Am I right, Ladies/Gentlemen??
Ha ha ha ha ha . I can’t stop laughing. I have shut out the world in my little sun-drenched makeshift office which, truth be told, used to be a lovely sunroom with flowing greenery and buds flowering in brilliant hues of yellows, reds and purples. (Getting to the funny part, bear with me.) Unfortunately, time went on and I forgot to water them. Who waters flowers weekly anyway? I thought maybe once a month…or two. They’re all brown and crispy now. And yes, I do feel badly about that…living things that they are….but one must move on with one’s life, yes?
I, however, do keep these remnants of beauty there on my floor as a reminder of how a.) life forms must all change with time, circle of life and all, and b.) the utter fragility of a life that is fleeting…*sigh*
Ha! You didn’t buy that crap, did you? No, I’m not that deep (about plants anyway). Just too busy to move them, plus they have crumbled to the floor and I would have to bend to get them all. Bending spells effort to me. On a side note, however, if I were to have clients coming to my home for therapy I would never ever leave a dead plant out. I found that it is symbolic for neglect. If one were to come to my office, take note of dying plants they just might believe that I’m the sort of therapist that could neglect them as well. Truth one: If you are a clinician and have real, water-drinking plants, please hydrate them. Often.
Anyway, I have a way of hyper-focusing while I write. It is a gift really. Works for times when I need to shut off things like teenage female whining in plural, huge dog barking, eight year old boy incessantly using sport-speak along with “dude” (Hey! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Hand me my lacrosse stick, dude! I mean, please!”) and husband. Just husband. (I know that sounds cruel in its lack of a descriptor so you may ignore that if you are male and offended or just offended).
So while I’m choosing rhythm and words and depth of which to share my profound wisdom with the world in the form of a greeting card blog that capitalizes on emotions that people dare not ever put into words. (Politically correct I. Am. Not), I hear a faint soprano voice wafting through the house. The stillness that allows my heart to speak to my head, my gut to check in with my brain…hesitates. Ears expand outward to catch snippets of words…a tune, maybe?
I have forgotten my train of thought almost immediately. It has surrendered itself to the soft sweet mutterings being played out in another room. Usually I get frustrated at this point. I will Immediately place my hands to the sides of my head and push back my hair from the front to the back at my ears like a comb working both sides of my head at once. I do this two or three times to make the point that I’m trying to focus. Perhaps my mindset is on stroking a lamp, as a genie master might to prompt the genie to smoke itself out of said lamp and give up a wish or two. Those moments I “wish” for FOCUS. Brilliance does not come naturally for me as it does many a buddy of mine.
I’m back on my computer screen now. Sip of coffee. Push my eyebrow crease back upward to smooth it out. Good grief, I must be tense. Ok. I meditate: “Brilliance pour through my brain…the side that is poetic and funny and verbose (not that other side, it can’t even make a damn list)…” I say this over and over, eyes shut (or it won’t work. Truth two). There is humming still going on in the background somewhere in my house but I can’t quite decipher it.
My meditation isn’t providing me with the magnificence I’d hoped it might. Words do not flow like waterfalls. That damn humming is getting louder. I feel anxiety rising. It starts at my stomach (the pit of? Not so sure, where exactly is that?), which makes a knot kind of thing, which turns to nausea…not pregnant nausea, silly people. That would take…er, nothing. Where was I?
“Mom! I’m going to the bathroom, dude!” Yells my boy from the living room whilst I hear racing steps to the bathroom in the hall. Why he feels the need to inform me of his bodily functions I cannot tell you. It just is. Truth three: Sometimes a banana is just a banana.
“Ok, son. Hope it all comes out ok! (Like any mother might, I fully support a healthy bowel movement). And don’t call me “dude” please. I’m a girl. Dudette is more fitting!”
“OK! Dudette!” he counters. Door shuts. He’ll be there for a while, I think to myself. I don’t know why I bother thinking that, I just do, that’s all.
I am now back to hyper-focus mode. Good! I have things to get done around this messy house! Things to do, people to see…blahblahblah. Let the fabulousity unleash itself!!! And it does! Words flow like water through a downspout!
sperm through an ejac Milk flowing from a cow utter! Tears from a menopausal woman who’s just been informed that she’s not only well overweight according to a (stupid) Body Mass Index and weighs more than her husband; but that a favorite guilty pleasure of hers (Dance Moms) had resumed on television three weeks ago! WTF?!
Once again, head down in hyper-focus-position, fingers tap tap tapping away on computer and….it’s…what?… a soprano version of something…acapella…sounds like…(I’m now up out of my chair. Standing, doing my genie focus-thingy with my hands by my ears while scouring my head and walking to the very edge of my office; preening neck toward the
noise musical sound stylings of….Bruno Mars?)
“…and your sex takes me to par-a-dise, and your sex takes me to par-a-dise….whooooooaaaaaaaa….yeeeeaaaaahhhhhh…….!….cause you make me fe-eel like, I’ve been locked out of he-a-ven for too lon-ee-o-ee-ongggg, for too lon-ee-o-ee-onggggg, ye-eah! Ya, ya, ya! ya, ya, ya, ya, ya!”
Bruno Mars my son is not; however, the ease with which my eight year old sang each note in tune(ish) and pronounciated each syllable – while sitting on the toilet, I might add – was nothing shy of genius. I know, he’s my son so I may be a bit biased but friends, you should have heard it! Ok, perhaps the lyrics could have been cleaned up befitting an eight year old, I’ll admit. Just maybe I should have gotten him the KID’S BOP version of Bruno Mars’ Locked Out of Heaven in which case, “sex” is used interchangeably for “text”. How clever is that I ask you?? Truth Four: “Text” is an excellent replacement for “sex” in provocative songs. Unless your child is particularly precocious, he’ll never know the difference.
Live and learn, friends. Do tell: how much do you err with your 4th child, all you stone throwers? I’m lucky my boy goes to school with pants on some days! How many times has he asked me if it’s “pj day” at school because we end up heading to the bus with them on? (In my defense they do look very similar to a pair of his street-clothes trousers…when one doesn’t wear ones eyeglasses.)
By the way, not once has he bothered to ask me what “sex” means. Here’s the two hundred thousand dollar question though: When he does can you guess what I’ll say?
My greeting card to my most cherubic Bruno Mars fan:
I hear you love to sing songs by Bruno Mars; If you do you might find yourself being one of those stars!
Keep reaching, there is absolutely nothing you can’t do; just keep your room clean and shower once or maybe a few
times a week. Study hard and stay off of drugs, alcohol too; Even mommy and daddy only have a few
unless they’re driving, then they stick with just two. You’d better stick with none, cause you’re you… (y’know, eight).
Your parents love and are oh so very proud! Keep up the singing, singing long and singing loud! Maybe Simon will hear your songs one day; so take it out of the bathroom and give it one fabulous foray!
I would rather listen to you than be busy any day, love you so,