dar liomsa (in my opinion)

Talk to any experienced writer and he or she will tell you, reading helps.

Reading and writing are friends, good friends.

In order to write, one must read and often.

One must unlock the creative door by looking at words strung together by someone worthy enough of being published, or not.

50 Shades of Grey may debunk that myth.

The popular chick-lit/soft porn self- published bestseller is all the rage.

I even spotted a gray haired woman in the doctor's office with one tucked under her arm.

In fact, it's so hip it's un-hip, I believe.

Having teenagers taught me that.

Something can only be cool for so long, then it becomes completely uncool, almost as fast.

It's hard to stay on top of these things, but I try.

Also, I'm glad I did not waste a moment of my life on 'Gray' and all of it's new un-cool-ness.

My husband asked me a question this weekend, that he will soon not ask me again.

"Why don't you put on shorts?"

Such a simple question yet such a loaded one.

He had no idea what pile of crap he had stepped in, he usually doesn't.

Who would?

Who would think a simple question about clothing could start a 10- minute rant?

But it did.

Why don't I just wear shorts?

Oh sure it's that simple isn't it?

Let's just assume I have shaved my legs today, or that my varicose veins aren't bulging, or that the measly two pairs I bought myself last summer even fit.

Let's assume all of that for one minute.

Now let's wonder and hope that my stark white legs, that have yet to see the sun this season, aren't going to blind small children.

Let's hope.

"I'm sorry I asked."

"I guess a bathing suit is out of the question?"

 

 

My friend and I have been trying to solve the world's problems.

We have been very focused on this activity.

This is how we do it. Each day after dropping off the kids at school, we lace up our sneakers and walk.

We walk for a solid 45 minutes.

These walks are not about speed, not about accuracy, they are about getting out and moving.

While we walk, we talk.

We talk about everything and anything.

At the end of each walk we declare that since we have not yet solved the world's problems we will walk again tomorrow.

As long as there are problems and people to discuss, we will walk.

If any pounds are shed in the process, well that's a bonus.

We've been reminded lately, that stupidity is not a crime.

But, I think it should be.

If you watch the news, you know what I mean.

Men throwing babies into washing machines,or  couples feuding over wedding expenses or dog custody after a break up.

Many crimes are not punishable by law. They are merely stupid people caught on tape.

Stupidity caught on tape has been the premise for many a reality show (ie: Jersey Shore)

I believe, in this country, we like stupid.

It's the core of every Springer episode, or Maury "who's the daddy" debate.

We watch, apparently.

Whether we watch in disgust or delight, we watch.

We are all getting something out of it, or we wouldn't watch.

Maybe it's the feeling we get as watch, the feeling that we are indeed smarter than someone else.

The old, let me watch you and your problems, so mine don't seem so bad.

Whatever it is, it works.

Stupid sells.

Mom Guilt

I don't remember ever inviting her, this mom-guilt. I don't appreciate how she washes over me every day.

When did I start to allow the guilt in? The acceptance of  feeling guilty for indulging myself in simple pleasures.

By that I do mean the extra five minutes in the shower to shave unwanted hair, or the occasional trip to the nail salon to be talked about in another language and bonus, get a manicure. Or the rare instance when I decide to prop up my feet and dive into a good book.

Mom guilt is always lurking.

She stands there with her hands on her apron-ed hips, wagging her finger. Isn't there something else you should be doing right now? , she says.

Who invited that bitch?

Leave me  alone.

I earned this chocolate bar and five minute break, dammit.

I've had enough of her crap.

When I talked to my kids  about my latest freelance writing gig, they didn't seem impressed.

Basically, like most kids, they needed to know that their life wouldn't be altered by mommy's new job.

You'll still drive us to school in your pajamas? Pick us up after? Pack our lunches and cook our dinner? Good.

They didn't seem at all concerned.

Until I overheard them talking.

My youngest expressed his deep concern that 'mom will be too busy now to do her chores, and our house could end up on an episode of Hoarders'.

Duly noted, children.

This past weekend was filled with bright sunshine and warm temperatures.

Two days of spring bliss.

In our house, the beautiful weather was accompanied by a clear schedule.

