to make him move, I turned and walked the opposite way down the aisle. Just as I reached the end, a mother and her son pulled their cart in front of a display and blocked the entrance. She began to look at products while the son stood staring in boredom.
I stood waiting patiently. The son saw me and jerked the cart left as far as he could. I moved forward, but still couldn't get through. He looked up at his mother and gestured for her to move. Sighing heavily, she snapped, "God!" and jerked her cart left dramatically.
An isolated incident, I thought as I trotted down the soap aisle. Just a cranky woman. As I reached to get some milk, another woman huffed and slammed the freezer door next to me. I looked into her angry eyes and tried to figure out what I did wrong.
It wasn't over yet. In the checkout aisle, I was placing my items on the conveyor belt when a woman pushed her cart behind me. As I continued to load my stuff on the belt, she began to load her stuff on the end. I raised my eyebrows, but kept loading up. She placed the separator stick between our items, placing it right behind mine. I looked at her in confusion, then moved the stick back and bent down to pick up the gigantic jug of detergent. I stood back up and hoisted the container on the edge as she defiantly shoved the stick towards my items and dared me to contradict her with her stare. That's right--she shoved the stick behind my stuff, piled the rest of her crap behind her, and left me holding a 15 gallon container of detergent.
Fuming, I checked out and loaded my stuff into the car. As I drove through the parking lot, I tried to figure out why she was so rude. Why would all those women have acted that way? Being rude wasn't going to get them out of the store any faster. Seriously--how can people be so pushy and arrogant to think that they are the most important thing in the universe? There were plenty of men in the store, who were all polite as they fought their way through the aisles. Many of them even made a few jokes or smiled as I passed by. Why was the fairer sex being so catty and mean?
Pulling into traffic, I jumped as a horn blared on my right. I turned to look at a woman in a mini-van swerving in front of me, flicking me off as she skidded into the parking lot. It was then I came to the conclusion--women are rude.
With that out of the way, I can continue on with my story.
I go to a special little HEB hidden away from the large roads in the Pond. I like it because it's less crowded and usually filled with old people on Saturday and Sunday mornings, rather than the larger store on the Road. The Road store is filled with all sorts of issues I'd like to avoid. The first group to avoid is the twenty something roommates and couples filling up their carts with beer, snacks and all the proper ingredients for grilling hamburgers and hot dogs. They tend to stand in the aisle forever, dial their cell phones and ask their mom if jalapenos count as vegetables.
The second group to avoid is the hyperactive mothers dragging their children and husbands behind them with two carts per family screaming, "Get a move on! We've got soccer in 2 hours!" If you see these women coming, duck behind the nearest display quickly. They'd sooner roll over your foot than stop for 6 seconds for you to walk to the next aisle. And avoid the children--they bite. The husbands are harmless--they just oogle.
After dealing with those horrors, I was delighted to find my small HEB. For six months I have enjoyed leisurely steering my cart through elderly couples bickering over the bananas, mothers with well behaved children that don't make me fear the need for a rabies shot when I pass and the occasional bumbling husband and father who is bewilderingly roaming the aisles looking for maxi pads and has gone through the baby section seven times.
That was, until I went to the store Saturday. I had a pleasant experience shopping until I hit the cereal aisle, where the crowds started. There, some overzealous mothers were steering their carts through the aisle like an ocean cruiser on a canal. Still, their lack of etiquette wasn't enough to bother me.
I ignored the woman who shoved me aside in the cheese aisle, and the woman who stared at me until I moved over five inches so she could get the Triskets. In the lotion aisle, however, I had an altercation.
The right side of the aisle was blocked by an older man trying to decide on the proper shaving equipment. Not wanting to make him move, I turned and walked the opposite way down the aisle. Just as I reached the end, a mother and her son pulled their cart in front of a display and blocked the entrance. She began to look at products while the son stood staring in boredom.
I stood waiting patiently. The son saw me and jerked the cart left as far as he could. I moved forward, but still couldn't get through. He looked up at his mother and gestured for her to move. Sighing heavily, she snapped, "God!" and jerked her cart left dramatically.
An isolated incident, I thought as I trotted down the soap aisle. Just a cranky woman. As I reached to get some milk, another woman huffed and slammed the freezer door next to me. I looked into her angry eyes and tried to figure out what I did wrong.
