After reading Erika’s post over at Dorky Mom Doodles, I almost commented in 700 words, but then I realized, I could reply in my very own blog and hold all my readers hostage instead.
Four kids. Three of my kids could get awards in tidiness avoidance.
Sissy was the tidiest one. Her thing was definitely to put things in a place, just not necessarily consistently in the right place. I’d say crazy things like, “Why don’t we put the jewelry in the jewelry box and tights in the sock drawer? Maybe we don’t want doll clothes in the desk?” Still, she kept the floor clean and made her bed. Shoes all in a row.
She would do clean naughty things, like rearrange the pantry and misplace foods she didn’t care for.
The rest of them, to varying degrees, have been slobby.
Bubba had been tidy. I dunno. He went from being one of those kids who separated his white socks from his dark socks to one of those kids wherein you open his door and your mother comes out of your mouth and you talk about pig sties and drawin bugs and “HOW DO YOU EVEN FIND ANYTHING!?” Many, many times, I helped him clean and organize his room before I decided that he was a good kid, wasn’t in trouble, made the grades, and if he wanted to live in filth, perhaps that was none of my business.
I know, I know, I could’ve made him meet my expectations. I’m sure you’re very disappointed in me.
It was easy to see why he didn’t like to clean his room. He had no attention span, plus, by the time he regretted his mess, it’d be overwhelming. Think Absent-Minded Professor. Natural consequences won out, and he’s not a walking disaster now.
Now, Bubba comes home to visit and complains about his sisters. This boy one who peed all over their bathroom as a kid is now rather irritated by straightening irons and wet washcloths.
In Sassy’s defense, her room is crowded. Her room is taken up by larger furniture with AMPLE STORAGE. In teenager, ‘ample storage’ translates to ‘unseen’ and is therefore threatening to one’s sense of self-expression. To truly be loved, all the belongings of Sassy must be visible for worship at all times. We must all walk on the clothes, blankets, and stuffed animals that live in such a wonderland of demonstration. But look out for glasses in the plush zoo, because Sassy’s a cup hoarder like no other. I think it’s a recessive gene from her auntie, who was the same at her age. Let me help you understand: If all the glass tumblers are clean and in the cabinet, there’s not actually room for them. Usually the shelf is empty by half.
Sassy’s too busy to clean, so generally it’s “You can’t go until your room is clean.”
Again, I can’t complain, she’s a good kid who makes the grades and stays out of trouble. So she lives like a messy vampire with a stuffie fetish and an insatiable thirst for swate tay, whaddya gonna do?
Moo is basically Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Even when she ‘cleans’ her room, it’s not clean and it often has a smell. “How wet was that towel when it died on the floor?” “Did a cat puke in here?” “Phew! Is this a nail salon?” Moo’s usual methods for clean room avoidance are “It’s not that bad,” and “I have homework.” Actually, Moo uses homework as an excuse to try to get out of everything… and she goes to bed first, like, willingly, even though she knows the towels in the dryer are hers to fold… and there’s still a basket of jeans outside her door…
Moo was the first kid to ask, “If Bubba’s room can be messy, why can’t mine?” This is dangerous territory for parents. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I truly believe Bubba gave Moo lessons in how to make and hide messes. But she’s a good kid, stays out of trouble, eats her broccoli, and makes good grades.
My own room is not dirty or messy. But, if you walk over to my side of the bed, the non-murder-you-can’t-see-it-from-the-doorway side, you may find assorted discarded pajamas on the floor. You will absolutely find ten thousand used kleenexes, a dozen hairbands, and if you look closely enough — maybe crawl around on the floor — you might find the remote I never can.
Rumor has it that I was a slobby kid. I don’t know if that’s true, because my parents are neat freaks. In terms of kids’ rooms cleaner and tidier than my own kid room, I remember only two, The Mister’s and Kiwi’s — and their parents are also neat freaks. Our kids say we are, but they’re wrong, they’re slobby and wrong! They tell us their friends’ rooms are much worse, but we don’t know.
I’d ask you if you’re slobby or accused of being a neat freak, but the truth is, I don’t care, cause you don’t live here. Still, feel free to comment.
