Angry Woman At Keyboard

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Angry Woman At Keyboard

I have realized that I am an angry woman. But not just any angry woman. I am an angry woman armed with a keyboard. Not one of the musical kind which, I assure you, is much safer than one of the kinds that has letters and numbers on it.

Who wouldn't be angry when there is but one incident after the next, (before the word "incident," and after the word "one" enter the word "bad") which consumes your measly existence, one year rolling into another, like gray merging into black.

And what, just what would make an angry woman more angry than a three year old screaming her head off in the bathroom? A three year old with a tiny little paper cut on her petite little thumb. Screaming. Yes, screaming. This is the same 3 year old who, only a half hour before, just sunk three (at least I can see three marks) teeth through the middle of her tongue as she fell on the stairs. Blood came gushing from the wailing little mouth, dripping onto her already dirty pink shirt, trailing down the side of her little anguished face. But forget that incident, there is, after all, a paper cut less than half an inch long on the chipped nail-polished appendage called the thumb.

I like quiet. I need quiet. I like to be alone. I need to be alone. And yet, I constantly have children in my space; talking, eating, fighting, crying, talking, talking, talking, eating, fighting, screaming, eating some more, and constantly talking, talking, talking. And these are just my children. Then there's the neighborhood children, joining the brood that calls this 2600 square feet of space "home;" six children, seven, eight, running, laughing, arguing, plotting, planning, screaming, talking, talking, talking. Of course they can also be adorable, fun and a joy; but there is an angry woman typing this today, so there is nothing but doom and gloom and unabashed grumpiness.

I have no idea why my mouse icon is traveling crazily across the screen, where it stops I'm sure I won't know. By now, as an angry woman, I envy its freedom; completely unrestrained from the fingers that so often hold it hostage, tell it what to do; what to click on and where to go.

But me, the angry woman, has had a no-longer-screaming-three-year-old talk to her non-stop for the last three paragraphs. Mix finger nails on a chalk board with banging your forehead on a cement wall and you may start to understand just how I feel. Oh look, there goes my little mouse arrow again, running away to some private destination.

I was thinking about writing a book. Producing at blub.com, where I have my scrapbooks made. I'd like to write stories for my children, stories with great characters with matchless integrity. Stories with great morals and page-turning adventures. (The talking stopped for but a moment, now the running commentary has begun again. Now the doorbell has chimed it's much too cheery tune and the soon to be ex-neighbor boy stands with yet another load of food items from his home, as the movers are here today and the fridge must go.)

It is very interesting to find out what sorts of things one's neighbor's eat. I now own the largest flip-top bottle of catsup ever known to man. The question is, do I use said bottle, seeing how it is already open? And just where does such a large bottle of catsup fit inside one's fridge? Bologna. The processed, nitrate laden, not-a-real-food food now sits in my cheese drawer. I haven't bought bologna in.....10 years. But now I have a half eaten package of it accompanying my cheese. Why did I not just throw it away? Because I don't like to waste. And surely, the husband will come home, see the bologna (if indeed he ever opens the fridge for himself) and say, "Bologna? I love bologna! You haven't bought that in eight years!" And I'll say, "Ten. It's been ten years." And then we'll join in combat over the number of years it has been since I last purchased an 88 cent package of bologna, a battle to the death, which he will give up on after I beat him mercilessly with fact after fact of my grocery shopping history and how I stopped buying bologna, yes, ten years ago.

Anyway, a book. Or two, maybe some chapter books and some early reader books for the 3 year old that certainly enjoys torture by way of making noise. I have no money to pass on to my children as a heritage, but perhaps I can pass on the story of their lives, a little creativity mixed with truth. Books that have four wild children in them with a mother who never gets angry but always, amazingly, does just the right thing.