It wasn't over yet. In the checkout aisle, I was placing my items on the conveyor belt when a woman pushed her cart behind me. As I continued to load my stuff on the belt, she began to load her stuff on the end. I raised my eyebrows, but kept loading up. She placed the separator stick between our items, placing it right behind mine. I looked at her in confusion, then moved the stick back and bent down to pick up the gigantic jug of detergent. I stood back up and hoisted the container on the edge as she defiantly shoved the stick towards my items and dared me to contradict her with her stare. That's right--she shoved the stick behind my stuff, piled the rest of her crap behind her, and left me holding a 15 gallon container of detergent.
Fuming, I checked out and loaded my stuff into the car. As I drove through the parking lot, I tried to figure out why she was so rude. Why would all those women have acted that way? Being rude wasn't going to get them out of the store any faster. Seriously--how can people be so pushy and arrogant to think that they are the most important thing in the universe? There were plenty of men in the store, who were all polite as they fought their way through the aisles. Many of them even made a few jokes or smiled as I passed by. Why was the fairer sex being so catty and mean?
Pulling into traffic, I jumped as a horn blared on my right. I turned to look at a woman in a mini-van swerving in front of me, flicking me off as she skidded into the parking lot. It was then I came to the conclusion--women are rude.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Marco Polo
"Marco!"
"Polo!"
The cricket hopped through the hall, looking from left to right slowly. "Marco!"
"Polo!" Another cricket peeked out behind a plant. As the first cricket crawled by him, he moved farther behind the plant.
"Marco!" the first cricket called, running down the edge of the right wall. "Marco!"
"Polo!" the second cricket whispered softly, running behind a umbrella. The first cricket whirled around, his antennae twitching attentively. "Marco!" he called, hopping towards the plant.
"Polo!" the second cricket called, scurrying under the couch.
"Marco!" the first cricket yelled, running towards the umbrella. "Polo!" the second cricket called, recessing under the couch.
"Marco!" the first cricket said, running towards the couch.
"Polo." the second cricket whispered and flattened himself against the dirty floor.
"Marco polo!" the first cricket cried, running under the couch and tagging the second cricket.
"Awww," the second cricket complained. "You got me."
"It's your turn to chase now. I'm going to go hide."
"Wait!" the second cricket hissed, "The cat's coming."
The cat sauntered by the couch, her eyes only flickering to the crickets for a brief moment.
"You're supposed to play Marco Polo in water, you know," the cat drawled as she sauntered off.
The first cricket looked at the second cricket and scoffed. "Who would want to play Marco Polo in water?"
"Polo!"
The cricket hopped through the hall, looking from left to right slowly. "Marco!"
"Polo!" Another cricket peeked out behind a plant. As the first cricket crawled by him, he moved farther behind the plant.
"Marco!" the first cricket called, running down the edge of the right wall. "Marco!"
"Polo!" the second cricket whispered softly, running behind a umbrella. The first cricket whirled around, his antennae twitching attentively. "Marco!" he called, hopping towards the plant.
"Polo!" the second cricket called, scurrying under the couch.
"Marco!" the first cricket yelled, running towards the umbrella. "Polo!" the second cricket called, recessing under the couch.
"Marco!" the first cricket said, running towards the couch.
"Polo." the second cricket whispered and flattened himself against the dirty floor.
"Marco polo!" the first cricket cried, running under the couch and tagging the second cricket.
"Awww," the second cricket complained. "You got me."
"It's your turn to chase now. I'm going to go hide."
"Wait!" the second cricket hissed, "The cat's coming."
The cat sauntered by the couch, her eyes only flickering to the crickets for a brief moment.
"You're supposed to play Marco Polo in water, you know," the cat drawled as she sauntered off.
The first cricket looked at the second cricket and scoffed. "Who would want to play Marco Polo in water?"
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Help
Dear Invisible Friends,
I need help desperately. Say I was working on a middle grade novel about a zany teacher who teaches her students through whimsical adventures. The principal hates the teacher and is actually a enemy she's not aware of from her past. He manages to get her kicked out of the school. When confronted by the protagonist, he finds out that the principal held a grudge against the teacher since he won an award she wanted. To get even, he forged documents to become a principal and in hiring teachers in order to blackball her from teaching in schools. At the end, he's arrested and the children go back to having adventures.
This is where I need help. Is that a dumb ending? Can you think of something better? I'm stuck and can only think of Disney-inspired cheeseball endings. Should the principal have some other reason for hating her? Is an award dumb? What other ideas do you have to make this book not retarded?
Please let me know. I'm falling apart over here. Dear Invisible Friends, I need you so. Help a delirious girl out.
