It’s one of those days where I have been warm, truly warm, for only a few minutes. At the end of my run this morning, I started to break a sweat, despite the chilly 38 degree temp and maybe, just maybe my feet thawed.
Then in the shower, I defrosted momentarily, but upon exiting, returned to afore-mentioned frozen status.
It’s my own fault. My favorite socks were dirty so I went without.
Decided to stink up my loafers and go foot commando.
I thought I would be so bold and cheeky in my sockless state, a brazen message to the world that I can handle adversity.
But I was wrong. I am a whiner. A sniveler.
A fair-haired Popsicle whiling away the day dreaming of a roaring fire, a cuppa tea, an enthralling read, and oh yes…
I was a journalism major in college, and then a theatre major, moved to political science, and finally graduated with a degree in history. My BA should have an MA in ADD. Summing up all my skills, I think this qualifies me to write a little about a lot or maybe a lot of nonsense. I found out the other day nonsense is actually a language and you don’t need Rosetta Stone to become proficient at it. My daughter and her friend were in the back of the car arguing about whether it was a real language or not. So we looked it up on Wikipedia. Turns out my daughter was right. Nonsense is real as much as reality sometimes seems like nonsense.
An example of nonsense: when you are just on the verge of falling asleep and you say random things to your spouse with absolutely no context for the current conversation. Our subconscious mind on the edge of slumber can turn the most articulate person into a babbling fool. Oh, if only we had tape recorders in those moments. I love it when my husband snuggles into the pillow, then blurts out, “What did the guy in green the car say?”
I think he said, “You’re out of gas, Mr. Over-tired!”
Literary nonsense takes it one step further and for a writer is a cornucopia of delicious words to play with. In its essence, literary nonsense is contradiction using correct grammar that results in any lack of meaning. The saying, “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously” penned by Noam Chomsky is an example of nonsense.
So in honor of fall, autumn and the pure love of spooky words , here is a stab at some Jabberwocky(a poem of nonsense).
The jack-o-lanterns menacing grin lulled the small child into a state of tranquility.
The sweet comfort of terror filling the night with peace.
Snickers and candy corn creating a cacophony of song
My family moved into a suburban neighborhood like no other this last year.
It is akin to Wisteria lane on steroids.
Currently there are 49 children on our block. Our home, a taupe colored shingled Craftsman, sits on the corner with a large wrap around porch and is dead center in the hub of activity.
Summer nights are filled with shrieks and laughter, street barbecues and ditch’em, hide and seek and babies in diapers crawling around on the grass as mommies linger outside to milk in the last rays of light.
Every fantasy I envisioned of a loving community of people doing life together has been more than fulfilled when I look out my window in the morning and see neighbors smiling and waving.
Coming from a cramped condo with three kids, there aren’t enough words to describe this bliss. Now as Fall approaches, we are being indoctrinated into a new series of neighborhood rituals.
The Halloween decorations are beginning to pop up…pumpkins and spiders, webs and ghouls. The trees are glowing with orange jack-o-lantern lights and scarecrows smiling at sinister zombies.
Our street is reminiscent of a Normal Rockwell painting juxtaposed with cheap Costco decorations. It is Americana at it’s finest…awesome and over commercialized.
A few nights ago, I was at home cuddled up on the sofa writing. My older kids and husband were at sports practice,while the baby played at my feet and dismantled the neatly kept playroom, one toy at a time. Out of the blue, the doorbell rang and I heard leaves crunching, feet running away and heavy breathing.
I nervously peered out the peephole, and saw nothing but ominous darkness. Wisteria lane had become Hysteria Lane in my mind as I conjured up home invasions and kidnappers. I bolted the door and walked to the window. Then it rang again, but this time I spied little feet running away and ascertained that it was a small child and probably not a big threat. I slowly opened the door and looked around. In front of the doorstep was a big bag filled with goodies.
Inside the BOO bag were Halloween crafts, pumpkin decorating tools, outdoor decorations, candy, shoelaces and a letter. It explained that we needed to display an orange pumpkin cutout that said BOO on our home and within two days repeat this activity to two neighbors. If the plan worked, by Halloween our whole neighborhood would be a BOO friendly zone, and every child would share in the excitement.