And now, what is this? Amidst the 3 year old than can't stop talking, the middle two children come in, one tattling and the other whining so loudly the sound barrier must surely have been pierced. Middle Girl says: He ripped the thingy that goes over the thing! (Now noisy 3 year old, whom I have asked to stop talking, is talking without opening her mouth. Mostly grunting and angry growling noises are coming out.) Middle Boy whines: I didn't do it, it just fell down when I touched it! I use my Super Mom Powers to see that Middle Boy is lying and order Middle Boy: Go to bed! Then I ask Middle Girl: What got ripped? The outside blinds in the back patio? Middle Girl struggles to find the right words as she often does. After an annoying game of charades, Angry Mom discovers that Middle Boy has demolished the fabric cover that shades the outside swing. Angry Mom tells noisy 3 year old to clean up and get ready for bed.

Will Nap Time save Angry Mom from pulling her hair out strand by strand?

Time for a commercial break...

When Silence Speaks

I do not know why I sit here, eating Skittles, blogging about crickets and trees.  What, did I turn into Aesop momentarily or what?  And what is the hidden depth behind the story that even I, its creator, does not fully understand?  It was but a thought that came to me, after the children left; after I mopped the floor, vacuumed the carpets, straightened the cushions and wiped off the coffee table.  It was but an "after" thought, when I sat down, becoming frustrated with the incredibly slow speed of this laptop, that the silence spoke to me.  And just what did the silence speak of?  Well, obviously, the cricket and the tree.

(Even when I eat Skittles, I sort them by color, only eating like kin with like kind.  What, dear Lord, is wrong with me?  Come to think of it, one of the best parts of being an adult is the ability to eat as horribly as you wish and not hear your mother say, "Now put that away and eat your peas!")

Anyway, I am a fan of silence.  With five kids, one who is much like a bouncy ball in a small, uncarpeted room, and another who is so brilliant his mouth is always moving (yes, while at dinner, Mr. 9 Year Old took a swig of his glass of water then pronounced, "Though this looks like a clear liquid, it is not.  There are beasties floating around in here, we just can't see them.  There are single cell organisms...."  Yes, Microbiology in his Gifted and Talented class just showed up at my dinning room table.), who wouldn't be?  As a mother of many children, silence is a commodity not often seen, let alone, heard.  Yet here I am in silence, surrounded by it and breathing it in, listening to it speak to me.

It speaks many languages and says many things.  Only if you're listening do you hear it.  At least, that is how I interpret what you cannot hear it say.  Unless, of course, you are listening.

It is in the silent moments that I think clearly, perhaps that is why I think constantly at night, semi-awake in bed, brilliant thoughts skimming the surface of my consciousness, taunting me to grab a pen and paper and capture them.  But too often I am too tired to transcribe, thinking that when daylight hits, I will put them down in ink, but when the robin sings and the alarm clock beckons, they are gone; shadows I can't clearly see, mist in the night.

(I have consumed an irrational amount of Skittles now.)

It is in the silence that I am able to organize my thoughts, take stock of who I am, where I'm going, and what I've done.  It is in the silence that I am the most creative, inspired, and apt to string useless words together into coherency.  It is in the silence that my brain can heal and repair the depletion that is caused by constant noise, noise, noise!  Which reminds me...

I remember when the girls were little and Barney was the hot tamale of the day.  Oh, how they loved Barney.  "I love you, you love me.  We're just one big family..."  We had more Barney videos that a teenager does zits, and let me tell ya, there were no silence with Barny around.  Then the girls started to outgrow Barney and Elmo was King.  "La la la la.  La la la la.  Elmo's world...."  Oh, how the excitement would reach a feverish level when Elmo, red head bobbing back and forth on the TV screen, would start his Elmo-y song.

After Elmo is was Barbie videos, which turned into Pixar films, which turned into American Girl movies, which turned into old 80's movies which (enter Netflix) brings us up to the present.  And that hasn't even touched to world of music, but let's not get started on that.


Actually, let's do.  I think that the DOD should really look into using children's pre-school songs as a tool for torturing the enemy.  Let's take the song "The Wheels on The Bus" for example.  How many times can an adult listen to that before going crazy?  I'd find my mind replaying that song over and over again when the kids were little.  I'd be relaxing in the bathtub and hear little voices in my head singing, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round."  I'd be making bread and the little voices in my head would chime in, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town."  I'd be in the grocery store and hear, "The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down..."  I could not escape the curse of the song.