Anxiously yours,
The Blonde Duck
I need help desperately. Say I was working on a middle grade novel about a zany teacher who teaches her students through whimsical adventures. The principal hates the teacher and is actually a enemy she's not aware of from her past. He manages to get her kicked out of the school. When confronted by the protagonist, he finds out that the principal held a grudge against the teacher since he won an award she wanted. To get even, he forged documents to become a principal and in hiring teachers in order to blackball her from teaching in schools. At the end, he's arrested and the children go back to having adventures.
This is where I need help. Is that a dumb ending? Can you think of something better? I'm stuck and can only think of Disney-inspired cheeseball endings. Should the principal have some other reason for hating her? Is an award dumb? What other ideas do you have to make this book not retarded?
Please let me know. I'm falling apart over here. Dear Invisible Friends, I need you so. Help a delirious girl out.
Anxiously yours,
The Blonde Duck
Tiny Pool of Wonder
For the past week, it has been pouring in the Pond. Because I can not be contained, I often walk in the rain. Carefully hiding under my umbrella and stepping gingerly from the curb to the street, I leap over the small lakes and rivers below me. What once was a pothole or chunk missing from the road has become a tiny pool of wonder.
Stopping as the rain beats down around me, I bend down to peer at the tiny pools. Is it my imagination, or is there a tiny toad swimming in the depths of the murky water? In this urban landscape I work in, I'm lucky if I see a butterfly or some birds, particularly in the scorching heat of the summer. Glaring concrete does not attract many animals.
Within each tiny pool, tiny bits of life are forming. Birds bathe and drink as they flutter their wings rapidly; tiny bugs skate over the surface of a nearby pool. Earthworms slither through the water like snakes, crawling from pool to pool to find their home in the soil.
The star of this minuscule water world is the tiny toad, who hops from pond to pond. He gently swims through the water, settling on the pebbles lining the bottom and waiting for the rain pounding his personal pond to slow. If only there were small minnows to join him, each small world would be a true tiny pond, complete with all plant life needed.
One can almost imagine the toad's day. He must awake each morning with a helping of peppered gnats, then take a morning swim. He ventures out in the late morning to explore the unknown territory around him, conquering the neighboring lake as his own and treating the current spiders and earthworms that inhabit it as kindly as he treats his own people. After such an adventure, he dines on precisely one half of a cricket, saving the other half for the next day. After a day of such important tasks as hopping, jumping, bouncing and wiggling, he retires to the bottom of the pond to sleep on a bed of moss and clovers as both earthworms and incests swim around him.
For now, however, the toad has clovers and weeds to content himself as gnats and flies buzz by. The grackles have all hidden in the bushes away from the sidewalk, and only the sparrows disturb his tranquility. For now, the tiny frog is truly the frog king of this universe.
Stopping as the rain beats down around me, I bend down to peer at the tiny pools. Is it my imagination, or is there a tiny toad swimming in the depths of the murky water? In this urban landscape I work in, I'm lucky if I see a butterfly or some birds, particularly in the scorching heat of the summer. Glaring concrete does not attract many animals.
Within each tiny pool, tiny bits of life are forming. Birds bathe and drink as they flutter their wings rapidly; tiny bugs skate over the surface of a nearby pool. Earthworms slither through the water like snakes, crawling from pool to pool to find their home in the soil.
The star of this minuscule water world is the tiny toad, who hops from pond to pond. He gently swims through the water, settling on the pebbles lining the bottom and waiting for the rain pounding his personal pond to slow. If only there were small minnows to join him, each small world would be a true tiny pond, complete with all plant life needed.
One can almost imagine the toad's day. He must awake each morning with a helping of peppered gnats, then take a morning swim. He ventures out in the late morning to explore the unknown territory around him, conquering the neighboring lake as his own and treating the current spiders and earthworms that inhabit it as kindly as he treats his own people. After such an adventure, he dines on precisely one half of a cricket, saving the other half for the next day. After a day of such important tasks as hopping, jumping, bouncing and wiggling, he retires to the bottom of the pond to sleep on a bed of moss and clovers as both earthworms and incests swim around him.
For now, however, the toad has clovers and weeds to content himself as gnats and flies buzz by. The grackles have all hidden in the bushes away from the sidewalk, and only the sparrows disturb his tranquility. For now, the tiny frog is truly the frog king of this universe.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Confessions of a reluctant domestic
I have a confession to make.
Promise you won't tell?
Swear you won't say anything?
Pinkie swear?
Ok, here it is: I am a reluctant domestic. While I can clean and cook with a decent ability, and I actually enjoy cooking because it involves one of my favorite things--food--I am not good at creating a "home." My mother brought over paint samples the other day, and it put me in a panic. The idea of decorating my office sends me running out of the house to the nearest pool. Throw pillows, curtains and cozy little accents make me want to take out a giant remote and change the channel to something more familiar, like writing. I can talk to you about short stories and books all day long. Pillows are another thing entirely.
