Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Update on Mom
Mom, the rock of our family and a friend to everyone else, has completed her first round of chemo to treat her chronic lymphocytic leukemia. She tolerated the treatment as well as anyone can be expected. So far her only side effects have been extreme exhaustion and constant nausea. Her next round will be on August 9-13. I'm sure she would greatly appreciate your prayers, support, emails, and phone calls.
Writing Exercises
I've never taken an actual creative writing class. EVER. I've written poetry, plays, stories, a novel, and taken far more college writing courses than I care to remember. But I've never actually been officially schooled on how to write a publishable short story. This summer, our local library is offering a creative writing class for adults. This week's assignment was to focus on details in characters by delving into my own life for substance. Hope you enjoy my hastily written first scene.
Releveing en pointe, I clutched the barre. The muscles in my legs cramped, screaming in protest. Whose dumb idea was this, anyway? Some dreams were not meant to be recaptured.
“Lift the chest and port de bra to the side and recover. Rond de jambe to the front. Now to the back. Lovely, dears.”
Rond de what? Looking in the mirror I could see the other girls, perfectly matched in their grace. I hate them. I wasn’t always this way, capable of mimicking the posture of a gazelle. My zipper-like scar stretched from just beneath the tendrils escaping my tight bun and disappeared beneath my leotard, ending at my waist.
There was a time when the teenage version of me stood crooked; cursing the back brace I wore to control my scoliosis. Teased by just about everyone, my clothes were at least two sizes too big for my body just to accommodate the additional mass of my brace. One shoulder rose a full inch above the other, causing all my bra straps to be mismatched when tightened to fit. One side of my ribcage jutted out defiantly giving my bikini-clad body a weird contorted look to it. My first boyfriend nearly became an ex when he innocently teased me about my condition. My over-protective friends practically tarred and feathered him for his flippant remarks. In retrospect, I suppose I should have let them do it. Lord knows, I would have been saved from the many tears I cried if I had realized what an ass he was from the start. Young loves makes for young fools.
I grimaced at myself in the mirror. Eighteen years after surgery, I had poise, but still had the grace and flexibility of a hippo. The little girl next to me looked at me in mock horror at my less than ladylike stance. She tittered while I teetered. I stuck my tongue out. Brat!
I hated to admit it but she was right. Thirty four year old women were not meant to stand on their toes for extended lengths of time surrounded by hormonal preteens preening in front of a mirror! Their joints might be made of putty but at least I don’t have to spend hours checking my face for zits. It was a dumb idea to fulfill every single girlhood dream of mine. I mentally reminded myself to fire my therapist when class ended. Maybe hula would be more appropriate for someone who can’t bend but can shimmy with the best of them.
I checked the mirror brushing my hair from my forehead. Drat, a zit!
“Pique, pique, pique, chaînés, chasse, and jete.” Our ballet teacher passed by, giving her nod of approval as each girl sashayed on by. Her crepe skirt swished lightly against her tights with each step. All she needed was leg warmers and a stick to pound the ground with and it would be like watching a rerun of Fame in real life. “Darlin’,” she said to me, “you’re doing it all wrong.”
Down the hall, a door slammed shut, distracting the ballerina from chastising me. I breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into the hall to discipline the children running by.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him enter the studio and disappear into a music room. Dear God in Heaven. It can’t be. I’d know that bald head anywhere. I watched him. Poised with palm arched, his right hand fingers tapped. Nothing had changed. Index, index, pinkie, hold. Index, index, thumb, pinkie. With a subtle flourish, his left hand rose in the air, hovering before striking a counter rhythm. A silent syncopated beat emerged.
Through the window, locked in his soundproof room, I recognized the tune and smiled. I didn’t even need to hear the melody. I’d memorized it long before our wedding night. He was playing our song, the song he wrote for me.
