Blah. Blah Blah Blah Blah BLAH!

Yeah, yeah. All you self-righteous punks are wondering why I can't get creative with my titles. I'll inform you that a black hole has formed in the middle of my living room. It has attracted a motely pile of laundry, including about fifty single socks without a pair, a long string of dental floss, a fork, a dinner plate, a highlighter, assorted pieces of paper with important and not so important doodles scribbled on them, two thick and overly-priced textbooks, the eight random novels I am reading instead, and along with absorbing all of this redundant clutter, the massive pile absorbs all of my creativity and desire.

I haven't thought a thought worth thinking in over forty-seven days.

I made the horrible mistake of going on strike for a week. This means that I did the very bare minimum required of me, which meant fulfilling my obligations to others while giving the illusion that I was fulfilling my obligations to myself. I wore t-shirts from the bottom of the laundry bin, laid on the couch all day while Issac had free-reign of all of my possessions (including body parts, such as my nostrils and eyelids), I fell asleep at eight pm, and I did not wash a single dish or pick up a broom. A S-T-R-I-K-E. It felt so good. (Except for the whole living-in-squalor hoping-nobody-comes-to-visit-me part).

Too bad the day came where I had to clean all of it. I'm still not done, and I feel like a total slob. I stopped working so hard and let the world fall to pieces around me. I'm inclined to do this from time to time. To just let go. It is, I think, a survival technique. It's a way of taking a vacation without going anywhere. As a single mom, I give myself a break (although I seriously doubt other single moms do this.) Whether it's a strength or weakness, I'm not sure yet. Sometimes it seems like I'm just not strong enough to do what needs to be done. Other times it seems like I'm smart enough to know when to give myself a break. I guess, inherently, I'm a wimp. In other words, I need lots of "breaks." Some people call this laziness. Look at it how you will, sometimes my procrastination and avoidance poses more serious problems than a messy house.

"A stitch in time saves nine" has proved to be, for me, the most powerful proverb. It sort of speaks to me. I think we all have our own proverbs, the ones that seem to be pointing a finger at us and saying, "if only you'd listen..blah blah blah." We hear it, and we know there's something to it, and we vow to remember that proverb next time. But do we? Nooooo. My proverb addresses my major personality flaw: I like to escape, to avoid problems. If I ignore it, maybe it will magically disappear. More often than not, when it comes to the little details of life, like paying a bill or fixing a car or getting an oil change or scheduling a dentist appointment or going through all the steps to track down the child support I so desperately need, I'll pleasantly ignore it. At times, I'll even go to great measures to avoid it, such as purposefully not answering the telephone or checking the mail. Sometimes when I check the mail I'll leave the letter I don't want to open in the mailbox so I can pretend I didn't see it. I know, I know, very mature and responsible of me.

What is your personal proverb? Which adage speaks to you, revealing your personal weakness, your character flaw? Is there a saying that challenges you to be a better person, that contains real simple advice for you to live a better life?

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night...

1. It was a dark and stormy night. She was folding laundry on the couch, watching American Idol. She was alone, all alone. Anyone looking in the window could have seen her in her nightgown, sipping coffee and belting out "Total Eclipse of the Heart" into an imaginary microphone. Anyone could have entered the door and lept across to the couch in three or four quick steps...anyone.

She heard screams outside. Or did she? There they were again. A shudder ran down her spine. Damn cats, she thought, as she rose and went to open the door. "Hey!" she shouted, peering into darkness. "Knock it off!" She was met with nothing but silence. Her eyes strove to penetrate the blackness, to make out any signs of her cat Lucky, who might need doctoring. A warm gust of air blew across her chest, making her chilly. She crossed her arms.

"Luuuuucky!" she called. "Luuuuucky! Here kitty kitty kitty kitty!" She heard the pitter patter of his footsteps and turned watch him running in.

Just then, a rabid, shreiking wild cat landed on her face, attacking her jugular with its bloody mouth, hissing and clawing at her skin.

Yep. Everything happened except for the last sentence. But I was so sure that it was going to happen, you couldn't even see how fast I ducked inside the door, locked it, and ran to hide under a blanket. Sometimes, living by myself, my imagination gets out of control. Standing on a porch staring into pitch black silence late at night scares me. I know that some mysterious animal is out there. I know that it sees me. I know that I can't see it. It could be ten feet tall for all I know. It could be a sasquatch or a swamp monkey. It's a very vulnerable feeling.