Somewhere, I missed out on the domestic DNA. My mother loves to decorate, my sister is in school to be a interior designer. But the idea of creating a colorful holiday table or coordinated living room accessories simply does not connect in my brain. I get fire up over pictures, scrapbooks, photo shoots, dancing......not candles. And I try. The sad part is I really do try, and all that happens is a half-hazard attempt at an cozy and sophisticated home. Honestly, I have an idea of what I want my house to look like--I simply don't want to put the effort into making it that way. I wish I could simply wave a wand and have it appear. I get no joy out of the creative process of creating of home.
Frankly, just discussing it is making me uncomfortable. I'm going to go swim now, and avoid the magazines taunting me in my magazine holder. While my home still may scream "new adults!", at least I'll have a nice tan.
Maybe I can hire my mother and mother-in-law to do my home...............................
Promise you won't tell?
Swear you won't say anything?
Pinkie swear?
Ok, here it is: I am a reluctant domestic. While I can clean and cook with a decent ability, and I actually enjoy cooking because it involves one of my favorite things--food--I am not good at creating a "home." My mother brought over paint samples the other day, and it put me in a panic. The idea of decorating my office sends me running out of the house to the nearest pool. Throw pillows, curtains and cozy little accents make me want to take out a giant remote and change the channel to something more familiar, like writing. I can talk to you about short stories and books all day long. Pillows are another thing entirely.
Somewhere, I missed out on the domestic DNA. My mother loves to decorate, my sister is in school to be a interior designer. But the idea of creating a colorful holiday table or coordinated living room accessories simply does not connect in my brain. I get fire up over pictures, scrapbooks, photo shoots, dancing......not candles. And I try. The sad part is I really do try, and all that happens is a half-hazard attempt at an cozy and sophisticated home. Honestly, I have an idea of what I want my house to look like--I simply don't want to put the effort into making it that way. I wish I could simply wave a wand and have it appear. I get no joy out of the creative process of creating of home.
Frankly, just discussing it is making me uncomfortable. I'm going to go swim now, and avoid the magazines taunting me in my magazine holder. While my home still may scream "new adults!", at least I'll have a nice tan.
Maybe I can hire my mother and mother-in-law to do my home...............................
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Arguing with Birds... again
As I walked around the building, I saw two brown and grey streaked birds splashing in a large muddle puddle. One of the birds saw me and indignantly shouted, "Excuse me, this is our lake!"
"That's not a lake," I said, smiling down at the birds. "That's a puddle."
"No, it's a lake," one of the birds said, fluttering his wings in the water. "It's a lake with worming."
"Worming?" I asked, confused.
"Worm!" the second bird cried, diving into the puddle. He emerged seconds later clutching a struggling worm in his beak. The bird rapidly fluttered his wings as he tried to eat the worm, crying, "Worm worm worm! Wormy wormy worm!" Finally, he managed swallow the worm and hopped out of the lake, where he arrogantly shook his feathers. He looked at me and said haughtily, "Worm."
"Worm," I agreed, trying not to laugh.
"That's worming," the first bird informed me, staying in the puddle.
"Worming isn't a word," I said as the second bird pecked around the field of mud and grass.
"Is too," said the bird, who has lost interest in finding his own worm to argue with me. He hopped out of the lake and pecked the ground for a moment before he hopped back into the puddle. Once in the puddle, he began to flutter his wings wildly.
"Why do you do that?" I asked, my brow wrinkling.
"I'm swimming!" he informed me as he hopped back out of the lake. "You can't go swimming--it's my lake!"
"Worm worm worm!" cried the second bird, spying another worm. He began to run across the field as it flopped wildly in his beak, crying, "Wormy wormy worm."
"Give me that worm!" shrieked the first bird as he chased the second bird. "Gimme the worm!"
"Mine mine mine!" the second bird howled as he ran, swallowing the worm in bits as he fought to catch the falling worm bits. "Mine mine mine mine!"
During the struggle, another bird circled the puddle over head. The first bird gasped.
"My lake!" he cried, running towards the puddle. "My lake my lake my lake!" He squawked loudly at the intruding bird, who flew away.
"Why didn't you just share the puddle? I asked, feeling sorry for the dejected bird who flew away. The first bird fluttered his wings rapidly in the puddle and replied snidely, "Lakes with worming are quite exclusive. Not everyone gets them."