At least when I wrote children's songs, I had fun snazzy lyrics, accompanied by modern day rhtyhm.  Afterall, being a parent myself, why would I want to subject other parents to the same torture I'd endured with "The Wheels on the Bus?"  Not that I'm too arrogant, but I did write some pretty cool songs, as I look back mentally on the three CD's I made.  And I offered variation as well; slow and sweet, upbeat and jazzy, even a little rap mixed with reggae.  Man, I miss that.  Not only did I feel so alive writing, creating, playing, singing, mixing and recording, but I had so much fun.  As much as you may be surprised to hear it, I was not created to be a waitress.  Which reminds me....

SO I get a table on Sunday, my famous Lots-of-tables-with-crappy-tippers Day, and my first table is of three people, one of whom is an older lady dressed up in a Christmas Tree sweater with matching earrings, neacklace, and yes, hairbow.  I mosey up to the table and say, "Well, don't you look jolly Mrs. Claus, I just want to hug you and squeeze the sugar right outta ya."  (And don't ask me where I come up with this stuff, because I myself have no clue.)  Instantly we were friends and our little time together went well.  Upon the winding down of our journey in Mexican Food Land she told me, "Oh honey, you were just born to be a waitress!  You're so outgoing and witty and attentive, you gave us excellent service.  You're the best waitress I ever had; this job was meant for you!"

Instead of saying, "Why yes!  Eureka!  I've found my life's calling!  A waitress!  A waitress!  Yes!  I can save the world one table at a time!  "More chips?  More salsa?"  Oh yes, I've been longing to say those words my ENTIRE life!  Here I was wondering what my life purpose was, and now it's clear.  I was born to be a waitress!" I smiled and said, "You think so?"  And she smiled and pinched my cheek and said, "Oh yes, honey.  You were born to be a waitress."  So there ya have it folks, I can die tomorrow knowing that my mission on this planet has been accomplished.

Anyways, see what happens when the silence speaks?  I find myself high on sugar and artificial colorings, writing fables about how the Willow tree came into being and how I hear things when there is nothing to hear.  And why do I really feel the need to type about all this anyway?  I don't even know that.  But there is something cleansing about putting my fingers on the keyboard and typing away the nonsense that rattles through me while it is, of course, quiet.

I think I may need to find a job.  A real job.  Not just a waitressing job (even though that IS my life's calling).  But I am unsure.  Unsure of my direction.  I know what I am and I know what I am not.  I am NOT a person who can do the same thing, everyday, for the rest of my life.  I could never be a box person: get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box.  Get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box.  I can't even stand to type that twice, let alone do it for a 10 hour shift.  No, no, no, I am not a box person.

Infact (two words, not one), I remember a year or so ago when I was out looking for a little work, and decided that working night shift at a hotel as the front desk lady sounded just about perfect.  Quiet atmosphere, time to study, read, learn while getting paid.  Maybe munching on a few of those incredible cookies they put out for the customers.  Yeah, that sounded like something I'd be willing to get paid for.  So, I get dressed up all classy, and mentally draw out my assault route for the finer hotels in town.  The first hotel has just hired someone, sorry.  The second hotel has a very large Mexican woman at the counter who immediately doesn't like my because I'm white and only take up one seat at the movie theater. She basically tells me to get lost until her manager peeks around the corner, decides that he likes what he sees, and suddenly - wah lah! - they just might be hiring.  I think he's too creepy, so I throw his application away.

Then I hit up the nicest place in town, also the newest.  The I'm-so-sweet-even-if-I-puked-it-would-taste-great blonde at the counter summons the manager upon my inquiry for work, and as the manager hands me an application she says, "We're not hiring for a front desk position, but the lounge is hiring for someone to bus tables."  I look at the paper in my hands, look at the lady, look at the lounge, back at the lady, and hand her the application back, smiling and saying, "Thank you, but no thanks," then turn and walk towards the door.  I can see her in the reflection of the glass, looking at me like, "Wait a minute, what just happened here...?" 