My announcement came as “I’m banning y’all from the living room now.”
They got up and left in a huff.
Fake passive-aggressive commentary on my lack of love for them.
This is THE QUIET ROOM, People!
Yesterday just meeting some friends at the mall turned into spending the night with Zoe and then come home to get stuff and oh Shay’s coming with but also we need to drive to Shay’s house so she can get her stuff too, so I put on the bra and the pants and the shoes and drove them to Shay’s house, where I was informed I wasn’t waiting for Shay to get her stuff, because Shay’s mom would drive them to Zoe’s and then today I was informed they’d be home early and also Shay would be returning to our house until her mom comes to fetch her later.
I am no stranger to their breathless run-on sentences. I often exhale them myself.
I’ve done all this before.
From both sides now.
They’re masterminds, teenage girls are.
They’ve got agendas.
They’ve completed their homework.
They’ve pooled their money.
They’ve carefully selected the right clothes and accessories.
They’ve packed their bags with stuffies and hairbands and blankets.
They’ve crafted a presentation.
Most importantly, they know which parents to target for each plot line in the facilitation of their agenda.
I don’t worry about their leadership or problem-solving skills. Teenage girls devise a plan to be with nine friends in eight places over the course of three days and by golly, they make it happen!
“…teenagers scare the livin shit outta me…”
The boy one was not like this as a teenager. Bubba was far less social. Rarely, he came down and asked, “Can I go to Justin’s?” and we said yes and then I tried to convince him to wear a hoodie in case he got cold and he took his hoodie to the car and I drove him to Justin’s, where he left his hoodie in the car, and he called when he wanted to come home later. When he came home, he reported an “Okay” time even though he and Justin did “Nothing.”
The girls do not do nothing and their somethings spread their emotions from one side of the spectrum to the other. And they want to tell you all about it because they’re little women.
I’ve been trying to collect my swirling thoughts, but there were too many people in the room and Sassy’s feet were on my sofa cushion and people were laughing interjections, squealing fragments of had-to-be-there jokes and I couldn’t catch my thoughts at all. I was probably going to write some profoundly brilliant shit today, but instead, this.
Perhaps the profundity of this post is my own acknowledgement that during my years as a teenage mastermind, lifetime friendships were forged. In this time, this squealing, giggling, insecure, crying, learning, emergent time, friendships deepen.
That friendship may save them a thousand times over for the rest of their lives.
I had to tell you all about it, and with run-ons, because woman.
I gotta tell ya, I’ve been tired this week. I got about 15 hours of overnight sleep, and I had three naps, one so long and hard, I slobbered and snored. BUT! I must admit, it’s been a pleasant week. Despite early mornings and excessive driving, I feel *whispers* almost sweet. Not Nice Lady Blog sweet, and not all the way sweet, but kinda sweet. And tired. In my own voice, I would say I is tarrrrred.
I’ve had lovely interchanges with the other humans. I’ve gone to peopling places quite a bit and PEOPLE HAVE BEEN NICE. Nice receptionists, nice clerks, nice parents, nice strangers in line. Even people on the phone have been nice.
I don’t know how long this will last. I’m hoping it’s a trend.
Maybe when temperatures dropped Hoosiers were just so happy to porch sit and sleep with open windows, they could not help but cast their happiness upon others.
This week, my darkest moment of despair was that I couldn’t find the bacon in the Aldi they’re renovating. But then I found it! It was all okay!
Even social media has been brighter this week. I was cheered by posts about cuckoo clocks, excess kittens, children’s peace flags — and everything on Instagram was about ten times prettier this week. I LIKE TO LOOK AT PRETTY THINGS.
My parents have been working hard days on the hurricane damage, and then at night, they have odd, makeshift meals with their neighbors. Lots of generosity of spirit and teamwork. My mother’s evening updates provide that dose of faith in humanity we’re always looking for.
It’s a reminder that good things emerge from bad things.
I spoke to Mentor the other night and told her I missed her cause she was like the sun. She said she missed me, the smiley Eskimo. I suspect we will both carry these tributes with warm fuzzy feelings, but not add them to our resumes.
The Mister is ever so dreamy. I don’t think he likes to say no to me. Like, he actually says no a lot, but then he yesses.