"Even if it's a puddle," I mumbled as I began to walk away. The bird howled in response, "Lake!" A few steps later, I heard his triumphant "Worm!" as he dove in the puddle, along with his victorious rapid thrashing of his wings. The only thing the birds like more than their worming is to argue.
"That's not a lake," I said, smiling down at the birds. "That's a puddle."
"No, it's a lake," one of the birds said, fluttering his wings in the water. "It's a lake with worming."
"Worming?" I asked, confused.
"Worm!" the second bird cried, diving into the puddle. He emerged seconds later clutching a struggling worm in his beak. The bird rapidly fluttered his wings as he tried to eat the worm, crying, "Worm worm worm! Wormy wormy worm!" Finally, he managed swallow the worm and hopped out of the lake, where he arrogantly shook his feathers. He looked at me and said haughtily, "Worm."
"Worm," I agreed, trying not to laugh.
"That's worming," the first bird informed me, staying in the puddle.
"Worming isn't a word," I said as the second bird pecked around the field of mud and grass.
"Is too," said the bird, who has lost interest in finding his own worm to argue with me. He hopped out of the lake and pecked the ground for a moment before he hopped back into the puddle. Once in the puddle, he began to flutter his wings wildly.
"Why do you do that?" I asked, my brow wrinkling.
"I'm swimming!" he informed me as he hopped back out of the lake. "You can't go swimming--it's my lake!"
"Worm worm worm!" cried the second bird, spying another worm. He began to run across the field as it flopped wildly in his beak, crying, "Wormy wormy worm."
"Give me that worm!" shrieked the first bird as he chased the second bird. "Gimme the worm!"
"Mine mine mine!" the second bird howled as he ran, swallowing the worm in bits as he fought to catch the falling worm bits. "Mine mine mine mine!"
During the struggle, another bird circled the puddle over head. The first bird gasped.
"My lake!" he cried, running towards the puddle. "My lake my lake my lake!" He squawked loudly at the intruding bird, who flew away.
"Why didn't you just share the puddle? I asked, feeling sorry for the dejected bird who flew away. The first bird fluttered his wings rapidly in the puddle and replied snidely, "Lakes with worming are quite exclusive. Not everyone gets them."
"Even if it's a puddle," I mumbled as I began to walk away. The bird howled in response, "Lake!" A few steps later, I heard his triumphant "Worm!" as he dove in the puddle, along with his victorious rapid thrashing of his wings. The only thing the birds like more than their worming is to argue.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Beauty and Light
Vie Dunn Harr, artist, stands by one of her favorite works in her studio.Over the past couple of days, I'd been feeling a bit blue. I had read a disturbing book where the first scene described a man who had been killed and was found clutching various anatomy parts in his hand and ended in middle-aged politicians engaged in a gang-banging ring. Luckily, I had ordered some books from half.com and two had come in. I dove into one, eager to forget graphic murders, betrayal and gang-banging.
Well, the book decided to take things a different direction. The second chapter killed off the woman's husband, in the third she was raped and the fourth discovered she was carrying her rapist's baby and she tried to throw herself down the stairs. Normally, I finish everything I read, no matter how weird or disturbing it is just because I have to know what happens. Not this book. I quietly put it away in the corner, not wanting to look at it.
Being the Blonde Duck in her Pink Bubble, I don't deal with darkness well. I don't like reading about tragedy and violence in women's fiction or romance stories. If I wanted to read violence, I'd pick up a novel off the fiction list. Perhaps I'm not normal in my rejection of darkness and sorrow. I know it exists, and I know it's healthy to exist. Light and darkness have to have a balance. However, it seems that most people tend to focus on the dark and negative things in life rather than the positive.
In my writing, there is a hint of negativity in the form of betrayal, lying or conflict, such as two people fighting. However, no one is ever killed, raped or violently beaten. When I first started writing, I tried to tap into all the dark and "real" stuff people say you're supposed to explore. I couldn't do it. I'm too much of a happy person to write about that, and I don't necessarily think I should. I think there's enough people out there to do it for me. Over the past few days while I've struggled to exorcise the darkness from my head, I realized my goal is to write happy stories for both women and children. I want to write fairy tales for adults and young adults to relate to. I want to show girls discovering themselves, women revealing in their strengths with or without a prince and small towns with hilarious personalities. I want my characters to be wild and zany, while touching and heartwarming.