Point being, I'm not going to take just any job, I'm gonna wait till the right one comes along, or until I, once again, create my own job.  And that is where I ind myself sitting.  I'm waiting for that right job, that one where I fit nicely for this point and time in my life.  How the bills will get paid, I do not know at this point, but I do know that I am to be patient; my ear to the door, listening for opportunity to knock.

And in the meantime, I listen to the silence.  For, as you know, it speaks to me.  Many a things.  Grand things, small things, creative, big dream-type things.

Yes, I am listening.

The Cricket and The Tree

Once upon a time there was a cricket, little in comparison to the great trees looming above it, who traversed the winding of a certain bubbling stream.  Every night the cricket would rest from its journey under the safety of a tree and begin the minor notes of a great song of sorrow, for the little cricket had seen many, many sorrowful days. And every night, the tree under which it rest would inquire of it, asking it to sing its tune.  But every night the cricket would insist that no one listen, for the tune was one of altering sorrow. But never did the trees listen, as they were great in comparison to a little lonely cricket.

"Come, little cricket," said a tree; tall, proud, robust and stately.  "Come, little cricket, and sing to me your song I hear faintly when the sun has hid and the curtain of darkness falls.  Come and sing to me the lonely notes the wind blows to me as my branches sway softly to your tune."

"I cannot," said the cricket, "for my song is mine alone, though you overhear but a whisper of my lullaby. It is not to be shared, for it is but my burden to bare, with notes born of the suffering of life and the rawness of misfortune."

But the tree did not pay heed to the little cricket, for it was but a tiny thing in a vast world, and the tree, so robust and stately replied, "Do not be foolish little cricket, for all of creation has heard a sad tune, all of us here have seen the sun and the rain.  You think yourself larger than your fellow creation, that I may not hear in clarity what aspires from your little being?"

"I offer you no disrespect my fine deciduous fellow, but surely if you were to hear with clarity all that my little soul does sing, you will be overcome with sorrow, your branches will droop with the weight of your tears and you will never be the same again; tall and robust, reaching heavenward with your many limbs, for sorrow breaks even the strongest of men and causes them to weep."

"Do you not see how stately I am?" boasted the tree.  Indeed, it was true, for the tree was the tallest of all and kissed the skies more often than all the others.  Many birds took refuge in its confident limbs, and the grass below clapped in appreciation to its ample lot of shade.  "You are but a little cricket, not even bigger than my smallest knothole, yet you think I have not weathered storms akin to the power of your song?  Now sing for me before I call on Mr. Robin to come make a tasty meal out of you, little, little cricket."

"Oh dear," sighed the cricket, for there was no arguing with the tree, so strong and stubborn.  Being eaten for dinner would be but another stanza in the cricket's sorrowful song, and thus with a deep breath, it began to sing.  Slowly the tune lifted from its origin within, mellow and soft as the deep of the sea.  Rising and falling were the notes of the many years, a story not written, only told through song.  The cricket continued, great swellings and decrescendos of seasons gone by, of times less than cheery.  All stopped to listen to the little cricket sing.

And slowly, but surely, the great tree, so robust and stately, absorbed the breath of the cricket and its sad, solemn song.  And slowly, but surely, captured in tune, the great tree bowed closer and closer to the ground to enraptured with all that the cricket sang.  Its branches stopped reaching towards the twinkling stars, and began to bow low as the cricket carried on.  Mesmerized and fraught with deep sorrow, the great tree bent closer and closer and closer to the origin of song.

As the little cricket entered the last phrase, the purity and rawness of life sung in tune caused the tree, so strong and stately, to weep.  And weep did the tree, for the length of the night, sorrow summoned from every  root to burdened branch, all due to the sad song of the little cricket.  Its branches, now bowed low, swayed in the breeze as to wallow in the melancholy of a little cricket's life song.