My kids were so excited when they came home and quickly dug into their booty. Then we plotted and planned who would be the recipient of our booing.
Choosing which neighbors to BOO was the hard part, but we unanimously decided upon the new family across the street, with two little ones and our neighbor behind us, who is a widowed father. First we assembled the bags. Dog bones, pretzels, ghost marshmallows, assorted candy and freshly baked cookies for the neighbor behind us. For the young family we found Halloween cut-outs, plastic spiders, candy, cookies and toy boats handmade for their toddler boy. We giggled and delighted in our efforts, then headed out the door on a mission to spook our neighbors and bless them.
First, we hit the neighbors with the little kids. They live in a beautiful yellow clapboard home with a white picket fence and large front yard. A little red baby swing hangs from the eaves of their porch and toys are scattered askew.
My son slowly opened their front gate, tip-toed up to the door, rang the doorbell and bolted. The baby and I watched from our front window, while my daughter hid behind a car in their driveway with my son. The young dad peered out his front door, but didn’t see anyone. They have a beveled glass top door, so we were fortunate to be able to watch his reactions.
He looked around suspiciously, then slowly opened the door and spied the BOO bag. He looked around again as my kids, hiding in his driveway stifled guffaws, then picked up the bag and upon realizing it was a surprise, called out for his little boy and they happily tore into the bag. Mission accomplished! We tricked them and then treated them…mmmm, I wonder if that’s how it all started?
House number two was a different type of BOO. Not long before we moved in, our neighbor behind us had lost his wife to cancer. He was still living in her dream home, a romantic Spanish style abode with a lush yard and arched entryway. His daughter, a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, had moved home to help with her mother’s care in the last days. She is still living with him, and slowly recapturing her spirit after the devastation. The younger son is in college but also lives at home. He doesn’t smile much and keeps his distance. They are fragile, at best, and we desperately wanted to make things better. So we BOO’d them. A simple but intentional move to show them we cared.
Our plan was to plant our nine month old baby on the doorstep, armed with a glow stick and the BOO bag. I hid closely behind the arch as we rang the bell. But in our sneaky plans, we forgot about their dog. Bullet, a large Siberian Husky bounded up to the door barking furiously. In a flash, I grabbed the baby who started crying. Tim opened the door and there I stood…with a crying baby, a BOO bag, and two older kids yelling at me, “abort, abort.”.
I was a BOO failure!
Then Tim called the dog off and asked me what I was doing. Before I could say anything, he saw the bag. “Are you BOOing me?” he asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t do a very good job,” I said.
He didn’t say anything more, took the bag from my hands and slowly shut the door. Just before it closed he looked up at me and smiled.
So , maybe our covert operation was more awkward than finely tuned, but our hearts were full and our souls nourished as we headed home. The BOOing had allowed us, for a moment in time, to be a part of something bigger and to step out of the ordinary and mundane in our lives. We learned that being a neighbor isn’t just about living in a neighborhood…it’s about engaging in the stories of humanity. Mr. Rogers put it this way, “If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”
And as I drifted off to sleep that night, a familiar song of childhood came to mind… “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Won’t you be my neighbor?”
Sometimes it rains on our parade. Stuff happens. Life is hard. Disappointments are inevitable. Tears fall like raindrops. But, when Muno is sad, his Gabba friends find him an umbrella and teach him how to dance in the rain.
Don’t bite your friends! Biting hurts our friends. Take out your aggression on some watermelon.
I have never seen a chubby guy in orange tights rock it like Jack Black! Who knew a sexy jig could make it on Nick Jr.? Take note Katy Perry. Time to switch networks.
There is an inside voice and an outside voice. Our job is to figure out when it’s ok to be obnoxiously loud and when we need to whisper our snide comments.
When in doubt, make a funny face! Laugh like a hyena. Giggle uncontrollably. Pee your pants and fall down. If you need help on this…go back to lesson #3 and watch Jack Black. Hysterical
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid! Nuff said!
Team work is good. If you and your Duck buddies work together, you too could steal the University of Washington Helmut Golf Cart and light it on fire. I’m not saying you should…I’m just saying.