Luckily, my fog was lifted when I met Vie Dunn Harr today. I interviewed her for work and went over to her house to take pictures. The second I met her, I knew that I was welcome. When a person meets another person, their consciences are the ones really doing the talking. Some times, you meet a person that you automatically connect to, and I felt that I connected to her. We understood each other. We talked in her studio for 2 and a half hours, and I admired her beautiful oil paintings. She's a smart and vibrant woman, and shares my strong creative strength. It's so nice for someone to understand your drive and need for your passion that so many un-creative people don't understand. You feel validated, like, "Ok, I'm not crazy for getting up at 4:30 just to write 5 pages!" We talked about husbands, art, people and everything in between. Even when I left, I felt there was much more to say.
The best part about Vie is her energy and positivity for life. She told me that an art critic in Germany once told her that she had to incorporate darkness into her paintings or it wasn't real. She told him that it was real and that there were enough people painting darkness in the world. When he said that there would never be a place for her work, she said that she would create one.
How can you not be impressed by that?
Vie paints beautiful portraits of flowers and abstracts. They are full of color and rich in exquisite technique and form. Just to look at them fills you with awe and appreciation for the beauty and nature around us. I don't care what the critics say--I agree with Vie. Life is about beauty and life, and too short to focus on the dark around us. After all, what is more beautiful than a delicate lily or iris in stunning colors? Nothing!
To see Vie's work, visit http://www.viedunn-harr.com/. It's absolutely gorgeous!
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Invasion of the Critters
Along with the sunshine and lazy days, summer brings an abundance of critters. They're back!
First, it started with the son of Fuzzy. Fuzzy, the famous inhabitant of the flower pot near the door, was a genetic freak. Bug spray, chalk, rain, sun and slamming glass doors were no match for Fuzzy. Everytime we thought he was a goner, he would appear on the screen door, taunting us with his immortality. So Ben stepped up his game. Fuzzy was thrown over the fence, into the neighbor's yard, into the trash can and into the street. It didn't even phase him. He'd be back two hours later, laughing through the glass at our feeble attempts to save him from a slow and painful death.
After the second or third round of heavy-duty bug spray, Fuzzy finally met his match. However, he left a little surprise for us--a slew of his descendants, all who frequent the same flower pot. Now, anywhere from two to three Fuzzies can be seen lounging on our glass door. It's rather comforting, actually, to wake up to a black and white arachnid glaring at you with his several eyes.
"Yo!" you can imagine him bellowing through the screen. "Where's my bugs? What's the deal? I've only had some gnats and a cricket. You trying to put me on a diet?"
While the Fuzzies have cleansed our back porch, our own collection of Little Fat Birds have kept our yard insect free. Ben has taken up spying through our back door to watch the Little Fat Birds collect on the fence. The Little Fat Birds totter on our wooden fence, eyeballing our grass thoughtfully. Their Little Fat Heads peer from side to side, searching for the worm of their choice. They turn to each other and coo, then lazily float down and peck throughout the yard.
Little Fat Bird 1: "What do you feel like today?"
Little Fat Bird 2: "I think I'll go with Earthworms. I had flys yesterday."
Little Fat Bird 1: "Flys are so fattening for you."
Little Fat Bird 2: "But they're soooo good!"
Luckily, our flowers attract kindly and beautiful floating friends. Butterflies and hummingbirds love to visit our pink flower clusters, drinking greedily before moving on. It's like happy hour for the beautiful people of the insect word. The butterflies tend to linger more than the hummingbirds, who rather sound like a coffee junkie.
"GivemegivemegivemegivemegivemegivemeNECTAR! Nownownownownownwonow! Ineedneedneedneedabuzz!"
Surprisingly, the caterpillars at Starbuck's are much more mellow, even though they are in close proximity to caffinated beverages. A pale green with yellow hair sticking out wildly around them, they slowly crawl around the white letters on the sign. Their job is to help the other insects order off the menu. For example:
Caterpillar 1: "Starbucks on Bandera. This is Callie. How may I help you?"
Jittery Wasp: "I need something to keep me awake for the rest of my life. What do you suggest?"
Caterpillar 2: "Try our bark cappuccino. It'll keep you alive for 2 days."
Jittery Wasp: "Perfect!"
Caterpillar 1: "Honey or Nectar?"
Jittery Wasp: "Nectar."
Caterpillar 2: "How many packets?"
Jittery Wasp: "2. Hey, ya'll are really fuzzy, aren't you?"
Caterpillar 1: "And you're really brown. $1.69 at the window. Please pull around."
Last but not least, let us not forget the pillbugs. The darling pillbugs who tend to curl into the fetal position whenever they're scared, nervous, angry or sad. Which happens to be all the time. The pillbugs have invaded the city, littering doorways, sidewalks and porches with their tiny grey bodies. We like the pillbugs.