Of course, I say, “Don’t boss me around. And do it while you look down my shirt.”
The circumstances that led me to this door are pretty common for me; I was taxiing kids, finding out GPS doesn’t know certain roads are there yet, all in my own community. Yes, this would be another thing I drive around all the time and yet, I’ve never noticed.
Waiting for the children to get in the car, I see a door. I say I must go photograph the door. My kids sigh and moan. I defend my right to door, “What kind of doors person doesn’t get out and take a photo of THAT?!?”
I KNOW!
See in the background on the left? See that white and blue umbrella in the center? That’s the umbrella I always attempt to get at our YMCA.
With her installation titled “Threshold”, artist Cydney Campbell designed three doors made of wood, steel, glass, bronze, and aluminum. She writes: “Fort Benjamin Harrison once functioned as the point of induction or release from the military. While these are enormously life-changing actions that most individuals do not face, there are still everyday battles each person must surpass that make them who they are. “Threshold” represents the point at which people decide for themselves what path they will take.” You can see “Threshold” in key locations surrounding the pond on Otis Avenue near Lee Road.
Indeed, we all face these thresholds.
I thought it was nifty and I love the sentiment behind it. I hope you enjoyed it, too.
#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton.
Today, #ThursdayDoors is hosted by Manja at The Mexi Movie. To see more doors of interest, or to add your own, click the link and find the frog.
Out the other night, peopling with some happenstance people we sometimes people with, one of the people, Scott, was there, and we hadn’t seen Scott in months, so we peopled a bit extra and then when Scott was talkin, The Mister asked me, “You know who he looks like?”
“Nash?”
“No, Grady.”
“Mmm.”
“Grady who? Grady Dean?” asked Scott.
“No, my cousin Grady.”
“Wait, you know Grady Dean? Blond? Used to race motorcycles?” I asked.
“Yeah. Hell yeah, I grew up with him.”
“That’s trippy! I dated him.”
“You know he went to jail a while back?”
“No.”
“Can you guess why he went to jail?”
“Extortion?”
“Stealing.”
He never was good with money. He out-earned me five times over, but he had no idea what he was doin. I did his books.
This throws you, I know, but it was just Quicken, and Grady didn’t know how to use his new-fangled computer and he paid me to teach him how to do his books.
I made that clear, “I didn’t sleep with him and do his books for free. It was not like that.”
They nodded and stared at The Mister.
People get weirded-out when I say things like this in front of my husband, but people often overlook important things:
One, The Mister isn’t intimidated by anything less than bein trapped in a snake-filled MRI while bad music plays.
Two, he’s known me since I was thirteen. It’s not like this is all new to him.
Y’all, I learned more about Grady Dean in ten minutes than I did about him in the year or so we dated. It was off-and-on — just dating, nothing serious. Well, I suppose it was on and then off-and-on and then off.
Grady Dean (not his real name) was one of the strangest ‘relationships’ I had. I’m not even gonna tell you all the things, but it was strange, mk?
He looked like Robert Redford and like trouble, ya know? I went out with him a bit unwillingly, because he was decidedly cool, and I’m not really into cool. He also enjoyed terrible pastimes like motorcycles and boating, and in case you haven’t read me long, I am not all about boats. But he was extremely good looking, and charming, and damn, he was persistent. He was all about wining and dining me.
You’d think he was tryin to get in my pants, but he was absolutely not tryin to get in my pants, which was polite, confusing, and annoying as fuck.
In my twenties, I was not lookin for a man. I was lookin for fun. I didn’t have thoughts of settling down, but apparently, I gave off a she’d make-a-nice-wife vibe, cause men are delusional bastards who see what they want to see.
One time, Tori and I had some people over to dinner and Grady made some awkward silence-inducing comment about how he can eat Burger King three times a day because he likes it and not everyone needs so much variety. run joey! run!
Y’all know I could not live a long and happy life with some burger-eatin boater.
My parents loved him. They thought he was swell.
I did not love him.
“We were not in love, or anything gross like that,” I said to the people.
I enjoyed Grady’s company. He was the kinda guy, who, when my serial monogamist friends all had dates and wanted me to go, made for a nice companion.