No games, no birthday parties, no emergency room visits.

Two days of telling our three children to 'get out and stay out'.

Yes, even on warm weather days, kids have to be told to go out and enjoy it.

Dogs too.

Our forever shedding dog was forced outside.

Forced, as if lying in the green grass is punishment.

As if backyard wiffle ball or having a catch are not enjoyable.

Seriously?

A few minutes of 'when I was a kid' stories' sent them all packing.

"And don't come in until the street lights are on!", we yelled, as they ran away.

 

When you escort a loved one to the Emergency Room, you feel obliged to let others know.

The frantic phone call is usually placed once you've signed in and answered all the necessary questions.

Then, the speed dialing begins.

The phone calls you make to let everyone know that you indeed are in the emergency room and have little or no information beyond that.

Being in the ER conveys that you have a situation you felt needed to be handled immediately. A possible broken bone, chest pains, maybe even a splinter?

Yes, that is what brought me to the ER last week. A splinter.

A fiberglass splinter that never exited my finger as a wood splinter would have.

A wood splinter knows how to find its way ourtof one's body, fiberglass>,it just swells and sits stubbornly residing bringing on infection and hysteria.

I drove myself  as the rest of my family slept. I drove myself because the pain was too much to bare and try as I might to squeeze it like pimple, that splinter wasn't budging.

The triage nurse reprimanded me for harboring a fiberglass splinter for so long. Okay, like I meant to wait that long?

Listen lady, I' ve got three kids, a dog, a husband, and a busy little league schedule, I forgot I even had that finger until it started to swell, just fix it and send me home please.

Oh no, first you must sit and try not to eavesedrop on all of these interesting stories brewing here in the ER, eventually we will slice your finger open, take out the splinter,  bandage you up and  send you home.

And thats exactly what they did.

I sat for close to three hours in the middle of the nurse's staiuomns (all the beds were take) not looking at all like a patient. Not many poeple notoced my swollen finger, so passersby didn't mind asking me where the bathroom was, or how to find the cafeteria.

I didn't  have the appearance of an ER patient.

If you didnt know any better you would think I was just a nosy blogger, looking for material.

But I wasnt, I was a person in pain with a puffed up finger, people.

Have some sympathy.

And? I was there alone.

 Noone with me to place that g=frnatic ER phone call.

I didn't even check in on foursquare or update my twitter status.

It was my little secret adventure.

Once I arrived home with an ace bandage and prescription? the jig was up.

A recent mini van vacuuming session revealed more than crumbs and sticky things.

It made me realize what a poor car keeper I am.

I suppose it's because I rarely invite anyone into my van.

Granted, I do provide the occasional ride to an extra kid to and from school and sports. But kids don't care.

It's only when I am obliged to transport another adult that I consider the cleanliness inside my vehicle.

Apparently I can look past the filth each day as I run circles around this town.

Looking closer with a more critical eye, I see the dust, dirt, snack remnants, and broken kids meal toys for what they are. Filth.

I would never let my home reach this level of filth but for some reason I allow it in my car.

Had I ever let my living room carpet pile up with hairy M&M's and kernels of popcorn mixed with baseball cleat stench, I probably would have had my children removed from my custody years ago.

Don't judge me by my car's interior becasue it is not a true picture.

And while you're at it don't judge me on my  physical appearance either.

When you see me in the supermarket in my favorite sweatpants, know that it's because I have been cleaning my house all day ( my car not so much), but regardless of how I may appear, I am a clean person.

Really.

What did your husband think about that blog post you wrote about him?

Are you kidding me? My husband doesn't read my blog.

I don't think he  really believes I have a blog.

He thinks that when I am pounding away on my laptop,  I am discretely looking up photos of old boyfriends on facebook.

Really?

Really.

He has no idea what I write about him on my blog, even though it's always good stuff.

Of course.

He doesn't realize every night, while everyone sleeps, I sit alone with my thoughts and try to compile a meaningful blog.

Sometimes my focus is the news, sometimes overheard conversations, and often times the goings-on in this house.

He has no idea what I do.

And, those old boyfriends on facebook?

 Let me tell you.

Time has not been their friend.