Stationary Unicycle

You'd like to know about my background as a writer? Well, let's start with my deep love for language and stories. I am also literate. I also know the difference between 'you're' and  'your' and also 'there', 'their', and 'they're'. Look, I'll be straight with you. I could make shit up, but that would be wrong. What I do have to offer is my perspective: I am Every Woman and can appeal to the universal experiences of Women. HA! No. Okay, so I'm not really an Every Woman. I am however a Fairly Common Woman. I am funny, smart, and quirky. I have conceived, carried, and expelled two human beginnings from my very own body, and this makes me an expert on all things pertaining to snot, shit, and stretchmarks. The two humans who once inhabited my uterus are 15 and 10. I live with them and keep them alive. This makes me an expert on all things pertaining to patience, maternal love and devotion, self doubt, worry,...

I am obsessively writing and rewriting an email to my son's teacher. I think my son's teacher is super awesome and I adore him and am grateful to him for all the kindness and compassion he's shown to us. But I do have a problem and the problem is this: each student in his class is to choose a book to read with their parent over winter vacation. The book my son chose,  The Tiger Rising  by Kate DiCamillo, is sad. Spoiler alert : the tiger dies...OF COURSE THE TIGER DIES. This is meritorious serious quality children's literature we're talking about; something  beloved and beautiful MUST DIE. We must grind our children's souls to dust and then blow the powdery soul particles into the wind and away, before they reach middle school. My son still hasn't completely recovered from Where the Red Fern Grows . His class read Where the Red Fern Grows in October and if you so much as allude to anything red and fern-like or say the word 'dog'  or 'dogs...

The anniversary of Sandy Hook approaches while the news of the school shooting today in Colorado unfolds. Last night my son asked me why there were bad people in the world. My son isn't aware of the depth of the issue, but he knows there are bad people in the world who do bad things, and his question is why. I haven't got an answer for him. I have not one fucking idea. I didn't tell him that. I told him I didn't know why some people did bad things, but most people are good, and that he is safe. Later, I asked my husband what he thought. He suggested that people do bad things because they think they are doing right things. I see his point, to a point, but that wouldn't account for most of the bad stuff that happens. Let's think about the types of bad guys I've been hearing about in the news lately: You've got your Kim Jong-un's and your Taliban gunmen who shoot little girls on their way to school. You've got school shooters...

It's the holiday season and I'm not depressed and anxious. At least I don't think I'm depressed and anxious. We have our Christmas tree up, which is nice. We started our shopping earlier than usual. That was good. We've decided that gifts for the kids will be thoughtful but not extravagant. Books, lots of books, and cool t-shirts and cool socks. We are officially not getting a new game system. We can't afford it and we don't need it. I have noticed over the course of the past few years that the Christmases when we buy less stuff, the kids seem happier. It was easier to buy less when the kids got hip to the truth about Santa. They were both pretty young when they started asking the hard questions. It was such a relief not to have to lie to them anymore. When they believed in Santa they were under the impression that the number of gifts they got was a reflection of how good they were. My husband and I would break the bank trying to reassure ...

I've got a little less than an hour to write today's blog post. I'm sitting at Bagel Central at my favorite table -- by the window second table on the left as you enter, with my favorite bagel -- sesame water bagel with butter, and my favorite coffee -- large. A toddler, a little boy with big eyes and a tiny dollop of a nose weaves around the room on stiff legs. He wears a navy blue coat with the hood up. Long loose light brown curls poke out from under the hood. His young father follows but doesn't hover. The little boy sees the old fashioned cast iron steam radiator. His interest is peaked, he puts on a burst of speed and reaches out. The curious look on the boy's face changes to confusion and from confusion to a pained grimace as he touches the hot radiator. The dad deftly scoops his son up in one arm and says quietly and calmly, "No, don't touch. Hot." They move out of my line of sight. I expect the child to cry. He doesn't. A few mom...

My son is still working on poetry for school. He's trying his hand at many different rhyme schemes. It seems like it would be easy until you try. Tonight's post is for my poetry writing son. Writing poetry in verse is like trying to refold a map after unfolding it Take this small perfect contained rectangle open it shake it it unfurls it rattles it blows in the wind lay it down on the ground flatten it with your sweat damp hands You are here. Where are you going? Once you have your bearings, try to find the one right way to make this unwieldy flapping expanse fit again into the small space it once was small enough to fit perfectly refold along the creases running sharply through rivers mountains, towns and cities unnamed townships interstate highways and railroad tracks ponds and oceans and oceans and lakes folding a map is strange origami writing a poem in verse is folding feelings like a map into a bird