The first time we met, his hands spoke to me. To the untrained eye, they were unremarkable for the most part, but I knew better. Long slender fingers capped by short nails tapped the top of the table as he waited for me. I was late for our blind date and would have chickened out if it weren’t for his hands. The moment he straddled the piano bench, and smiled at me, he transformed from an unassuming accountant into a confident and powerful musician. He was capable of wooing a crowd, turning normally shy, responsible adults into a frenzied throng of adoring fans.
Six months later, we married, walking down the aisle in time to music we’d created together. Three months after that, I was left holding a suitcase and divorce papers. He’d found a new adoring muse to play for.
“Again!” someone shouted. The soft thuds of the girls’ shoes echoed the sudden pulsing of my head. When I looked back, he was gone, his song haunting the air before fading away into the dark recesses of my mind.
“I quit.” Time to fire my well-meaning, misguided, quack of a therapist. No way was I ever going back to my ex no matter how many ways she tried to set us up again.
Releveing en pointe, I clutched the barre. The muscles in my legs cramped, screaming in protest. Whose dumb idea was this, anyway? Some dreams were not meant to be recaptured.
“Lift the chest and port de bra to the side and recover. Rond de jambe to the front. Now to the back. Lovely, dears.”
Rond de what? Looking in the mirror I could see the other girls, perfectly matched in their grace. I hate them. I wasn’t always this way, capable of mimicking the posture of a gazelle. My zipper-like scar stretched from just beneath the tendrils escaping my tight bun and disappeared beneath my leotard, ending at my waist.
There was a time when the teenage version of me stood crooked; cursing the back brace I wore to control my scoliosis. Teased by just about everyone, my clothes were at least two sizes too big for my body just to accommodate the additional mass of my brace. One shoulder rose a full inch above the other, causing all my bra straps to be mismatched when tightened to fit. One side of my ribcage jutted out defiantly giving my bikini-clad body a weird contorted look to it. My first boyfriend nearly became an ex when he innocently teased me about my condition. My over-protective friends practically tarred and feathered him for his flippant remarks. In retrospect, I suppose I should have let them do it. Lord knows, I would have been saved from the many tears I cried if I had realized what an ass he was from the start. Young loves makes for young fools.
I grimaced at myself in the mirror. Eighteen years after surgery, I had poise, but still had the grace and flexibility of a hippo. The little girl next to me looked at me in mock horror at my less than ladylike stance. She tittered while I teetered. I stuck my tongue out. Brat!
I hated to admit it but she was right. Thirty four year old women were not meant to stand on their toes for extended lengths of time surrounded by hormonal preteens preening in front of a mirror! Their joints might be made of putty but at least I don’t have to spend hours checking my face for zits. It was a dumb idea to fulfill every single girlhood dream of mine. I mentally reminded myself to fire my therapist when class ended. Maybe hula would be more appropriate for someone who can’t bend but can shimmy with the best of them.
I checked the mirror brushing my hair from my forehead. Drat, a zit!
“Pique, pique, pique, chaînés, chasse, and jete.” Our ballet teacher passed by, giving her nod of approval as each girl sashayed on by. Her crepe skirt swished lightly against her tights with each step. All she needed was leg warmers and a stick to pound the ground with and it would be like watching a rerun of Fame in real life. “Darlin’,” she said to me, “you’re doing it all wrong.”
Down the hall, a door slammed shut, distracting the ballerina from chastising me. I breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into the hall to discipline the children running by.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him enter the studio and disappear into a music room. Dear God in Heaven. It can’t be. I’d know that bald head anywhere. I watched him. Poised with palm arched, his right hand fingers tapped. Nothing had changed. Index, index, pinkie, hold. Index, index, thumb, pinkie. With a subtle flourish, his left hand rose in the air, hovering before striking a counter rhythm. A silent syncopated beat emerged.
Through the window, locked in his soundproof room, I recognized the tune and smiled. I didn’t even need to hear the melody. I’d memorized it long before our wedding night. He was playing our song, the song he wrote for me.