Last I saw Grady, Beauty Queen and I were peerin out her back window, cause he lived behind her and he did still look good mowin that grass.
Not leave our husbands good, but good.
His mugshot is not so hawt.
It’s a small world. Certain circles in The Circle City are undeniably small given its 860,000-some people.
Again, I cannot explain how tightly my ball is wound.
Turns out Scott lived in my neighborhood. Not that I ever knew him then, just as I don’t really know him now. We didn’t go to school together, but we sure do know a lot of the same people, for happenstance.
I can’t remember what the hell I was gonna write about today, but I had a thing. It’s hangin around my head, silently taunting me now. Likely not available to me because I failed to cultivate sleep last night. I did, however, do better than The Mister, because in a rare turn of events, it was I who suggested we go to bed.
That thing I was gonna write about will come back, prolly when I’m tryin to remember what kid goes where when, or on my way to pee at 7am, or some other truly inopportune time. So I just think I’ll tell you some random stuff.
This weekend was a fine one.
I painted my toenails a deep wine color.
I started the seventh season of The Walking Dead.
I made two lasagnas and one is in the freezer for another day.
A deer walked down our street. Oh hey! That’s the thing I was gonna write about. See, that’s why it’s important to sit down and write.
Our old neighbor Jim — I mean old in two ways, one, he was in his late nineties and every time I spoke to him he said God had given him another day, so he reckoned he’d take it, and also, old neighbor cause he’s no longer our neighbor cause God stopped giving him days. Anyway, Our old neighbor Jim had lived here since the 50s and told us the back forty usta get deer now and again, but it’d been years since he’d seen any.
But yesterday, The Mister just happened to see a deer walking down our street.
I like venison as much as anyone, but when ya live in the city and you see a deer walkin down the street, you do not think, “DINNER!” You think “OOH!” and also, you think of Jim and wish he’d seen this deer.
The deer trotted back and forth for a bit and then it leapt off into the back forty. It was MAJESTIC.
We all attempted to photograph the deer. The Mister got the best shot.
Although it’s a sad sorta day, calendar-wise, it’s been a better Monday than most.
I have iced coffee. I got freaky and tried the Columbian instead of the French Roast, and while I do not prefer the Columbian brewed hot, it makes a good cold coffee.
I took three girls to two schools and not a single parent in the carlines pissed me off. It was remarkably smooth. When I returned home, I had a text from my mother; she’d returned to her home and found it in good enough condition to stay.
Gonna be hard to bring me down after such a great start!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with toasted pbj and a tall glass of milk.
I hope your Monday makes for pleasant meanderings.
Motives are easy for me to determine.
I was a Why Child. I’m a Why Adult.
And if you’re into it, I’m INFJ and spooky empathic so I know stuff.
Most people are operating from ego, but they don’t admit that, usually not even to themselves. Pride is always fuckin with them and they generally haven’t read a suitable amount of Greek tragedies. Vanity sometimes gets in their way, which they attribute to the jealousy of others. Jealousy is real and is, of course, a powerful motivator as well. Jealousy is a form of fear.
So is anger. Base, but an effective motivator.
Ultimately, power is the only true motivator. Oh, we classify the power, give names to its form — money, sex, glory — but it’s all a power-seeking operation. Wanna feel safe, satisfied, understood, desired, worthy.
Some people are heavily into power and they know it, aren’t ashamed of it, and they despise anyone who is almost as much as people who have more than they do.
We’re at our best when we’re motivated by love.
But love in what sense? The absence of fear? The grace of God? The agape of humanity? The goodness of our hearts?
Doesn’t really matter.
What matters is what we do.
Most importantly, how what we do affects PEOPLE. Including ourselves.
I propose to you that even if our motives are getting rid of old sweaters, freeing up garage space, receiving a tax deduction, trading our blood for money — no matter how stupid, shallow, or selfish our motives — it doesn’t matter because it’s still GOOD. If you do all the good things for all the wrong reasons, you don’t get all the good feelings, but you do still get what you wanted, and that feels good, too.