Yesterday I had to catch a spider. I was absolutely terrified. Folks, this spider was so big it had a hair-do. I would havewillingly let it live in the bathtub, and showered at a friend's house until it a) left or b) died, but Issac really needed a bath.

Anyways, I checked all the closets, and they are absent swamp monkeys, so now I can go to sleep.

2. Just after the frightening cat-fight/possible-gigantic-swamp-monkey episode, I went onto the back porch to throw out some compost and saw a huge white opossum with red eyes. I said, "Hi. Now go away!" and kind of shooed my hands at it and stomped my feet. It just stared at me, and then moved closer. I got freaked out and ran inside and locked the door. Possums look like rats the size of small dogs, for those of you who have never seen one. Maybe this was the mysterious enemy of my beloved Lucky?

3. After some consideration, I have decided that I have nothing to fear-- at least not in the way of gigantic, rabid, ill-wishing animal or monster intruders. That's right--Lucky, my fierce and loyal cat companion, will fight them off. Opossums, swamp monkeys, sasquatch. No job is too big for the orange prowler. (He thinks he's a dog anyways, so please don't tell him he's only an eleven pound cat.)

Really, I'm Very Much Like A Dog...


I was driving somewhere on Sunday, listening to NPR. They were featuring a compilation of songs made for pets-- specifically, dogs. The music and lyrics are supposed to make dogs very, very happy. Well, they had the same effect on me. Bruno's blog is asking what is the happiest song of all time? Well, I have to say it is either Squeaky-deaky! or Scratch My Back, both compiled and produced by Skip Haynes, who made this doggy CD. You can listen to the songs here. Seriously, you can't NOT be happy when you hear it. It's magic.

My Life Is A Three Ring Circus

Ladies and Gents, in the big-tent you will find a rare specimen of a two-year-old. Ahh, but don't get too close--he bites, and trills at a decible level that will clean out your ear wax.

As parents, we've all heard the maxim that children are like mirrors. They reflect their surroundings and the behaviors they have witnessed. In short, we are told, they reflect YOU as a parent. While I am somewhat inclined to agree, I have spent most of the last month trying to convince myself otherwise.

For example, when somebody displeases me, I don't spit on them. So why does Issac? I gaurantee he has never seen me spit on anyone. Still, it goes under this month's list of Issac's annoying habits that have me pulling out my hair.

This afternoon, when I asked Issac to get in his chair to eat lunch, he scrunched up his face, put his hands on his hips, squatted on his knees, took in a long, deep breath and then shouted "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs. I am past the point of forcing him into his chair, so I continued to make my own tuna fish sandwhich and sat down to eat.

The next thing I know, Issac is by my knees. "MIIIINE!" he shouts. "I WAAAAANT IT NOOOOOOOOW!" His look is menacing. He seriously thinks he can bully me out of my sandwhich. I raise an eyebrow. My hair blows back from my face with the wind that accompanies his second roar, "MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!"

"I see that you would like a sandwhich," I reply.

"MIIIIIIIIIIINE! NOOOOOOOOOOW!"

"You will have to get into your chair first."

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

"Then you won't have a sandwhich."

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

"Fine by me."

He squints his eyes. He is holding a stick. I can see him processing evil thoughts. Then, suddenly, he drops the stick and runs into his chair. I would have celebrated, but I know the battle is not over. It is never over.

After I set the plate in front of him, he immediately pushes it away. "NO WANT!" he says.

I ignore him.

"NO WAAAAAAANT MOMMY! NO WAAAANT!"

This was the manner in which almost the entire day was conducted. Lunch continued with Issac eating a small bite, then picking up a wet handful of tuna fish and threatening to throw it onto the carpet. I threw my head into my hands and debating running screaming into the woods. I rubbed my eyes and reopened them, hoping that, magically, the debacle would be over. I reminded myself that Issac's bad days are not reflections of myself as a bad parent. Rather, they are reflections of Issac's individuality.

I suppose we are all allowed to have bad days from time to time. Issac included.