The first time we met, his hands spoke to me. To the untrained eye, they were unremarkable for the most part, but I knew better. Long slender fingers capped by short nails tapped the top of the table as he waited for me. I was late for our blind date and would have chickened out if it weren’t for his hands. The moment he straddled the piano bench, and smiled at me, he transformed from an unassuming accountant into a confident and powerful musician. He was capable of wooing a crowd, turning normally shy, responsible adults into a frenzied throng of adoring fans.
Six months later, we married, walking down the aisle in time to music we’d created together. Three months after that, I was left holding a suitcase and divorce papers. He’d found a new adoring muse to play for.
“Again!” someone shouted. The soft thuds of the girls’ shoes echoed the sudden pulsing of my head. When I looked back, he was gone, his song haunting the air before fading away into the dark recesses of my mind.
“I quit.” Time to fire my well-meaning, misguided, quack of a therapist. No way was I ever going back to my ex no matter how many ways she tried to set us up again.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Posies for Poppy
Pansy and Poppy loved to play together. Sometimes, Pansy forgot Poppy wasn’t a kid like her. He was her grandpa. He was the best grandpa and he was her best friend.
“Higher! Higher!” Poppy squealed when Pansy pushed him on the swings.
“Faster! Faster! Pansy shouted when Poppy raced her down the hill.
One day, Poppy was too sick to come out to play. Pansy tried to play by herself, but Hide and Seek wasn’t much fun when there was no one to find hiding behind trees. And sadly, dogs and cats make great pets, but they can’t play Checkers. Pansy was sad without her grandpa. She wanted to do something to make him feel better.
“When I get sick Poppy always brings me a card,” Pansy said to her mother. She worked all morning long and when it was time to go visit Poppy, her card was full of bright, colorful flowers.
“Poppy? Why do flowers come in so many different colors?”
“Flowers are like people. God made us all unique. Flowers, and people, come in lots of different sizes, shapes, and colors. All are beautiful and loved, especially you.”
“I’m glad God made you, Poppy.”
“You are the prettiest flower of all, my Pansy.”
The next day, Pansy brought Poppy a bowl of soup. “What’s it like to get old, Poppy? Billy says grandpa’s are old. Are you old, Poppy?”
“It’s like when your favorite pair of shoes gets worn out. They get a bit scuffed up, and might not look as good as they use to, but you love them all the same. Just like I love you.”
“I’m glad you’re not too old, Poppy.”
“I’ll never be too old to hug you, Pansy.”
Poppy still wasn’t feeling good enough to play. Pansy pulled her old wagon behind her, filled with her favorite toys and blankets. Her elephant always made her feel better. “Poppy? Do you ever get scared? Sometimes I get scared.”
“Sure, I used to get scared, especially of the dark. Then someone told me that God was always with me and would protect me. Just like I’ll always protect you.”
“I wish I were brave like you, Poppy.”
“But you are, Pansy.”
Pansy went to visit Poppy in the hospital. She clutched a handful of orange poppies in one hand, and a posy of pansies in the other. “Poppy? Mama says soon you are going to meet God. What’s God like?”
“God is like your best friend. He always listens to you and never gets mad at you, even when you aren’t on your best behavior. He loves you just as much as I do. But he’s waiting for me in Heaven. It's time for me to go.”
“I’m glad you were my best friend, Poppy.”
“I’m glad too, Pansy."
“Higher! Higher!” Poppy squealed when Pansy pushed him on the swings.
“Faster! Faster! Pansy shouted when Poppy raced her down the hill.
One day, Poppy was too sick to come out to play. Pansy tried to play by herself, but Hide and Seek wasn’t much fun when there was no one to find hiding behind trees. And sadly, dogs and cats make great pets, but they can’t play Checkers. Pansy was sad without her grandpa. She wanted to do something to make him feel better.
“When I get sick Poppy always brings me a card,” Pansy said to her mother. She worked all morning long and when it was time to go visit Poppy, her card was full of bright, colorful flowers.
“Poppy? Why do flowers come in so many different colors?”
“Flowers are like people. God made us all unique. Flowers, and people, come in lots of different sizes, shapes, and colors. All are beautiful and loved, especially you.”
“I’m glad God made you, Poppy.”