So don't even bother locking your doors, sealing your windows or burning the citronella candles. No matter what you do, the gnats will circle your bananas, the flies will circle your home and Fuzzy Jr. will stare at you through your glass patio. Don't worry--it's just the invasion of the summer critters!
Happy Father's Day Daddy and Frank!
First, it started with the son of Fuzzy. Fuzzy, the famous inhabitant of the flower pot near the door, was a genetic freak. Bug spray, chalk, rain, sun and slamming glass doors were no match for Fuzzy. Everytime we thought he was a goner, he would appear on the screen door, taunting us with his immortality. So Ben stepped up his game. Fuzzy was thrown over the fence, into the neighbor's yard, into the trash can and into the street. It didn't even phase him. He'd be back two hours later, laughing through the glass at our feeble attempts to save him from a slow and painful death.
After the second or third round of heavy-duty bug spray, Fuzzy finally met his match. However, he left a little surprise for us--a slew of his descendants, all who frequent the same flower pot. Now, anywhere from two to three Fuzzies can be seen lounging on our glass door. It's rather comforting, actually, to wake up to a black and white arachnid glaring at you with his several eyes.
"Yo!" you can imagine him bellowing through the screen. "Where's my bugs? What's the deal? I've only had some gnats and a cricket. You trying to put me on a diet?"
While the Fuzzies have cleansed our back porch, our own collection of Little Fat Birds have kept our yard insect free. Ben has taken up spying through our back door to watch the Little Fat Birds collect on the fence. The Little Fat Birds totter on our wooden fence, eyeballing our grass thoughtfully. Their Little Fat Heads peer from side to side, searching for the worm of their choice. They turn to each other and coo, then lazily float down and peck throughout the yard.
Little Fat Bird 1: "What do you feel like today?"
Little Fat Bird 2: "I think I'll go with Earthworms. I had flys yesterday."
Little Fat Bird 1: "Flys are so fattening for you."
Little Fat Bird 2: "But they're soooo good!"
Luckily, our flowers attract kindly and beautiful floating friends. Butterflies and hummingbirds love to visit our pink flower clusters, drinking greedily before moving on. It's like happy hour for the beautiful people of the insect word. The butterflies tend to linger more than the hummingbirds, who rather sound like a coffee junkie.
"GivemegivemegivemegivemegivemegivemeNECTAR! Nownownownownownwonow! Ineedneedneedneedabuzz!"
Surprisingly, the caterpillars at Starbuck's are much more mellow, even though they are in close proximity to caffinated beverages. A pale green with yellow hair sticking out wildly around them, they slowly crawl around the white letters on the sign. Their job is to help the other insects order off the menu. For example:
Caterpillar 1: "Starbucks on Bandera. This is Callie. How may I help you?"
Jittery Wasp: "I need something to keep me awake for the rest of my life. What do you suggest?"
Caterpillar 2: "Try our bark cappuccino. It'll keep you alive for 2 days."
Jittery Wasp: "Perfect!"
Caterpillar 1: "Honey or Nectar?"
Jittery Wasp: "Nectar."
Caterpillar 2: "How many packets?"
Jittery Wasp: "2. Hey, ya'll are really fuzzy, aren't you?"
Caterpillar 1: "And you're really brown. $1.69 at the window. Please pull around."
Last but not least, let us not forget the pillbugs. The darling pillbugs who tend to curl into the fetal position whenever they're scared, nervous, angry or sad. Which happens to be all the time. The pillbugs have invaded the city, littering doorways, sidewalks and porches with their tiny grey bodies. We like the pillbugs.
So don't even bother locking your doors, sealing your windows or burning the citronella candles. No matter what you do, the gnats will circle your bananas, the flies will circle your home and Fuzzy Jr. will stare at you through your glass patio. Don't worry--it's just the invasion of the summer critters!
Happy Father's Day Daddy and Frank!
Friday, June 15, 2007
Swimmingly
Lately, there's been only one thing on my mind. It's been taunting me, calling me. Just the idea of it is enough to get me through the long summer days and dry air conditioning of the office. Once or twice a week after I get home from work, I step in the house and sigh in relief. It's time to go swimming.
Of course, my love of the cool water isn't enough to keep me from whining, complaining and sighing heavily when getting in. The hardest part of swimming isn't moving throughout the water, it's initially getting wet. Even when it's over 100 degrees outside, diving in that water can still be a shock. A shock that for some reason I try to minimize by dragging out as long as possible. Don't ask me to explain--I never said I was logical.