We put up our Christmas tree today. We also installed a cat door. We did a lot of other crazy stuff too, not the least of which was me getting pissed off at a clerk in a drug store. My latent asshole gene was activated and manifesting itself. I was foiled in my attempt to run an emergency last minute errand for my elderly mom. After I was mean to the drug store clerk I apologized profusely. She, after all, had nothing to do with making stupid store policies. See? Even when I am the asshole customer I come to my nice lady senses, own my bad behavior and apologize. However, I digress. One day I'll write a story called The Nice Lady Who Acted Like an Asshole in the Drug Store Because the Cashier Could Not Would Not Go Into the Storeroom for the Correct Size and Brand of Adult Hygiene Product (not for the nice lady, but for the nice lady's elderly mother, remember that!) Even Though The Drug Store Has Them in Stock Because it is  Sunday and the Adult Hygiene and Other Med...

Last night we were finally able to get my son new shoes and a pair of boots. He's needed new shoes for a while, and winter in the North East requires appropriate foot gear, so we've known that new boots would be an inevitable purchase too. Until last night, things never really worked out for us to go shopping. Either we had the time but not the money or the money but not the time. At the end of September my son sprained his foot and it's ill advised  to shop for new shoes when you've got a swollen foot. Our car was dying and we needed to get a newer one. Our daughter's birthday was in October so most of our extra cash went to buy gifts for her. Last month my son had strep so some potential shopping days were nixed due to illness, and there was Thanksgiving which also sort of got in the way of shoe shopping, too for a multitude of reasons. Also my mom was ill, and there was work and just everything. Meanwhile we made do with what we had and my son appropria...

Today is one of those Fridays that is misbehaving like a Monday. My alarm rang for a solid 30 minutes before I even became vaguely aware that it was ringing. My daughter's alarm didn't go off at all. There was unfinished homework and panic. We're out of cereal so even though we were all running late I had to cook breakfast. I spilled a full bottle of prescription medication on the very dirty kitchen floor and then had to rationalize while I plucked them from the filth and plinked them back in their little amber container that the bacteria would be less harmful if ingested every day for a month with medicine. Immediately after the medication spill my son spilled a full glass of orange juice across the table and onto my daughter's computer charger which, thankfully, was not attached to my daughter's computer but was, horribly, still plugged into the outlet. On the upside even thought I did holler "Oh Shit!" when I spilled the meds, I showed off...

Yeah, I'm feeling pretty pissed off today. I've been thinking about the upcoming anniversary of the Newtown shootings. I'm pissed off about the 911 calls being released to the public. I'm scared too, thinking about crazy folks having access to the 911 calls from that day.  I imagine that some fucked up fucker might find inspiration in listening to those calls, that by making those calls public we're sowing the seeds for future horrors.  I feel some relief that December 14th is a Sunday this year.  In other bleak news today: North Korea has been enlarging their prison camps, says Amnesty International.  Low end estimate for prison camp population is 150,000 people.  These are forced labor camps. People are starved, worked to death, raped, beaten, tortured and executed. Inmates of these camps include children.  I thought we'd vowed never let this kind of evil happen again and yet we've let it happen again and again and again. ...

My daughter has to choose a poem, memorize it, and recite it in front of her class on Friday. This evening my daughter has been complaining vociferously, cursing poetry, having to read it is a bore, having to memorize it is a waste, having to recite it is an indignity, having to listen to other people recite it is an injustice of great magnitude. My daughter hasn't shared her chosen poem with me, she's too nervous. But she asked me for some advice anyway, and I stupidly offered her some. I cautioned her against reciting poetry in that horrid monotone that people often adopt when reading poetry. I suggested she kick that approach to the curb and that she adopt a more natural tone. She stared at me with her withering stare of pure disdain. But poetry isn't NATURAL, MOTHER. I mentioned I would have loved having an opportunity to recite poetry when I was in school. My son said he loved to read, memorize, and recite poetry. My daughter glared at me, then turned the gla...

Today is about waiting rooms. I am in a waiting room, waiting. The doctor whose waiting room I'm sitting in has gone to some effort to make me comfortable. I appreciate the effort. The Road to Shambala is playing on the oldies station. I like this song but wouldn't ever seek it out. I'm almost glad to sit here and wait.  Earlier today, I waited for my daughter at the orthodontist. The orthodontist tries to appeal to his clientele who are between the ages of 12-18. The music that plays in his waiting room makes waiting less fun.  Later today I'll sit and wait for my elderly mother while she sees her doctor. Mom's doctor should play music in her waiting room, maybe some Elvis or Sinatra for the old waiting people. I don't recall there being any music piped in to keep the old folks calm and happy. All I recollect hearing at Mom's doctor's office is shuffling, sniffling, the occasional dry cough and the flipping of magazine pages. ...