“You are the prettiest flower of all, my Pansy.”
The next day, Pansy brought Poppy a bowl of soup. “What’s it like to get old, Poppy? Billy says grandpa’s are old. Are you old, Poppy?”
“It’s like when your favorite pair of shoes gets worn out. They get a bit scuffed up, and might not look as good as they use to, but you love them all the same. Just like I love you.”
“I’m glad you’re not too old, Poppy.”
“I’ll never be too old to hug you, Pansy.”
Poppy still wasn’t feeling good enough to play. Pansy pulled her old wagon behind her, filled with her favorite toys and blankets. Her elephant always made her feel better. “Poppy? Do you ever get scared? Sometimes I get scared.”
“Sure, I used to get scared, especially of the dark. Then someone told me that God was always with me and would protect me. Just like I’ll always protect you.”
“I wish I were brave like you, Poppy.”
“But you are, Pansy.”
Pansy went to visit Poppy in the hospital. She clutched a handful of orange poppies in one hand, and a posy of pansies in the other. “Poppy? Mama says soon you are going to meet God. What’s God like?”
“God is like your best friend. He always listens to you and never gets mad at you, even when you aren’t on your best behavior. He loves you just as much as I do. But he’s waiting for me in Heaven. It's time for me to go.”
“I’m glad you were my best friend, Poppy.”
“I’m glad too, Pansy."
LOST AND FOUND
Found: Three extra pounds, apparently lost and looking for a new home, found their way to my bathroom scale over the weekend. Will the previous owner of the weight, please claim them. My jeans can't handle all the excess and have begun to revolt. Send help quick!
The True Story of Why The Queen Hates Snow White
Annie’s gnarled hands creaked as she willed her hand to open. Slowly, her arthritic fingers unfurled enough to latch onto the small, tart apple still tethered to the tree by the stem. The effort of simply grabbing the apple sapped her energy but she was determined to taste the sweet flesh of the apple for the last time. She let the weight of her crippled body do all the work as the ninety-year-old woman battled with the tree. It only took a few moments until the stem finally parted from the nearly century old tree. Youth won again.
Annie patted the tree, her old friend, and silently gave thanks for it’s bountiful harvest. Her mouth watered just thinking of the bittersweet juice that filled the fruit. She lifted the apple to her eyes and held it close. Her eyesight had dimmed but she could still see the smooth, unblemished green skin so different from her own leathery skin. She took a bite, savoring the sound as her dentured teeth broke the skin. She waited for the magic to transform her. As the flavorful juice dripped down her hand, her body began to tingle as the first signs of the apple’s power coursed through her veins.
“Muahaha!” Annie cackled as she made her way back to the castle. She leapt and skipped the entire way. Once upon a time, her dream was to be a famous ballerina. Instead, she was cursed with two left feet and an evil heart. She paused in front of a mirror and patted her hair into place. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”
“Funny you should ask,” the saucy mirror replied, “but honey, your days are numbered.”
“Obstinate fool! Can’t you see my great beauty?”
“My eyes work fine, sweet tart, but that magical tree of yours that you keep in the forest?”
“What about it?”
“Well, let’s just say, a certain beautiful little girl, whom everyone loves, wanted a new playhouse. TIMBER!”
“CURSES!”
So began the infamous rivalry between Snow White and Queen Annie.
Status: LIFE
Who knew teaching a 6 year old to play Rock, Paper, Sissors would be such a monumental mistake? Once Ian learned how to play the simple game, he then taught his baby sister, Taya. And that's when the trouble began. Competitive older brother meets up with stubborn, bossy little sister in the backseat during car rides and tearful trouble ensues. Along comes Papa, who throws a wrench in the already annoying game by tossing in a few new hand motions. Note to Papa: there is no chisel in this game. Hey kids, how about a nice, innocent game of Slug Bug?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Funny Things Kids Do
A couple of nights ago, I overheard my daughter talking to our Russian tortoise, Igor. She was trying to teach him how to burp. It was too funny to not pass along.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)