Just dance. My name is Sam and I like to dance! Show off your moves in a t-shirt with your favorite Gabba. I like Roby. He is the little green one with the long arms.
Drawing is fun. Find your inner artist. Create. Be fully alive. Use crayons.
There is a DJ who controls the music. He pushes the buttons, teaches the lessons, and eventually puts all the characters back in the box. Smart Gabba’s get to know the DJ!
My baby decided to start talking. After almost nine months of love, care and devotion, my little princess took her “first step” in verbal communication and moved beyond baby babble to string two words together.
I should be happy about this momentous developmental milestone but I find myself struggling. This is the sweet little baby girl who nursed at my bosom, took 22 hours to deliver, and who watches the 4:30am early show with me each day over a bottle and coffee(while daddy sleeps).
After endless rounds of poopy diapers and my shoes covered in spit up, mama thought she might get some love. But to my dismay, the little angel that I dress in Carters with matching bows, play endless rounds of peek-a-boo with, and carry around in a sling like a kangaroo… shouted across a football field for all to hear, “Hi Da Da!”
My baby is a traitor.
When I try to get her to say “Hi Mama,” she smiles a big gummy grin, her one baby tooth poking through, and enunciates very carefully…”Hi Da Da.”
My husband loves every minute of Baby Benedict Arnold.
He proudly announced to our friends tonight that the baby prefers him, and then he chortled and winked at me. We both know who does the heavy lifting for our little bundle of joy and his delight in the baby’s recognition of him is both genuine and tongue in cheek. He is careful to remind me of our deep connection and though his words are reassuring, baby’s first sentence has touched on something deeper than a daddy vs. mommy competition…my baby is growing up.
Despite his incessant goading, I can understand why my husband is so jazzed. The bond between a mother and baby is formidable and all too often daddy’s feel left out. The baby cries when mommy leaves and daddy begins to both anticipate and dread time alone with her. And though some dad’s are the primary caregiver and nurturer, most dad’s are just biding their time with baby until they are strong enough to be launched in the air and can play catch with. As baby made a move towards him, he felt validated as a father and respected for his contribution.
So baby’s shout out to dad was as much a developmental milestone for her as it was for mom and dad. For mom it represents the first in a long line of moments of baby separating and becoming independent. Baby chooses what she wants to say and asserts her burgeoning sense of self. For dad, her words represent the promise of a deeper relationship as she moves out of infancy and becomes a little person capable of interaction.
And though I am still waiting for “Hi mama,” I can look into her innocent little eyes and delight at her achievement, while subtlety ignoring my husband’s heckling.
I have a large mole on my head. My son calls it the unicorn. It’s not too obvious because my bangs cover it. It sits dead center on my head at my hairline. Like a hairy mole on a witch, individual follicles have actually begun to sprout through it.
At best, this puppy is ugly and at worst possibly cancerous. I do my best to hide it and maintain a façade of attractiveness, but I know if the wind blows the wrong way or I am having a bad hair day, the repugnant sucker will make an appearance. Generally, I am confident about the way I look, so I like to think of it as an anomaly.
This mole is the yin to my yang. It’s like my dirty little secret. I have mixed feelings about it. I hate it and yet I love it.
Today I have a momentous appointment at the dermatologist. The unicorn is going to be biopsied and will be removed. Now I will just have a large hole in my head and possibly less hair. I am happy to not have an eraser sized object to catch my comb on. I am sad that my outer ugly will be leaving me. As a teen or even in my twenties, this mole would have derailed me. I was so self-conscious and bent on image management. It’s a good thing it appeared in my thirties.
Now approaching 40 (38 to be exact), it represents a massive paradigm shift. It is the embracement of my entire self, the good, the bad and the hideous. Alas, my vanity has begun to fade with the acceptance of age, gravity and the scars of a life well lived.
So goodbye Mr. Unicorn! I will miss you. But, I am confident that the large crater in my head will be a good replacement for you. Come to think of it, now I will have a secret place to store my loose change and skittles!
Note*** (Three years later) It actually healed very well. No crater, no gaping hole, and I like my being able to pull my hair back. Why didn’t I do it earlier?
