It’s been far too long since I’ve done a “Zombie Post” so I’m doing it now. I picked this one for no reason other than I liked it. No rhyme or reason, it just jumped out at me. Enjoy.
Come along for the ride as I take my first stab at the “pretty much world famous”…
Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle. And awaaaaaaay we go!
I’m obviously choosing prompt #2, Before I was a mom…
I had a great conversation with my nephew about the value of the high school yearbook. He actually has many different ideas about all high school things. I noticed in high school that, for many students, yearbooks are either something to get every single year, or not at all. Some students buy a yearbook no matter what, but others completely refuse every year. Students always are told, “you’ll want a yearbook to look back on!”, but being young it’s hard to actually decide if that’s true or worthwhile.
Why buy a yearbook?
Having a yearbook is a cool way to be able to look back on the year, yearbook will be a nice thing to remember.
Looking back at pictures of yourself and your friends at different points in your lives can be pretty fun, and a great way to reminisce.
1. One book that changed your life The Diary of Anne Frank. I found it tucked away in the secretary at my family’s cottage one day and asked my mom if I could read it. She hesitated, knowing the content of the book and that I was only a few years younger than Anne when she started her diary, but ended up letting me. I sat on the back beach in an Adirondack chair with the book in my lap and fell head-first into her world, a world that I didn’t know ever existed until then. Her story absolutely changed my outlook on life and how I viewed and treated other people.
2. One book you’ve read more than once She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb. God, I love Dolores. I read it around the time of my mother’s liver transplant and it was the only thing that kept me from going right off the deep end.
3. One book you’d want on a desert island Besides How to Get the Fuck Off Of a Desert Island? The Complete Works of Shakespeare wouldn’t be too bad for me to have kickin’ around because there’s quite a bit of Shakespeare that I haven’t read yet, and I’d have time on a desert island, wouldn’t I? I also wouldn’t mind having Fall on Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald with me either. That book is fucking amazing.
For some reason humans have some gene that wants to make simple issues complex. Over complicating. Making something bigger than it is. Creating a mountain out of a molehill.
Take my niece for example, she dropped out of high school and now 2 years later she decided she wants to go the college. There are many successful people who had a similar path, right? I decided to help her in this process, so we started to look for the best resources. There are several free websites that offer GED instruction, practices tests and even video lessons. We favored one website that offers also free online GED practice tests and lessons. This worked pretty well for her until my niece started to have doubts about everything, her ability to learn, her future plans, books and websites. She wanted to argue about everything!
Labyrinth by snugsomeone on DeviantArt
My grandmother is in the hospital. My father, her closest able-bodied relative, has been at her house since the weekend and is exhausted. We’re not sure exactly what is going on right now but it looks like an assisted living facility is going to have to be seriously considered for her, which will go over like a lead cloud.
My uncle is also in the hospital and it’s not looking good. At all. I’m slightly concerned that the only things my daughter wants to eat, ever, are peanut butter and jelly and turkey and cheese sandwiches, bowls of cereal and oatmeal, noodles with butter and Kraft Dinner. Mealtimes with her are getting increasingly difficult as she gets older, bossier and more belligerent. Dave is swamped at work, absolutely swamped, which is making him cranky.
So when I asked him at 7.30 this morning to please run to the corner store for the soy milk he promised to get last night because it was pouring rain and the kids were still in their Jammes and Oliver always has a bottle in the morning, and mentioned I was sure the good people he works with would manage to live without him for the five extra minutes getting me the fucking carton of soy milk he was supposed to get me yesterday would take, it didn’t go over well.
Last week I had a very powerful dream about my mother. I wrote about it later on in the day and immediately felt that okay, I got it out of me feeling afterward. I thought about posting it but I hesitated because it was about a side of my mother that I don’t like to talk about much.
I’ve always felt she had two sides: there was my mom who called me Lambie and Chickie and loved me unconditionally, who dropped everything to help me and stood by me no matter what, the person I loved so much it hurt sometimes. And then there was my mother, The Alcoholic.
Every day around lunchtime Julia starts asking if she can wait on the porch for Dave to get home from work. She asks me about six thousand times between then and four-fifteen, when I finally let her go outside to listen for Dave’s truck as it chugs its way up the street.
Last week was rather long and arduous and by the time 4p.m. rolled around on Friday I was ready to jump on the weekend like a fat kid on a Smartie. Oliver was cranky and clumsy, on an all-day mission to wind up in a body cast and Julia, at her whiny and emotional best, had been crying for goddamn ever because she wanted to wait on the porch for Dave.
It’s a lazy summer day, the perfect day for a barbeque, for celebrating fathers and friends; we apply sunscreen, slip on sandals and make sure to grab our sunhats before we lock the door. We’ve been looking forward to Papa’s annual Father’s Day barbeque all week; the kids are excited and Dave and I are ready to kick back and eat good food that we didn’t have to make ourselves.
Although the backyard is fenced, the front and side yards aren’t and everyone keeps their eyes on Oliver, who by now has earned his reputation as a curious, busy little bee – “A typical boy,” we hear the most. It’s mostly me who follows behind him like a lost puppy, making sure he doesn’t take sips of something he shouldn’t, herding him away from the row of cars parked on the grass, keeping him out of purses and the dog’s water and the coffee can ashtray.
Oliver is drawn to the side lot, where a mean game of lawn darts is in action, and I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching him as he mingles, charming the pants off of friends relaxing in lawn chairs, striking up conversation; being cute.
Exhaustion walloped me upside the head last night a few strokes after ten. I read for a bit before flipping through the channels to find something mindless to watch, because I have a hard time falling asleep without the TV on. I turned down such engaging shows as Family Feud and Blind Date before settling on a movie, the perfect movie to watch in the dark, alone, before calling it a night:
The Amityville Horror. (The new one, with Ryan Reynolds, who is quite convincing as a fucked-up, possessed, totally ripped madman – say what you want about the movie or about Reynolds himself, but his often-flauntedupper body looks pretty damn mint in this flick. ::swoon::) Anyway. Where was I? Right – lying in bed alone in the dark watching The Amityville Horror. I know. I know. Not really the most relaxing, I’m going to be dreaming about fluffy bunnies and sweet-smelling babies kind of choice there, eh? It’s just…I love scary movies. I can’t not watch a scary movie (unless it’s The Hills Have Eyes, in which case I’ll run out of the room screaming while ripping out clumps of my hair, because that movie scared the daylights out of me.)