Giving and helping makes us feel good, and that’s an ulterior motive that people don’t much like to talk about but it’s there, no different than any feel-good thing. You can watch people destroy themselves out of the goodness of their hearts, with all their best intentions on full display. You can watch them fall apart, question their faith, wondering why all the rights and goods didn’t work.
Not a fan of give until it hurts. Much more give until it starts to feel uncomfortable. Then stop and think about your motivation.
Good things with bad intentions — Bad things with good intentions — Value is relative
Do good.
Be good to yourself.
Stream of Consciousness Saturday — SoCS ‘motive’ is brought to you by LindaGHill
I live toward the tail-end of Tornado Alley. Tornadoes happen here. I’ve written about that. I don’t like tornadoes, but I’m used to them. I’ve never lived where tornadoes aren’t. I climb into closets in the interior of the house and I pray that if I go, it’s sudden.
In contrast, my mother grew up in Florida. My whole life she’s said tornadoes are worse than hurricanes, because you know when the hurricane’s comin and you can leave.
It’s better the devil you know, I suppose.
When we lived in Georgia, we had a hurricane. I don’t remember what year or what name. I know my husband was gone, because I remember hauling all the patio stuff into the shed myself, almost getting trapped in there behind the grill, and thinking that one should never have more on the patio than one can fit in the shed. The Army said the risk was ours, we could leave before X time on X day or prepare and stay. We prepared and stayed.
What I can tell you from this experience, my only experience with hurricanes, is that winds around 80 miles per hour can pick up wrought iron patio furniture from behind your neighbor’s chain-link fence, and hurl it at least 50 feet into someone else’s fence, and even through someone else’s window. Wind like that spun a boat on its trailer from its spot to the center of the lot. I don’t know what all happened, but the stuff you associate with storms did happen — trees down, exterior damage to homes, water damage.
We were, this was, all about an hour from the coast.
My parents are like, five minutes from the coast, way down in Florida.
My eldest daughter is in the panhandle, which is better, but still.
I CANNOT FATHOM.
The horrors in my head are loud, the images clear. My anxiety is bad. It’s important to realize that this isn’t because I have anxiety disorder, this is a normal reaction for a human concerned about humans she loves.
This is maybe a bit worse since I only recently lost my father.
And maybe because both my grandmothers died in Florida.
I hate to be emotionally vulnerable here, on my blog, because I try to keep it light, to put a humorous spin on my anxiety and angst. Maybe once this is out there…
My parents will relocate to a safe space in a nearby location. A private, formidable, supposedly sturdy building. This is what they’ve always done and obviously, they were fiiiiine.
This should put my mind at ease? I should worry less? I should fall asleep easily?
I am not capable of nonchalance. Perhaps nonchalance is a requirement of Florida dwellers. Like love of sun and palm trees. I have none of that.
And the worst part? How will I know when they’ve made it through? I will have to wait. I am always nervous when I wait for the all clear, but the news usually says nice things like “No fatalities” or “Minor damages” before that call comes, and I don’t think Hurricane Irma will be like that. At all.
I could really go on. I could. I could rant up one side and down the other, but I don’t think it would help at all, because I’m starting to wane in energy.
Watch as I try to re-frame this shit and look for silver linings:
There are days when you have time to fold egg whites or roll out dough, and then there are days you’re busy and you throw together a dump cake.
There are days when you have time to plan when, where, and how you’ll photograph doors, and there are times when you’ve got to take what you’re given.
For Dump Doors you will need:
Doors
3-5 family members and possibly friends, all of whom are impatient, prone to mocking, photobombing, and fits of laughter
1 camera
1/2 cup curious onlookers
1/4 cup best intentions
1 tablespoon sun in your eyes
Optional photo editor program, to taste
Mix well.
Garnish with words and serve at room temperature on Thursdays.
barn
rabbit hutch
don’t slam the screen door
sweet
out of order
where to get watermelon margaritas
outbuilding’s out of trim
it was locked, so i dunno
tiny doors times two
symphony balcony
mural door
grand
fave turkish restaurant
some church
gray and grainy
it’s yellow, of course
#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton.
Today, #ThursdayDoors is hosted by Dan at No Facilities. To see more doors of interest, or to add your own, click the link and find the frog.
joeyfullystated 
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