With a final breath, the cricket's vibrato echoed throughout the night, and all creation did not exhale for fear that the moment, wrought in brilliant purity, would escape for a lifetime and never return.  "There," said the little cricket, "is my sad song.  I warned you of it's sorrow, but you would not listen.  And now you have been changed, forever changed.  Never will you return to the place you have been, for you cannot undo what has been done."

The tree, still weeping could only sway in response.  Bent over and burdened, the once robust tree began to question the little cricket, "Will, oh, will you please unsing the song that I may stop my weeping?  Will, oh, will you sing but a more cheerful song?"

"I cannot," stated the cricket, "For each cricket is given but one song, and this is the one that was chosen for me."

"Will, oh, will you please, just try?  Will, oh, will you just try to sing a tune to undo the weeping and many misty tears?"

"I cannot," replied the cricket, "Did I not warn you that my song was so filled with sorrow that even strong men fall and are broken by its pain?"

"Indeed you did," said the tree sadly.  "But I thought surely I was strong and robust enough to not let a burden from such a little cricket cast its weight on me in such a way as this.  Will, oh, will you little cricket, remedy my state of being?"

"I cannot" said the cricket, as it began its journey again, headed toward a new destination with yet another sorrowful song to sing.

"Will, oh...."  "Will, oh...." wept the tree, forever changed and surmount with sorrow from the little crickets song.  And thus, "Willow" became the name of the once tall and stately tree.  For it was once too proud to think that sorrow could bring it low, especially from such a small cricket   But the great tree underestimated the power of misfortune.  To this day its ancestors may be found along many a stream, weeping still, as the crickets sing.

I'm So Blue

Ya know the song, right?  The one that Madame Blueberry sings in Veggie Tales: "I'm so blue-ew-ew, blue-ew-ew, blue-ew-ew-ewwww!  I'm so blue I don't know what to do!"

Veggie Tales rock!  I love kid movies. (Now entering into adult mode)

Anyway, hello again.  I'm sporting a headache and some nasty stomach acid today, besides a wild head of hair and a black pair of baggy sweats that say "Combat Zone" on the hind quarters.  I never wear them in public.  Well, I did once, late at night when I was doing an ice cream run at Wal-Mart.  I didn't realize that Wal-Mart was the place to hang on a Friday night (obviously I don't get out much), I thought I was safe.  But no, when you have "Combat Zone" written on your behind, it begs people to read it, and thus they did.  Feeling a bit embarrassed as I saw more than a fair share of eyes enjoy reading my toosh, I swore I'd never go out in public again...until I needed more ice cream, that is. So, yes, that is the run down on my black baggy Combat Zone sweats.

I read something interesting today, as I was lying in bed with my wild hair and churning stomach, surfing the web on my phone.  I was strolling through forums, bilingual ones, and learning the meanings of different phrases and their origins.  I stumbled across a thread on "media naranja," which is a sweet term in Spanish that looses it's sugar once translated.  Literally it means "half of an orange," but the coined phrase is much sweeter.  It can translate into English as your "other half," your "soulmate," your "main squeeze," or be representative of your spouse or significant other.  Yet, still all these translations don't match the original.  If I read my Spanish correctly, the phrase actually came from Plato and his spin on the emergence of the sexes, how a sexless being who lived in complete harmony disobeyed the gods and got punished by being split in two, female and male, and wondered the earth looking for it's other half.

I do not buy into Hollywood's proposal that there is but one soulmate for every person.  Romantic, yes.  Realistic, no.  Good for movies, sure.  Good for real life? I beg to differ. It's more of a poison, I think, if you hold this standard as truth, for you could very easily leave a mediocre relationship in search of your soulmate, only to find that the search is a never ending one (says the cynic with nasty stomach acid and wild hair).  I think it is more probable that there are people with whom you are compatible, some more than others, and you would be wise to pick your "other half," so to speak, from the (very practical, I might add) pool of worthy, compatible people.  And, yes, we are very fortunate to be able to choose.