My favorite thing about summer is being able to dive into the pool anytime I wish--hot afternoons, warm evenings with the sun setting in the sky and even the mild humid mornings. I even researched floatable laptop stands and waterproof laptops, hoping I could set up shop in the pool. So far, no luck.
So with such a wonderful place to relax, I should be sliding into the pool every night. Here's the problem: I only have two swimsuits, and I despise washing them.
"Excuse me!" the Invisible Friends shout. "Duh, it's not that hard to wash a swimsuit. Get over it."
Fine, I'll admit it. I just want a new bikini. Yes, the dreaded bikini, the clothing most women run shrieking from. And it's for good reason--very few women look good in bikinis.
"Excuse me!" the Invisible Friends shout. "You're a size 6! You make us sick! Go have three babies and try to wear a bikini! You think you have cellulite now--just wait!"
Well, that is true, I have to admit. I am in good shape and have a good figure. And I still don't look good in most bikinis. Let's just say the term udders comes to mind when I check out most top selections. According to T.V., magazines, and dozens of fashion designers, finding a bikini guaranteed to lift, separate and flatter shouldn't be hard. These people live in a bigger bubble than I ever thought of creating. If you flatter your chest, you don't do justice to your rear. If you flatter your real, your chest is flopping everywhere like a dead fish. And don't even get me started on thongs.
The real reason we should hate bikinis is because the French invented them. The same people that invented tasty little treats like French Fries, French Toasts, quiches, dozens of tarts and pastries, certain cakes and quiche wants us all to wear a creation essentially made out of shoe string and a kleenex. Yet--we should still be able to indulge and eat like the French, focusing on quality versus quality. Excuse me, 1 piece of French Toast is not quality, it's a tease. I need two or three before I'm happy. Don't even get me started on quiches--my cholesterol is trembling in fear at the mention of them.
However, there is a way to escape the self-indulgent and insecure world of fashion. It's called swimming. After one dip into that cool oasis of water as you slowly glide through, and you don't care if you're wearing a wet suit or a bikini. You just care about the water gliding over your muscles as you swim across the bottom of the pool like a frog. A pool is a very relaxing thing. I've got to go--it's calling me.
Of course, my love of the cool water isn't enough to keep me from whining, complaining and sighing heavily when getting in. The hardest part of swimming isn't moving throughout the water, it's initially getting wet. Even when it's over 100 degrees outside, diving in that water can still be a shock. A shock that for some reason I try to minimize by dragging out as long as possible. Don't ask me to explain--I never said I was logical.
My favorite thing about summer is being able to dive into the pool anytime I wish--hot afternoons, warm evenings with the sun setting in the sky and even the mild humid mornings. I even researched floatable laptop stands and waterproof laptops, hoping I could set up shop in the pool. So far, no luck.
So with such a wonderful place to relax, I should be sliding into the pool every night. Here's the problem: I only have two swimsuits, and I despise washing them.
"Excuse me!" the Invisible Friends shout. "Duh, it's not that hard to wash a swimsuit. Get over it."
Fine, I'll admit it. I just want a new bikini. Yes, the dreaded bikini, the clothing most women run shrieking from. And it's for good reason--very few women look good in bikinis.
"Excuse me!" the Invisible Friends shout. "You're a size 6! You make us sick! Go have three babies and try to wear a bikini! You think you have cellulite now--just wait!"
Well, that is true, I have to admit. I am in good shape and have a good figure. And I still don't look good in most bikinis. Let's just say the term udders comes to mind when I check out most top selections. According to T.V., magazines, and dozens of fashion designers, finding a bikini guaranteed to lift, separate and flatter shouldn't be hard. These people live in a bigger bubble than I ever thought of creating. If you flatter your chest, you don't do justice to your rear. If you flatter your real, your chest is flopping everywhere like a dead fish. And don't even get me started on thongs.
The real reason we should hate bikinis is because the French invented them. The same people that invented tasty little treats like French Fries, French Toasts, quiches, dozens of tarts and pastries, certain cakes and quiche wants us all to wear a creation essentially made out of shoe string and a kleenex. Yet--we should still be able to indulge and eat like the French, focusing on quality versus quality. Excuse me, 1 piece of French Toast is not quality, it's a tease. I need two or three before I'm happy. Don't even get me started on quiches--my cholesterol is trembling in fear at the mention of them.
However, there is a way to escape the self-indulgent and insecure world of fashion. It's called swimming. After one dip into that cool oasis of water as you slowly glide through, and you don't care if you're wearing a wet suit or a bikini. You just care about the water gliding over your muscles as you swim across the bottom of the pool like a frog. A pool is a very relaxing thing. I've got to go--it's calling me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