I don't know if I could have been one to survive an arranged marriage.  I mean, look at how Romeo and Juliet fared.  Forced to marry out of duty to the one their heart did not yearn for.  Sipping on forbidden love (which surely was all the more intoxicating) only to end in death.  Oh the irony!  Death, I say!  Of course, that wasn't real life, but I don't care because this is MY blog and I make the rules here.  You don't agree?   Well go get your own blog and vent about it.

They say that opposites attract, and I do agree, but I would offer the input that if an opposite is an extreme opposite, that you may want to enter with caution.  After all, what good is a "media naranja" if one if you is an orange and the other a cantaloupe?  I dare say there just may be some issues within this union.

Which brings to mind the fact that I really do enjoy fruit.  Especially melons.  I did purchase some organic gala apples the other day, talk about instant refreshment for the tastebuds!  Yuummmmmmy.

So, as I ramble on, I do enjoy the origins of things and feeding my brain with things I will, no doubt, forget in a matter of time because I have no real, everyday use for much of what I feed my grey matter.  I find the Romance Languages to be very much romantic (shocking, isn't it?), this said from the woman who is often too practical, she forgets to be romantic. English simply pales in comparison to these luscious, fluid languages that roll off the tongue like silk in the wind.  Were I incredibly smart with all the time in the world, I would frolic in words, skip through fields of foreign languages, and ponder their origins all day long. That and I'd explore the world of quantum physics, which I find so very fascinating.

Many things I have put on hold to raise children and see to it that other's needs are met, and this often leaves me exhausted with too little time for expeditions beyond my kitchen.  Sometimes I feel my brain has stagnated, but then I remind myself that there is great honor, though no prestige, in raising the next generation.  'Tis a lost art, I dare say.

I sat by a woman on the flight from Anchorage to Seattle; she was such a dear.  I would have adopted her had she no one to care for her.  She was a stay at home mother of 4, widowed now, and a presently a full time grandma.  I did not tell her that I had five children of my own and was also a stay at home mom.  But I enjoyed letting her know that her work was not less than that of a woman with a degree in the business realm, as she humbly thought herself of a lesser race for her lack of education.  I knew first hand of her sacrifice, when you lay down your personal interests to fulfill the needs of others; this is truly love, is it not?

Besides multi-tasking whilst typing and texting with co-workers in a different language, I have lost my train of thought, if indeed I had one, and now have a headache to accompany my biley stomach acid, wild hair, and let us not forget to mention my baggy black Combat Zone sweats.

And Madame Blueberry, may you come to peace with yourself for being so very blue.

Adue!

A Wrinkle in Time

Wow, it's been a long time, nearly two years..  Hello my friend, my blog, my Deeper Shade of Blue. 

I read you last night, in part, as my body tried to re-acclimate to Idaho time, after my jaunt over the river and through the woods to Alaska. I'd forgotten your pain and your sorrow, my little blog; how much you have suffered and how fun your wit can be.

Yes, I feel as if there was a wrinkle in time, for I have more wrinkles on my face, and time has brought us many tough times; but we are older now, and wiser, and yes, we have learned to like wine.  We curse now and then and we are not so naive anymore to think that love in large portions can cure all ills.  We have awakened to ourself (surely that should be plural) and have come to know more of who we are and what we are capable of.  "No more," we say to our status quo which has kept us caged when we were meant for greater heights and greater things.  "No more," we say to the ones who have held us back, made us stumble and sent us to intensive care, bloodied our souls and shattered our hearts.  "No more," we say to the life that leaves us unfulfilled and lacking in the greatest depths of our being; no more.

The dawning of a new day has come, the unfurling of a new mast with which we will sail on uncharted seas.  New sites, new faces, new love, new life...the aroma of coffee in the morning; I bid you good morning self, 'tis time to wake up and live.

There is fear, yes, of the unknown.  But we were 'born to be courageous,' and thus we move forward, knowing that all the Greats throughout time have failed, but kept going. Edison, you inspire me; Einstein, you amaze me; Plato, Socrates, I am unworthy to speak your names; Churchill, your bowties were adorable; and Abe, if I had another son, I'd name him Lincoln...

I am glad I have kept you, old friend, as we have been through many journeys together.  Let us close this chapter and start a new book.